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

A walk through Margaret Island

Most people enter Margaret Island through Margaret Bridge to the south because that is closer to downtown Budapest, but the two-and-half-kilometers-long island runs all the way to Arpad Bridge to the north, where there’s another entrance. A bus runs from one end to the other, and small rental cars run by motor or pedal, but most people walk to take in the foliage that sometimes hides from view the Danube on either side. To walk along the river they have to move to the edges, where runners and bicyclists take up a red road and couples, readers, and picnickers sit on the slanted stone that gives way to the water, on which cruise ships and kayaks glide by.

Back inside the heart of the island, people buy ice cream, dine on a restaurant’s terrace, work out at the athletic center, or visit the zoo, attractions as hidden as they are in Central Park. Around the large fountain, (distance) the first landmark upon entering through the south side, people sunbathe. A bit further on and trees open out onto an open field more reminiscent of Golden Gate Park, for people to play music or Frisbee or huddle in groups. Past this, a track and a football game in progress, and eight English children in two teams, in two lines, in a relay race: the ball (or is it a water balloon?) passes over one child’s head, through the legs of the next, over the head of the next, and so on, until the last runs to the front. Repeat.

Beyond this, dark busts of unknown historical figures stare out at passersby. Some stop to sit on the oversized tree, whose branches descend so low as to form seats. Others navigate the labyrinthine walls of Roman ruins. Could be Greek. Could be a product of the city planners’ imagination. And just before reaching Arpad Bridge: a manmade pond with benches and rocks forming the perimeter, and inside, green from the water lilies, from the reeds, from the mold at the bottom or from the trees reflected in the water.

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Listening to: Shakira

Hajra, Magyarorszag!

Wednesday morning I watched President Obama on TV, skirting a request at the G20 Summit in London for projections on the World Cup, and in the evening, I watched Hungary shut out Malta, 3-0, at the Puskas Ferenc Stadium. I have little to compare it to, having been to one professional game each of basketball, baseball, and American football, so the drunken cheers, face paint, and buses of fans were probably on par with any other game.

But I think more likely, the excitement was heightened this time because Hungary had just beaten Albania over the weekend and has a decent chance of making it to the World Cup next year, the first time since 1986. I almost didn't go because the 35,000 seats were sold out, until a ticket became available at the last minute.

The wave went through the crowd at least five times in a row, dotted with cheers of "Magyarok!" (Hungarians) "Gyere! Gyere!" (Come on) "Ya, ya, Hungaria!" (apparently they refer to the country as Hungaria, too, not just Magyarorsyag), and "Hajra, Magyarorszag!" (that I can't translate but how much meaning can a cheer have anyway?). Those, along with the red-white-and-green flags, were new to me because the games I'd been to brought out regional pride rather than an entire country united.

I also was not used to the smoking, but I guess fans needed a substitute because alcohol is banned. Or people just showed up drunk, downing their last few drops at the gate and tossing another can into the trash heap before facing the security guards to be searched (not that they really searched women or children). At a Jets game two seasons ago, I thought it was funny that people received capless beer bottles so they couldn't throw caps at the players, but I guess they should just be happy to have the beer at all.



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Reading: Samantha Power, A Problem from Hell
Listening to: Julieta Venegas
Watching: The Office

Winter bathing

Light snow has fallen once or twice and jagged ice leisures along the Danube, but there is occasion for bikinis and speedos no matter the weather, and that is the hot baths of Budapest. At the Széchenyi Fürdő in City Park, three baths lie side by side for Goldilocks to test, although in winter I suggest beginning with the hottest (and densest) and spending the rest of the time in the just-right pool. Everywhere are patches of activity: older men play chess on water-proof mats at the edges; a mother helps her daughter swim with arm floaties and swim cap; couples … do couple things; three young men drink beer on the steps. But most just stand and soak, proving the place to be little more than a glorified Jacuzzi.

I argue, though, there is more to the fürdő that justifies more than a two-hour visit. Something like cobblestone surrounds the pools, enclosed in a coliseum-like courtyard open to the sky. There is a nude statue here, a fountain there. Above the four-foot-high water, steam rises 100 feet into the air and softens the lighting, which glows through and tints the fog. The steam passes in and out, sometimes walling the person 10 feet away, other times exposing the person halfway across the pool. We couldn’t determine how much of the fürdő relied on the hot springs that make it famous, and how much man had to intervene. But like beaches in summer, the fürdő is a place I’d like to stay all day reading or sleeping; the lights after sundown aren’t ideal for reading, but at all times the warmth can lull you to sleep.