The Accidental Immigrant

My twentieth high school reunion was held at a restaurant right across the street from my former school in Budapest. I wasn’t sure why I wanted to be there so badly. I didn’t love high school—who does?—but what’s worse is that I barely remember it. I have no memories of, well, of anything really from…

Americaversary

I meant to do this yesterday, on my true Americaversary, but you know how it goes… We spent the past two days in NYC and by the time I had a moment to sit with my thoughts when we got home, I was too tired to put finger to keyboard. But I feel like I…

Notes from Budapest

A couple of bits and pieces from my notebook: May 12, 2014 So this is Sam’s fourth trip to Budapest and my first without my parents or any other relatives being here. Once you are not greeted by family at the airport you really do become and feel like a tourist in your own country….

Finding my way home

It’s a running joke in the McMullin family: as soon as two or more McMullins get together, the conversation will inevitably turn to the topic of roads. They all have an uncanny sense of direction. My brother-in-law can navigate you home from a dirt road in Iowa, giving you both the shortest and most direct…

Immigrant hoarding

A couple of years ago, when I was fresh out of college and living in my first apartment, my parents came to visit from Hungary. Opening a kitchen drawer, my Mom was surprised to find months’ or even years’ worth of Hungarian snacks, spice mixes, and other food stuff stashed away. “Why do I keep…

The stuff of childhood

Finally, all of my parents’ boxes have arrived. They are stacked neatly in their basement, smaller boxes on top of taller ones, with cryptic signage on the outside, like L/R for living room and “mixed” for well… Mixed stuff. There are also a bunch of boxes that belong to me. Or rather, they belong to…