I suppose I allowed enough time to elapse since the trip that the memories and motivation to scratch it all down have faded. I am not quite sure why, except that maybe the entire time I was there I was feeling a distinct flavor that I could neither identify nor describe.
Nonetheless we landed in a tiny airport with a lobby rivaled by most city hospitals. I had read that there was no way toward the center other than hiring a taxi or minibus for 10+ people, which of course I scrambled to do before the place could empty. To no avail. Luckily we found the tourist information office telling us to take a 1e bus to the end of the metro system, and hop on into the center from there. Craning our necks throughout the bus ride, Erik and I took stock of a countryside bathed in morning sun and scrubbed of all niceties. Quarries, Fabrication plants, defunct railroads and squat, unsettlingly sketchy concrete skeletons of all-purpose construction sites populated our flanks until we started to pass residential districts composed of square-plot homes topped with inane pyramidal terracotta tile rooves that were as tall as the walls themselves- all set at illogical angles amid grassless plots behind chest-high whitewashed concrete walls. We couldn't decide whether to gape or grin. As I had mentioned, the metro station itself was the crowning image of our preconceived portraits of post soviet haste to industrialize left to rot: a massive plain of all tones of machine, rust reds and steel blues, conrete greys and chemical whites, cautionary oranges and yellows, and dead dirt brown. 200ft high cranes stood motionless like trees left in a clearning and behind them were massive rows of concrete public housing blocks repeating each other in monotone chorus of despair. We each drank a liter can of beer ("sure") as we congratulated eachother on making the trek while our freinds laid around in the comfort of cheap familiarity. The metro itself was a trip to see. The gun-metal blue cars were horizonatally riveted from top to bottom and bore no decoration aside from scratched windows and the necessary identifications. The doors opened abruptly and aggresively, giving way to a lime-green cream interior of hard benches along the walls and a hundred hanging handles resembling beer bottle openers. We flew along the metro line listening to the muffled modyar announcements that we imagined were recording sometime around the invention of the phonograph. Luckily we realized we were in the heart of Pest in time and disembarked into our first disaster.
The escalator is what did it. Those things rise up at somewhere between a 45-55 degree angle, and they climb about 50 feet. I'm no stranger to massive climbing subterranean staircases, but these were a totally different animal. Everyone drifting by looked to be in the middle of a backwards fall, frozen in a still-frame photo of zen. My puppy-like awe must have been painted on my face, making me an easy target for those happy souls whose job it is to screen the metro-riders and fine those who may have neglected to pay the 50 extra Hungarian Florints -Huf- (which amounts to just over 12 euro cents) a total of 6000 Huf. I had faced similar situations in the past and elected to find a money exchange somewhere in the city and return as soon as I found one, but Erik was not so saavy and after paying the 20euro charge, was detained until I returned sullenly defeated by their wisdom. The mission was immediately altered to acquiring strong drink.
Emerging streetlevel was a joy, despite the previous moments. Proud buildings of another time towered over cars speeding to cross the danube, wearing the stains of the years like old gentlemen carrying their canes. Amid the colors of cream, chocolate, cooked earth, and stone were bright tiles, marble statues, and green awnings. We crossed the street, heading south into a small sqaure where the sound of the avenue died down and we were able to take a closer look at the textures of the city. This is where memory fails, and I recall vague fluctuations in surface composition, shape, and height, supporting people of all ages engaged in watching, speaking, moving, flirting, smoking, searching, drinking, touring. Across at an angle we spotted the typical signs of driniking establishements - green canvas awnings, dark wood stained exterior, dark windows with advertisements and names frosted onto the glass. Despite our recent arrival into the city air, we needed to head in to the dim empty room with quietly private wooden booths and ease the shock of our abrasive entry with two tall ass glasses of black as night beer. Dreher bok is thick, heavy and smooth with caramel flavors and tobacco/coffe/cacao notes that leave your palate as drunk as you. Leaving, we felt much more satisfied than when we had entered minutes before. From here we realized we had no idea where our hostel was nor where we were. I remembered that in previous bouts of travelling I liked to take at least one lesson with me, on top of whatever cultural, social, or introspective awakenings that may have occurred. This trip had thus taught me two valuable lessons: 1) always make sure the transport ticket/fare is equal to the distance you need to be traveling at that time and 2) print out the information on travel and accomodation before landing in the foreign country. I know those seem ridiculous at this point of travel experience but thats the funny thing. Only a few months ago Barcelona taught me (for perhaps the second time, im not sure) to always bring a second pair of pants. Really. ANYWAY, the hostel info was easily found at an internet cafe and before we knew it we were walking along the avenue that encompasses the extent of the ancient city of Pest and crossing at the National History Muesum to buzz the hostel door, marked with nothing other than a small brass plaque that reads "Bubble" (for Budapest Bubble), directly adjacent to the massive neo-classical cream colored museum.
Inside we glimpsed our guiding light. Through soft plastic flaps reminding us of old automatic car washes, which we later learned were a vestibule favorite among the more folk-oriented establishments of the city, we first saw her. I have since desribed Olga as an angel, a proprietress of benevolence, and a gravitational force of good. Her smile greets you like your own mother's and her eyes tell you there has never been any sorrow the world can't overcome with love. Then she tells you you are welcome and shows you to one of the two communal rooms. Yours is the larger, upstairs room by the bathroom and washing machine, with half-circle windows overlooking the street and a desk for writing or drawing the small wooden artist's model perched on his post in the air. Your bed is the top bunk but you don't mind because everything is quiet, calm, and clean and your sheets are soft flannel in midnight blue, wrapped around your full twin sized mattress that is larger and more comfortable than the one you pay rent to sleep on in your spanish quarters. She then brings you into the kitchen where coffee and tea are free and the cabinets are stocked with food bought by her and past guests. Olive oil, sachels of fresh hungarian paprika, bottles of wine, apples, and sheesha flavored sheesha. You consider the possiblity of moving in. Somehow you snap out of it and Olga is telling you about the various districts of the city and what is to be found where. Luckily you and erik share similar views of exploring the dark corners and seeking out the ill-exposed and so you both head out to roam the
utcas (streets) of the jewish quarter.
The small streets between avenues were quiet and barely populated as we moved away from the danube toward the north and east. Again, a memory of snapshots and basic shapes has replaced a more vivid news reel of hungarian strolling. Buildings here and there appeared to have been riddled with bullet holes as they loomed over narrow streets and even narrower, uneven sidewalks that spoke silently but gravely of not so pasts. We hopped along happily, talking loudly of our appreciation and the feelings inspired by all that we saw, confident that our language fell on deaf, if any ears. I suppose when in the capitol of spain, 1 our of 6 or 7 people can understand you depending on your exact location, you become immune to anxiety of the eavesdrop. As we scurried through the old utcas, stopping here and there to admire some random view between buildings and say some similarly random words about "different" and "cool", we came upon a rather nondescript building whose derelict facade (and open door) beckoned entry. The main hall was not long but retained a cavernous feel, dimly lit and oddly adorned with castle-like objects as one moved beyond black iron gated passages and torch posts. A door at the back left opened into a cafe, the likes of which i do not believe i have ever seen before. High celings with rounded corners like some kind of homemade urban vaulting suspended the most random assortment of chandeliers, air ducts, and brik a brak while music played too softly to be distinguished as anything other than a melody. Behind the bar a young man and woman ducked down and reemerged amid struggles with some imagined technical foe and a group of spaniards sat smoking, hunched over coffees and conversation in the corner. Erik and I got (unfortunate hungarian versions of) cafe con leches and took our own table between the bar and the windows facing the street, drinking as we admired the strange street-art approach to the walls and discussing some or other topic when it popped into our heads. Despite the feeling inside the place, which gave me the impression that, given a pen and paper, i could write like burroughs, the coffee was disappointing and we decided there were better things to do in budapest than strive to be nonchalant and comfortable in a cafe. shit, if nothing else, we could do it in 5 more cafes and have 5 more opportunities to be cool. We left.
By now the streets had left the golden behind and taken on a mixture of copper and plum hues and we decided to cut the shit and head finally for the river. Yet by the time we got back to where we had first stepped on the street earlier in the day, we were both hungry and unwilling to wait much longer. Apparently all it takes is standing outside a window to get service because in no time, a woman was saying good evening to me in every language that I knew existed. Out of reflex I responded to buenas noches and she launched into a tirade of menu options and food descriptions that made me sad to think i could only do such a thing in english eventhough i had been living in spain for 4 months already. still, she was obliging and within another minute erik and I were sat at a table with waters, waiting for our first hungarian dish. A delicious bowl of beef, tiny pasta like bits, and a strongly flavored, dark red sauce of paprika and similar spices sated us like kings and we were out within 10 minutes feeling great. It had been quite some time since we had eaten anything with such robust flavor, let alone with beef. The night was going well as we finally made our way to the massive expanse of the danube, where we walked to the water's edge to rinse our hands. we looked across at the towering hills of Buda and the massive edifice perched atop castle hill to the northwest. from here the city is a gem. everything is marked with glimmering golden lights amid the darkness where forms can still be made out and dance along the great reflective surface of the flowing waters. We walked below the riverside street where the sound drowned at the river's edge and everything towered above. we passed beneath one bridge and looked up river to another - the famous chain bridge that first linked the two cities and was a great source of pride in its day. its difficult to imagine from such a remove, and after drinking my fill of New York City's bridges and the golden gate, it's hard to find awe in too many other places. It is however beautiful, especially at night, and when we got there, the fin-de-siecle hotel on the Pest side bathed in its own light and we crossed the bridge to admire the expanse of the river, the grandeur of castle hill, and the view of Pest for a while before heading back.
On our way back, after taking the popular and beautiful promenade of vichay utca, we turned west toward the hostel until we came upon a towering building that was so dark that it seemed to absorb every ray of light nearby. This alone was an awesome sight, but a glimmer inside the door pulled me inwards and I found myself standing in an interior where words would fail. Classical orders dripping with precious metals and colored marbles, barely illuminated as a chior sang at the altar and i was left speechless, motionless, thoughtless. Since then, something within me has been triggered and I can no longer walk by a church without at least trying to get inside. And since then I have seen none as gripping. It was quite small, esp for the size of the exterior but still it captivated me in the strangest way. I had to pull myself out, but I managed to do so, and by the time we got back to the Bubble, I was brimming with impressions and stories with which to drench my heavenly hostess.
There, we found some of the other guests and made a few friends as we changed, got refreshed, and told gleaming Olga about our walk. She of course knew every place we had been to, but loved our enthusiasm just the same. I still think about how my environment can influence my age and attitude. There were moments there when I felt 18, even 16 again. That may come in handy later on down the line. Anyway, we made plans to meet Olga and whoever else was sticking around in an irish pub where her friends were performing some blues down near the river, and we headed out with a third member from Queens Land, Australia. Along the way, I stopped in a 24h store to get something and saw a guy about my age carrying a curved staff in a bag. I pointed and pantomimed shooting an arrow and the man grinned as he nodded. I expressed appreciation for such a badass trade and he responded by telling me in English that "it's our history". Come again? "it is our history. we are horsemen archers." It took some effort not to explode with enthusiasm for the awesomeness that this guy was made of, and I walked out freshly energized to take on the night. Chance must have been aware of this, because I found myself facing three cute and slightly inebriated Hungarian girls with a random looking guy looking to chat. I began with them until the guy pulled me aside and asked if I knew a hostel in town. Thinking he had come with girls in tow, I was all about telling him exactly how to find the Bubble and by the time I looked up the girls were gone. I could hear chance laughing as the guy thanked me and said he'd see us at the bar after checking in.
An hour or so later, the hostel people were at the bar and we took turns buying overpriced pints and telling stories. The place did not have the crowd we were seeking and just as we elected to leave, another hostel guide offered to take us to one of the nightlife gems. As we walked I began to feel my stamina giving way, and no amount of enerygy drinks acquired along the way were helping. However, he girl proved to be worth her salt as a guide and we found ourselves in a massive, multichambered bar/club night hall drink meet talk spot. The place was packed cavern wall to cavern wall and I was hardly able to notice specifics about the interior other than its labyrinthian nature and jovial atmosphere. I remember talking to and drinking with some of the people in the bar but by this point it was all i could do to keep on my feet. I even recall giving away a half finished beer because I knew it would leave me unconscious. Still we moved, and by the time we walked across town to the rooftop bar where the womenfolk were welcoming and the dancing was on, I was unable to continue and Erik and I were walking back and in our beds before 3am.
