Monday, April 02, 2001

Picking up very much where we left off, I am strolling at night in a European capital, this time on the west bank of the Danube, making for what looks like a heck of a bridge. I'm still recovering from getting off the train and being immediately assaulted by an old Hungarian women with a small, dingy room to rent. Joy! Lodging in Budapest, achieved immediately and painlessly. Lest you think me mad for following just any old woman out of a train station, Erin pulled the same maneuver (with, for all I know, the same woman), just a few weeks ago, and had a terrific experience. Also, the quoted rate is $18. And the location is right (the woman carries snapshots and marked maps with her.)

But, like attendees at a House of Pain concert, I'm jumping around.

First things last: On my recent night stroll of Wien, I photographed (and somehow forgot to include last time) a shot of the Hofberg (Habsburg palace) all lit up for a ball. The damn thing was too wide to capture, no matter where I stood, so I saddled up the mother of invention and attempted my first panorama montage (multiple shots, stitched together). Not perfect, but not entirely shabby.

Morning, and I awoke late to a tray of steaming coffee, warmed milk, lots of sugar, and three stellar pastries (apple, chocolate, vanilla) all verily laid out around where I lay. This was Erin being an absolute darling.

On my last day in Wien, Erin took me on a jaunt out of town, to Kohlnberg—way up on the mountain. This was a heck of a promontory, providing—in addition to coffee—a stellar view of all greater Vienna. [My montage work still needs work. But the discovery that I can do it is so liberating! I can't count how many nice shots I've had to totally pass on simply "because I just couldn't get all of it in the frame."]

Erin held my hand all the way to the train station and through the ticket-buying process—going so far as to sit with me on the train before departure. Apprehensive was I, going from one country whose language I didn't speak, to another, on a conveyance with which I had no familiarity. I hate being out of control of things; I know, I know, I'm working on it.

A Few Bits Of Random Wien Dialogue, Unsequentially

M: In the piece I wrote last night, I serialized some very subtle humour about those tons of types of coffee you can order in Wien all just being slight variations of coffee with milk.
E: You're right, they pretty much all are.
M: It's like the eskimos, with snow.
E: <laughter>

E: It's hard to get used to the grocery stores in Europe never being open.
M: When are they open?
E: . . . Never.

I made use of my empty train compartment for just-in-time learning about Budapest, and Hungarian language. Bwahahaha. My language reference is called Just Enough Hungarian. I'm here to tell you that virtually any amount is way too much.

I was highly startled from my studies when men with guns came in to check passports. And can you freaking believe it, I didn't for a minute know where my damned passport was? I finally located it in my secret pouch. <shudder>.

Later, my nice empty car was invaded by five young Hungarians. I found the man had English as a 3rd language (2nd being German), when I made so bold as to ask him when the hell I should get off the train, for Budapest. How the hell do you know? The train just stops periodically; they don't say anything. I'm feeling the apprehension, good old fear actually, come creeping back in. What if I end up in some rural Hungarian town on the Macedonian border? Why am I doing this? Where the hell am I going to sleep when I get there? <sigh>. My confidence, it appears, in insufficient to this activity. Nevertheless, I finish eating the Frommers Budapest, and painstakingly acquire 3 or 4 Hungarian phrases.

This brings us back up to getting jumped by the old lady in the station—and explains why I was only too glad to follow her down to the metro, underneath the Danube, and back above ground to her apartment. The subway was, alack, very Eastern Bloc, then suddenly we emerged onto the banks of the Danube—with the signature Parliment Building directly across the water. (In reality, it was night, and the Parliment was nicely lit up. But that shot didn't come out.) Behind us was a tall, dual-spired church. Cool. We immediately threaded around behind the church, into an alley, and into an apartment building that was, again, extremly Eastern Bloc. Ah, well. The room is private, comfortable, and lockable. And $18. Also, it's right near the river—and a major metro stop.

This brings us back (after throwing my stuff down, and accepting the large bunch of keys needed to get into the building) to me strolling along the river, heading for the bridge. As I step onto it, I turn—and what jumps out at me but (what I later learn to be) Buda Palace, perched precariously on a very high hill behind me (seen as montage 8^). Out on the bridge, I'm assaulted by another castle, a real fairy-tale one, off on the right.

Crossing the Danube is lovely; but treacherous when looking over the side. I fantasize about dropping my bag—and jumping after it, which would probably be my last lapse in judgement; the current is fast, and the sides of the canal are sheer. I achieve the other side (the more lively one). Somewhere in this berg is a pub open this late on a Sunday—and I'm just the bloke to find it.

I do, and it's actually a landlocked beach bar, with loud pop music. Not really my speed; but they've got Kilkenny on tap. In my broken six words of Hungarian I greet (the babe of a) bartender, and get my half liter of the good stuff. Looking up, I catch sight of myself in the bar mirror. This is what I looked like at that moment, give or take a few lighting issues.

As seems to be highly, highly correlated with me sitting in a pub, anywhere in the world, with a pint in front of me . . . I feel very happy. All the anxiety/fear is gone, for the moment. Also after a pint, I lapse into literary loquaciousness. Danger: prose ahead. (Or heavy editing of the notes . . .)

edits . . . edits . . . edits . . .

Pouring over my JEH at the bar, I realize I am clear on this now: It is very, very difficult to concentrate on absolutely anything at all, whilst intoning one's next Hungarian phrase in one's head over and again, which, if you don't, that phrase is GONE, man. Did I mention that Hungarian is not philologically related to anything?

elisions . . . elisions . . . elisions . . .

Guess where I don't have to go tomorrow (Monday) morning? Or the Monday morning after that? Or the seven after those? Muhahahaha. Maybe I'll pick up one of those "Work Sucks" bumper stickers. Slightly more eloquently, but only slightly less elegantly, Emerson noted that, "Money often costs too much."

edits . . . edits . . . edits . . .

11:30am and I wake up and stagger into a handheld shower. Dressed and outside, it's a gorgeous day; sunny and 65. I hop the metro under the river to the main plaza, Deak ter, then jog north (after spending a mere 30 minutes trying to orient myself) to, God, what else first thing in the day, a cafe. This is Muvesz Kavehaz, directly across from the Opera House, and declared by Frommers to be "one of Budapest's finest traditional coffee houses." In a fairly ornate room, they bring me a cup of coffee darker than anything I've seen outside of a filter accident; but damn tasty, once I pour in all the available sugar and cream.

From Frommers: "Like Vienna, imperial Budapest was famous for its coffeehouse culture. Literary movements and political circles alike were identified in large part by which coffeehouse they met in." It also appears that the reach of the Pastry Menace exceeds that of Soviet Communism, circa 1988. There are a couple of confections I'm admonished to try. Later! later!

I am worrying about the fact that I cannot decide how long to stay here. (And I'm frustrated that I can't stop fretting.) My main motivation, embarrassingly, is that I find the prospect of negotiating another train ride, and another room search, scary. I'm sure all of ya'll who've crisscrossed Europe on trains are laughing at me right now. Well, the hell with ya'll. :^) I'm going on my walking tour (if I can manage to pronounce "tab, please").

I still just can't seem to relax, which is ostensibly what I've come to Europe to do. One notion I grabbed onto, before departure, is that ALL of my trips so far (and I only started travelling on Nov. 1, 1997, just after my 27th birthday) have been fabulous. I'm really overdue for one that sucks. "Your trip will be just wonderful," declared Ali. "Unless it isn't," I ammended. [Naturally, no Fuchs Dispatch is complete without a reference to Ali (whom I met, not incidentally, on my first trip)].

After spending another 30 minutes getting reoriented (to my walking tour map), I step into a church—where I'm scolded by a woman mopping the floor. Ouch; back out. This map is not real stellar, the walking tour mainly depending on procedural directions. The second problem with procedural directions is that you spend a great deal of mental energy following them. (The first problem is that if you miss one turn, you are henceforth, and finally, pretty much hosed.) I cut through a shabby park, grousing quietly.

On a happier note, the women here are built (no Fuchs Dispatch is complete without commentary on the local femmes); and not afraid to show it. Hmmm. I reach the foot of Szabadsag Bridge, reportedly the nicest one. (Montage skills coming along.)

[Pardon me a moment, while I look up "yes" so I can agree to another pint. I'm sitting, btw, typing in the corner booth of my local—a cozy, brass-and-red-felt kind of place, just around the corner from my room. I'm drinking Stella. Sorry to pull you right out of the narrative.]

So I duck into the Vaci utca, an all-pedestrian drag, with al fresco diners and thing-hawkers. This is nicer; but I'm still all agitated: thoughts of leaving tomorrow, of train schedules, of luggage storing. This is a real failure to use Europe appropriately. I pass a flute/viola duet—and SIT DOWN. I'm just going to relax here, drain some tension from my shoulders. Dammit. Finally, I rise and make the end of the drag—and find I'm back in front of the beach bar from last night.

Also on this square is another storied cafe, Gerbeaud's. I duck into its turn-of-the-century interior. The pastries are back; this place is supposed to have some of the best. I order a coffee, water, and a Dobos Torte—an indulgent, layered chocolate cake, and local specialty. Settling in, I belatedly read the History section of my guidebook:

Initially populated by Celtic tribes in the 3rd century BC, civilized and ruled over by Rome, overrun by both Huns AND Mongols, briefly (150 years) occupied by Turks, "liberated" by the House of Habsberg, completely flooded out by the Danube in 1838, piling in on the losing side of BOTH world wars, occupied by Nazis anyway, "liberated" and firmly communized by the Soviets, finally really liberated (along with much of Eastern Europe) in 1989, Hungary should really be tired and sore, at this point. But it's more than hanging in there, renaming all their "Red Army Square"s and "Lenin Boulevard"s to their prewar names, opening burger joints by the dozen, signing up for NATO, trying to keep the Balkan tinderbox out of their hair, and endeavoring to make salaries keep up with inflation during the transition to a free-market economy.

Actually, "Budapest" is most of what you need to know about Hungary—all roads and train tracks lead here, it's the undisputed economic and cultural epicenter and, lately, its been drawing tourists by the mobload. You can even get Le Monde here. As for layout: the city straddles the Danube, with the hilly part with castles (Buda) on the left, and the flat part with everything else (Pest) on the right.

I'm really glad I stopped here, at Gerbeaud's (I almost didn't), lingering over the torte and the history lesson. This is a little more like it.

My walking tour ends at Roosevelt Park, glowered over by Buda Palace (across the river). The second (Buda Hills) walking tour in Frommers starts right where the first one left off, so what the hell, I head off across the bridge. Almost right at its end, the monstrous hill that Buda Palace occupies begins, and is so steep as to require this. (They wouldn't let me take the stairs.) At the top is, sure enough, the Palace—and a heck of a view back.

Okay, last things first: when you make it here, I definitely recommend doing Buda before Pest. The former is hugely quieter, airier, prettier, more picturesque, and less trafficky. Buda is like a medieval European hamlet (or my idea of it); Pest is generically cityish. Do Buda; it's betta. [When Erin corrected my pronunciation of "bitte" ("please" in German), I busted out with "Say bitte; it's betta." To my everlasting shame.] I forgot to mention in my history lesson that Budapest was formed when the two municipalities of Buda and Pest merged, in I forget what year. Yeppers, they sure look like two different cities to me . . .

I follow a nice cafe-lined street to a square with a lovely church on the side of it. Before the church is a lovely statue/spire. I clamber up on the Halaszbastya, a be-spired, neo-Roman construction, and coax a nice English matron into taking my picture.

Sadly, even in tranquil Castle Hill (the top of Buda), I'm still racing around being goal-oriented; eating sights, and seeing only through the filter of the red dots on the Frommers map. I don't know what's wrong with me. I slow down a little, look up "Good afternoon" for the umpteenth time, and greet an elderly, strolling gentleman on the street. Then I exit Castle Hill through the Vienna Gate, and try to make my way back to river-level, on a narrow cobblestone street. (I do like to get some cobblestones for my European travel dollar.)

Luckily, I get a little lost in the Buda Hills neighborhood; and there are absolutely no red dots on the map around here (if around here is even on my map). I stop at a random cafe and drink a fruit juice. Eventually, I find the river's edge (from which it's very easy to navigate back to my room).

After sucking the pictures out of the camera, I stepped outside toward the pub—and found the big church out front clanging happily away. I paused and listened, laptop firmly under arm, bells going crazy. This is a keeper moment; time slices blurring.

Yeah! I greeted the server and ordered a Stella! And she only looked just barely contemptuous! Yeah! And so, aside from a couple hours of furious typing, and two pints (erm, make that three, after editing the first draft), this pretty much brings us right up to the current moment. (I forgot to comment on Budapest's notorious cheapness, btw; my three pints came to 960 forints—just under 4 bucks.) Maybe I'll try to hit a cybercafe tonight to squirt this one out on the wire. Tomorrow, I brave the trains; and hope that I manage to get off in Prague.

Thank you for reading. (To anyone who's still with me. 8^).

Michael