Holy Friday
Sharing pálinka is a sacred ceremony in Hungarian culture. A ferment is created by letting summer fruits sit out in the sun for long enough to let the sugars turn to alcohol. The ferment is covered in a distilled grain mash, usually vodka, and the two are allowed to sit together, usually, for a minimum of three months. Every homebrew is a source of pride and the flagship of any self-respecting pince. Plum, grape, peach, and sour cherry, pálinka can be made by combining just about any type of sweet fruit with any type of alcohol and a bit of patience. One common variety even involves combining cognac with Hungarian hot peppers and allowing it to sit for as much as two years, called Lófingató, or what is more affectionately known as ‘what makes the horse fart’ (I hear that, in a pinch, it can get you the rest of the way should your car run out of gasoline). A good pálinka has both a hint of sweetness, where the flavour of the fruit is highlighted, and a high alcoholic content – most bottles of pálinka are cracked open in the fall when the weather starts to turn cold and a good homebrew should warm you up. When invited into a Hungarian home, should the host offer his pálinka, this is the ultimate display of Hungarian hospitality. Toasting a shot of pálinka to good health is tantamount to adoption into one’s family.
It was over a casual shot of pálinka at a local taproom called Hedon, in the Lipótváros district of Budapest, that Márton and I celebrated my unexpected, albeit brief, return to Hungary. He was curious about what had brought me back and where I was planning to go visit in the upcoming months. Culturally, it would be difficult to find two countries more different than Lebanon and Hungary, but I asked Márton, half expecting him to just giggle, if he happened to know anyone in Lebanon. “Actually,” he responded, “One of my best friends is there, right now.”
Ágoston and Márton were both outdoorsmen who had met through the Hungarian scouting network. Ágoston had moved to Lebanon back in January with his fiancée, Zsófi, who had taken a position in Beirut with the United Nations working with refugees. When the Lebanese revolution broke out I made sure to get in contact with them as having a friendly face, and some eyes on the ground to assess the situation was not only going to make my life easier but also give me a sense of what I was getting myself into. From the moment I arrived in Beirut, Ágoston and Zsófi were available to help me get my feet firmly planted on the ground and helped me get my bearings. That first Friday, my first full day in Beirut, after I covered 20+ kilometres exploring the city and experiencing the revolution firsthand, they also had me over for a bite to eat, and, of course, to share some pálinka.
Having now lived in Beirut for almost a year, Ágoston and Zsófi had settled. Beirut had become home and they had transitioned from the “visiting” stage to the “living” stage. They had their own apartment replete with furniture, cooking utensils, bookshelves, and linens; They had made new friends from the various social groups they had joined; And they had their routines, though, by the time I arrived with the revolution now in full swing, many of these routines were threatened by the uncertainty of the situation taking place in the streets. One of these routines, that even a revolution could not interfere with, was Holy Friday.
Tucked away in a tiny corner of a local bar in Badero, called Eden, a group of Hungarian ex-pats, and their small circle of friends, would gather every Friday to share stories about life in Beirut and from back home, and, of course, to share pálinka. Eden, like most bars, normally has strict rules about bringing in food and beverages from the outside, but for this one event, they make an exception. Though the country was experiencing a sea change, through all the uncertainty the people kept their spirits high that the party that they have always lived for would see a brighter tomorrow. And for this small group of Hungarians, this little fragment of normalcy and connection to their homeland was their symbolic way of sharing in that same hopefulness.
Besides Ágoston and Zsófi, there was Zsuzsi, Péter, Árpi, Linda, and Moni who had all come from Hungary to Beirut and found each other and prioritized this day of the week to drop all other things and meet here. It reminded me that besides the locals and the tourists, in every city there are those who live in between them. They are not from there, but they are not just visiting. It can be tricky to meet new people in a foreign country, especially people who share the sights and smells of the tiny corner of the world where you’re from. And when everything is so new and so different, occasionally you just want to cling to something familiar, which is why the bonds that form between ex-pats can be so strong. Between ex-pats, not only do you share where you’re from, but you also make up part of an exclusive club in also sharing where you’ve been.
To say that my visit to Lebanon hadn’t gone as I had originally imagined would be an understatement. I had pictured myself visiting cedar forests and strolling through old souks in ancient Phoenician cities, but, instead, I was invited into an exclusive enclave of Hungarians who had taken up residence in Beirut which, only a few days earlier and I hadn’t even realized had existed. As I prepared to leave for Africa, on this final evening in a country that stood on the precipice of unprecedented change, I clung tightly to this last tiny drop of what I considered familiar. We clinked our glasses together, looked each other in the eye, and said egészségére, as the Hungarian ex-pats of Beirut welcomed one more into their flock with hospitality, warm hearts, and a glass of pálinka.