THE 2025 SOUTHERN HEMISPHERE TERM OF THE KŐRÖSI CSOMA SÁNDOR PROGRAM HAS COME TO AN END: ÁRON DARVASI’S FAREWELL TO THE COMMUNITY

I remember the smells when I arrived in February. It was late summer. Life was bursting everywhere; the sun was shining, and the wind, like a giant air freshener, blew the scent of the ocean between the skyscrapers. Later, winter washed it all away, and now that the landscape is blooming again, I feel nostalgic. Every ending is the beginning of something, and every beginning is the end of something else. I will miss teaching. The kids, playing marbles with them, the situational games, preparing with István, watching The Paul Street Boys film, and the team shout at the end of the day: “AUskola.” I’ll miss having lunch with them, eating pizza, the weekly meetings with Viola and Petra where we planned our tasks. I’ll miss the poetry recitals at the club days, the many Hungarian life stories, the countless conversations, the visits to the elderly — you, dear Péter, who are now watching us from above. I’ll miss the paprika-eating contest, and the folk dancing at sunset on Petra’s terrace. I’ll miss the preparations for the Mattie the Goose-boy stage play, when the team shared personal stories with me that later became part of the performance. I’ll miss the rehearsals at Berni’s place, and the premiere, where so many Hungarians living here got a taste of theatre. I’ll miss the Hungarian vendors who work tirelessly to make sure the taste of home can be felt even this far away. And I’ll miss my personal things too. For example, the silence of Wellington. Klári’s kindness and Györgyi’s hospitality when we grilled steak and corn on the terrace. Even the smell of the seals. And that speeding ticket. The landlord pacing upstairs. Or that mimic bird outside my window that never let me sleep. I’ll miss the scholarship payments. The late-night parties in Ponsonby. The daytime walks in the CBD. The yachts swaying in Viaduct Harbour. How the phone rings differently. Or the sound of the pedestrian crossing. I’ll miss left-side driving. Sleeping in the car in Rotorua. Bathing in a forest thermal river. The damp smell of the earth under the redwoods. The curves of Hobbiton’s grassy hills. Or riding a horse in the ocean. I’ll miss the French girl from the café. The Kiwi girl from the bowling alley. The Chilean girl from the concert. The Polish girl… well, not her. But all the kisses I left behind — those, yes. I’ll miss the smell of a freshly opened tennis ball. The workouts. The competitions. The matches.

The community. But most of all Nick, Cris, and Nicco. The bad music at the Hoppers club. I’ll miss the nighttime chaos in Kingsland. The distant gunshots. The drunk guy who accidentally wandered into my living room. Or the guy who wanted to beat me up because his girlfriend tried to hit on me. I’ll miss the sound of the tattoo needle. My Indian friends from the gas station. My Japanese friends from the restaurant. The sushi, the wasabi, and the roast lamb. And of course, the Whittaker’s chocolate too. And naturally, the Māori culture. The haka, the rugby, and the corn cooked in the thermal springs. Finally, I’ll miss the feeling of not being home.

But there’s a difference between missing something and feeling a sense of absence. Before I came here, on the last day of the preparatory phase, we were asked to write on a piece of paper what we expected from these nine months. I wrote: to find my Hungarianness. Well, that’s the one thing I didn’t manage. I still don’t know what it means to be Hungarian — but even if I don’t know it yet, I have a feeling it must be a good thing, and that’s exactly why I’ll keep searching for it.

Áron Darvasi