Old habits die hard

I went to a happy hour that felt like any given stagiaire party relocated. So I acted accordingly, let somebody by me a mojito, answered the where are you from where you work questions when asked, made some witty comments about Suarez and discussed locations of tattoos that hurt less than others. Then pulled a very classic, very cliché „you speak Hungarian?! I'm so happy to meet you! Let me give you a hug!”. Yes, I went there. In my defence, just the day before I listened to the French speakers in the lunch break discussing how their offices are divided by the language barrier and although everbody can talk to the other, somehow the English speakers only hang out with the English speakers, and the francophones with the francophones. The weekend before I was dragged (invited) to an Ethiopian afternoon (great food) because the wife of one of them didn't want to be the only one who doesn't understand the language. So while I tried not to be sarcastic when the French told each other that one time they were surrounded with English-only colleagues for a week before they finally found a Rwandes who spoke French and how much of a relief that was, I did pretty much the same when my (other) Kosovar brother introduced me to a Canadian who was born in Transylvania to a Hungarian-speaking family.

It needs no further explanation, but is worth mentioning that everybody from the Balkans counts me as family. It goes without saying.

Then I went to Kigali. It's in another country. I had to cross a border. My good old post-communist trauma kicked in the moment I saw a border officer. I still feel nervous even though I know well that I have the appropriate visa and ID card from my work, that I have enough money and can talk to both the officer and the bus driver on the other side. The lump in my throat/stomach wouldn't go away until I got on the bus that would get me to Kigali. Then I started being nervous for other things.

The funny thing is, I also noticed I have a very different old habit when it comes to border crossing. The good old Schengen attitude. I acknowledge and appreciate a state border, and understand that these two countries have had a relationship that wasn't always particularly friendly, and I accept they have their procedures for a reason. But somewhere deep down in my subconscious I still expect to be able to walk between Goma and Gisenyi like it's Steinfort and Weyler.