Budapest, or A Week of Mingling with the Hungarian Bourgeoisie

Budapest. Buda and Pest. This was not part of my "plan" (I put this in quotes because I am not a good "planner" and I did not "plan" Budapest . More on my poor planning below).

I had heard good things about Budapest, of course, but had not heard very much about it. But it was a logical choice: I had five weeks before I needed to be in Costa Rica, and Budapest is relatively close to Bucharest. So I bought the train-ticket.

I was happy to get out of Bucharest. Very happy, in retrospect. Like any large city, I cannot condemn the entire city as " boring" or "lifeless" or " sterile;" I am sure that Bucharest has its "hidden treasures," as the guidebooks like to announce. But I do not have many good things to say about Bucharest. The streets are too wide, the public transportation is not very good (and stops too early), the food is so-so. Bucharest is not a "happening" place, in my opinion. Given recent history, of course, this makes sense. But c'mon, Bucharest , you're so boring ! The stereotype about Romanian women, however, is spot on.

So on to Budapest I decided to go, but not before receiving a lesson about communism. The train-ride was to be overnight, so I made the necessary preparations and arrived at the train-station a full hour early. Buying a ticket for the train, however, was much more difficult than I had anticipated. After buying a sleeper-car "ticket," I attempted to board the train, but was stopped. According to the men in uniform , I had a ticket but not a " reservation." They sent me back to the "Reservations" area, where I spoke to three different 50+ women , each of whom were bored to the point of suicide. They sent me back to where I had originally purchased my "ticket" – a kiosk on the other side of the building – and this woman promptly sent me back to the train. The men at the train tried to send me back to reservations, and I had finally had enough. Like anyone, I enjoy a good walk once in a while , but this was no longer enjoyable . I asked to speak to the conductor , and was flatly denied. "Who do I need to talk to?" I asked. "What can I do to get on this train?"

Finally, one of the men shrugged his shoulders and made a small motion with his hand, indicating that I should board the car nearest to him. This was absolutely not the answer I had wanted – in essence, he was telling me that I could board the train, but the responsibility was not his if I were to get in trouble or get kicked off for it. After boarding the car – not a sleeper-car – and plopping myself down into an uncomfortable seat, I came to the conclusion that the legacy of communism is alive and well in Romania . From start to finish, nobody was responsible for anything that had just transpired.

The room in the train car had seats for six people, but they were generally unoccupied and I was the only occupant who stayed all the way to Budapest . So my room ended up functioning as a revolving door of Romanians. First was a 35 year-old Romanian of Hungarian descent. He was a professional dancer, and throughout the trip he played me a number of Romanian folk-songs and dance videos on his very modern cell phone. In general he was very interested to talk to me, and was deeply in love with his fiance. He left after four hours , and the next man, whose age I would approximate at 75 years, was a man who looked (physically)as if his life had been difficult. He mumbled to himself as he boarded , took gigantic swigs of hard alcohol from a clear-plastic bottle, popped in a cough-drop and laid down flat on his back. He was snoring within three minutes -- what happened to that cough drop? -- and his cheeks sunk far enough into his face that I began to wonder if this would be his last train-ride as a mortal. His mouth was also open, and his lips were curling around his teeth. I would describe his facial expression as " corpse-like." He made it through, though. My last two travel-companions were a husband and wife who smelled like farm.

There are a lot of intangibles that make a city good for traveling. Some of them have nothing to do with the city, itself: the traveler might be jet-lagged or sick, the weather might be terrible, it could be the off-season, etc. But there are also a lot of factors that simply make one city better than others. As soon as I stepped off the train into Budapest at 8 AM, I immediately felt happy to be there. Goodbye Bucharest !

Budapest is a high-class city. It is not a wealthy city – it is not too difficult to travel on the cheap, there– but it is one of the few cities to which I have traveled where, regardless of income, the citizens are universally classy. There is a focus on the arts here that I have not seen anywhere else. It is a liberal city, calling itself the "gay capital" of Central Europe, and for the first time in a very long time, I am seeing hipsters . Yes, real hipsters. Chuck Taylors and all. You could drop them off in Capitol Hill, Seattle, and they would be at home. Well, almost. They are a bit less pasty and are notably less anorexic than their Seattle counterparts.

Days in Budapest generally go roughly like this: mornings are spent at a café, afternoons exploring the sights of the city, dinner is early and possibly Hungarian, and the evening is spent enjoying the fine-arts or the fine-bars (this city ranks a close second to Dublin in the piles of puke that I have seen on the ground on the "mornings after ").

Besides the major sights in Budapest, while there I saw two films (one of them at the nicest movie theater I have ever been to), a ballet ( Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs), and an opera ( Andre Chenier), with the opera taking place at the Hungarian State Opera House. Acoustically the opera was perfect, and the ballet was a lot of fun. I saw it with Eva, a 21 year-old, gay New Yorker currently studying philosophy in Munich and singing with a Bavarian choir. We spent three days together seeing the sights of Budapest, whereupon she left for 30 hours of train-rides with five train-changes (I subsequently found out that she missed nearly all of them).

Anyway, seeing as the ballet was "Snow White," the theater of the ballet was approximately 50% children, all of whom were laughing and screaming with delight during the show. One of the boys in front of me was wearing his father's tie, and it ended roughly at his knees. Dopey was the indisputable king of the show, a real tour de force with a keen sense of comedic irony and timing. As always in "Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs," the prince saved the day by kissing Snow White after she has died, which, if you ask me, is a kiss with grave – very, very grave – moral implications.

I should mention that all four tickets – the movies, the ballet, and the opera – cost me a combined $17.50. Normally I do not mention how "cheap" things are, as everywhere I have been traveling is "cheap." But I do not quite understand this. Are the arts subsidized here? Or is there simply a higher supply of them? Regardless, it is a pricing structure that allows everyone in the city to attend. And everyone here does attend.

So Budapest is a city where, for a short period of time, you, too, feel as if you are a high-class citizen. It is a good feeling. There is a limit to this, though: when I show up to an opera wearing tennis shoes, jeans that I inherited from my father (that have gaping holes in them), and a collar-less shirt, I do not feel "high-class." Instead I feel a little bit like an "idiot." There is a limit to what I can carry while traveling, though, and a suit is not on that list. But most tourists throw themselves wholeheartedly into the act. Today I drank coffee at the most venerated coffeehouse in the city, Gerbeaud, and had the misfortune of sitting next to the two most pretentious New York men I have ever been forced to listen to. One of them, believe it or not, was actually wearing a black turtleneck; at some point, I believe, this man took Pretention 101 at an ivy league school. I was trying to read in this cafe, but their commentary made this impossible. "Why don't we go to the lap pool," suggested the man in black. "Aren't you in the mood for the lap pool?" I am not a praying man, but seeing as God is the only one I know of who is capable of smiting someone, I asked for his help.

I have seen the city very well in seven days, but I will always be happy to come back to Budapest. Any city where hot, mulled wine is served in street-side vendor-carts already has a leg up on the others. Combine mulled wine with a city full of Turkish baths (I literally combined the two one afternoon, in fact), and, my friend, you are in a very good place. Mark my words, though: Budapest is the next Prague -- it is becoming (or has become) an American ex-pat capital, bringing with it both the benefits and detriments of such a status. I am sure there are a lot of people who noticed this before me.

At the beginning of this entry I mentioned that I am a bad "planner," or one who is bad at "planning." In four weeks I meet my parents in San Jose, Costa Rica, which I am excited for. Unfortunately, when booking the ticket for this online – London to San Jose, that is – I entered the wrong airport code: SJU instead of SJO. Easy enough mistake, I would argue. So now, entirely by accident, I am to visit San Juan, Puerto Rico. Oops. When I received the e-mail confirmation from Expedia.com, I could feel my face turn red and my armpits began to itch a little bit. So this is something I have to work on. Both the ticket, that is, as well as my irresponsibility.

Now I am in Paris. I don't really feel the need to comment on this city, though. Hopefully you know it by now. Instead, I would like to go drink some coffee. I really like Paris in the almost-Springtime.

"Ay-Gaz!"

The above quote is part of a sing-songy jingle that is played daily throughout the side-streets of Istanbul. For much of my time there, it was a large part of the mystery of Istanbul.

I hadn't realized until just now, by the way, that it had been over three weeks since updating this. Sorry. Once in a while it is bound to happen. Where I left off was at Istanbul, a city that now rides very, very high on my "places I like a lot" list.

But first I will digress from Istanbul back to Jerusalem, because Israelis, sometimes, can be quite humorous. Staying in Adam's apartment in the market in Jerusalem, I was privy to the daily bartering routine between store-owners and shoppers, truly a sight to behold -- it was in my face every time I walked outside. It was a noisy affair with lots of gesticulating (this was especially true with the older generation), multiple bouts of feigned disgust or disapproval by one or both parties, and finally the purchase was made. I suppose it fit in with the stereotype I had of a Mediterranean-style market.

The flight from Tel Aviv to Istanbul was even more mayhem. Typically, in my experience, the "seat belt" sign turns off in an airplane without much fanfare, and people continue about their business. On the El Al flight to Istanbul a full one-third of the passengers immediately stood-up when the sign turned off, and began milling about all over the plane or finding friends in other seats. It was a social event that I was, by default, invited to attend. I didn't see any reason to mill about, so I stayed seated.

After twenty minutes or so it calmed down a little bit, and the stewardesses began to bring coffee and tea to passengers. The older man sitting next to me, as well as quite a few of the other passengers on board, proceeded drink cup after cup after cup, stopping the stewardesses on every pass for refills. Lots of people were doing this. The stewardesses were being hounded on this flight, and it was apparent to me that it was impossible for them to keep up with the demand for tea and coffee. On one pass, the stewardess missed my seat-mate's call for a re-fill, and he began yelling at her in Hebrew as she continued down the plane. With over-exaggerated disgust, he took his plump, old-man sausage of a finger and banged it above his head to illuminate the button requesting assistance. I looked ahead of me, only then realizing that nearly 50% of the rows of seats had done the same. Everyone wanted these stewardess. Everyone needed tea. This was the noisiest flight I have ever been on.

To Istanbul. Oh, Istanbul. It is the most beautiful city I have been to.

I saw the same sights that everyone sees -- the Hagia Sophia, the Blue Mosque, Topkapi Palace, and so on -- but with the exception of the Hagia Sophia, I would not necessarily call these the highlights of the city. Istanbul has every perk of the big city: it is very, very beautiful architecturally (the mosques do much for this) and has a Disney-like romance to it; there is water all around; the public transport system is functional in an ad-hoc sort of way; the night-life is booming; Istanbullus are nice and dress fashionably; and the city, as I mentioned previously, has some of the best sweets in the world. The daily prayer calls add to the ambiance. I experienced a "true" Turkish bath, saw a soccer match between the third and fourth place teams in the Turkish soccer league, and was on the losing end of many games of backgammon. At times it was unseasonably warm, other times there were snow flurries. I also met Alper in Istanbul, a 35 year-old, very sociable Turkish man, to whom I am indebted for showing me an excellent time around the city and who has an absurdly good sense of hospitality.

On one day I persuaded Antje, a German girl also going around the world (but again in the opposite direction that I am), to attend a beverage trade-fair to which I had received tickets from a hostel bartender. It was out by the airport in the middle of nowhere. At the entrance I explained that I had worked for K & L Distributors, a beer and liquor distributor -- I really did work for them once -- with the hope that I would be treated like a businessman. I was not. We stood out as foreigners and as non-business persons, but enjoyed some very interesting drinks all the same. And though I always want the best for entrepreneurs (and trade shows are not much fun for them), I can say with certainty that Kurdish milk-alcohol -- with chunks of something floating in it -- will not be successfully exported to the U.S.A. The salesmen at the event liked us, though, and generally wondered how/why the hell we were there. A show-bartender performing in front of a small crowd pulled Antje and I up at different times, and we tried (mostly unsuccessfully) to bartend for the crowd. On the third try I managed to flip a bottle of Malibu Rum into a martini shaker.

From Istanbul I took the train to Bucharest, where I planned to meet Kris, a friend of mine stationed in Romania in the Peace Corps. The train ride from Istanbul to Bucharest was straight out a children's book. My second-class sleeper car felt like first-class, with a sink and just two beds (rather than the six that I am used to). The inside of the car was wood-paneled, the windows opened widely, and away into the night I went. I shared the car with Nico, a recent recipient of a Ph. D in Plant Biology who just finished studying in Puerto Rico. For the seventeen hour train ride he had brought nothing but beer and roasted pumpkin seeds.

Kris surprised me at the train station (where I did not expect to meet him) by sneaking up from behind me and lifting me into the air. He took a good look at me (we had not seen each other in about a year) and first thing he said to me was, "you look insane." Thus commenced our week of childish behavior. I would argue that we did two things that were actually productive during our week together in Romania: one of them was ice-skating, which we did the first night. The second productive activity was when we saw "Blood Diamond," starring a notably thick-necked Leonardo DiCaprio.

The rest of our time together was a series of ill-conceived non-plans. One of our first nights in Bucharest saw us stay inside the youth hostel and play Tiger Woods Golf 2005. Another night in Bucharest, we managed to wait too long to find food, realizing too late that every restaurant in town was closed. Everything, that is, except... MCDONALDS!!! Kris and I each ordered Big Macs and large fries. Kris then decided to order a second Big Mac -- America-style! -- and I followed with another cheeseburger. I then decided to order a McFlurry for the both of us to share -- obviously we were no longer hungry -- and by this time was laughing to the point that I could barely complete the order. And the McDonalds employee? Not impressed by us at all. Nope, I can say objectively that he did not find our behavior as funny I did. Another night in Bucharest we attempted to watch the Super Bowl, but failed to do so and managed to lose Kris' cell phone.

From Bucharest we caught the train to Sighisoara, a Transylvanian town that fits the Transylvanian stereotype perfectly: snow on the ground, castles and cathedrals, very dark at night. At one point I thought I saw a vampire, but it turned out that it was just my friend, Kris, who has a vampire-like countenance. We stayed in Sighisoara for two nights and saw the town pretty decently, as it's quite small. Our last night we made dinner at the hostel with Monica, a friend of Kris' and also a Peace Corps volunteer, and later that evening we stole a handful of Pepto Bismol tablets from her because our tummies hurt.

Arbitrarily, we took the train to Arad, a town of virtually no significance for travelers. It was impulsive and we arrived without a guidebook, map, or phone, knowing nothing about the city except that Casey, another Peace Corps volunteer, lived there. Fortunately Kris managed to contact her, and she gave us a good tour. We also ate macaroni and cheese together. After less than 24 hours in the city, we left the following morning on an 11 hour train ride back to Bucharest.

After a night's sleep in Bucharest, Kris decided that he had had enough of me, and I agreed that I was also tired of him. There was nothing to see in Bucharest of any interest to us, and Kris' apartment was a two hour share-taxi ride away. We were both very tired. So he decided to leave earlier than planned. At the bus-stop where he departed, with both of us realizing that we would not see each other again for at least a year and a half, I told him that "it's time to say something poignant." "This was an ok trip," he replied.

It was just an ok trip! At some point during the trip Kris and I came up with a mantra that we were to repeat on multiple occasions (or try to, anyway) when others would ask us what we were "doing" together in Romania. The reply went like this: "We don't do much. We're not doing anything, really. When we do do something, we don't do very much of it or for very long. What we do do, we don't do it well." This, of course, doesn't answer any of the questions that people could possibly have been asking us. But people were surprisingly willing to allow us to respond with this, and it was very much the truth of our trip.

If you were to take a look at a map of Romania, our trip had no intrinsic logic to it. But once again I will invoke the quote that, "It's not about the destination, but the journey" (or something like that). This trip was not about the destination, because we had none. Nor was it really about the journey, either, since the train-rides, though beautiful, were merely a means to arbitrary destinations. Mostly this trip was about sharing a few beers with my best friend. So in that sense it was very productive.

I am still at the hostel in Bucharest (one of the best hostels I've been to, I must say), surrounded by a bunch of ridiculous characters and trying to figure out my next travel plan. One of these characters is a Romanian model/actor who I caught watching WWE wrestling yesterday. "Ha ha!" He yelled at the television. "Look at him! He brought out the table -- now it is used on him!" Somehow there is dance music going on almost all day, here. There is a resident cat, Flutu, who I continually find in my upper-level bunk-bed.

I am trying to find a way to leave here, and for the first time am floundering. I had been pursuing a travel-plan that included sailing, but this has fallen through and I am left with absolutely no itinerary to speak of. By mid-March I will be in Costa Rica. Until then? I can say with absolute honesty that I have no idea right now. I'll let you know, though!