Oh, Döröske. Döröske inhabits a maximum of 90 people—91 if you include me—and feels more like 30. Döröske has one small market which is open between the hours of 10 and 12:30 where I purchase our milk and cheese and these great re-usable bottles of soda water. It’s the size of a larger living room and is run by one woman whose Hungarian name translates to “Fairy” in English and who also runs the neighbouring village’s market which is open 2 hours before. All of the houses are hand-built and vary entirely from one to the other and have huge yards filled with chickens and vegetables and fruit trees and flowers—so many flowers. It's home to a big and beautiful lake in which there are often 2 white swans floating around, bringing the fairy-tale vibe to a Brothers Grimm level. There are no restaurants or cafes. For some reason, Döröske had a small disco called “The White Beach Club” that— as far as I’ve heard— was run by a local Mafia. Rumour has it that the last owner was infamous for downing an entire bottle of whiskey in one sitting and that he took his last breath just after his last bottle. There are cherry trees everywhere. The trashman comes on Thursdays and the ice-cream man comes every afternoon. The nights are completely silent, except for a village bell that is manually rung once at 12h, and again at 19h. When we arrived, a car passed quickly down our road and I asked Wanja if it was an airplane, that's the type of silence I'm talking about. From the window where I write, I can see a horse and buggy travel by every few evenings led by the last man in the village with a horse. The bus driver is known by name and the faces of almost everyone that travel on it are recognizable, even for me. The Mayor's office sits in a small community center in the center of the village, where I often sit in front of and catch Wi-Fi to do things like write this newsletter and search for 99cent iTunes movies.
That’s what I know about Döröske.
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