As many of you know, one of the keys to success at our small-group tour company is Eva Budaiova.
She keeps us organized. She keeps the bills paid. She keeps our guests hydrated. She’s the glue.
And with regularity, her adorable and inventive use of the English language keeps us thoroughly amused.
This is partly a product of a person who speaks Slovak, Hungarian, English, Italian, German, and all the Slavic languages. In my opinion, that’s too many languages. I speak 1.5 languages, and my wife says that’s plenty.
But it’s not just what Eva says that’s so sweet, it’s also the way she says these things. She is so earnest and sincere; you just want to hug her no matter what comes out of her mouth.
Here’s an example.
It was late afternoon on a hot, humid summer day. Our guests and Eva were watching storm clouds building up on the Apennine mountains while lounging around the pool at our villa in Torre de’Passeri, Abruzzo, Italy.
Strong gusts of wind picked up and lightening flashed as the clouds started pouring down the mountains into our valley. Eva convinced the guests to get out of the pool, but they decided to stay on the patio under our terrace to watch the show.
I arrived to find Eva looking scared.
“Jake, you must tell them inside.”
“Why?” I asked.
She looked at me with concern pouring from her soulful brown eyes.
“Jake. Is windly and flash. I am scary for them,” she said.
I looked at her trying not to smile.
“Jake. There is boom-boom and fermini (lighting in Italian). Inside them now.”
I went outside to see how the guests were doing, and they were having a great time. With each flash, even one so close it made me flinch, they cheered.
“You guys good?” I asked
“We could use some drinks,” one man said.
I took their orders and returned inside hoping to get out the drinks order before Eva confronted me again. But there she was still looking concerned.
“Inside come them, yes?” she said.
I shook my head. She looked incredulous.
“Jake. Is windly, boom-boom, and flash. Is not safe. I’m scary. What they said?”
Here we go, I thought.
“They want drinks,” I said.
“Want drinks? What drinks?” she asked
I shrugged my shoulders.
“Two beers, two rose wines, Aperol Spritz and a white wine,” I said.
“Oh Gehzuz, dio,” came the reply.
She made the drinks. I delivered them. They watched the show while Eva fretted about inside.
Since then, whenever the leaves on the trees rustle or a gust kicks up some dust, I think “Yes Eva, is windly.” She really was scary for them.
Sometimes Eva substitutes words that sound alike and hopes for the best. The results can be sweet.
My next favourite Eva-ism popped up when we were eating lunch discussing a trip we were going to take with her to her native Slovakia. We talked about the culture and geography, and then my wife, Lisa Grassi-Blais, asked her what are the traditional Slovak foods.
Eva explained Bryndzone halusky, the pasta-like dumpling covered in sheep cheese and bacon, the roasted pork, the sausages, and then she said:
“And of course, we have the garbage soup.”
The conversation took a beat.
Maybe she meant soup made out of leftovers, or whatever was in the fridge and needed to be used. Who knows? Not important. We were moving on, I thought.
“Wait,” Lisa said. “Garbage soup?”
Eva looked concerned.
“Yes. We have the garbage soup.”
Lisa smiled. “What’s in garbage soup?”
Eva looked wary.
“Garbage,” she said.
We looked blank.
“Krauti,” Eva said.
Blank.
“Kapusta,” she offered holding her hands in a circle.
It dawned on me.
“Cabbage?” I said.
“Yes. Garbage,” Eva said.
“It’s cabbage,” I said.
“Yes,” Eva said exasperatedly. “Is garbage. We have the garbage soup.”
I took out my phone and found a picture of a cabbage.
“This is cab - bage,” I said.
Then I found a picture of an overflowing garbage can.
“This is gar - bage.”
Eva rolled her eyes.
“Cabbage. Garbage,” she said clearly exasperated. “Is same vord. English is so stiewpit.”
Eva makes sure the villa runs smoothly and the guests are well hydrated. She is very dear to us. (Get it? There’s a fake dear in the photo.)
A few months later, we were sitting in Eva’s parents’ dining room in Komarno, Slovakia eating bowls of delicious cabbage soup.
“Please tell your mom this is the best garbage I’ve ever tasted,” I said smiling.
Eva shook her head and glared at me.
“So stiewpit,” she said.
I could go on and on, but ain’t nobody got time for that, so I’ll give you two more of my favourite Eva-isms.
We were talking about an upcoming trip to Canada she was going on to help with some public relations for our business, and she asked this.
“There is skeeewrels?”
My brow furrowed.
“What?”
“Skeeewrels. You have the skeeewrels in Canada?”
Blank.
“Little anniemalle. Skeeewrels,” she said putting her hands in front of her face mimicking a squirrel.
I got it. “Squirrels,” I said.
She let out a frustrated sigh.
“Yes. Jake. Skeeewrellas,” she said.
“No, squirrels,” I said.
“No schkeeeewrellas?” she said. “Jake. I check. There are the schkeeewrreelas in Canada. Why you not know this?”
“Yes. There are squirrels in Canada, but the word is squirrels.”
“That’s I say.”
“No. That’s what you think you said, but your accent made it sound like this - schkeeeewrellas.”
She looked at me frowning.
“Jake. I no have acchent,” she said then walked away a few paces and turned back quickly.
“I have acchent? Ghezuz. So stiewpid. I no have acchent. Schkeeeewrellis!”
A couple months later, she was outside Old City Hall in Toronto feeding a troupe of little fury animals and she still couldn’t pronounce squirrels.
Eva is a jack of all trades at the villa: administrator, hostess, gardener, bartender, cleaner, payroll manager. She’s awesome.
My last Eva-ism is my favourite.
One day, she came into the villa looking concerned. Lisa asked what was wrong and Eva said her father, who worked as our yardman/handyman at the villa for five years, wasn’t well.
“Big headcake,” Eva said. “Need medicina. You have the compresse?”
Lisa recognized the situation right away. Headcake equaled headache, and compresse is the Italian word for pills. She gave Eva some painkillers and didn’t correct her mistake. It was just too cute to correct.
A few weeks later, I arrived at the villa to find Eva lying on the couch.
“Headcake?” I asked.
“Yes, headcake,” Eva said.
For the next several years, Eva called headaches headcakes, and nobody corrected her. Then one day, Eva confronted me.
“Why you not tell me headcake is wrong?” she said.
“What?” I said.
“Headcake. Headcake is wrong. Is head - ache. Not head - cake. Why you not tell me?”
She had me.
“Because it sounds sweet when you say headcake.”
She looked at me frowning for a few seconds then sighed and walked away.
To this day, Eva still calls a headache a headcake, and so do Lisa and I now.
As I said earlier, I could go on and on, but Eva has been a good sport about this blog being written. However, she said I could only give four examples of Eva-isms.
“I not want look stiewpit,” she said.
You will never look stupid Eva, just adorable.
A rare picture of Eva sitting down. “Skeeeewwwrrrellliissss!!!!!!!”