Budapest, the modern union of the two ancient cities of Buda and Pest, is laying claim to new stature among Europe’s great cities. So says the mayor of Budapest, and public relations overstatement aside, I believe it.
Of all our stops along the way in our family recreation of the Orient Express, our evening and day in Budapest was the most surprisingly enjoyable. No doubt we arrived in Budapest largely absent knowledge of what to expect. Sure, we had read a recent American Airlines magazine piece on the city in connection with new direct service AA has begun from the U.S. And yes, we had looked through a handful of travel books before going. But nothing we read prepared us to be as delighted with Budapest as we were.
Our first pleasant surprise came in the form of the Budapest Marriott, situated a few blocks south of the Chain Bridge on the Pest side of the Danube. We approached the hotel from the back side, and before I knew it was the Marriott I commented, “That is about the ugliest building I have ever seen.” My unspoken thought was, “It looks like a communist era detention facility into which a dissident might go and never return.” Michele asked, “What if told you it’s the Marriott?” I was so convinced she was joking that I didn’t even bother to reply. I don’t know the history of the building, but it turns out that the side facing the river features large windows with beautiful vantages up and down the river and across the river to Buda Hill. It was lovely, even stately, inside the hotel.
We checked in and promptly made our way up to the ninth floor executive suite, once more courtesy of Michele’s platinum status, where we reveled in the walls of glass all around us, abundant food and drink, free wi-fi, and on top of everything else, a chance for Michele to watch Roger Federer battle his way to the finals of the French Open. We had breakfast the next morning on the terrace in open air. This is the life, I thought more than once.
On Friday evening after dinner we walked over to Szent István-bazilika (St. Stephen’s Basilica), a relatively modern church built in the nineteenth century that’s named for the patron saint of Hungary. St. Stephen I brought a modicum of order to Hungary–so much so that the basilica’s relic, the right forearm and hand of St. Stephen, is called “the right hand of God.” Because an organ concert was beginning just as we arrived, we didn’t get in, so we settled on returning the next day.
We walked back through a vibrant area of the city, between the Deák Ferenc tér metro station and the river, where we stumbled upon an outdoor book fair. What a shame that I don’t read Magyar, because I later learned we were at the 82nd annual installment of the National Book Fair. Sponsored by the Hungarian Publishers’ and Booksellers’ Association (est. 1789), the publicity line describes it as a “celebration of contemporary letters and publishing of unparalleled history” in which “publishers and booksellers move out to the streets to meet the reading public in a literary fiesta.” Authors signing books, steeply discounted titles, and a buzz of excitement filled the plaza. If only . . . .
Saturday morning gave us a chance to get into Szent István’s, though we couldn’t walk up the nave toward the altar because a German tour group had arranged for morning Mass. The brilliant gold painting and leafing of the interior were extraordinary, and the high dome–the second one, since the first one caved in early on due to poor design and inferior workmanship–was impressive. Since we’re on our way to Istanbul and we’ll see Hagia Sophia tomorrow, I really shouldn’t say anything superlative about Szent István’s.
All three of us took a break to enjoy a treat of gelato, wondrously wrought into the shape of a rose atop the cone. I went with a three flavor combination of coffee in the middle surrounded by gelato “petals” of cinnamon and chocolate. Michele’s choices, shared with Zachary, were chocolate, basil-lemon, and sour cherry. Hers were more colorful than my monochromatic options, but I wager mine tasted finer.
From the vicinity of Szent István’s we walked down to the Danube and crossed the Chain Bridge, the site of significant demonstrations and ultimately celebrations as communism collapsed in Hungary. Across the river we ascended a steep but pleasantly shaded path to the top of Buda Hill. Here, the quaint scale of the medieval village around St. Matthias is well preserved. Our jaunt through the village took us eventually to the church where the Hungarian kings of centuries bygone held their coronation ceremonies. It’s a fairly small, intimate church in comparison to Szent István’s Basilica and St. Stephen’s Cathedral (in Vienna).
Zachary’s growing skills in reading iconography were apparent in St. Stephen’s. He picked out St. Peter easily (“the bald one with the keys”) and St. Paul right after (“he’s got a sword!”). I only wish I had the wherewithal to answer his questions about images I don’t know how to read.
For that matter I wish I knew how to answer his much harder questions about the origin of evil. “Dad, why was Hitler evil? Was his dad evil? Why was Ceausescu evil? Was his dad evil?” These and like inquiries have arisen along the way, often uttered in what to my thinking are inconveniently public places and in Zachary’s clarion child’s voice. Yet why shouldn’t any of us ask urgent, existentially important questions whenever they occur? Why should it be awkward for a child to shout out perplexity over the origin, existence, and destructive power of evil? Only two things, both of them inadequate, come to mind. One is our inability to answer the questions sufficiently, even leaving aside the challenge of translation into the vernacular and experience of five-year-olds. The other is concern that those overhearing the questions might be embarrassed at a patrimony that they’d prefer to renounce. On both counts my response is “so what.” Let them–yes, and let us–renounce evil near and far wherever we find it. And let us struggle through to the best answers we can offer to the most pressing matters.
Outside the church we walked up the stairs to Fisherman’s Bastion, a high terrace looking out over the Danube that’s named after the Fisherman’s guild that had responsibility for defending this stretch of the city walls during the middle ages. From there, looking back down on the plaza next to the church, we saw a falconer with his tawny bird of prey inviting the tourists to pose for pictures. For a lavish 500 forints we gave Zachary–a Live Oak Falcon, after all–the chance to hold the falcon on his forearm and pose with the bird’s outstretched wing around his shoulder. Maybe he’ll have real respect for his school’s mascot after seeing such a mighty specimen up close.
We took the tram down the hill to the bridge, walked back to Pest, and took Michele to a street-side spa offering fish pedicures. Zachary and I had a cool drink nearby. Then we dashed back to the Marriott to retrieve our bags, hiked to the metro station, and rode to the Keleti terminal to catch our evening train to Bucharest.
We left a great deal of Budapest untouched, unseen, unheard. We have to leave it unsung as well. Were I to have opportunity to return, I’d come without hesitation, and I’d hope to arrive better prepared. For one thing, I wish I understood at least some rudiments of Magyar. It is not a romance language, so it appears dramatically alien to an English speaking American, without any discernible cognates. I’ve read that its nearest European cousin is Finnish. For another, I wish I had a better grasp of the rich history of the Hungarians, at least for starters in their medieval, Habsburg, and Ottoman periods. Yet again, I wish I knew someone from Budapest that is familiar with its history and traditions. I’m confident I’d be disappointed in the usual round-the-city guided tour, but a profoundly knowledgeable native would be a boon. Another day, Deo volente.
I’ve been writing aboard the Bosphor, a well made vintage German train that runs under Romanian purview from Bucharest to Istanbul. Its deeply stained paneling and brass fixtures are striking. The compartment adjacent to our sleeper was empty (the whole sleeper is mostly empty, though new company board en route), so the conductor offered to open the pass-through door and give us use of both rooms for €25. Taking up his offer may be the single best investment we make in all our travels. The difference in space, though only mathematically double in square feet or cubic feet, is at least quadruple in term of pleasantness of experience. We’re not quite up to the standards of the Orient Express of yesteryear, but we can squint our eyes hard and imagine it from where we sit.
We’ve stopped to have passports stamped on exit from Romania and entry into Bulgaria, and it’s high time for an afternoon snack. I’ll upload to the blog at the earliest opportunity after we arrive in Istanbul.
