sketches of budapest

the last day

For my last full day in Budapest, I wanted to visit the Dohány Street Synagogue— I've never been to a synagogue, and this happens to be the world's second largest. I wasn't sure what to expect, so I was surprised and delighted by the Moorish architectural influences, as I've always been a fan. The building is simply spectacular— the warm light inside, bouncing off pinkish tiles, is out of this world. Once I spied the unusual chandeliers— which for some reason reminded me of some sort of sea creature or sea plant, I was disappointed they weren't illuminated. How those arches would have looked if they were lit!


In the garden behind the synagogue stood a single, beautiful weeping willow of metal, made by Imre Varga. The leaves were inscribed with the names of thousands of Hungarian Jews who were victims of the Holocaust. I was filled with a terrible feeling I cannot describe, a dreadful silence, as every leaf I touched represented someone lost in an unimaginable way.

When I was thirteen and living in Belgium, my history teacher took us on a class field trip to the ruins of a concentration camp called Breendonk. It's not something I enjoy discussing or remembering, but I remember being filled with dread as our school bus approached the austere building. I kept thinking about how that road and that fence, and those darkly stained wooden posts that I saw with my eyes were also seen by thousands of other eyes, wide with fear, questioning, uncertainty hanging overhead like some incredible weight. People unaware or perhaps knowing, that their lives would be lived out in the worst way between those walls.

When we were taken inside the prisoners' rooms, the musty smell of the decaying wooden bunks and the claustrophobic stacking of beds like shelves was overwhelming— who lived here, who died here— they all had names, favourite things, memories, families, loves and losses. I had never before or since, been brought to tears by a building.


Beside the Dohány Street Synagogue, is a small museum of Jewish culture with some lovely pieces of art and beautiful old prayer books— many other things too, but these things in particularly caught my eye. For some reason I didn't photograph any of the books, and I am really wishing I had.

Since Mirco had only a few hours before he had to head to the airport, we decided beers were in order, and since I needed to pick up some last minute souvenirs, we revisited the Great Market Hall, Nagycsarnok. Tempting waves of food smells wafted by us and became too intense to ignore— and what goes better with beer than a juicy, spicy sausage?

As you can see below, I was handed a sausage in its own paper plate with a pool of spicy mustard (which was oh-so delicious), and a slice of white bread on a napkin. Hmm... instinct was telling me to roll the sausage up in the bread, but common sense told me that if it was meant to be eaten that way, it would be in a bun. I watched the old man next to me as he very dignified, cut a bite of sausage with his knife and fork, dipped it in the mustard, chewed it thoughtfully, then tore off a piece of bread and ate it alone. I did the same.


Back at the hostel, I bumped into Nancy and Molly after saying goodbye to Mirco, my dear Associate Adventurist. Nancy had found a new restaurant to try, and we decided to kidnap one of the hostel's staff members, Andras, along with two new guests one of whom, Ben, is an Iron Man competitor! How on earth— and why— a person would put themselves through a 3.86 km swim, followed by a 180.25 km bike race, topped off with a marathon, is beyond me. It's simply amazing. I won't even run to catch a bus.

We set off for M Restaurant, one of the coolest places I have eaten recently— the walls were pasted with brown packing paper with lamps, shelves and curtains drawn on. The food had a delicious home-cooked comfort feel, perfectly matched with a glass of wine and long conversation. It was a wonderful end to an incredible adventure.


On the walk back to the hostel, I passed through the city's many metro stations. I watched people hurrying about to who knows where, and I had that feeling so familiar to travellers, the feeling of not wanting to go home. I love Budapest. The layers of history, the friendliness of its people— the waffleman. Budapest, I'll be back.

island of fall and the surprise liver

Thursday we walked to Margit Island in the middle of the Danube. Margit Island was full of churches, monasteries and nunneries from the 12th century until the Ottomans came in and destroyed it all in the 16th century. Today, the island is a peaceful recreational park with lots of trees and running paths. There's a hotel with a spa at the Northern end, a swimming pool and a theatre. It reminded me a bit of Golden Gate Park in places, except for the yellow and oranges of fall leaves.


We took the bridge on the Northern end, and wound up in the middle of massive Soviet-style apartment blocks— quite the contrast from what we had seen the rest of the week. The buildings were enormous, grey and rectangular, with no sense of individualism whatsoever. A few apartments had painted their balcony walls a bright red or orange, but most of what we saw was bleak and monotonous. It was quite fascinating, I wonder what living in a space like that feels like.


All that walking around in the cold air was making me hungry, and it seemed as though the area we had wandered into had nothing edible anywhere. Suddenly out of nowhere, a giant, ugly steel and glass structure popped out between the Soviet-style buildings. It was either a market or a bizarre spaceship from the early 80s. Excited, I dragged Mirco across the street, convinced there was food inside the ugliness. We were amazed by the amount of pickles and produce, meats and clothing made in China. It was awesome— and we started to search for a cheap solution to our hunger. We soon found on the upper floor, a red fast-food stall that offered plenty of csibe, which I had learnt meant chicken. Chicken sandwiches seemed ok, and the backlit pictures on the menu didn't offer any clues as to what the difference between the sandwiches was. I settled on the Süper Csibe Szendvics— because, well, it was super with an umlaut.

We paid, and got a red plastic tray with very plain looking breaded chicken sandwiches in paper sleeves, and a paper plate of fries. I spied a couple of tomatoes and a mushroom in mine, and figured they were what made a Csibe Szendvics süper, since Mirco got a regular szendvics and was without produce. At first bite, I ran into some pickles that added to the süperness, and discovered there was no sauce of any kind at all— which was odd to me— I had expected a mustard of some sort at least. It was alright, and I was hungry, so I ate it happily until Mirco discovered something odd on the receipt.

The women behind the counter decided to charge us for an extra sandwich— a problem we pretty much ran into everywhere we ate. I had read that this sort of thing is a common occurrence in Budapest affecting tourists, but figured it was an exaggeration. Sadly, if you are a tourist, you absolutely must check every receipt and bill you get before you pay. Mirco bravely went back to the counter, where the woman was beginning to look nervous. I sat back and took another bite of chicken and suddenly, my mouth was filled with a horrific taste. At first, I didn't know what had happened— it was dreadful! I dissected what was left of the sandwich to discover that what I had believed was a mushroom, was no mushroom. I began to recognise the wretched flavour— it was liver. The süper in a Süper Csibe Szendvics is a big ole hunk of beef liver! I began to look around at the other customers— livers were poking out between buns everywhere! Apparently I was the only one disturbed by this.

Mirco strode back in victory, and I had missed the entire exchange between the brawny lady and my friend, thanks to the liver surprise. It was good of her to give the money back, she knew she was doing something wrong, the guilt was all over her face. I think in most places, you'd never see that money again. I'll be happy to never see this sandwich again.


Later that evening we met some fun new hostel guests, Molly and Nancy from Washington— Nancy is in the midst of taking her daughter Molly on a tour of Europe. They had been through England, The Netherlands, Switzerland, France and Spain, and were passing through Hungary on their way to the Czech Republic. Nancy was determined to find a delicious local restaurant for dinner, and asked us along. Desperate to wipe away the memory of that liver nightmare, I happily joined them in finding Café Csiga, an artsy café with hearty divine dishes. We got a little lost, and I'm still not sure how we found it, especially since the café had no sign, but before we knew it, we were seated in a smoky, sultry space bursting with conversation and music. This is the kind of place where you imagine everyone is a writer or painter, and they've come for beer, cigarettes, and words like "existentialism."


I tried to get a picture of my delicious beef in black beer, but it was so dark and my little camera just can't handle low light situations. It was a fantastic liverless meal, accompanied by a lovely Hungarian red. We stayed on into the night for beer and conversation, enjoying the ambiance.

shoes on the danube promenade

Budapest is full of sculptures, monuments and statues of all shapes and sizes, but this one in particular moved me so deeply, it needed its own post. Shoes on the Danube Promenade by Gyula Pauer and Can Togay, is a memorial to the Jews who were shot into the Danube at the hands of the Hungarian fascist group, Arrow Cross, during WWII. There are 60 pairs of iron shoes, forming a row of about 40 metres.

I can't think of a more personal item than shoes. They form to your individual shape and are worn down by your experiences. You dance in them, walk miles in them, you run in them. Every pair in this memorial reminds you of the person— she was short and balanced on the balls of her feet to better reach things, he ground down the soles of those boots between work and home every day— those tiniest shoes held feet that just learned to walk.


Watching the silent grey river, I was overwhelmed, knowing how the same spot was stared at with frightened eyes— how the water's coldness would be the last thing that so many people would feel. Grey turned red, eventual silence. I couldn't help but look at my own shoes, and feel thankful for all I have been given in life.

buda

On the way back from Memento Park, we took a walk through the hills of Buda to Halászbástya, the Fisherman's Bastion. Climbing up the winding streets of cobblestone toward the bastion, we passed old colourful houses with wrought iron ornamentation and beautifully painted details. I felt like I was transported to a medieval town— that is, until we ran into construction and a gaggle of French tourists.

View of Parliament in Pest from the Fisherman's Bastion


* * *

As the sun was beginning to set, we found ourselves at seven hundred year old Budai Vár— the castle once home to the Hungarian kings in Budapest. The castle was enormous, grand, exactly what you'd expect of a castle or palace. Hard to imagine anyone living in it. What on earth do you do with all that space? Buda Castle now houses the Hungarian National Gallery, the Budapest History Museum, and the National Széchényi Library.

Heading back to Pest, the city was enveloped in a deep blue. By the time we got to the stunning Széchenyi lánchíd, Chain Bridge, the whole city lit up in oranges and yellows. Below is a picture of the spectacular Budai Vár as seen from the bridge.

streets of buda and pest

fine pastries and the ghosts of terror

Wednesday arrived with hunger and the anticipation of exploring the variety of pastries and rolls held hostage in glass cases at Jég Büfé. I was thrilled to discover this authentic Hungarian pastry shop was staring at our hostel from right across the street, and not only did they have loads of strüdels and mille feuilles, they had a waffle man! I meandered over to the little wooden cubicle where a burly man poured batter into waffle irons with a frown, and served the warm doughy gaufres to hungry pedestrians though a circular hole in the window. As I approached, he narrowed his eyes and turned his back to me with a grunt. I was intimidated, and opted for a beautiful braided roll stuffed with poppy seed paste and walnuts with a coffee instead. Judging by the interior, I imagine Jég Büfé has been around since the early 50s, but I can't seem to find anything about the history of the place so far. Almost none of the people working there speak English, so you have to bravely do your best to pronounce the names of what you want— but I've found a big, innocent, touristy smile and sign language works just fine.


Our bellies happy and satisfied, we took a tram to Buda to grab the #150 bus to Memento Park. After what seemed like an hour of weaving through rolling hills and pretty suburban streets, we arrived at a lonely bleak stop with electric towers and a large wall across the street. Following the other tourists, we hopped off and found ourselves exactly where we had hoped to be.

Clouds rushed across the sky colouring it blue then grey, then blue again, minute to minute. Huge angry figures speared the sky with flags and fists— relics of communism, scattered across a desolate park. There was an eerie silence that made the experience all the more dramatic.



Memento Park, as I understand it, is still being developed. In the barracks next to the park was a small exhibit detailing the key events that took place during those fifty years, and a theatre showing a film about surveillance and the life of an agent. I expected many more statues, but the wide empty space did give me plenty of room to think about the years of fear, terror and oppression that gripped the country. I cannot imagine what it must have been like— to live without trust, to live afraid of your neighbours, the shopkeeper, your friends.

On Andrássy the day before, we passed the House of Terror, a museum dedicated to the horrors committed by the fascist and communist groups that held Hungary tightly in their fists. The black metal awning on the building has the word TERROR cut out of it, and when the sun hits it just right, the word is projected onto the face of the building. Hundreds of people were tortured and executed in the basement of this building, as it once was the headquarters of the ÁVH, the secret police. To say the building was chilling would be an understatement. Once I saw the faces of the victims of this bloody history in little black oval frames along the outer wall, I couldn't bear to go in.


It just so happened we were visiting Budapest on the anniversary of the 1956 Hungarian Revolution against the country's Stalinist government. The revolt lasted from October 23 until the 10th of November, leaving hundreds dead and thousands imprisoned. About 200,000 people fled the country as refugees. All over the city I saw wreaths, flowers and little Hungarian flags placed at key monuments and spots in remembrance.