Wednesday, April 4, 2001

I am walking briskly away from the closed and barred Deak ter metro station, looking for the Danube, so that I can make my way home across the Szechenyl Ianchid (Chain Bridge)—the one I crossed over my first hour in Budapest. Tonight, 48 hours later, in the quiet late night, I have my thinker on; and I am thinking very hardly.

"Mike [the sentient computer] is one dinkum thinkum."
      - Manny, Robert Heinlein's The Moon is a Harsh Mistress

And what I am thinking about is . . . staying. I am on my way, by the way, back from a pilgrimmage to the late-night cybercafe on Vaci utca. Thusly did I maintain my perfect record so far of publishing dispatches in real-time, right up to the minute. Afterwards, I also stopped at a late-night joint for one of the better Greek salads I've had (certainly the best after midnight, and for under $4), and a Coke Light. But the metro was not open as late: thus my walk. And thus my thinking. Thinky, thinky, thinky. As I left Deak ter, I was briefly disoriented, but after a moment said to myself, "Yeah, okay, I know where I am now." And that's when I decided: I'm staying.

Look: I'm just learning my way around; I'm finally remembering a few pleasantries in Hungarian; I've got a nice, cheap room; I've still got more forints than I can spend in a week; I'm sure to be rushing the entire rest of this trip; and I'm going to see like 8 million cities. The hell with it; leave Prague for another day. Really, this is the perfect place to hang out. I'm just going to find a nice English-language bookstore, and kick it for a couple of days. Notwithstanding not confronting my fears about the transport and lodging—I'm delighted with this decision. (And I'm pretty sure I can hear Laylah applauding across the Atlantic.) Now I can save 13 hours of train travel; avoid the tourist mobs in Praha; maybe do laundry. I can tour the Hungarian National Gallery. And . . . just maybe . . . I can even relax.

Morning, and I get off one metro stop earlier than usual, which dumps me directly behind the Parliment Building, which, from up close, DAMN. Today's walking tour is also in Pest—but in Leapold Town, just to the north. This area promises Parliment, the Stock Exchange, the National Bank, much noveau architecture, and the country's largest church.

I undertake the day's first order of business, naturally, stumbling blindly into Java Caffe—which serves me a frozen mocha. It's made with lots of espresso, and whipped cream; both yummy, and effective. It occurs pointedly to me now that the women in this town are BEAUTIFUL. Every schmuck on the street has a veritable work of art on his arm. Laughing faces like displaced angels. And pants?

Back to P-Square now, and the statue of Kossuth, a hero of the 1848 Revolutionary war, who died in exile, but was returned here for burial. He is pointing (longingly? accusingly?) at the Parliment building. The building behind him, with the figures on top, is the former Supreme Court Building, now a museum.

Sitting in a park north of Parliment, looking across the Danube, I can see Castle Hill—and the church spires below it, which I now know are part of Watertown; the district with my room in it. Might just sit here awhile. Think maybe I'll go back to Buda/Castle Hill tomorrow, do the National Gallery (actually located in Buda Palace).

I circumnavigate the big P, down by the water; this thing is HUGE. Leaving it looming behind me, I pass beneath the massive yellow facade of what used to be the Stock Exchange, and is now home of . . . well, you see that "MTV" over the doorway? "Magyar Televizio." It's the national tv station—Magyar being the actual name of what we, as we always seem for no readily apparent reason to do, call Hungary. This sits on Freedom Square, along with the National Bank—and the U.S. Embassy. I can never resist going by the U.S. Embassy; love that flag, and being only a few feet from American soil. This is really a heck of a Square, long and wide, surrounded by ornate, 7-story buildings. Sitting on a bench, though, almost underneath the Stars and Stripes, it occurs to me that I'm more likely to be blown to smithereens right here, than probably any other place in the country. I say hello to the nice guard and move along.

<internalization>I'VE GOT NOTHING I HAVE TO DO HERE TODAY. OR TOMORROW. OR THE MORNING AFTER. ABSOLUTELY NOTHING.</internalization> I think I may finally be getting it.

This morning, when I told my landlady I was staying, she prepared a whole (excellent) coffee service for me. I thanked her very much, and she exclaimed, "Ah! You're learning Magyarul!" Or, well, something-something-Magyarul, which, you know, from context.

Curses! Just when I was being lulled into narcotic complacency, I am unexpectedly and violently dragged from the street, my cries unheard, into a hardcore, storefront pastry operation. Strapping me down, they tube-feed me one of Budapest's other notorious confections: Ischer, two shortbread cookies, apricot filling, double-dipped in dark chocolate. They even extracted 80ft (35 cents) from my pocket. Bastards!

While I'm still sugar-buzzed, the street opens up dramatically upon Svent Istvan ter—named for St. Stephen's Basilica, which is pretty much completely and totally overwhelming. It is just freaking huge. Inside, the joint has another ass-kicking dome, an over-the-top altar, St. Stephen's preserved right hand, and a really big organ. Also, a whole room of "treasures".

Excerpt From Internal Dialogue
"Cool! you can go up on top of the dome."
"Wait! they want 500 forints! Just to climb the damn stairs!"
"Dude—that's two dollars."
"500 forints! Highway robbery! I hate spending money!"
"Dude. It is TWO DOLLARS."

On top, you can circle around and see absolutely everything. (A nice Arabic couple and I exchanged photo duties.) I also shot some me-simulicra afterwards, to give you a sense of scale (they're in the middle, a little down and to the right).

Guided walk almost done, on Andrassy ut ("fin-de-siecle Pest's greatest boulevard") I duck into a bookstore, just because. My discovery there? O'Reilly (computer) books—in Magyarul. The revolution is over. The geeks have won. In all fairness, shortly after that I duck into a used/antiquarian bookstore, behind the Opera House—which, btw, is really a much grander and much, much larger structure than my earlier picture conveyed—and there they also have Dostoevsky and Maugham (in Magyarul, of course). 8^)

And, across from the Opera House is good ole Muvesz Kavehaz (my first cafe in town), where I spend a while, with some of that glorious industrial coffee accident, just . . . kicking it.

Walking back from a very late dinner in Pest, I'm on the Chain Bridge again. I'm looking up at Buda Palace, which just towers and sprawls and glows down on us like the very Kingdom of Heaven. I want to take one last stab at capturing some of the grandeur of this. Here goes nothing.

Morning, and I begin the climb back up to Castle Hill, and my date with Magyar Nemzeti Galeria—the National Gallery, located inside Buda Palace. But first, I have to . . . well, your first guess is almost certainly correct. My guidebook indicates a lovely, tiny, traditional cafe located somewhere on the back side of the hill, but damned if I can find it. So I take a seat in a less traditional joint I'd passed a couple of minutes before. Such great luck I did; there I met Dasa.

That is to say, I mustered myself for the first time on this trip to make so bold as to actually speak to someone. As I later explained to her, I have a real love-hate relationship with the other 6 billion people; always drawn, and repelled. (I know, I know, I'm working on it.) Moreover, I'm just pretty shy; if I let myself, I could travel alone for weeks without speaking to another soul . . . In this case though: she was reading a guidebook in English, so I girded myself up and asked her if she had been to the National Gallery yet—on the chance she might suggest what I should see. (It's much, much too big to see all of in a day.)

She hadn't, but the conversation did take root. So, to relate in a tidy, sterile nutshell most of the details about this wonderful, complex person that I learned over the next couple of hours, Dasa:

• Is 26 years old, Czech, and grew up under Communist rule.
• Has fantastic English, along with Czech, some Russian, and another language I forget.
• Pronounces Magyarul phrases much, much better than I do. 8^)
• Was so anxious to travel that she left home at 19, without attending university (yet).
• Is basically the anti-me, travelwise—living for long stretches abroad: 4 months in Switzerland, 2 years in London, and (most recently) 5 years in Praha.
• Has moved to Budapest, just a week earlier, to live with her boyfriend of 1 year.
• Worked for the past year for (ack) an Internet company; has no good idea yet what she wants to do here, but has some lovely ideas about maybe working for a theatre, or studying arts in Bratislava; and fears, in any case, that the time has come to make a decision about such things.
• Has a brother and a sister, both older; has spent almost all of her holidays, since moving away, back visiting her family.
• Is just about the nicest companion I could ask for, for three of my last hours in Budapest (and three of her first)—intelligent, well-spoken, thoughtful, worldly, and charming.

No, she hasn't been to the National Gallery yet; but she's been trying to figure out what to do with her afternoon. Yes, she'd like to come with me. 8^)

Hungarian art! Yes! The National Gallery has almost all the important visual art that's come out of this country; and I just nigh fell in love with it. From the 18th century, a style of "historicism" (depictions of historical events, very large, but also very detailed). From the 19th century, impressionism, post-impressionism, realistic portraiture, dozens of distinct styles of brush strokes, seemingly changing with each wall we pass. I remember beautiful textures—stormy skies, and impressionistic (occasionally expressionistic) background textures; beautiful, lush brushstrokes. Self-portraits, ranging from the realistic to thick lines of unlikely colors (all with dour, serious-artist expressions).

And Dasa is a great gallery-going companion. I like the dark, moody things, and she prefers brighter colors, nature, a particular field of tulips (that reminds her of one she saw in real life, on a drive); but we find much common ground, and also our dialogue ranges off on interesting tangents. There is a good bit of Magyar art that confers glory on the workingman: blacksmiths, harvesters, farmers. Dasa's grandparants lived this way, working the lands tirelessly for years. It is odd to be so close and so far away from such a life. Others depict the conquest of Mongols and Huns, castles under seige, women fighting alongside the men, tired, drooping, cloaked soldiers slogging home from battle. Both of our grandfathers, we discover, fought in WWII. Pal Szinyei Merse is one of our favorites, prolific and varied in style; a contemporary of the French impressionists, who painted in Munich (not Paris).

Sated with good art, we emerge and hang out on the stoop. We finally depart, for coffee; but stop (at her urging) in a sunny spot on the backside of the hill. A few feet away, an enterprising fellow with a Casio keyboard, and an upturned hat, plays Silent Night, Happy Birthday; we throw him a few forints, and turn our faces to the retiring sun.

M: This is the one and only such comment I will make, that you must keep from your boyfriend. But you look really just lovely in the sunlight; it is obviously your element.
D: Thank you, that's a nice compliment.
M: Wrap it up and take it with you.

For my part, I will take with me my memory of those few minutes in that sun. (And of her eyes.)

We rise and move cafe-ward, and Dasa confesses to me that her boyfriend's friends are all settled into careers in law and business; and have asked of her my least favorite question in English, and one to which she does not yet have an answer: "What do you do?" (By which they really mean, what do you do for money?) But she shrugs it all off; she will be fine here. Actually, I'm envious of her that she gets to stay, while I must move on.

We walk together back down the hill, taking a beautiful path she'd discovered, and emerge right in my little neighborhood. We've exchanged e-mail addresses, and maybe we will reunite when I come back next year to see Praha. 8^) Or when she comes to San Francisco. Borrowing a phrase, I admonish her to "be happy."

People, people, people, oh my . . .

I go home, past my neighborhood church—which I can't leave without taking with me. Tonight I intend (after finishing this pint) to sup at an Indian, vegetarian restaurant run by Hare Krishnas. (Don't even try to talk me into passing up that one.) Tomorrow: back to Wien. Goodnight; be happy. (Hi, Dasa.)

Michael