Day One Hundred Sixty-four, in Which Reflections Are (Transparently) Metaphors

It is at the midpoint of the cline from opacity to transparency—variously occupied by lampshades, spun glass, cloudy water—that the retirement home’s dining-room partition flutters. Looking through it, I see my reflection sitting among the elderly of Vasvár, carefully sipping our soup. The soup, too, swirls weakly at this midpoint.

Lunch at the retirement home—commonly “the old house” or “the old man’s house”—is the midpoint of a routine that runs like this:

Wake at 8; avail myself of a faultless breakfast (whose niceties evidence conscientious preparation on the part of Mária, my magnificent host mother!); teach primary-school kids from 9 to 10 (in which the cockles of my heart are thawed via Hachi Pachi); teach early high-school kids from 10:30 to 11:30 (in which, while covering “likes” and “dislikes,” the class uniformly professes to like “Facebook” and “drinking” and dislike “learning”); lunch at the old man’s house; a free afternoon in which I forage for increasingly inventive ways of presenting the English language; a class of adult beginners from 5 to 6 (a small, highly motivated group); a class of advanced adults from 6:15 to 7:15 (conversation and correction in equal measure—a little like being on a first date with fifteen people at the same time); socializing with students from the advanced group; home for an inspired, sumptuous meal over which I prepare lessons plans for the next day; bed.

In the curtains and glass that separate me and my watery soup from the elderly and theirs sits a reflected figure just as real as the people beyond it. Every day between carrots and broth, I try to find a difference between them and me, thinking there must be some level of visual acuity at which we become distinct. I haven’t yet found it. It reminds me of the way my students mirror me, faithfully repeating words. They trust me like I trust my eyes. And, softly sipping slippery soup, I can’t help thinking that, here in Vasvár, the point of departure from reality to reflection must be extremely small and exceptionally well-hidden.