NOEL KONAGAI

When I was fifteen, I could only dream of a life where I’d get to visit many places and have friends from places other than Hungary. Six years later, somehow, this became reality. In this past week and a half, I moved from Washington to New York, hopped on a plane to Finland, spent two days in Hungary, hopped on another plane to Norway and now I am staying with my roommate’s home in the fjords. Around that time, I was reading a blog of a Hungarian UWC student at UWC’s Red Cross Nordic campus. She wrote about how she woke up early in the morning to swim in the fjord, then went to class and in the afternoon she went hiking in the mountains. I long forgot about this encounter with her lifestyle until I was flying on the plane to Oslo. Since then, I met people who were classmates of this girl and also went to UWC Red Cross Nordic. Somehow, life came a full circle because on Friday I am going to visit their campus.  But what’s more important is that this lifestyle in Norway is a huge contrast to the life I was living in New York and Washington. There is no rush since the daylight lasts for nineteen hours. When you hike or walk in the town, you say hi to people who come past by you. When you want to be alone, you can take a simple stroll anywhere and you are likely to fully enjoy that alone time.

Photo: The view of the fjord from the neighboring farm

While the hyperindividualism of New York was liberating, it doesn’t work elsewhere. It helped me grow a thicker skin and become more resistant to criticism and rude behavior of others, and sometimes I myself was very rude to others. The hyperindividualism elevated the ego and crushed the community spirit, which is a functional system provided that everyone abides by it. But being the single person with hyperindividualistic career and academic goals does not feel right. On one hand I wish to be back in New York, where I could continue not caring about anyone but myself and my friends in the city, but on the other hand, I really enjoy developing these different types of more caring relationships.

Photo: Some snowy mountains and icy lakes at a high altitude seen from the seven-hour long bus ride

I’m glad that something stopped the rush I got sucked into in New York and Washington. And maybe I am not alone thinking about this: https://www.youtube.com/watch?time_continue=118&v=1KMv23wonQs .

After a 7 hour long busing, hitchhiking, walking combination, we reached to Santa Teresa, a tiny village with a beautiful beach there. It is famous for having high tides for surfers. So I convinced Jenny to try to learn how to surf with me. 

After the fact, I told my Brazilian friend today about what an amazing experience it was to surf, and he said “you know too many things, it is scary”. Because of what he said, I suddenly remembered, Alex Rider, my idol back when I was 12 years old from my favorite teen novel series written by Anthony Horowitz. Alex is a 15 year old British schoolboy who knows five languages, has a black belt in karate, and has many more skills. He got recruited by the British Secret Intelligence Service to become the youngest spy. 

While I am 20 and not 15, I am happy that somewhat I’ve learned a bit of those skills that he knew in the novel, such as surfing. Knowing how to skateboard, snowboard, and sandboard, I could not resist taking a surf lesson.

At 4 PM, our instructor commanded to draw surfboards into the sand. Right hand pointing ahead of me, left hand balancing next to me, we immediately started to practice how to get up on the surfboard. Next step was to actually do it in the ocean. The instructor taught us simple techniques how to best obey the laws of physics and smoothly get deeper into the water.

When we finally got deep enough in the water, he told me to lay on the board and wait for the wave to reach me. Ba-bum, I wasn’t sure whether that was the sound of my heartbeat or me falling into the water on my chest. The second try was much better.

The waves came, and my instructor pushed my board along them. That 60 second riding the waves as fast as a horse was incomparable to any other experience. Having had a bit of background in different board sports, it was easier for me to balance on the surfboard than for most people.

The surf lesson got harder and harder when my instructor taught me how to pedal against the waves and go deeper, turn around while sitting on the board, and then ride the it, all without getting off of it. 

The sunset came, and my instructor said “this is the final one, let’s get deeper”.

He took me far away from the coast. Getting there was already a challenge, as with every wave there was seawater and sand dripping into my eyes from my hair. When we arrived to the destination, we sat on the board to align our directions with the waves. I have never had such a scenic moment in front of my eyes as during that time. Seeing the flame red sun set, and the silhouettes of surfers above the blue-orange bicolor ocean, while hearing the large waves approach was both calming and exciting at the same time. 

“Pedal! When the waves reach your ass, get up” yelled my instructor. 

I started speeding up to catch the waves, and then stood up, rode out until the coast.

We concluded this journey with a sweet mango and a coconut water, which felt like actual heaven after swallowing saltwater for two hours. Inshallah, surfing will become one of my hobbies.

Arriving on a plane 99% filled with non-Spanish speaker Americans to San Jose made me cocky about knowing how to speak Spanish. So instead of taking the touristy route of a taxi to my hostel, I decided to take a local bus.

It was already 10 p.m. when I got out of the airport and took the first bus going to San Jose. The sign indicated that it was coming from Alajuela and was headed to San Jose. It turns out that the bus was going to the garage in Alajuela and nowhere near San Jose. 

“Why are you not getting off?” asked the bus driver. “I thought we were going to San Jose.” “Son, this is a garage bound bus.”

The bus driver told me to find my way to Parque Santamaria, but there was a little problem with that. Every a lot of places are named Santamaria, thus finding places that are called in the same way is a bit troublesome, especially at 11 p.m.

Alajuela is a small town, and nearly everything closes for the night. I was walking on the streets with my luggage, not knowing where I was heading. At this point, I was honestly considering making myself comfortable on a bench in the park and sleep until the sun rises. Nonetheless, somehow I found the park and I found people wandering around there.

“Where is the bus stop?” I asked the man. “Right there!” “Thank you.” “Pura vida”

Pura vida literally means pure life but it is a very common phrase used in Costa Rica to say “cheers”. I sat down next to the bus stop, which did not look at all like a bus stop. A mariachi man then approached me and asked whether I was going to San Jose. With some hesitation, I answered yes. He quietly mumbled something, which I could not comprehend.

Twenty minutes later, a minivan full of mariachi players and drunk people arrived to pick this man up. He waved at me and said “are you not coming”? 

To be frank, I was frightened by the minivan. I was facing two choices: I either sleep in the park and lose the 10 dollars I paid for the hostel, or get on this minivan, give my best trust to these unknown people and hope to get to San Jose. I chose the latter. Forgetting about my thoughts on getting kidnapped or mugged, I joined the mariachi man on the van.

About 45 minutes later we were approaching San Jose. The driver told us that were were gonna stop at Parque Central. I asked the mariachi man who invited me for this ride where that was located on the map.

“You are not from here? What the heck were you doing in Alajuela? It” he reacted with surprise.

He was amused that a foreigner who speaks Spanish was in Alajuela at midnight that he started teaching me Costa Rican slang words. In the end, we parted ways at Parque Central. 

Arriving to the hostel, the receptionist asked where I was from. 

“I’m from Hungary” I replied. “Really? You look like you could be from here.”

The Curious Incident of The Beet in Vermont

Wandering around the forests of Vermont with Maddie

It was 10 in the morning when my plane brought me to Kyiv airport to start my summer research on Euromaidan. Waiting in the line at the border control, I saw a man with a Russian passport getting pulled away for interrogation. While this occasion was a mere coincidence, it made me question how Ukrainians relate to Russians. 

In the city center, looking at the brisk yellow and sky blue colored walls hiding constructions and decorating the barriers of bridges and parks, it was evident that pride in the nation is an omnipresent phenomenon and perhaps it is even a fashionable act. By talking to locals of Kyiv, I understood three aspects of the Ukrainian nationalism: the inclusivity of two major language and ethnic groups, the reassertion and the re-appropriation of the Ukrainian narrative of history, and the us-versus-them distinction of pro-Russia versus pro-Ukraine.

What can possibly be so important that does not let me go to sleep? 

Tonight I had a literary reading event where I was taking photos and all of a sudden, I was invited to have dinner with the wonderful three writers among Wang Anyi is probably the most renown. At least in China. Surrounded by these three inspiring people plus a bunch of inspiring professors and tutors, I suddenly felt dragged into this power loop of passion. Passion for what? Anything that you like: writing, painting, photography, women's rights, etc.

When I finally opened my eyes a bit to look around who is doing what and why, I realized that passion has never been closer to me.