Next Stop: All Change

 3-4 min. read

I am fresh from my annual autumn visit to the UK. It’s a tradition that pre-dates COVID-19. When I first moved to mainland Europe, I was delighted to discover there were not one, but two, public holidays in early November; All Saints and The Armistice commemoration day. It was an ideal time to get away without using up too much annual leave. Once post-lockdown travel resumed, so did this autumnal habit.

The custom has remained intact, although it has been almost two years since I had to worry about booking annual leave. The stress of professional limbo also warrants a change of scene, mind you. This year, I have as good a reason as any for taking a break. Not long before I catch the Eurostar to London, life shifts course in a way that has me doing a lot of rushing around.

Sometime back in early September, I meet with one of my Brussels’ Day Ones, Sylvia. We catch each other up on our summer news and travels. She asks about how the job search is going. I inform her of my most recent disappointment. Plus, at that moment, I’m in the midst of a rather long and convoluted recruitment process for another potential role. There’s still almost three months to go before it concludes. Even if I were to be successful, I can’t wait that long to start earning money. State assistance now only covers the absolute basics. 

I explain to Sylvia that I’ve looked into teaching, to no avail. I don’t have the requisite qualifications. No great loss. I wasn’t too keen on that option anyway. Another friend, Karin has suggested I think of au pair work in the interim. According to the numerous parent-with-young-children Facebook groups of which Karin’s a member, native Anglophones are in short supply. No wonder. Most first-language English speakers in Brussels already have good jobs. They don’t need to subject themselves to skivvy’s work. Bar the sex industry, I would consider most other things before doing something as potentially exploitative as being an au pair. My mum agrees. As does Sylvia.

Why don’t you try freelance editing and proofreading in the meantime?, she proposes.

It’s like the first time I’m hearing it. Why didn’t I think of that before? In fact, it’s not the first time someone has suggested it, according to mum and Karin. It’s just I’d previously been averse to the idea. In hindsight, a number of folk have encouraged me to consider the independent/consultant route. It either seemed inappropriate or unrealistic. I’ve heard enough nightmare stories about how hard Belgian bureaucracy is on sole traders. If I did entertain the notion, it was something to act on after accruing some savings during my next salaried role, whenever that might be. 

Life, Destiny, God had other ideas.

I’m immediately galvanised by Sylvia’s suggestion. She passes on information about a Belgian cooperative that helps take the sting out of the admin, for a nominal annual membership fee. As if by way of confirmation, during the coming weeks I’ll meet a number of individuals who have used the scheme themselves or know somebody who has. 

I set about gathering as much information about becoming self-employed as possible. I attend information sessions at the cooperative and meetings with my union to understand any other legal obligations I have. I inform my life coach and job mentor. Both are thrilled by my change of direction, offering invaluable support and practical tips. It’s especially good news for my back-to-work mentor. Prior to this development, it hadn’t seemed like quite the right fit; different ages and life stages. It turns out that hers is exactly the kind of skill set I require now that I’m looking to launch solo.

There'll be things I'll miss about having a regular job; the stability and fringe benefits for a start. On the other hand, you can't beat the flexibility of working freelance. The main challenge is establishing a client base. I reach out to acquaintances in a similar field, setting up more virtual calls to glean some insight. With sis' help I design some eye-catching posters to be displayed in strategic locations. I do a few dry runs for friends and family. For a mate’s rate, I agree to look over Karin’s 400 page PhD thesis ahead of its publication. My sister, now an established businesswoman herself, sends some official documentation to proofread and copy edit. 

Meanwhile, I’m still producing my own content and continuing in my role as editor-in-chief for Afropean.com. Not to mention all my other preoccupations. 

I’m quite run off my feet once my London visit rolls around. 

I once again keep it low key, spacing out meet-ups. I attend a talk, organised by my Morphē Arts family, on the intersection of Art, Theology and AI technologies. It's an intellectually and spiritually invigorating evening. 

It’s also a trip of reunions. I catch-up with an old school friend I haven’t seen for a quarter century. I reconnect with Uncle Lenny; our first off-line encounter since COVID-19. I’m especially nervous before that meeting. With his staunch anti-vaxxer stance earlier in the pandemic and our divergence over how to approach the problems at my former workplace, I haven’t always seen eye-to-eye with Lenny. He still has his way but the catch-up remains cordial, mainly because I do my best to avoid controversial subjects. 

Soundtrack: Volcano by Jungle

A Summary of Summer 2023: Part II

 4 min. read

Part 1

The summer is also not without cultural solace. I attend a free play about domestic abuse, performed by a non-professional collective of survivors and/or support workers. I sign up at the Beurs creative space for a free screening of a documentary on the Afro-Brazilian political movement during the 1970s and 80s. The organisers are strict. Those of us who arrive even a few minutes late are locked out. Some give up and return home. I go to a nearby bar to wait for another opening and self-remonstrate in the meantime. My patience eventually pays off. I sneak in for the closing act of the film, which is followed by a flavoursome vegan supper. It’s another great occasion for stimulating conversation with those who have overlapping interests. One such is the elegantly beautiful event coordinator, Rahel, whose family relocated from Ethiopia to Flanders. In the coming weeks, we'll exchange a number of socio-cultural recommendations and groove at one of the many open-air concerts on Brussel's annual car-free Sunday.

 I practise Portuguese with a patient French national who spent many years in Brazil and has an excellent command of the language. Such is their androgyny, that I’m highly nervous about mis-gendering them. Short of asking for their preferred pronoun - which I’m concerned might cause offence in case it’s not as ambiguous to them as it is to me - I endeavour to stay on my grammatical toes. 

The following week I attend the book launch of writer and researcher Hans Kundnani’s EuroWhiteness; about the ethno-cultural construction of modern European identity. It is held at a culture hub  (pictured above) that I’ve only just come across. I don’t know how it escaped my attention all this time. The venue hosts a cornucopia of intellectually-rich activities. 

The format of the launch is a mix of presentations by Kundnani and Asian-British journalist Mehreen Khan - who lived and worked in Belgium for five years - group discussions and Q&A. It becomes a moment of spontaneous networking. I am pleasantly surprised to encounter more Black and Asian Brits at that one event than I have the whole three years I’ve lived in Belgium so far.

In other news, I meet up with old friend Melissa, in Liège. Normally based in Southern Africa with her husband and gorgeous children, it’s been over a decade since we last saw each other in the flesh. Her eldest child, now 12, was less than a year old. Melissa and her husband, Pius, do amazing work as activists for migrants’ rights. It was also Mel who introduced me to Lorenzo. Thank God, our own connection has survived the dissolution of that friendship.

Mel has a brilliant mind, is a gifted multi-linguist and one of the most culturally-aware Caucasians I’ve ever met. She’s also very humble. Mel has been invited as the keynote speaker for a graduation ceremony at her Alma Mater in the Netherlands. She uses it as an opportunity to do a mini-tour of the Benelux region. 

Mel meets me at the main station in Liège which, bizarrely, is the venue for a very loud EDM festival that weekend. We divide our time between her inviting Airbnb and a local park. Naturally, we talk about everything under the sun and still run out of time. It’s been so long and I enjoy her company so much, I wish I could extend it. Alas, Mel only has a few days left in town.

I do not want for musical outlets. I continue to frequent any jam or free concert still running throughout the holiday period. I make a potentially fortuitous choral connection when I stumble across an active Gospel outfit, once finalists on Belgium’s Got Talent. It never showed up on any of the lists I searched when I was on the hunt for such singing opportunities. 

There could be a reason for that.

I reach out to the choir director, Jason, who responds with keenness. We arrange an informal phone call which turns into an impromptu audition. His feedback is positive. Jason warns that the choir members are very young. Not yet ready to abandon the dream, with Jason’s blessing, I invite myself to a rehearsal. Indeed, the main demographic is under 18. Jason explains the only adult members have grown up with the choir. It’s not all a waste. He is involved in a number of occasional projects for adult Gospel collectives. We agree to stay in touch.

Elsewhere, Clothilde, Agnès and I revive our long dormant harmony sessions in the park. I reach out to both in July to see if it could be a possibility, not especially optimistic that it will materialise. There’s a lot to be said about managing expectations. To my delight and slight shock, both respond in the affirmative. It’ll be the first time all three of us reunite in almost a year. I bring along a few song selections with nothing particular in mind. The girls show enthusiasm for one of my Gospel favourites: Strange Land by Commissioned. Our harmonising reunion goes better than anything I could have planned.

Soundtrack: By the Water by Sondae + A Good Life by Marie Dahlstrøm

A Summary of Summer 2023: Part I

4 min. read

As I write, North-West Europe has been enjoying freakishly good late summer weather. I’ve long been fond of September. It’s a month of transition and fresh starts, straddling two seasons and often accompanied by clement weather. Still, I can’t recall ever experiencing sustained, heatwave-like temperatures at this time of year. (Cue mixed feelings of cheer and climate change-related angst).

I never like to complain when it’s hot. I’ll take bright sunshine and sticky tropical climes over the typical cold and damp, any time. Heck, we’re owed extra heat and sunlight after the half-hearted, stop-start disappointment of the core summer months. I need all that Vitamin D and brightness to brace myself for the cooler and darker seasons.

Back in early August, returning from my latest excursion to Eastern Europe, I am greeted by mostly steel grey skies and weather cool enough to tempt me to switch on the heating. It does nothing at all to quell a resurging malaise, soon to evolve into another bout of light depression.

On the bright side, I have another visit from mum to look forward to; her last before Christmas. I’m not as buoyed by the idea as I should be. It’s another fortnight stay and I worry about how to fill the time. Mum is an easy-going guest but I don’t want to take anything for granted. The state of my finances also leaves me nervous. Mum has been self-sufficient and even generous with her resources. Yet it bothers me immensely that I’m still not in the position to treat her. It’s what I’d want for any guest, let alone a relative.

In the end, as usual, I upset myself mostly over nothing. Mum’s stay is smooth and more or less drama-free. The sun makes a reappearance. She’s now familiar enough with my local area to go out on autonomous trips to the gym and the park. We do one or two cultural events, including an exhibition on the connections between Belgium’s colonisation of the Congo and the rise of Art Nouveau. Understandably, it leaves mum feeling morose.

The bitter-sweet runs throughout her visit. Difficult discussions about the past and an unruly dog dampen an otherwise pleasant picnic experience at my local park, for example. Mum and I have a number of hard, revelatory conversations. Some bring a sense of resolution, others need to be revisited at a more propitious time.

The dread of being left to my own devices stirs days before her departure. I try not to pay it too much mind so it doesn’t take me out of the present.

It’s scant solace when she does eventually return to London. The absence hits harder than on her previous trip. The month of September, usually associated with some kind of renewal, stretches before me like an inscrutable void. I’m still feeling the aftershock of my most recent major recruitment let-down. I eventually press the pause button on applications, sensing that I’m reaching a point of job hunting burnout. Mum’s visit is the ideal excuse. I will resume towards the end of the trip, her presence providing some kind of moral support. When I do get back on the grind, I ease myself into the process as much as possible.

Even with the job search break, I’m still very busy during what would usually be a summer lull. Brussels itself seems busier than usual for August. Either the rising cost of travel has been a deterrent or folk have taken shorter breaks earlier in the summer.

I stay occupied with my freelance writing and copy editing exploits. I’m also becoming ever-more integrated into anti-imperialist peace initiative, Intal. I attend yet another meeting with the core team mid-August, where we plan activities for the coming months. I also sign up to volunteer with the group at this year’s Manifiesta festival in Ostende. 

It’s a sweltering hot day; a pleasing contrast to the wet and wind of the previous year. My shift at the pop-up Intal book shop coincides with an enriching panel discussion about the troubles in Africa's Sahel region. The panellists give interventions on how African states should resist Western interference whilst facing down the domestic enemy. With contributions from Guy Marius Sagna (Senegal) and Kambale Musavuli (Congo), I’m reassured once again that the flame of African socialism wasn’t completely extinguished with the fall of so many post-Independence struggles in the late 20^th Century. 

Other highlights include interacting with South African activist, Mikaela Nhondo Erskog, a rousing speech by US Amazon collective action pioneer, Christian Smalls and an address by the one and only Jeremy Corbyn. Compelled to cancel his previous Manifiesta invitation on the news of Queen Elizabeth II’s death, he receives a hero’s welcome this summer. The Socialist Left in Belgium still has a lot of love for Mr Corbyn.

 JC is due to make an appearance at the Intal camp but appears to be delayed, probably mobbed by some fellow-travellers after his intervention on the mainstage. As we wait around, I hear one of the other Intal volunteers declare with mock-impatience, ‘F*** Jeremy Corbyn!’ for which I pounce on him, only half-joking. 

Mr Corbyn finally makes an appearance. He resumes his previous thread not to relent on campaign efforts for peaceful resolutions to global conflicts. He looks rather sheepish as we launch into a spontaneous rendition of ‘Ohhhhh, Jeremy Corbyn!’ but receives it graciously. I’m hoping for just a quick selfie with the man himself. My modest expectations are exceeded. I wind up spending a good amount of time with the Corbyn entourage including his unassuming wife, Laura – the mastermind behind his post-Labour leadership Peace & Justice Initiative. I enquire about her past life in banking. Laura explains that, as a means of discrediting her and her husband's politics, the press portrayed her as some bigwig financier when she her position was far more modest.

I meet various members of the Corbyn team and their wider circles. Over the course of the day, I’ll bump into Hannah, the sister of my former manager, Ama. We’ll swap Labour party battle stories with Corbyn and his crew, many of us now having been expelled for spurious reasons. I’ll listen to similar frustrations from an Australian comrade about their own right-of-centre Labour government. 

These kind of serendipitous encounters characterise the day.

Soundtrack: Personal Design of a Decade mixes, 2010-2014, By the Water by Sondae

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.

A Summer Break in Budapest: Part 2

 5 mins. read

Part 1 & Part 3

Saturday 29.07:

Birthday D-Day. I don’t have time this morning to lament what's left of my youth vanishing over the horizon (40 is the old age of youth, according to Victor Hugo, one of my favourite quotes). Nor how underwhelming my 40s have been thus far. I like to keep busy, as you should know. I’ve booked a place on a tour of Budapest’s Jewish quarter; a tiny district with a vast history. 

En route, I make eye contact with an older black woman. I smile and do the universal nod of recognition/solidarity. I’m especially keen to acknowledge my Afrodescendant sisters. The respect is mutual. More generally, I'm relieved to see several melanated faces about.

Once again, a huge group gathers for the tour. Divided in two, our half is led by Andor- a guide of sharp, deadpan wit and broad pop culture knowledge. He’s mastered English enough to convey his dry as a bone humour with no difficulty at all. He’s also extremely well travelled. He has far more extensive first hand experience of the African continent than I, having traversed more than half of it. 

First stop of the tour is the Dohány synagogue (above right), the second only in size to that in Jerusalem on a world scale. Tivador Herzl, the founder of political Zionism, was born a stone’s throw away. He was bilingual in Hungarian and German, with nary a word of Hebrew. 

The synagogue is most Hungarian in that it’s a mish-mash of the country’s cultural influences. A Moorish façade, strong hints of Eastern orthodox design and a Baroque/Roman Catholic interior (including an organ once played by Franz Liszt). We are told that actor, Tony Curtis (né Bernard Schwartz) - the son of Hungarian-Jewish émigrés - funded some of the building. It is out of bounds to the general public that day, being Sabbat. To my great regret, I'll miss the chance to explore the resplendent interior later on in the trip.

Hungarian Jews had assimilated so much before the Second World War, they saw themselves as Austro-Hungarian first and Jewish second. And yet for all their patriotism, they were held responsible for the region’s unfavourable outcome in the Great War. When asked about the surviving Jewish population, the guide gives an overly-complicated answer, narrowly focusing on religious practice as an indicator more so than ethnicity. (None of my Jewish friends or acquaintances are especially observant, if at all). 

There could be another more plausible reason for Andor’s equivocation. As he and one of his colleagues point out just before we set off, Hungarians are a melting pot of ethnicities.

The inevitable grotesque history of murderous racism and scapegoating soon comes to the fore. Hungary was said to have had the second largest Jewish population in Europe prior to the Second World War. The Hungarian authorities approached the slaughter of Jews with an exceptionally perverse zeal. According to our guide, every one in 10 Holocaust victims was believed to have been Hungarian, with up to 600,000 of the country’s Jewish population wiped out; over 400,000 sent to Auschwitz alone.

During a water break , an Australian participant asks about Viktor Orbán’s attitude towards Hungary’s Jewish population. ‘He’s an Anti-Semite!’, I reply. Andor confirms. He also draws parallels between Orbán’s Hungary and Russian authoritarianism; albeit being a lighter version. 

St. Michael's Church in Budapest's Castle District
(image: Buda Castle)

The tour ends in the remnants of what was once a Jewish ghetto. Andor explains the presence of metal shoes that I have noticed lining some banks of the Danube. They are a memorial for Hungarian Jews ordered by Nazis to strip naked before being shot into the river. Andor believes it’s too easy to blame this on madness. He attributes it to pure evil. I remind him that the seed of evil exists in us all. It's not just "those bad people over there". We don't know of what we're capable in particular circumstances. Blame it on my own Judaeo-Christian upbringing. I believe human nature is fallen without exception, although not irredeemable. 

Andor shares a story about family friend, Eva Székely, who survived the Jewish ghetto to become an Olympic swimming champion. The story goes that her would-be executioner switched to join the Communist forces once the Nazis were defeated.

Andor sticks to his promise to end the tour by lunchtime. I say farewell to a couple of participants with whom I’ve become acquainted; the aforementioned Australian and another solo female traveller from the Netherlands (again), Amy. I appreciate her independent mindset. I’m quick to commend intrepid women. We have snatches of thought-provoking conversation between stops. 

She wants to reconnect before we both leave Budapest. I mention a Jazz concert that evening for which I’ve reserved tickets at a bargain price. Amy is keen. We make plans to meet up at the venue. We don't think to exchange numbers. It’s not to be. I’ll discover that the concert has sold out, which might explain why Amy is a no-show. Ships passing in the night.

(image: Trip Advisor)

After the tour, I go on the hunt for the famous Retró Lángos restaurant where, according to all the tour guides, I can enjoy the best of the traditional Hungarian bread-based dish. After a few wrong turns, I locate Retró thanks to the help of a kindly older American couple based in the neighbourhood. 

The pastry tastes very similar to Jamaican dumpling, except it’s flat rather than cylinder. It’s nice enough, but not earth-shaking. The chicken topping is too curried and salty. Once I’ve consumed something savoury, I head to the Chimney Cake Shop near Elizabeth Square for a highly indulgent pastry and ice cream dessert. 

Before going home, I’m adamant about crossing the river to the Castle district. The vista - both in the hills and of the Pest side of the City below – is marvellous. Alas, being a Saturday it’s also heaving with tourists. Neither is the beautiful St. Michael church open to visitors. I rush back to my rented studio for a useless attempt at a power nap. I’m back out again to the classy Opus Bar for dinner and Jazz. 

I’m becoming familiar with Budapest’s Metro for the first time. It’s efficient and consistently newer and cleaner than the underground systems of Brussels or London.

Before I alight, a sweet and diffident young woman pays me a lovely compliment whilst exiting the train.

At the Jazz club, I’m due to meet a small group from Internations, through which I first hear of the event. I’m a little apprehensive on entering, taken aback by the bigger than expected group. The organiser, an American with Hungarian ancestry, helps put me at ease.

Entertainment is courtesy of the delightful Czakó Virág Quartet; guitar, bass, drums and vocals. The stars of the night are guitarist Attila Rieger and of course, Virág herself. She is much younger than I anticipate, barely in her 20s. Although Virág’s range is not extensive, she plays to her strengths. Blessed with an enchanting tone - a tad reminiscent of Melody Gardot - she has a solid Jazz vocabulary with unforced and accomplished improv. Her English pronunciation is near flawless and, where relevant, her Portuguese isn’t bad either. Virág’s repertoire includes Jazz standards and lesser known compositions, Bossa and even an Elvis cover; all regaled with her particular flair. She isn’t too much in her own head. Her technique complements rather than interferes with the feeling. Bref, the combined effect is understated yet mesmerising. The audience remains attentive, none of the usual low hum of chatter. 

Throughout Virág’s performance, I’m making mental notes. I like being both impressed and challenged by other singers. I’m reminded that I remain only an aspiring Jazz vocalist. This is the Real McCoy. I’m effusive with praise during the interval. Czakó humbly receives my accolades, informing me she’s continuing her Jazz studies at the Hague. I also learn that the quartet is a family affair. The bassist is her father and the drummer her boyfriend.

I linger long after the show to converse with other guests, including a handsome Flemish man who relocated from Brussels in 2022. We swap notes on our favourite Jazz haunts in the Belgian capital, before what’s left of the group escorts me back to the Metro.

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

A Summer Break in Budapest: Part 1

 6 min. read

The Chain Bridge, Budapest
(image courtesy of The Savvy Backpacker)

Thursday 27.07.2023:

Another year. Another summer. Another birthday. Another excursion to Eastern Europe. This year it’s a toss up between Prague and Budapest. I’ve heard wonderful things about both. Ultimately, it’ll be my budget that decides. Despite these otherwise straitened times, I am able to plan a modest birthday break thanks to yet another tax rebate. Travel is a lot more expensive post-COVID and Putin’s invasion of Ukraine. I'm therefore blessed to find a reasonably priced indirect flight to the Hungarian capital and a bargain studio rental on Airbnb. (I have been trying to wean myself off the site but hotels proved too expensive. That said, now I’m more aware of Airbnb’s complicity with oppressive regimes, I have greater motivation to avoid the platform in future.)

I'm in desperate need of a change of scene. Just before my trip, I receive bad news regarding what seemed to be a very promising job prospect. The disappointment shatters me. It takes me a couple of days to regain any perspective, thanks to family -church and biological – and some divinely-inspired words of encouragement. Still. My life feels too complicated at the mo’. Roll on an excuse not to have to think about what comes next, at least for a few days.

I spend another night at BXL airport so there’s no chance of missing my early a.m. flight. The airport is active throughout the wee small hours; customers and rough sleepers alike. I’ve never seen it this busy at this time. An elderly woman keeps locking eyes with me, hostile. There’s too much activity. I barely sleep a wink. It’ll catch up with me on the first flight, sandwiched in the middle of two other exhausted travellers. I use the long-ish layover in Vienna to listen to podcasts and some R&B Gospel hits. 

The distance between the Austrian and Hungarian capitals is so short, I feel guilty for covering it by plane. They were once part of the same empire, after all. 

I have a window seat, nobody next to me. I permit myself the chocolate treats distributed by the flight attendants. Guilt once again. It’s tough snapping out of diet mode, even for a justifiable reason. 

It takes a while to work out the best route to my accommodation. I arrive three hours after touch down. The basement studio is discreet and clean enough. All I miss is the regular interaction that I would enjoy in a hotel.

I’m knackered. After, praying, unpacking and taking a shower, I pass out. Siestas don’t usually come so easy these days. My supposed power nap is prolonged. 

I decide to stay local tonight. The sun still beckons. The forecast for Budapest these coming days is mercifully much better than the miserable weather I’ve left behind in Belgium. Before stepping out, I hastily research survival phrases in Hungarian. I should have done it beforehand. I need more time to memorise the basics.

Apart from the nearby majestic Keleti pályaudvar train station, my immediate surroundings seem on the sketchy side. I see a lot of unidentified liquid on the ground (I'll come to realise that Budapestians are very fond of small dogs). Plus, I receive one too many dodgy, slack-jawed stares.  An elderly German-speaking man keeps stopping to look at me, muttering some rubbish about “Afrika-Frau”. I make up my mind to not spend too much time in the area. Just pass through and go home.

On the upside, the neighbourhood is extremely well serviced by public transport. I also find a pleasant enough residential area on the next street with a playground, shopping centre and indoor market. I am also cheered by the sight of multi-purpose German store, DM. I'll spot more branches here than I recall seeing on visits to Germany. (Tesco is also popular in Budapest, for some reason).

I stop off at a supermarket for groceries. A friendly shop assistant wants to practise his English with me. I wonder what he’d have done if I weren't Anglophone. He asks if I’m wearing dreads.

Dinner is at a Turkish café in the vicinity. Convenience and familiarity. Traditional Hungarian food will have to wait.

The personable staff at the café also automatically communicate with me in English. Meanwhile, I try to get my head around all the zeros of the Hungarian Forint currency.

Friday 28.07:

(image courtesy of Rearview
Mirror)

I've booked my first official tour of Budapest this morning. Our huge group is divided into two. Mine is led by a cheery and petite brunette, Lara. She condenses a thousand years of Hungarian history into the first 10 minutes of the two and a half hour tour. We hear of the country’s earliest inhabitants, a nomadic people believed to have originated from what is now central Asia. Since then the Ottomans, Austrians, Nazi Germany and the Soviets have all wanted a piece. The diverse Hungarian aesthetic reflects the many centuries of invasion and occupation they’ve endured; from pale, stereotypically Nordic features to olive-skinned and dark-eyed like Lara.

Budapest (Buda = a slavic word for water / Pest = ‘cave’ or ‘oven’) came into existence in the late 19^th Century; an amalgamation of three smaller towns. The city is still split economically, with Buda being the more gentrified half. Pest is the newer part, having been rebuilt 150 years ago after a devastating flood. Like Bucharest, much of the cityscape takes inspiration from Paris. We learn of Hungary’s ceramic and porcelain industries and the difference between the two.

Hungarians pay up to 40% tax, similar to Belgium. Unlike Belgium however, the tax revenue seems to be better invested; a comprehensive health care system (including dental) for example, and up to two years paid maternity leave. Yes, paid.

We reach the riverside, overlooking the castle district. The city’s famed beauty finally comes to light.  High up in the distance is Hungary’s own Lady Liberty statue, repurposed after the fall of communism in the early 90s. Lara claims, without irony, that she represents true democracy and freedom today. It rings somewhat false given that a Far-Right wing PM with authoritarian tendencies has been in power for the past 12 years.

Later we hear Hungary boasts at least 16 Nobel Prize winners. The world can also thank inventive Hungarians for soft contact lenses, Biros (ballpoint pens), vitamin C and the Rubik’s cube, amongst others. 

At St. Stephen’s Basilica, I’m surprised to discover Hungary is mostly RC; one of a few Catholic enclaves in a region either historically associated to the Eastern Orthodox tradition or with state-enforced atheism. We stop at a controversial war monument. Lara mentions in passing that it’s contested, without going into much detail. I glimpse an English language explanation. Prime minister Orbán is accused of erecting a memorial in 2014 under clandestine conditions and without consulting the community, in an attempt to whitewash Hungarian history-presumably its complicity with Nazi Germany. 

Lara does speak in more depth about the atrocities committed during the puppet Soviet regime, as well as subsequent revolutions. The tour ends outside the Parliament building. I am not expecting it to be so stunning. I say farewell to Lara and a lovely fellow solo traveller from Holland, kind enough to make conversation during the tour. 

After refreshments, I follow Lara’s advice and hop a number 2 tram from which I can view several of Budapest’s famous bridges. I spend the rest of the afternoon tram-hopping, enjoying the sun-soaked, picturesque scenes along the Danube river. I beat the rain on returning to my accommodation. 

Budapest Parliament building
(image: Viator.com)

I'm back out that evening for a Meet-Up event in town. I’m a bit apprehensive on arrival. The bar is so small that most clients have to stand outside. It’s also largely male. I chat to an Italian who unintentionally identifies himself as the one in charge. The real host, rumoured to be the bar owner, is nowhere to be seen. I ease up as more join, including another Italian and an amiable woman from Strasbourg, my old stomping ground. Several of us are tourists. I find that curiously comforting.

I leave the group to look for a nearby restaurant serving traditional Hungarian food, recommended by the tour guide. It’s a self-service set-up, where you pay by weight. A clever way to overcharge, especially when weighing salad in ceramic bowls.

It’s a Friday night after sunset. I have a well-needed, post-supper jaunt around the lively old Jewish quarter, before taking a circuitous route back to my lodgings.

Soundtrack: Radio Sechaba by Bokani Dyer + After Dinner We Talk Dreams + Side Dishes by MICHELLE

Part 2 + Part 3