The trams, yellow and vintage looking despite the modernity of the idea of electric public transportation, are filled with Hungarians getting from one side of the city to the other. Not a word of English passed the lips of the commuters, and I blended into the crowd and tried to look as non-American as possible. This is not a testament to any feelings of anti-Americanism; Hungarians are generally friendly and welcoming to all tourists. Instead, my desire to blend in was a test to myself on how well I could adapt to a culture. I tried to pretend I knew where I was going as the tram brought me closer to my destination.

 

I won’t say I got off on the wrong stop. To admit that would be to admit I was lost, and I am a firm believer that exploring a new city is the antithesis of losing your way. Instead, I will say I wandered along a more residential part of the city before finding Margaret Island, called Margitsziget in Hungarian. I crossed the bridge filled with families and couples spending a relaxing afternoon away from city life.

 

People laid blankets and were picnicking, having leisurely conversations stretched out in the warmth of the sun. Children laughed and ran around on the grassy field as parents sat on benches and watched.

 

The island used to be called Island of Rabbits, but has changed names throughout history. It was populated by Christians. Churches built nunneries and cloisters here until around the 18th century. It was renamed Margaret Island after St. Margaret, daughter of King Bela IV. Margaret lived in a Dominican convent on the island.

 

Now, there are petting zoos and gardens throughout the island. Food vendors sell warm meats and fresh spun cotton candy for a few Forint. Walking past all of this, I found another park with benches were I decided to rest from the long walk. I sat next to an older woman whose white hair resembled the cotton candy sold by the vendors. She sat there, watching the activities taking place across the park. It was then that I heard it. English.

 

Some young men were tossing a football and were easily the loudest people on the entire island. Their English-speaking voices carried across everyone’s ears, and I hoped that none of the other people on the island could understand that they were yelling curse words that would have been censored by the FCC.

 

I was embarrassed for them because they had not taken the time to understand the culture. These college-aged men were disturbing the quiet nature of Hungarians and of the tranquility of the park, possibly without realizing it. They were like stones thrown into a peaceful pond, and their ripples could be seen across the park from the stares they received.

 

It was then that I realized I had reached my goal. I had successfully assimilated into the culture. It took getting lost, finding a spot that Hungarians frequent often and losing myself in this escape from the surrounding world to become a part of Budapest. It was worth it.