A day in Budapest

I might as well post this, which is a revision of my previous post (revision in the loosest sense):

A few key strokes, clicks, and scrolls will tell you that of landlocked Hungary's ten million people, one million, seven hundred thousand squeeze into Budapest. Of the country's thirty-six thousand square miles, two hundred fall on the part of the map labeled 'Budapest.' That is seventeen percent of the people sharing half a percent of the land. You will also no doubt read that the city is two cities, Buda and Pest, bisected by the Danube and connected by five bridges, and it's possible you'll learn that all of it sits on top of the continent's oldest subway. You probably don't even have to search to know that for a while, Hungary reported to the Soviets, who followed the Germans, who followed the Austrians, who followed the Ottomans (you don't ask what came before the Ottomans; it's like asking what came before the printing press). Of course, none of this matters. You do not have to remember.

It might only matter if and when you touch down in Budapest Ferihegy International Airport. As you drive from there into the capital, do not be fooled by the gray outskirts that glide anonymously by, or the trash heap, the fading rust-colored field, the road that descends from a freeway into an exit. The wide open space is an illusion; soon the city will close in. For fifteen minutes you will drive around the same secession building where a middle-aged woman has filled her balcony with plants that have no place here in winter. Then you will park on the sidewalk and step out onto the street. Look! In one square meter, uneven taupe cobblestones run up against maroon rocks that smile in rows of half-circles. But as much as you want to enjoy them, you cannot get around the twenty-six other cars that have also parked on the sidewalk. So that must be how the seventeen percent coexist.

At least you rarely have to worry about cars. For just seven thousand forints (thirty-five dollars) this green-and-orange paper card will get you on the subway for a month. Isn't the yellow line cute? Its three little trains bounce along, chiming each time the doors open and close, like something out of Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood. Just don't forget your pass. And don't sneak onto a train just because there's no guard to stop you. Or, if you do, don't miss your stop, so that you end up at the only station where all the guards huddle in their heavy leather jackets and navy blue caps. Even if you try to look away, the one burly woman will grab your shoulder and demand six thousand forints. Please, if nothing else, get a receipt before she pockets the gift!

Let's hope you can still enjoy your time after that. Remember, there was a river, and a few bridges? You must be in Pest. Only Hungarians live in Buda, and visitors only go there for short trips to the castle and the hills and the Szabadság Szobor, which could be translated as the Statue of Liberty, but no need to ruffle any feathers. Liberty Statue is acceptable. About Pest, then: just walk east, you can't miss the Danube. If, on the way, you pass the rally of skinheads who somehow got into parliament, don't be afraid. They don't dislike you as much as they do the gypsies who crouch along the Chain Bridge, reaching out for alms or covering their heads as if salaaming. And they aren't as bad as the paramilitary group who dress in black boots, pants, vest, and cap, white shirt, and red scarf. You might have thought there were no more after 1945, or at least after they were banned last year. But stay out of their way and you'll be fine.

See, on the Danube, the ten-year-olds racing by in yellow and green kayaks? That's better. That's what you came to see. You can join them, but it might be more relaxing to rent a two-person cart on the island, Margit-sziget. Paths on either side let you pedal along the river, watching people on holiday aboard cruise ships that start in the Netherlands, or surveying Budapest's skyline of pale buildings, none more than three hundred feet high, but closer to one hundred. Now, isn't the Danube more than a word on a map? If you've had enough of the water (no need to stay on the bank for all one hundred fifty feet of Margit-sziget), come back inside. People are buying ice cream, dining on terraces, and gawking at zoo animals. Deeper into the island, dark busts of unknown historical figures stare out at no one in particular. They remind you to stop over at the labyrinthine walls of Roman ruins. Could be Greek. Could be a product of the city planners’ imagination. In any case, you must be tired. There's an oversized tree over there; its branches reach down so low, everyone is welcome to sit down for a break.

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Listening to: Regina Spektor
Reading: 100 Years of Solitude
Watching: Malcolm in the Middle

Red, white, and green

In emails and local publications, I'd been reading warnings about the violence that has become typical on March 15, equivalent to Hungary's Fourth of July. I even read lists of hot spots to avoid, but yesterday was mild compared to the egg-pelting of years past, especially the destruction of 2006, following a leaked tape of Prime Minister Ferenc Gyurcsany admitting he'd lied about the dismal economy. I say mild, partly because I didn't get out much, but mainly because, aside from a few arrests (including one person with a case of eggs), there were few reports of conflicts.

But expectations of unrest were understandable. As seen in 2006, Hungary has been suffering economically since long before the current crisis; little has been said since an International Monetary Fund bailout was announced in October, and the European Union's rejection this month of a proposed $240 billion bailout isn't making things easier for Gyurcsany, whose Magyar Szocialista Part (MSZP) surely won't survive the next election.

I passed by a rally organized by Jobbik Szervezete, an extreme right wing party, but by the looks of the thousands-strong crowd at Deak Ferenc Square, you wouldn't know it's a minor party. I understood little, except for the choruses demanding Gyurcsany's resignation, that much scarier when you saw the hardliners dressed in something resembling black military fatigues. They held (and wore) flags of all kinds: the official flag, the party's flag, the old Arpad flag (associated with the Nazis, among others).

Everywhere, riot police lined the streets, many of which were closed for much of the day, as were the square in front of St. Stephen's Basilica (so I had to walk another way home) and the Chain Bridge. On the other side of the Danube River and away from Jobbik Szervezete, the main opposition party Fidesz held its own rally. I arrived at the tail end, so there was only time to get forralt bor (hot wine) and overcooked chicken, but two days earlier I'd caught a taste of what the conservatives were all about. As it does every year, Fidesz hosted a small memorial to General Jozsef Schweidel on the street that bears his name. He was one of the 13 Martyrs of Arad executed by the Austrians on 6 Oct. 1849 (hence the street named after this date) after Hungary's failed War for Independence from the Habsburgs.

Five paragraphs deep, and I am just now mentioning this event, but that's appropriate because much of the historical significance is lost on March 15 (when the abortive revolution began with a reading of a 12-point list of demands). Instead of commemorating the events of 1848-49, Hungarians are more likely to hold political platforms to criticize the incumbents, which indeed is what Fidesz did at the memorial. In all fairness, they also sang the national anthem and recited "Nemzeti dal," the national song Sandor Petofi penned for the occasion. There's now a bridge and radio station dedicated in his honor, but details of his death are still unclear.

Much less political are the activities on the Chain Bridge, decorated end to end with the country's flag and stages meant to give a snapshot of life in the mid-19th century. Specifically: horse-drawn carriages, a game of jumping over a stick, and some kind of ash-covered metalsmith. I liked the blown up black-and-white photos that stood alone, but stopped taking pictures after no one could tell me who they were. Some wear paper hats that look as though they're off to war, and everyone (and I do mean everyone) wears the red-white-and-green pendant called kokarda. Anyway it probably beats our Independence Day fireworks.

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Reading: Dostoevsky, Crime and Punishment
Watching: John Merriman, "The Origins of World War I" (Yale lecture via AcademicEarth.org)
Listening to: Elton John, Greatest Hits

Terror Haza

If the House of Terror did not enclose such a grim legacy - Hungary's more than four decades of terror under Nazi and then Soviet occupations - it would almost succumb to the absurdity in much of tourism. The museum alternates between the poignant (interviews with former prisoners, fascist and Communist propaganda, a preserved basement of torture and incarceration) and the cheesy (a video of actors changing clothes as they found new roles under changing regimes, a pig because collective welfare made it difficult to own your own). I don't know if cheesy is the right word, because I couldn't decide whether to admire the curators for mixing history with symbolism (as that would make them artistic) or dismiss them for trying too hard to please tourists (as that would make them cheesy, like the Buda labyrinth).

But if there's any place a tourist should see in Budapest, this is probably it. The Terror House grabs attention easily, for a few reasons: 1) its name, even if people first think it's a Halloween attraction; 2) its odd location on Andrassy Avenue, known for shopping and its UNESCO World Heritage recognition; and 3) its facade, an overhang with the word "TERROR" carved out like stencils so that the sun writes the letters on the sidewalk below.

Beyond the initial impressions, the museum delivers. This is probably due to its small size, but I've never seen a museum presented as such a complete package that is simultaneously concise and dramatic. The first image that greets visitors is the wall of victims: thousands of low relief, black-and-white head shots, about a square foot each, depicting the deceased and inscribed along a central wall that spans all three floors and the elevator. In the basement is the smaller portion of the wall, that of the victimizers. Their faces are smaller, but they have names and dates, many showing the victimizers to be alive still - hence the debate over what should be done with them and whether they should be allowed into public office.

Like the wall (and like a good meal), the exhibition rooms also rely on the power of presentation for impact. I've realized most of them are works of art in themselves, often for their symbolic significance. One room made manifest the dualism of oppression under fascists and Communists by screening footage on either side of the same wall in the center of the room, Hitler on one side, Stalin on the other. Working with the Hungarian Arrow Cross Party, both at different times controlled Hungary, which seemed to trade one form of totalitarianism for another.

Another room shipped us off to Siberia, as the condemned Hungarians were once expelled. Horizontal wood paneling lined the walls, with windows simulated by TV screens showing the landscape roll by. A carpet map began in Hungary at the entrance and ended in the Soviet far east at the exit. Then there was (what I call) the Warhol room of '60s ads denoting the prosperity and consumption under socialism; the Catholic room, along the length of which ran a huge white cross "exposed" by floorboards pulled aside; and the black-and-white Gabor Peter room, white where the Communist police chief enjoyed a clean office, black where the Jewish Hungarian served a prison sentence under the system he once controlled.

All of this trimming disappears, however, once you walk through the rooms of the basement. For solitary confinement, you have the choice of a closet big enough to hold one person, a larger room just three feet high, or a wet cell. There's a Hungarian flag with the Soviet emblem cut out, a common image during the 1956 Revolution. A gallows is intact. Interviews run on a loop, men and women lamenting the senselessness of their subjugation. A young woman reads the names of the dead. And in the background plays a Hungarian version of Lili Marleen.