A Summer Break in Budapest: Part 3

 5 min. read

Part 1 & Part 2

Sunday 30.07:

Scenes from the Citadel, Budapest
(image: TrustIndex)

A lazy-ish day. In theory. I don’t find it easy – or especially enjoyable - to lounge around all day in bed. Not least in a basement flat with minimal natural light. I must get out into the elements. I dodge the heavy rain, stepping out just as the sun is re-emerging. I head to a nearby cliché hipster café (exposed brick, incomplete décor, etc.), for some pastry. I bump – literally – into that old Germanophone creep, I saw on the first night I arrived. He insists on following me, to the extent of stalking me inside a local supermarket. I shoo him away furiously, mouthing an expletive, to my shame. The cashier regards the scene, puzzled. I’m rattled for a good moment.

My sole plan that evening, apart from supper, is to visit the old Citadel. It’s not the easiest part of the city to reach. Once I’m in the vicinity, I only locate it by chance, nosily following other stragglers. Unbeknownst to me, the citadel is temporarily closed for restoration. That would explain the crossed out street signs en route. Brief and melodramatic summaries of the citadel’s history surround what is now a construction site. A sad-looking Hungarian flag blows listlessly in the grounds. Fortunately, there are breathtaking vistas in the environs as well as an inviting park. I realise how high I am when I come across the Lady Liberty statue up close; usually appearing so far in the distance. I take the scenic route through the park, back to public transport. I have no clear idea of where I’m going but convinced I’ll muddle through. I appreciate this part of a city break, normally around Day Two or Three, when I’m familiar enough with the layout to be self-sufficient. No longer reliant on the often unhelpful Google Maps journey planner. I’m feeling immensely grateful for the loveliness of the environment, the privilege of travel and the joy of discovery.

Following a leisurely pre-sunset walk through Budapest’s shopping district, I’m on the hunt for some traditional Hungarian food, with a decent enough reputation. Not that easy a task. I walk the length and breadth of the old Jewish district, crossing paths with one of the Italians I met at Friday’s social. At last, just as I’m about to give up, I spot a respectable-looking establishment with a TripAdvisor sticker. An elderly gent plays Jazz interpretations on the house piano all evening. I order a budget friendly starter, some Goulash (finally!) and another recommended traditional dish, Flódni layered cake. The so-so customer service notwithstanding (something of a recurring theme round these parts), it’s a pleasurable experience. Good food and good music. Can’t go wrong.

A grumpy-looking bust near the Citadel,
Budapest
(c) me

Monday 31.07:

The last full day of my first trip to Budapest. A wave of familiar melancholy washes over me. I acknowledge it, with the aim of being more present. Let tomorrow take care of itself.

I have an evening boat tour reservation. Before then, I make two important stops. I drop by the landmark indoor Central Market. It pops up as a must-see on most Budapest bucket lists. Plus, I’m on the lookout for souvenirs. Although overwhelming, I feel compelled to traverse as much of the market as I can withstand. Too many stalls, too many people, too compact a space. The so-called street food is pricier than an average restaurant. Tourist bait. I’m not biting.

I escape the Hall with some trinkets and make my way to Margaret Island, named after one of Budapest’s saints. It’s another scenic and semi-isolated spot, replete with thermal baths and a vast park including the ruins of old holy sites, an open-air theatre, a singing fountain and a Japanese garden, where I’ll while away most of my visit. 

Surrounded by the Danube, on a sunny day it’s worth the bus ride to the Island just for the wonderful views in transit. I return to my accommodation with plenty of time to spare before my evening cruise. So much so, that I lose track and find myself hurrying to the bus stop. I plan to reach the dock 20 minutes ahead of setting sail. I miss my initial connection and only arrive 10 minutes in advance. This wouldn’t be so bad if, in a sliding doors moment, I didn't resist my instinct and set off in the wrong direction. The docks' numbering system is not intuitive. I arrive at the correct dock just in time to see the boat moving off. I have to wait for the next cruise (thank goodness that’s an option), and pay six extra euros for the privilege. Still, one advantage is that this tour takes place closer to sunset. The weather is ideal. We receive a complementary drink. Being tee-total, I’m given a low quality mango squash that apparently doesn’t agree with me. I’ll partly attribute to it the gastric discomfort that afflicts me on and off for the rest of the evening.

A Park on Margaret Island, Budapest
(image: Expedia)

As usual, it appears I’m the lone solo traveller on board. Classic West Coast Jazz streams through the speakers. I note the main Budapest landmarks take on a crepuscular loveliness as dusk approaches. Apart from tactile couples and an overweight chick who insists on sitting in an ill-advised short dress with her legs agape, it's picture perfect. 

For my last evening in the Hungarian capital, I opt to dine somewhere I’ve spotted en route to the indoor market. I expect a lot, given all the visible accolades. I order another flavoursome Goulash starter and a traditional paprika chicken dish. I don’t know if it’s the quality of the cooking, Hungarian cuisine itself or my dodgy tummy but I’m fairly underwhelmed by the main. More broadly, I’ve not been amazed by the customary savoury dishes I’ve tasted, although I’m partial to the desserts.

The initial missed-cruise drama has put my schedule back. I hurry to Deác Fenanc to ride the giant Ferris Wheel before it shuts for the evening. To my surprise, it’s still teeming long after 10pm. Couples, groups of adolescents, families with small children...

Despite my mild vertigo, I covet a bird’s eye view of the city by night. It seems a fitting conclusion to my five-day échappée belle. I contemplate one last romantic ramble through the city centre but time and my contorting belly won’t allow. Instead, I’ll briefly join other starry-eyed loafers gathered round the pool-like water feature at Elizabeth square.

Soundtrack: After Dinner We Talk Dreams + Side Dishes by MICHELLE

LVC is now on a break for the rest of summer 2023.

Plus Ça Change…

The late summer/early autumn activities calendar is in full swing in Strasbourg.  Mouth-watering mental and sensory stimuli abounds (on paper at least).

I attend a couple of events at Bibliothèques Idéales (or Ideal Libraries: tag line “Only the Living Create the World”) in the centre of town. For nearly two weeks one of the main dance and music venues in the City is commandeered for lectures on politics, economics, literature and the arts. I sit in on a thought-provoking discussion between Senegalese philosopher Souleymane Bachir Diagne and French-Jewish anthropologist Jean-Loup Amselle about finding common ground in a post-colonial world. The following day I attend a seminar with vibrant UK-based leftist French academic Prof. Chantal Mouffe on Left Populism. She receives thumbs up for making some favourable comments about a certain leader of the British Labour Party. 

Back at work I keep bumping into my not-so-former infatuation. His good humour in the face of my sullenness is making it increasingly difficult to play it cool about his lack of contact. One Friday morning, he takes me unawares just as I thought the coast was clear. God has a sense of humour. The night before, I pray that we won’t see each other for a good while. It’s otherwise wreaking havoc with my recovery. Famous last words. The next day I have an overwhelming presentiment that our paths will cross. Walking into work, I see his graceful, instantly recognisable stride coming towards me on the horizon. The profanity can’t fall from my lips fast enough. I’d normally self-remonstrate but I’m too busy smarting at Heaven’s wink-n’-nudge at my expense. Reconciliation is clearly a bigger priority than my short-term ease.

He’s too close for me to hide or avoid him. 

My French is all over the place that morning. He asks me about my part-time hours. I suspect it’s his way of working out why he hasn’t heard from me. He says something about being poorly. My response is an abrupt Bonne Journée. We part ways. I hover in the lobby, wondering whether to find him and explain myself. I head to my office, greet my colleagues, change my mind and return to the basement where I know he’s holed up. He’s speaking to a colleague. I interrupt unceremoniously, demanding if he's free. He beams a big smile at me as he usually does these days, despite my ornery behaviour.

You want to ask a question?

No, a conversation.

He turns his violet eyes skyward for succour; a look that is both apologetic and exasperated.  He remains silent. His customary gentleness prevails over any annoyance. In that moment, I believe I love him more. Thus my subsequent response is a mystery even to me.

Never mind. You’re busy. Obviously.

I storm off. He tries to interject. I couldn’t tell you why my behaviour and tone is so stroppy. I’m on some cantankerous autopilot.

I feel instantly mortified and remorseful. Neither of them deserved that. I return later to apologise to his poor, unsuspecting colleague. She accepts more graciously than I deserve.

 Later that lunchtime, I’m returning from a very pleasant meet-up with lovely new Lusophone acquaintance, Christina. As we enter our building, 6 foot 3 inches of bitter-sweet torment is heading in the opposite direction. This is ridiculous. We never usually run into each other this often. It’s no longer practical to keep up with the cool-reception lark. I wave, just so he knows that this morning was out of character.

At an opportune moment back at my desk, I start working again on a bilingual email I’ve been musing over for a while. I add an apology for my earlier stroppiness. I acknowledge his consistent kindness. I ask about his family, give a little back story and then come clean about my frustration at what feels like a unilateral interest in our continued interaction. I switch between French and English depending on the sentiment I am trying to express. 

The following week he shoots me a sympathetic response. He explains he was taken ill suddenly over summer. I’m overcome with regret. I couldn't have known from his spritely demeanour. I would have visited him in hospital. He explains his poor track record with staying in touch. It’s nothing personal, he adds. He can go years without communicating with old friends. He apologises. I accept without reservation and offer to resume where we left off. No time this week and probably not the next, he replies. His team is short-staffed. Same ol’, bloody same ol’. I know his good intentions are often scuppered by unexpected changes to his already hectic schedule...Yet...

And so returns my ambiguity about our…whatever we have. I’m glad we’ve resolved our issues but I’m back to caring too much. At least the impasse gave me some respite; a sense of being liberated. Romantic affection aside, we have made a connection I have with very few others in Strasbourg. I’d like to make the most of it but it’s no use if we hardly spend any quality time together. Speaking infrequently with old friends is one thing. Even I understand that. Besides, the ground work has already been done. New friendships however need more careful cultivation. Somehow this one always seems to leave me feeling more upset and alone.

Summer Breeze

(courtesy of Miss-Elka.fr)

A few days after my music-saturated weekend, I welcome mum for her third and longest visit thus far. I am a bit nervous about what to do with her for a week. It’s a hectic time at work and I haven’t taken much leave.

Don’t worry, she reassures,
June has been a busy month. I’m looking forward to the rest.

True. A stressful day job aside, mum’s weekends have overflowed with weddings and big birthday events at church. Once she arrives that Tuesday evening (thankfully without much of a hitch), to complete her sense of independence I give her a spare key and travelcard.

As usual, mum has gone over and beyond as far as UK goodies are concerned. I’m even more her baby now that I am living abroad. I can’t complain. And as much as I appreciate having my own space, I admit it’s also lovely having someone to welcome me home from work for a change. And somebody to squash any critters who try to invade my tidy home.

True to her word, mum is a lady of leisure for the first couple of days of her stay. However, I can’t have her cooped up indoors all trip. We must at least go out for dinner. 

Being a Thursday night, I naively think I can walk into some of the best reviewed establishments in town without a reservation. When both my first choice and contingency fall through, we have to improvise. Finalement, ca tombe bien, comme on dit.

We stumble upon an overlooked eaterie with cheerful customer service and hearty portions, just off La Grand Rue.

The next day, I rush home following a frantically busy morning at work to spend the afternoon with mum in Kehl. There's an incident on the tram as we approach the German border. We're in the middle of a heatwave. A pallid, frail-looking young woman collapses. Fortuitously for her, she is surrounded by expert first aiders. I pass her my tepid bottle of water. She accepts gratefully. I regret not at least first wiping the rim.

The tram comes to an emergency stop whilst the first aiders take care of the infirm.  We change vehicles and resume our Kehl-bound programme. I’d hoped to tack on a day trip deeper into Germany but mum has other ideas. That would be far too pressured, she advises. Unbeknownst to me, she plans to add some further flourishes to my flat.

That evening, I go upstairs to change and come down to find all manners of embellishments I’ve not seen before.

I’ve been invited (sort of) to a church barbeque that weekend. Mum is game, to my relief. One less activity to rack my head about. That Saturday is a scorcher; the hottest day of a consistently warm week. I expect to see dozens of guests milling around chewing on snacks, rendering it easier to inconspicuously make our late entrance (it would seem odd for two relative unknowns to show up early or even on time to a casual affair). Instead, the select few invitees are already sitting down to their grilled meat. Drinks have been served and much of the salad has already gone. Thank goodness, we're not too late for some succulent grub.  We receive a warm welcome from host Raymond, one of the few familiar faces. I also recognise Angelo originally from Mozambique, his Cape Verdean wife Celina and two of their adorable brood. I spot a strikingly handsome young fellow who bears a passing resemblance to Ghanaian-American actor Kofi Siriboe. An older unfamiliar man stares at me without compunction. I voice my unease to mum. He later tries to inveigle his way unsuccessfully into our conversations.

I’m nervous about having to translate for mum all afternoon. Having used too much English all week, I’m glad for the French practice but not sure if I’m mentally up to the task. Mum and I sit opposite Catarina who is keen to practise her English. We have met briefly before at Angelo’s house during a home fellowship. I speak to her in French, she replies in both languages. It puts mum at ease. Catarina nearly chokes on her drumstick when she realises the youthful woman sitting next to me is my mother. It's the first of many such reactions that weekend.

Catarina is refreshingly frank. We learn much about her Neapolitan family who settled in France during the Second World War. She talks about her strained relationship with her dad and disillusion with church. Following a particularly painful experience, she’s tentatively working her way back to faith. I can relate, I explain to her.

We pass a very cordial afternoon in the company of Raymond and co (no, not that one) before heading to town to pick up some ingredients for the jollof rice mum plans to cook. We hit the city centre shortly after France’s game with Argentina has commenced. I have wilfully ignored the World Cup. Not being in the least sporty, it used to be the one international tournament to coax me out of indifference. I abandoned interest long ago following one too many negative experiences.

This year my policy of World Cup apathy stands me in good stead. I learn from friends and family more devoted to the beautiful game that African nations have failed to live up to their potential.

Again.

That Saturday afternoon, my surprisingly football-enthusiastic mum has just about recovered from that disappointment.

Meanwhile, the streets of Strasbourg are at once busy and deserted, everyone congregated around the nearest flatscreen television. Outside one bar a patriot rouses the crowd with chants and a triumphant sounding mini-speech. Cries of ecstasy and frustration intermingle.

Mum and I look on with bemused fascination.

Tout le monde s’eclate, n’est ce pas? I comment to one shopkeeper.

Once France’s victory is confirmed (4-2), Strasbourg goes bat-crazy with jubilation. Fans cry out in the streets, faces painted in blue, white and red. Hours afterwards French nationals of all descriptions continue to shout with glee from car windows whilst horning furiously. That night, in the wee small hours of the morning I can still hear the odd victorious exclamation in my usually quiet neighbourhood.

There’ll be lots of celebratory sex tonight, I comment to mum. She giggles conspiratorially.

This isn’t even the quarter-finals (That's the following week. Everyone slouches off work early to watch what will be another French victory against Uruguay. My office becomes a ghost town). It makes me wish I could go back to World Cup 1998, when France beat Brazil to take home the trophy. The country must have come to a standstill for weeks in one collective paroxysm of joy.

The View from A Bridge: Orangerie, Strasbourg

Sunday morning at church, one of the associate pastors excuses himself for his lack of voice.

Blame it on singing the national anthem after yesterday's game. He apologises, not-so-guiltily.

Following my less than satisfactory attempts to translate the service for mum, we catch up with my good mate Jeanne after the service (whose mother also happens to be in town) and more recent acquaintance, Serafine whom mum has taken a shining to.

That afternoon I show mum round my local park, The Orangerie. It’s another gorgeous day, even better for the breeze. The oriental influenced landscape-gardening makes me a tad nostalgic for Japan. Mum comes to share the sentiment. In her company, we explore parts of the Park with which I have been previously unfamiliar. We find a choice spot under the shade, opposite a large pond. Before I know it, I am opening up about my latest-and deepest-crisis of faith. I have kept it to myself as not to demoralise her. In the end, she handles it better than expected. She draws from her own experience to encourage me. It’s an emotional but edifying exchange.

It’s hands down been mum’s most enjoyable stay to date. It flies past. Although confiding in me that she prefers the cultural inclusiveness of the UK to what she perceives of France, Strasbourg nevertheless has a place in her heart.

As is our unintentional custom, we manage to arrive at Gare Centrale with only a few minutes to spare before her train to Basel Airport. We barely have time to kiss our farewells.