At the train station, I squirreled around aimlessly trying to find out where to go. The signs, obviously in Hungarian, provided little help. Then, I realized, my arrival time at the station was a bit premature. No wonder I could not find anything, in any language, resembling Prague/Prag/Praha, etc... Finally, after devouring what I feared would be my last kabob from the Egyptian kid selling them near the international portion of the station, I spied the boards again because there was movement on them - clicking with the destination Prague finally. I read signs for lines 1-6, then 9-12, but not 7 or 8 and I was supposed to board from 8? After a momentary panic, I realized my train rested on the tracks right in front of me. As I approached, the ticket taker/worker pointed at me, as a group of young backpakers passed us by. He elbowed his fellow worker and they both stared. Now, I was wearing my sportscoat, a dress shirt, and sunglasses, but I never expected the reaction I received. As I approached, he grew more excited. In broken English, he asked if I was "artist?" Since I fancy myself an artist, I said yes, thinking maybe it was the outfit? He nudged his buddy again and said a few sentences, the only words I could understand were Hollywood and actor, I think? Intrigued, I stood there as they looked me over, once, then twice again. The buddy of the man who spoke to me, who I was to learn would become my steward, or whatever they are called on trains, informed me that they would be putting me in cabin number 3. As I boarded, the first guy kept repeating "film artist" to the steward (one must have been Hungarian and the other a Czech because they communicated roughly in English) as he instructed me where to go once inside the train. I suppose I should have corrected them, but hey, serendipity happens!
Inside the train, I passed sevearl compartments, filled with other tourists - three beds to a cabin. When I got to cabin number 3, my cabin, it was empty. Within seconds the steward arrived to let me know that I would be alone all night and that no one would bother me at any of the stops throughout the 10 plus hour journey from Budapest to Prague. I guess this treatment is what they give Hollywood celebrities, so I figured after living in LA for 15 years, this was the least I could accept for my troubles. First class on an Eastern European train is not as fancy as one might expect compared to a Western European train line, but I did not complain. Besides, I have had nothing to compare it to except the Eurorail traveling I did back in college and that was plenty rough.
I climbed into the second bed, leaving the one above and below free for now. I pulled back the curtain and watched as the train pulled from Budapest into the dusk. Although night quickly approached, I caught sights of the Hungarian countryside as we zoomed along, the metal scrapping and the engine roaring as we picked up speed. The melancholy feelings soon disappeared as I grew more excited, but somehow exhausted from Budapest. I dozed a bit while watching sights through the window; the Tylenol PM working its wonders on me. I climbed down, got into some comfortable clothes, then went to sleep in the bottom bunk. In the morning, I would be in Prague, another Eastern European city I missed (except to fly through twenty years ago) during my initial jaunt about Europe in college. I fell asleep dreaming about my new adventures.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Budapest to Prague
The ticket I purchased Friday night for Saturday travel from Budapest to Prague, turned out only to be the reservation for my sleeping compartment bed, not actually the ticket for the train. The price for the bed/ticket, only about $25 USD, seemed a bit too good for an overnight first class train ticket so I showed it to Istvan at the guesthouse in Budapest, and together, he and his boss, decided that I should go back to the trainstation to inquire further. I did this Saturday morning. Sure enough, the new woman working at the ticket counter laughed, then sold me the ticket for the train. Not sure what good a bed without the train would be, but hey, who am I to judge their system?
Saying goodbye to Budapest proved more difficult than I had expected. I had grown attached to the city, her people and food. Thus, the walk (I opted against public transit this time) provided some quiet time for reflection. My mind raced with thoughts of moral relativism. That there really was no such thing as right and wrong. There just is movement and evolution - there just is! (No wonder some parents don't want their kids to travel throughout Europe - when free to think, the mind sometimes wanders in a multitude of directions.). Someone's right is always someone else's wrong and visa versa. Therefore, it forces me to accept that there just is - neither the thing and its opposite at exactly the same time. Neither and both, its opposite, however turn out to be more than just the combination of the two, for example of wrong and right. It is closer to say that the truth rests somewhere in the absence of either. The concept of right and wrong (an extrinsic control over the judgement of your moral thought process and ultimately your actions) falls away when your release the concept of bipolarity, or opposites, from your thinking mind. Freedome to live your life follows. Others may still judge your actions, but that is because they still operate within the old paradigm of thought - their minds still intent upon casting a thing, action, belief, etc into a category (or its opposite) instead of just accepting it as is without judgement/category. Accepting what is without judgement on this trip, opening myself to the richness of another culture, certainly has reduced my internal angst (and hopefully my blood pressure).
Saying goodbye to Budapest proved more difficult than I had expected. I had grown attached to the city, her people and food. Thus, the walk (I opted against public transit this time) provided some quiet time for reflection. My mind raced with thoughts of moral relativism. That there really was no such thing as right and wrong. There just is movement and evolution - there just is! (No wonder some parents don't want their kids to travel throughout Europe - when free to think, the mind sometimes wanders in a multitude of directions.). Someone's right is always someone else's wrong and visa versa. Therefore, it forces me to accept that there just is - neither the thing and its opposite at exactly the same time. Neither and both, its opposite, however turn out to be more than just the combination of the two, for example of wrong and right. It is closer to say that the truth rests somewhere in the absence of either. The concept of right and wrong (an extrinsic control over the judgement of your moral thought process and ultimately your actions) falls away when your release the concept of bipolarity, or opposites, from your thinking mind. Freedome to live your life follows. Others may still judge your actions, but that is because they still operate within the old paradigm of thought - their minds still intent upon casting a thing, action, belief, etc into a category (or its opposite) instead of just accepting it as is without judgement/category. Accepting what is without judgement on this trip, opening myself to the richness of another culture, certainly has reduced my internal angst (and hopefully my blood pressure).
Saturday, August 29, 2009
The Disco
After staying up until 3, 4, or 5 AM for eight nights straight can wear down even the most robust traveler, but not me. Back home, my friends are hard-pressed to get me to stay out past midnight, but here in Budapest, I have discovered renewed energy, a longing to encounter adventures known to me only in novels or travel guides. Friday night, my last in Budapest, had to deliver. On the weekends, the discos are open, offering something a little different than the bars to which I had been visiting. Curious to do some people-watching and maybe even some dancing, I left the hotel at midnight and wandered about 1km down one of the side streets to the disco called Alterego. Now, maybe it's a cliche to name a gay disco alter ego, but I must admit, the place certainly worked some voodoo on me.
Arriving alone to any venue can cause fear and trepidation. Arriving alone to a gay venue absolutely increases these feelings, especially when most patrons show up in groups, and have already done a bit of pre-partying. Nonetheless, determined I was and found the spot easily. Surprised to find the place modern, clean, and friendly, I walked directly into the foyer. The entry is above ground - this is where they take the cover charge. A couple of German bear types preceeded me into the foyer. These guys were anything but attractive. While I stood behind them, I heard the doorman (well, doorboy) ask them for 3000 Ft. (about 18 USD). I thought that was a tad too steep myself, but was willing to pay. When my turn arrived, the cute kid smiled at me (probably because I was wearing a trendy, tight t-shirt) and only asked me for 1000 Ft. When my face gave away my surprise, he simply winked at me and took my money.
Down the stairs and into another basement I went. Below, again I was surprised to find the place quite nicely decorated and nothing like the bars I had seen thus far (above ground or otherwise). There were about 6 distinct sections to the basement - a dancefloor and stage area, a foyer room opposite the restrooms, two main long-bar type areas, and a couple of lounging spots. I did the customary lap around the place to get the lay of the land before I settled in the room where seats had been set-up in front of a small stage. A go-go boy danced extremely well to Madonna (who else, right) and the crowd watched and cheered him with praise. By American standards, this guy danced much better, but his overall appearance did not quite match the kind of beauty I routinely see in LA. Lights, smoke, and general commotion signaled a change in the show. The dancer disappered and an ABBA song screamed from the speakers. It was drag time in the disco now. Patrons poured into this section of the bar and brightly colored female impersonators, aka drag queeens danced and lip-synced their way through about four more ABBA songs before they disappeared. Quickly, the chairs disappeared and the place turned into a dance floor of about twenty feet by forty feet.
After doing a few more laps and feeling disappointed that everyone I attempted to talk to either ignored me completely or said "no English" and turned away to re-join conversation with friends, I found myself back at the dance floor. I had a decision to make - dance alone and just make the best of it, or leave and get a good night's rest before my journey to Prague (did I mention the blisters on my feet yet?). At 41, the sensible thing would have been to head home for some rest, but I threw conservative, logical assessment aside, and headed onto the dance floor. Now, when I say disco, I mean disco. They played old school American disco, and to my surprise (thanks mama for playing those songs so much while I was growing up in Indiana) I knew most of them and sang along while dancing among complete Hungarian strangers. After a few songs, I peeled off my shirt (another surprise) and continued to move. Back home, the sight of a shirtless man dancing at a disco or club would certainly not be the shocker that it was to these people. Too late, I realized that I was the only one without my shirt, except the go-go boy. At least I finally generated some attention, right? I must confess that I enjoyed the dancing much more than I probably should have. All the songs were English and I eagerly belted them out in American defiance to their disapproving stares over my shirtlessness.
Around 2:30 AM, tired and sweaty, not to mention my nose nearly clogged from smoke inhalation (forgot how cigarette smoke absolutely penetrates everything in a bar where smoking is still allowed inside - been a while since I experienced that), I called it quits and departed. Although I did not really meet anyone or have any real conversations at Alterego, I did, in fact, experience a different side of myself. That side of me that rarely escapes any longer - the one that throws caution to the proverbial wind. I have not danced for over two hours straight in over a decade. Mostly, I think, I have stopped dancing because it typically happens late at night and goes until all hours of the morning, causing me to compeletely waste the next day trying to recover. But, I forgot how liberating the experience can be for the soul and maybe that so-called wasted day is not really wasted? Dancing again after all these years reminded me that I am not enjoying myself enough in this life. I forgot how time passes and how much I feel, laugh, and recall from previous memories as I move to the music. Somewhere along the way, I got too serious for my own good. Dancing seemed a frivolous endeavor once I grew past 30. I am going to dance more.
Arriving alone to any venue can cause fear and trepidation. Arriving alone to a gay venue absolutely increases these feelings, especially when most patrons show up in groups, and have already done a bit of pre-partying. Nonetheless, determined I was and found the spot easily. Surprised to find the place modern, clean, and friendly, I walked directly into the foyer. The entry is above ground - this is where they take the cover charge. A couple of German bear types preceeded me into the foyer. These guys were anything but attractive. While I stood behind them, I heard the doorman (well, doorboy) ask them for 3000 Ft. (about 18 USD). I thought that was a tad too steep myself, but was willing to pay. When my turn arrived, the cute kid smiled at me (probably because I was wearing a trendy, tight t-shirt) and only asked me for 1000 Ft. When my face gave away my surprise, he simply winked at me and took my money.
Down the stairs and into another basement I went. Below, again I was surprised to find the place quite nicely decorated and nothing like the bars I had seen thus far (above ground or otherwise). There were about 6 distinct sections to the basement - a dancefloor and stage area, a foyer room opposite the restrooms, two main long-bar type areas, and a couple of lounging spots. I did the customary lap around the place to get the lay of the land before I settled in the room where seats had been set-up in front of a small stage. A go-go boy danced extremely well to Madonna (who else, right) and the crowd watched and cheered him with praise. By American standards, this guy danced much better, but his overall appearance did not quite match the kind of beauty I routinely see in LA. Lights, smoke, and general commotion signaled a change in the show. The dancer disappered and an ABBA song screamed from the speakers. It was drag time in the disco now. Patrons poured into this section of the bar and brightly colored female impersonators, aka drag queeens danced and lip-synced their way through about four more ABBA songs before they disappeared. Quickly, the chairs disappeared and the place turned into a dance floor of about twenty feet by forty feet.
After doing a few more laps and feeling disappointed that everyone I attempted to talk to either ignored me completely or said "no English" and turned away to re-join conversation with friends, I found myself back at the dance floor. I had a decision to make - dance alone and just make the best of it, or leave and get a good night's rest before my journey to Prague (did I mention the blisters on my feet yet?). At 41, the sensible thing would have been to head home for some rest, but I threw conservative, logical assessment aside, and headed onto the dance floor. Now, when I say disco, I mean disco. They played old school American disco, and to my surprise (thanks mama for playing those songs so much while I was growing up in Indiana) I knew most of them and sang along while dancing among complete Hungarian strangers. After a few songs, I peeled off my shirt (another surprise) and continued to move. Back home, the sight of a shirtless man dancing at a disco or club would certainly not be the shocker that it was to these people. Too late, I realized that I was the only one without my shirt, except the go-go boy. At least I finally generated some attention, right? I must confess that I enjoyed the dancing much more than I probably should have. All the songs were English and I eagerly belted them out in American defiance to their disapproving stares over my shirtlessness.
Around 2:30 AM, tired and sweaty, not to mention my nose nearly clogged from smoke inhalation (forgot how cigarette smoke absolutely penetrates everything in a bar where smoking is still allowed inside - been a while since I experienced that), I called it quits and departed. Although I did not really meet anyone or have any real conversations at Alterego, I did, in fact, experience a different side of myself. That side of me that rarely escapes any longer - the one that throws caution to the proverbial wind. I have not danced for over two hours straight in over a decade. Mostly, I think, I have stopped dancing because it typically happens late at night and goes until all hours of the morning, causing me to compeletely waste the next day trying to recover. But, I forgot how liberating the experience can be for the soul and maybe that so-called wasted day is not really wasted? Dancing again after all these years reminded me that I am not enjoying myself enough in this life. I forgot how time passes and how much I feel, laugh, and recall from previous memories as I move to the music. Somewhere along the way, I got too serious for my own good. Dancing seemed a frivolous endeavor once I grew past 30. I am going to dance more.
Change of Plans
After much consideration, and input from my fellow travelers, I have opted against flying to Venice, from which I had planned to ferry over to Croatia and make my way down the coast and islands. Their high season is over now, ferries and boats are no longer running regular routes with any frequency, and this, according to those who have been there would make the journey I had planned more like an unwanted, unappealing adventure. Without fanfare, I have chosen to skip my flight today, and instead, will take the night train to Prague. I have no idea about the accomodations on the train, but I purchased a sleeping car for the 10 hour journey. Thrilled about this turn of events, I have been researching all morning about what to experience in Prague. I am guessing the access to internet will be as good, if not better, than here in Budapest, allowing me to keep on blogging.
Thursday Night
Serendipitously, on Thursday early evening, I bumped into Dori and Renato on the street, proving yet again that no city, regardless of size, is a big one. The night prior they excitedly attempted to sell me on attending the Budapest Jazz Club for Bossa Nova night. I explained then, on Wednesday night, that I would let them know if I decided to join up. So, this happenstance on the streets of Budapest, provided my answer. I certainly believe that the universe conspires to give us what we need (not necessarily what we want) and who am I to start questioning my own beliefs. I really was not prepared for the evening out - credit cards, money, and a better outfit - remained at my hotel. I had not yet eaten, except a banana earlier that morning, so I needed to eat prior to arriving at the club. Thus, our journey to find both a bank (Renato needed money too, and he was also going to accept my US money in exchange for Hungaian cash from the ATM) and a kabob shop (yes, I am officially addicted to these). We found the cash, but the kabob shop in this part of Budapest eluded us. Renato, the consumate Brazilian gentleman, would not give up until he found me something to eat, so at the very last corner, before our turn onto the Jazz Club street, we found a place selling empenadas. I hope the humor here is evident - here I am looking for kabobs in Budapest with a guy from Brazil and we end up finding empendadas (which to my understanding are from Latin America). I grabbed a mystery-meat filled pastry and we bolted to the club, with five mintues before showtime.
Inside the club, we found Dori who had pressed ahead to buy tickets and secure appropriate seats. He picked a table just off the stage, near the grand foyer that also served as their bar area. This place is worth seeing, if only to walk up the grand spiral staircase, made of white carrara marble with black veins (the real stuff). The entire staircase, from steps to walls to rails, carved from this beautiful stone, offered a memorable transition from first floor to second. I have to admit, I went up and down a few times, fantasizing about how amazing it would be to have this masterpiece in my home, somewhere, anywhere! Although the history of this place escapes me, my imagination filled the holes. Straight out of some historical movie, the venue obviously once served as a wealthy family's abode. Now, years after two world wars and the stain of communism here, the transformation into a jazz club seemed almost poetic. Beauty and art are one and the same afterall.
The band, a misfit group of Hungarian men, walked on stage. Dori and Renato, filled with anticipation, informed me that Bossa Nova music, a Brazilian invention, combined American Jazz with Somba. Eager, like children, they sang some of the songs we were about to hear. I liked sitting here, with them, in this place, in this moment. All seemed content within myself. In front of me sat two glasses of Hungarian white wine and two handsome Brazilians. The three of us sat inside what probably served as the dance hall for the family who once occupied this space so many years ago. The windows, about eight large openings the size of standard French doors, allowed a gentle breeze to pour in, offering just a pinch of coolness in this otherwise warm space. The sudden start to the music shocked me back to the stage. The small Hungarian singer, complete with his guitar and wire-rim glasses that slid down his nose as he performed, started singing in Portuguese and Dori and Renata quickly joined, this time quietly. After the second song, I was beginning to realize the band, however earnest, lacked a little soul. The Brazilian term Dori and Renato used escapes me, but I had the exact same impression. After three songs, the band repeated a pattern that even I noticed - the song started, the brass player would stand and perform a solo, as he sat, the guitarist would stand and begin his solo, as he sat, the group would take a minute to conclude the song. The rest of the audidence, perhaps unfamiliar with Bossa Nova performed in a place like Brazil, seemed unphased by the repeititiveness and dullness of their artistry. Instead, they focused on the mechanics of the music, something the band executed nicely. I found myself searching for an analogy and one popped into my mind just as I wanted to explain my opinion to Dori and Renato. I told them I felt like I was watching a five-member team of math teachers playing music technically perfect (as if explaining a mathematical equation) but exuding absolutely no charisma. They found my analogy comical, but precise. I had no idea that music, minus the drama, passion, and flair of performance would be dead. I relearned that without passion, all things fall flat. And, I was reminded that sometimes performance outweighs technical mastery.
We departed at the break so that we would not offend the band. The experience was magical, however, because it communicated so much without words. These moments when I travel, I am reminded that all of life is indeed art if we perceive it as such. Sitting in a place listening to music, foreign languages, and watching another culture go about their lives, is art to me. It communicates and speaks via an alternative language. True art then seems to be an appreciation and loving of all things and our ability to communicate newness by repositioning and manipulating form, structure, and/or perception in ways which generates a response in the observer. The newness the artist communicates expresses his or her appreciation of God's gift to us (creation and creativeness). Art is constructing a semblance of order out of the randomness of it all happening at once. Art edits the chaos of our senses by focusing us on a specific combination of things. Art combines powerful things in unusual ways which focuses us into an appreciation (good or bad) of the structure. Stopping our attention, to be still in the moment of newness, offers us a revisit to that state of our child-like awe, our marvel at the potential of the universe. Art forces us to quiet our minds to take in, and appreciate, the variety of the unlimited nature of this creation.
We ended the night with two kabobs.
Inside the club, we found Dori who had pressed ahead to buy tickets and secure appropriate seats. He picked a table just off the stage, near the grand foyer that also served as their bar area. This place is worth seeing, if only to walk up the grand spiral staircase, made of white carrara marble with black veins (the real stuff). The entire staircase, from steps to walls to rails, carved from this beautiful stone, offered a memorable transition from first floor to second. I have to admit, I went up and down a few times, fantasizing about how amazing it would be to have this masterpiece in my home, somewhere, anywhere! Although the history of this place escapes me, my imagination filled the holes. Straight out of some historical movie, the venue obviously once served as a wealthy family's abode. Now, years after two world wars and the stain of communism here, the transformation into a jazz club seemed almost poetic. Beauty and art are one and the same afterall.
The band, a misfit group of Hungarian men, walked on stage. Dori and Renato, filled with anticipation, informed me that Bossa Nova music, a Brazilian invention, combined American Jazz with Somba. Eager, like children, they sang some of the songs we were about to hear. I liked sitting here, with them, in this place, in this moment. All seemed content within myself. In front of me sat two glasses of Hungarian white wine and two handsome Brazilians. The three of us sat inside what probably served as the dance hall for the family who once occupied this space so many years ago. The windows, about eight large openings the size of standard French doors, allowed a gentle breeze to pour in, offering just a pinch of coolness in this otherwise warm space. The sudden start to the music shocked me back to the stage. The small Hungarian singer, complete with his guitar and wire-rim glasses that slid down his nose as he performed, started singing in Portuguese and Dori and Renata quickly joined, this time quietly. After the second song, I was beginning to realize the band, however earnest, lacked a little soul. The Brazilian term Dori and Renato used escapes me, but I had the exact same impression. After three songs, the band repeated a pattern that even I noticed - the song started, the brass player would stand and perform a solo, as he sat, the guitarist would stand and begin his solo, as he sat, the group would take a minute to conclude the song. The rest of the audidence, perhaps unfamiliar with Bossa Nova performed in a place like Brazil, seemed unphased by the repeititiveness and dullness of their artistry. Instead, they focused on the mechanics of the music, something the band executed nicely. I found myself searching for an analogy and one popped into my mind just as I wanted to explain my opinion to Dori and Renato. I told them I felt like I was watching a five-member team of math teachers playing music technically perfect (as if explaining a mathematical equation) but exuding absolutely no charisma. They found my analogy comical, but precise. I had no idea that music, minus the drama, passion, and flair of performance would be dead. I relearned that without passion, all things fall flat. And, I was reminded that sometimes performance outweighs technical mastery.
We departed at the break so that we would not offend the band. The experience was magical, however, because it communicated so much without words. These moments when I travel, I am reminded that all of life is indeed art if we perceive it as such. Sitting in a place listening to music, foreign languages, and watching another culture go about their lives, is art to me. It communicates and speaks via an alternative language. True art then seems to be an appreciation and loving of all things and our ability to communicate newness by repositioning and manipulating form, structure, and/or perception in ways which generates a response in the observer. The newness the artist communicates expresses his or her appreciation of God's gift to us (creation and creativeness). Art is constructing a semblance of order out of the randomness of it all happening at once. Art edits the chaos of our senses by focusing us on a specific combination of things. Art combines powerful things in unusual ways which focuses us into an appreciation (good or bad) of the structure. Stopping our attention, to be still in the moment of newness, offers us a revisit to that state of our child-like awe, our marvel at the potential of the universe. Art forces us to quiet our minds to take in, and appreciate, the variety of the unlimited nature of this creation.
We ended the night with two kabobs.
Friday, August 28, 2009
Dori and Renato
Through Enrique, I met Dori and Renato from Brazil. Enrique had meet Dori on the street a few days ago, and we all have since spent time together here in Budapest. Enrique left Budapest yesterday and Dori and Renato leave today, and since I have not blogged about our time together, looks like I have a little catching up to do. Wednesday night when I returned to the hotel, I ran into Enrique who was beautifying himself for a night on the town. After learning that I had no plans, he invited me to join him and his new found friends from Brasil. At their pre-established destination point, a restaurant that turned out to be Italian food (which no one really wanted since we were not in Italy afterall), we opted to try the restaurant Ruben. Ruben was the restaurant I had eaten at the previous night with Mark, the English guy I had met at my hotel. We got to Ruben right at eleven in the evening just as they closed the kitchen. Our tardiness resulted from Dori and Renato being late to the first place and me getting us lost on the way to Restaurant Ruben. As an aside, to anyone planning a trip to Budapest, this restaurant is not to be missed. The food, a nice mix of Hungarian food, reinvented and reworked for a world audience, sits in an alley street just behind the Astoria Hotel on Magyar utca 12-14. So far, I think I have taken three or four groups there - all of whom have loved the food and experience.
Renato knew of a restaurant on Vaci utca, the most touristy of streets, that served food until about 2 am. We made our way there, Renato and I talking in English and Enrique and Dori conversing in Portuguese (the native tongue of Brasil, the Portuguese spelling). It was pretty obvious to me that Dori liked Enrique and that I was to spend time with Renato, a development that suited me perfectly. Renato, a classically handsome Brazillian sterotype of a man, charmed me from the start. At dinner, we communicated mostly in English, with brief interludes of the three of them speaking Portuguese full throttle - so fast, it was beyond any ability of me to understand even a few words even with a basic understanding of Spanish, an almost entirely different language. Both Renato and Dori commented a number of times that I could not be American. After inquiring why, they shared what must be most people's stereotypical understanding of our culture. I was unique to them because I was taking a lot of time to travel (outside of the US), I had a sense of humor and was not uptight (that part I enjoyed tremedously), and that I was extremely passionate when communicating about my thoughts, beliefs, and ideas. My emotions, both pleased and a little sad about how Americans are perceived by others, traveled high and low duing our dinner. Overall, the diner with the three of them pleased me deeply. I find myself much more at ease with people from other coutries. I always have done so and tonight made me feel somewhat normal instead of foreign like I do in my own country. Toward the end of dinner, both Renato and Dori invited me to Brazil for Carnival in March - an invitation I plan to take.
Even without dessert, our engergy still soared, so we walked the Vaci utca with other tourists and endured both the vocal and physical pulls of men and women trying to attract us to the loud and brightly lighted strip shows. The irony, or futility of this situation, lost on the local Hungarians, gave me a grin from ear to ear. We made our way to a bar, for people like us, and checked it out together. I had ventured in alone the evening prior, so I really wanted to get their impression of the place. The system for drinks in these types of bars is an antiquated one. Upon entry, we were issued a slip of paper. Each time we took a drink from the bar, the barman would write the amount on the paper. Payment is taken upon departure after the doorman reviews the amounts on the ticket. Lost ticket pays maximum amount (about 6 - 12 dollars, depending upon which bar). Their system basically ensures they get at least a one-drink minium from each patron.
Bars, for peope like us, I learned are mostly in basements (really, in 2009?), and are dark, brick walled, smoke-filled holes in the ground the most part. I suppose I should be more culturally sensitive here, but my reaction is my perception. Some are decorated better than others, but remain basements nonetheless. This one seemed almost up to western stardards in the intial part of the bar, and it is not until one wanders around the bar fully that the experience turns decidedly Hungarian. I think culturally, people like me in Hungary, are living in a world stuck somewhere in like 70s America. As a result, the openness, though growing, is no where near where we are in the United States, and the United States is no where near other parts of the enlightened world. I guess everything is relative. Initially, I noticed people walking into another part of the bar and exiting all the time. Curious, I worked up my nerve to investigate. When I crossed the threshold of the dark doorway, I entered a space so shocking that I cannot blog about it (my mom is reading this). Suffice it to say that it was a place to see, I only wish I had had a pair of night-goggles. I found my way quickly back to the safety (teasing here) of the main bar and spent the rest of the time in a place in which I was much more familiar and comfortable. So much for being the dare-devil I pretend to be. Well, on this night (the next) I really wanted to see the reaction of Dori, Renato, and Enrique. I had to know if I was uptight, or if the place seemed normal to them. I grabbed Renato and took him into the darkness. His eyes widened as much as mine had the night prior and we held each other's arms as young girls sometimes do in haunted houses as we investigated the dark labyrinth. After a ten minutes, Renato too had had enough and we exited back to find Enrique and Dori.
Around 3 am, settled our plans together for the next day (Wednesday) and made our goodbyes. I decided against my better judgement and agreed to take the topless tourist bus the next day with the group. Although I had already seen most of the places and spaces something told me that it would prove new again with this group. Turned out, I was right. More later.
Renato knew of a restaurant on Vaci utca, the most touristy of streets, that served food until about 2 am. We made our way there, Renato and I talking in English and Enrique and Dori conversing in Portuguese (the native tongue of Brasil, the Portuguese spelling). It was pretty obvious to me that Dori liked Enrique and that I was to spend time with Renato, a development that suited me perfectly. Renato, a classically handsome Brazillian sterotype of a man, charmed me from the start. At dinner, we communicated mostly in English, with brief interludes of the three of them speaking Portuguese full throttle - so fast, it was beyond any ability of me to understand even a few words even with a basic understanding of Spanish, an almost entirely different language. Both Renato and Dori commented a number of times that I could not be American. After inquiring why, they shared what must be most people's stereotypical understanding of our culture. I was unique to them because I was taking a lot of time to travel (outside of the US), I had a sense of humor and was not uptight (that part I enjoyed tremedously), and that I was extremely passionate when communicating about my thoughts, beliefs, and ideas. My emotions, both pleased and a little sad about how Americans are perceived by others, traveled high and low duing our dinner. Overall, the diner with the three of them pleased me deeply. I find myself much more at ease with people from other coutries. I always have done so and tonight made me feel somewhat normal instead of foreign like I do in my own country. Toward the end of dinner, both Renato and Dori invited me to Brazil for Carnival in March - an invitation I plan to take.
Even without dessert, our engergy still soared, so we walked the Vaci utca with other tourists and endured both the vocal and physical pulls of men and women trying to attract us to the loud and brightly lighted strip shows. The irony, or futility of this situation, lost on the local Hungarians, gave me a grin from ear to ear. We made our way to a bar, for people like us, and checked it out together. I had ventured in alone the evening prior, so I really wanted to get their impression of the place. The system for drinks in these types of bars is an antiquated one. Upon entry, we were issued a slip of paper. Each time we took a drink from the bar, the barman would write the amount on the paper. Payment is taken upon departure after the doorman reviews the amounts on the ticket. Lost ticket pays maximum amount (about 6 - 12 dollars, depending upon which bar). Their system basically ensures they get at least a one-drink minium from each patron.
Bars, for peope like us, I learned are mostly in basements (really, in 2009?), and are dark, brick walled, smoke-filled holes in the ground the most part. I suppose I should be more culturally sensitive here, but my reaction is my perception. Some are decorated better than others, but remain basements nonetheless. This one seemed almost up to western stardards in the intial part of the bar, and it is not until one wanders around the bar fully that the experience turns decidedly Hungarian. I think culturally, people like me in Hungary, are living in a world stuck somewhere in like 70s America. As a result, the openness, though growing, is no where near where we are in the United States, and the United States is no where near other parts of the enlightened world. I guess everything is relative. Initially, I noticed people walking into another part of the bar and exiting all the time. Curious, I worked up my nerve to investigate. When I crossed the threshold of the dark doorway, I entered a space so shocking that I cannot blog about it (my mom is reading this). Suffice it to say that it was a place to see, I only wish I had had a pair of night-goggles. I found my way quickly back to the safety (teasing here) of the main bar and spent the rest of the time in a place in which I was much more familiar and comfortable. So much for being the dare-devil I pretend to be. Well, on this night (the next) I really wanted to see the reaction of Dori, Renato, and Enrique. I had to know if I was uptight, or if the place seemed normal to them. I grabbed Renato and took him into the darkness. His eyes widened as much as mine had the night prior and we held each other's arms as young girls sometimes do in haunted houses as we investigated the dark labyrinth. After a ten minutes, Renato too had had enough and we exited back to find Enrique and Dori.
Around 3 am, settled our plans together for the next day (Wednesday) and made our goodbyes. I decided against my better judgement and agreed to take the topless tourist bus the next day with the group. Although I had already seen most of the places and spaces something told me that it would prove new again with this group. Turned out, I was right. More later.
So Much to Share
To the surprise of many, I must confess that I took a wife yesterday in a successful attempt to evade Hungarian security at their House Parliament. It was back to my tourist list, for part of the day, so I traveled by foot (after my renewed ability to walk since popping the enormous blisters on the heels of my feet) along the River on the Pest side. A few words about my feet - I realize the water contained in blisters is our body's way of healing itself, but the resulting pain involved in constantly putting additional pressure on the blisters by walking and walking and walking around Budapest proved too intolerable for me to take any longer. I have certainly developed an increased awareness and appreciation for foot health during this trip, certainly magnified for everyone reading, since I think I have now blogged about foot pain at least twice previously.
My new wife, Michelle, who hails also from Peru (beyond calculable odds to find another Peruvian in Hungary that I would befriend), stood in the line for the Parliament tour (compulsory as they do not allow self-guided entry), with her equally beautiful sister, Melissa. As the sun drew sweat drops from her delicate face, I inquired if she spoke English (which I had already established after I overheard the sisters complaining about the line and the heat). Michelle turned to address my question and this time her accent, now clear to me, spoke volumes. She had to be American, the accent now obvious, caused me to grin and miss home slightly for the first time since I left. After exchanging a few cursory remarks, I learned she hailed from from Peru, but studied at the American school in Lima, as did her sister, giving them the unmistakable (certainly in these parts) American English accent.
Part of the fun of traveling is that no one knows me and this allows me to re-invent myself each day to the new people I encounter, or to be more precise, to reveal parts of me while keeping other aspects of myself private. I find human interaction so incredibly intense and interesting - the whole dance of perception and evaluation we exercise in our initial interactions. I realized about halfway through the line, that Michelle was single, Melissa married. They took turns keeping their place in line with me, exchanging places with each other at my side, alternating with taking refuge under the large shade tree across the park. I can be a ruthless flirt and took the opportunity to pour on a little charm. Michelle and I had a few things in common, at least the ones that keep conversations moving, like work. She was, of all things, a pharmaceutical rep. This relevation also mad me laugh - what are the odds? Like all people I have been meeting, Michelle too took great interest in the fact that I was taking a couple of years to travel and not work. She told me her father had done a similar thing when he was our age and that he speaks highly of it (good to know I am pursuing something magical). Since I had been to both the Rudas baths and the Szechenyi Baths, I informed them of my opions, which apparently persuaded them to give up on Szechenyi in favor of Rudas or Gellert (the more typical Turkish style).
Near the front of the line, I began to notice that the tourists all had passports out when they exited the ticket office (yes, we were in line only to buy tickets - the real tour line zig-zagged the length of the park to our right). That's when Michelle and I devised our ruthless plan to pretend to be married. We would say, I left my passport at the hotel (which I do for security purposes) but that we were married. Michelle took a ring off her right finger and placed in on her wedding finger, then she joked that I was cheap because no giant diamond rested on top of the band. Perhaps it was just my perception of things, but I sensed a slight interest on her part when I jokingly promised her much more interesting experiences and travel instead of a stupid diamond ring. All our subterfuge and ridiculous planning proved completely irrelevant - the whole identity thing had absolutely nothing to do with security, it only served to establish EU identity. EU citizens get in free; others pay. We paid and headed off to line number two, which at this point, had moved beyond the chain ropes and onto the grounds of Parliament. After an airport like security check/metal detector passage, we found ourselves standing in the official entry area they use only for offical visits by foreign leaders and certain ceremonial Hungarian holidays. To say the inside of this place was beautiful under sells the truth. Since the Hungarians have been pretty good Catholics throughout history, their design aesthetic involves many of the same elements one would find in churches across Europe. The style of this place seemed an interesting mix of gothic, venetian, neo-classical, classical, and uniquely Hungarian elements. For the uninitiated to European high design, let me be clear - if you covered everything you own inside your house with Gold Leaf and bold fabrics, then resurfaced all walls and floors with marble and granite - you would have something resembling the feel of this place. And, even though it would not work at your home, nor mine, it somehow manages to not only work, but due to the scale and majesty of this building it allows the architecture to shine - scream with brillance and beauty. I learned something very interesting and quite crafty about the Hungarians. The Parliament building, the second largest in the world, is so big that the marble needed would have been more than available in the whole of Hungary and too expensive obviously to buy from Italy or other countries. So, the Hungarians mixed horse hair, qypsum, glue, and color agents (maybe one other item that I cannot recall), creating faux marble, capable of fooling even the most savvy. Since I routinely use these types of real stone when renovating homes, I took great interest in this part of the tour. While the others continued, I touched, tapped, rubbed, and closely inspected the marble. This Hungarian invention amazed me. Near the entrace to the voting chambers, out in the foyer, the Hungarians have installed these brass cigar holders - long trays with individual cigar indentions, complete with ash catchers. Only in Europe! Overall, the tour earned the twenty dollar entrace fee (for non-EU member nation citizens).
My new wife, Michelle, who hails also from Peru (beyond calculable odds to find another Peruvian in Hungary that I would befriend), stood in the line for the Parliament tour (compulsory as they do not allow self-guided entry), with her equally beautiful sister, Melissa. As the sun drew sweat drops from her delicate face, I inquired if she spoke English (which I had already established after I overheard the sisters complaining about the line and the heat). Michelle turned to address my question and this time her accent, now clear to me, spoke volumes. She had to be American, the accent now obvious, caused me to grin and miss home slightly for the first time since I left. After exchanging a few cursory remarks, I learned she hailed from from Peru, but studied at the American school in Lima, as did her sister, giving them the unmistakable (certainly in these parts) American English accent.
Part of the fun of traveling is that no one knows me and this allows me to re-invent myself each day to the new people I encounter, or to be more precise, to reveal parts of me while keeping other aspects of myself private. I find human interaction so incredibly intense and interesting - the whole dance of perception and evaluation we exercise in our initial interactions. I realized about halfway through the line, that Michelle was single, Melissa married. They took turns keeping their place in line with me, exchanging places with each other at my side, alternating with taking refuge under the large shade tree across the park. I can be a ruthless flirt and took the opportunity to pour on a little charm. Michelle and I had a few things in common, at least the ones that keep conversations moving, like work. She was, of all things, a pharmaceutical rep. This relevation also mad me laugh - what are the odds? Like all people I have been meeting, Michelle too took great interest in the fact that I was taking a couple of years to travel and not work. She told me her father had done a similar thing when he was our age and that he speaks highly of it (good to know I am pursuing something magical). Since I had been to both the Rudas baths and the Szechenyi Baths, I informed them of my opions, which apparently persuaded them to give up on Szechenyi in favor of Rudas or Gellert (the more typical Turkish style).
Near the front of the line, I began to notice that the tourists all had passports out when they exited the ticket office (yes, we were in line only to buy tickets - the real tour line zig-zagged the length of the park to our right). That's when Michelle and I devised our ruthless plan to pretend to be married. We would say, I left my passport at the hotel (which I do for security purposes) but that we were married. Michelle took a ring off her right finger and placed in on her wedding finger, then she joked that I was cheap because no giant diamond rested on top of the band. Perhaps it was just my perception of things, but I sensed a slight interest on her part when I jokingly promised her much more interesting experiences and travel instead of a stupid diamond ring. All our subterfuge and ridiculous planning proved completely irrelevant - the whole identity thing had absolutely nothing to do with security, it only served to establish EU identity. EU citizens get in free; others pay. We paid and headed off to line number two, which at this point, had moved beyond the chain ropes and onto the grounds of Parliament. After an airport like security check/metal detector passage, we found ourselves standing in the official entry area they use only for offical visits by foreign leaders and certain ceremonial Hungarian holidays. To say the inside of this place was beautiful under sells the truth. Since the Hungarians have been pretty good Catholics throughout history, their design aesthetic involves many of the same elements one would find in churches across Europe. The style of this place seemed an interesting mix of gothic, venetian, neo-classical, classical, and uniquely Hungarian elements. For the uninitiated to European high design, let me be clear - if you covered everything you own inside your house with Gold Leaf and bold fabrics, then resurfaced all walls and floors with marble and granite - you would have something resembling the feel of this place. And, even though it would not work at your home, nor mine, it somehow manages to not only work, but due to the scale and majesty of this building it allows the architecture to shine - scream with brillance and beauty. I learned something very interesting and quite crafty about the Hungarians. The Parliament building, the second largest in the world, is so big that the marble needed would have been more than available in the whole of Hungary and too expensive obviously to buy from Italy or other countries. So, the Hungarians mixed horse hair, qypsum, glue, and color agents (maybe one other item that I cannot recall), creating faux marble, capable of fooling even the most savvy. Since I routinely use these types of real stone when renovating homes, I took great interest in this part of the tour. While the others continued, I touched, tapped, rubbed, and closely inspected the marble. This Hungarian invention amazed me. Near the entrace to the voting chambers, out in the foyer, the Hungarians have installed these brass cigar holders - long trays with individual cigar indentions, complete with ash catchers. Only in Europe! Overall, the tour earned the twenty dollar entrace fee (for non-EU member nation citizens).
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Random Thoughts
Twenty years ago in Aberdeen Scotland, while studying abroad, I discovered the joy of Doner Kabobs - tasty little pita-filled bundles of pure gastronomical pleasure. They start by warming up a pita against the open flame (or recently now I've noticed some microwaves being used for speed and efficiency), then, depending upon your preferences - red cabbage, onion, lettuce, meat (chicken or lamb), and two sauces (one hot, the other yougurt) go inside, filling the pita. The kabob worker wraps the bundle in a piece of tin foil and napkin, then extends the treat as if offering you a nice gift for take-away. I bring this up now because I was surprised to find them here, everywhere. Back home, I sometimes run into a Starbucks on every corner in major US cities, well, kabob shops are equally ubiquitous here. To those who thought my recent facination with getting lean was problematic (Simon, Kim, mama, etc...), you'll be glad to know that I have enjoyed a kabob or two each day, typically late at night around 3 or 4AM following an evening of frivolity and debauchery. This is flooding me with memories of Scotland. Back when I studied there, my fraternity brother Will, we called him Rambo (don't ask, too long of a story to explain here and now), and I would often stopped off for a doner kabob after late night partying in the pubs. The walk back to campus took a winding course and we needed the sustenance to propel us during our jaunt back to the dorms. Budapest is no different. The kabob shops are very busy all day long, but late, after the bars close, the activitiy around some of the favorite kabob shops, of the locals and savvy tourists, intensifies. I suspect these people too seach for an evening meal for exactly the same reason. Most of the public transport ends much earlier than the bars, so many are forced to use their feet instead of trams and subways.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Rudas Baths
The Rudas baths, originally constructed sometime in the fifteen hundreds by the Ottoman Turks, then renovated by modern Hungarians in the late 1900s, certainly lived up to my expectations. However, before that, I should probably start at the beginning. My day began after leaving my hotel around noon in search of lunch, which I took again at my favorite little Hungarian restaurant just off Andrassy where it crosses with Negymezo. This locals-mostly place serves quick Hungarian food (what the British friend I ate with a couple of times calls "simple, peasant food"). I like it there because the food is amazing, it is quick, the people get a kick out of me pointing to the food I want to try, it's cheap, and offers outside seating for proper people-watching. I like these attributes in a restaurant. I was feeling much lighter today, not only because the regular habits of my body returned, much to my pleasure, but also because the day prior, I shaved my head.
To be more specific, I trimmed it with Hungarian clippers after frantically searching for a hair salon on a Sunday. I have no idea how, of all things, hair salons being closed on Sundays, became some sort of universally understood concept and norm, but it certainly is. After an all-day's search, peppered with sightseeing, to find an open salon in the city center, my recently found travel partner, Enrique from Peru (guess I still have not properly introduced him yet), and I decided I might find one open in some sort of shopping center/mall. So, we inquired about it's location and jumped onto the metro to visit the Hungarian suberbs. True to form, this place looked and felt and spent just like any mall in any city in any town in any country - a few european shops that were new to me, with a few obvious American brands not represented. Finding English speaking natives that understood that I wanted to find a salon proved much harder than I had expected. We could not read the information kiosk which, rightly so, only offered help in Hungarian. We walked the mall, well I guess one could say I raced through the mall, looking quickly at each storefront to find something that looked as if it could offer a trim for my hair. I think all this thought of traveling light and releasing the excessive baggage of material things, thoughts, and worries, somehow inspired me to lighten my physical form with a trim? Anyhow, the search ended poorly. I guess this is one of those cultural differences - no mall salons at all. In an indoor mall of probably 300 stores, not one was a hair salon. This, I thought, then quickly ignored because my business mind forgot it's on vacation, was an investment opportunity.
Frustrated, an epiphany emerged. I'll just shave it off myself. Now, any rational human would probably have just waited until Monday, but not this one. My new mission, finding a razor in this mall, rocketed off. After just two inquiries, I stood in line at the check-out, razor in hand. Fifteen dollars later, I exited with my prize. As Enrique shopped for clothes, I located the men's room, locked myself into the handicap room (sorry, but I qualified from experiencing some form of mental illness like manic delirium at this point), and proceeded to tear into the box. Maybe it was because I was stretching the cord to see into the mirror, or because I was in a foreign country, or because I was just ready to be done with the process and on to the end result - this I don't know - but, I moved the lever to number 2, then began to shave. The hair fell with enthusiasm, all over the sink and onto the floor. The cheap razor I purchased did not cooperate with me, the guard moved as I cut. I smashed it down to number 1 for uniformity and basically increased the severity of the cut to one Uncle Sam would support. After a quick tidy up of the restroom (my OCD and good manners), I exited, feeling content, lighter (much), and zen. Although I watched the entire process in the mirror as I performed the art of self-mutilation, I guess I was not processing the result until I saw the shock and horror in Enrique's eyes when we re-connected later. He assured me that he liked my hair cut, but I remained unconvinced.
Later, when he asked me to cut his hair, I realized that not only was he serious, but he also must have thought I possessed some kind of styling talent? Back at the hotel, I obliged. I have always wanted to cut someone else's hair (for the experience of it), so this opportunity manifested itself; a gift to me. Enrique's hair is a thick mop of dark black Peruvian locks. I could not believe he was going to let me cut his hair with no scissors and only a razor. He plopped down in a chair in front of the mirror in my room as I plugged in the razor, and began. I moved the guide to number six, so that I would not shock him, and ran it through his hair. Only a few hairs fell. He asked, "shorter, shorter" and so that gave me the green light to go a little crazy. I slammed the guide to number 2 and proceeded to give him a trim he would notice. As happens in these situations (as you can imagine), we keep going shorter and shorter until his hair almost resembled my own. Since his hair started long and mine did not, the cut on his head certainly transitioned into something more severe. He liked it - even offered kudos and compliments and told me how my hands are very experienced and professional. The whole situation, again, transpired to provide me with one of those non-repeatable, travel story moments that only I seem to attract. Here I was in Hungary, cutting a Peruvian man's hair (for the first time in my life), and actually doing a good job.
The next day, after lunch I wandered alone in search of the Rudas baths. According to the map, all I had to cross from the Pest to the Buda side at the Erzsebet Bridge. Sure enough, the map worked. The baths built, and later renovated, on the side of the Buda side of Danube River certainly stood out between the rock of the mountain wall behind it and the river in front of it. I thoroughly enjoyed the walk across the bridge, probably due to the anticipation of checking out the Turkish-style Hungarian baths and the potential the experience might offer. I paid what I believe translated to about fifteen bucks, and entered. At the gate, a stern, large Hungarian man issued me a loin-cloth towel gizmo thingy. Basically, the "towel" was a standard sized napkin (yes, a dinner napkin) with a long string coming off the top on either side. These were to be used to wrap the stings around the back while positioning the napkin piece in front of the goodies. Another string hung from the napkin and this was used to tie the locker key to the cloth.
Inside my locker room, I disrobed and put on the napkin. Well, as I already expressed, I am confident with my body, finally after all the insecure years, so nudity is not all that scary anymore. Something about this outfit (ass hanging out) seemed a little ridiculous though, and I got self-amused about wearing it. But hey, a uniform's a uniform and who am I to question their system. Immediately, I knew this place would deliver. Architexcturally, the stones, the marble, the domes, the arches, the skylight cut-outs, presented a style very similar to the Turkish baths I visited in Istanbull. Although not completely authentically Turkish, these baths certainly offered the look and feel of what I experienced in Turkey. Actually, I liked this Hungarian version - a nice mix of Turkish bath, American spa, and an English relaxation health resort.
Once inside the main hall, the smell of sulfur mineral water, the feel of steam, and the whisper of voices greeted me. A very large central pool, or bath, filled the space beneath the giant dome ceiling. Dozens of men sat talking, relaxing, or floating in the water. Above, Turkish style cut-outs for light provided bursts of sunlight, shining like lasers into the dark stone room, and crossed the water with dramatic flair. The main hall, a square room, sized probably around half a football field, held the large bath, under the dome, and four smaller baths, one in each corner. Around the center bath were nine pillars, connected at the top, creating eight arches around the pool. The Hungarians renovated this space well, leaving a lot of the orignal giant stones inside the main hall, but covering most of the rest in other parts of the spa with plaster, probably similar to what would have been done back when the facility was built by the Turks. The four baths in the four corners of the room offered temperature elevations from cold to hot, with the center bath providing the most neutral of temperatures - thus partially explaining the popularity of this bath. I preferred the hottest bath which almost burns the skin. I learned quickly by following the older Hungarian men that an experience to have is to jump into the coldest bath (or the even colder one in another part of the facility) right after the hottest one. Just off the central room are two other rooms, separate for showers, steam, sauna, massage tables, and general relation. Of course, I enjoyed them all.
After a few hours of soaking and relaxing, I encountered a nice kid from Sweden who was ethnically Lebanese. Anas, his name, just finished a swimming competition in Budapest and decided to spend a few extra days here before heading back to Stockholm. We hit if off immediately and spent the next few hours talking world politics and religion (my favorites). For 24 years old, this kid had a lot to say. I suppose his unique experience being of middle-eastern heritage, reared completely in a leftist, socialistic, stereotypically white country like Sweden, does offer perspectives uncommon to the average Joe. Anas and I made plans to meet up later this week before he goes home to Sweden to finish our intense conversation. To be honest, I felt a little like Socrates teaching Plato, the older sage communicating his knowledge to the younger and much more handsome pupil. Considering our encounter took place in a Turkish bath, iced the experience.
To be more specific, I trimmed it with Hungarian clippers after frantically searching for a hair salon on a Sunday. I have no idea how, of all things, hair salons being closed on Sundays, became some sort of universally understood concept and norm, but it certainly is. After an all-day's search, peppered with sightseeing, to find an open salon in the city center, my recently found travel partner, Enrique from Peru (guess I still have not properly introduced him yet), and I decided I might find one open in some sort of shopping center/mall. So, we inquired about it's location and jumped onto the metro to visit the Hungarian suberbs. True to form, this place looked and felt and spent just like any mall in any city in any town in any country - a few european shops that were new to me, with a few obvious American brands not represented. Finding English speaking natives that understood that I wanted to find a salon proved much harder than I had expected. We could not read the information kiosk which, rightly so, only offered help in Hungarian. We walked the mall, well I guess one could say I raced through the mall, looking quickly at each storefront to find something that looked as if it could offer a trim for my hair. I think all this thought of traveling light and releasing the excessive baggage of material things, thoughts, and worries, somehow inspired me to lighten my physical form with a trim? Anyhow, the search ended poorly. I guess this is one of those cultural differences - no mall salons at all. In an indoor mall of probably 300 stores, not one was a hair salon. This, I thought, then quickly ignored because my business mind forgot it's on vacation, was an investment opportunity.
Frustrated, an epiphany emerged. I'll just shave it off myself. Now, any rational human would probably have just waited until Monday, but not this one. My new mission, finding a razor in this mall, rocketed off. After just two inquiries, I stood in line at the check-out, razor in hand. Fifteen dollars later, I exited with my prize. As Enrique shopped for clothes, I located the men's room, locked myself into the handicap room (sorry, but I qualified from experiencing some form of mental illness like manic delirium at this point), and proceeded to tear into the box. Maybe it was because I was stretching the cord to see into the mirror, or because I was in a foreign country, or because I was just ready to be done with the process and on to the end result - this I don't know - but, I moved the lever to number 2, then began to shave. The hair fell with enthusiasm, all over the sink and onto the floor. The cheap razor I purchased did not cooperate with me, the guard moved as I cut. I smashed it down to number 1 for uniformity and basically increased the severity of the cut to one Uncle Sam would support. After a quick tidy up of the restroom (my OCD and good manners), I exited, feeling content, lighter (much), and zen. Although I watched the entire process in the mirror as I performed the art of self-mutilation, I guess I was not processing the result until I saw the shock and horror in Enrique's eyes when we re-connected later. He assured me that he liked my hair cut, but I remained unconvinced.
Later, when he asked me to cut his hair, I realized that not only was he serious, but he also must have thought I possessed some kind of styling talent? Back at the hotel, I obliged. I have always wanted to cut someone else's hair (for the experience of it), so this opportunity manifested itself; a gift to me. Enrique's hair is a thick mop of dark black Peruvian locks. I could not believe he was going to let me cut his hair with no scissors and only a razor. He plopped down in a chair in front of the mirror in my room as I plugged in the razor, and began. I moved the guide to number six, so that I would not shock him, and ran it through his hair. Only a few hairs fell. He asked, "shorter, shorter" and so that gave me the green light to go a little crazy. I slammed the guide to number 2 and proceeded to give him a trim he would notice. As happens in these situations (as you can imagine), we keep going shorter and shorter until his hair almost resembled my own. Since his hair started long and mine did not, the cut on his head certainly transitioned into something more severe. He liked it - even offered kudos and compliments and told me how my hands are very experienced and professional. The whole situation, again, transpired to provide me with one of those non-repeatable, travel story moments that only I seem to attract. Here I was in Hungary, cutting a Peruvian man's hair (for the first time in my life), and actually doing a good job.
The next day, after lunch I wandered alone in search of the Rudas baths. According to the map, all I had to cross from the Pest to the Buda side at the Erzsebet Bridge. Sure enough, the map worked. The baths built, and later renovated, on the side of the Buda side of Danube River certainly stood out between the rock of the mountain wall behind it and the river in front of it. I thoroughly enjoyed the walk across the bridge, probably due to the anticipation of checking out the Turkish-style Hungarian baths and the potential the experience might offer. I paid what I believe translated to about fifteen bucks, and entered. At the gate, a stern, large Hungarian man issued me a loin-cloth towel gizmo thingy. Basically, the "towel" was a standard sized napkin (yes, a dinner napkin) with a long string coming off the top on either side. These were to be used to wrap the stings around the back while positioning the napkin piece in front of the goodies. Another string hung from the napkin and this was used to tie the locker key to the cloth.
Inside my locker room, I disrobed and put on the napkin. Well, as I already expressed, I am confident with my body, finally after all the insecure years, so nudity is not all that scary anymore. Something about this outfit (ass hanging out) seemed a little ridiculous though, and I got self-amused about wearing it. But hey, a uniform's a uniform and who am I to question their system. Immediately, I knew this place would deliver. Architexcturally, the stones, the marble, the domes, the arches, the skylight cut-outs, presented a style very similar to the Turkish baths I visited in Istanbull. Although not completely authentically Turkish, these baths certainly offered the look and feel of what I experienced in Turkey. Actually, I liked this Hungarian version - a nice mix of Turkish bath, American spa, and an English relaxation health resort.
Once inside the main hall, the smell of sulfur mineral water, the feel of steam, and the whisper of voices greeted me. A very large central pool, or bath, filled the space beneath the giant dome ceiling. Dozens of men sat talking, relaxing, or floating in the water. Above, Turkish style cut-outs for light provided bursts of sunlight, shining like lasers into the dark stone room, and crossed the water with dramatic flair. The main hall, a square room, sized probably around half a football field, held the large bath, under the dome, and four smaller baths, one in each corner. Around the center bath were nine pillars, connected at the top, creating eight arches around the pool. The Hungarians renovated this space well, leaving a lot of the orignal giant stones inside the main hall, but covering most of the rest in other parts of the spa with plaster, probably similar to what would have been done back when the facility was built by the Turks. The four baths in the four corners of the room offered temperature elevations from cold to hot, with the center bath providing the most neutral of temperatures - thus partially explaining the popularity of this bath. I preferred the hottest bath which almost burns the skin. I learned quickly by following the older Hungarian men that an experience to have is to jump into the coldest bath (or the even colder one in another part of the facility) right after the hottest one. Just off the central room are two other rooms, separate for showers, steam, sauna, massage tables, and general relation. Of course, I enjoyed them all.
After a few hours of soaking and relaxing, I encountered a nice kid from Sweden who was ethnically Lebanese. Anas, his name, just finished a swimming competition in Budapest and decided to spend a few extra days here before heading back to Stockholm. We hit if off immediately and spent the next few hours talking world politics and religion (my favorites). For 24 years old, this kid had a lot to say. I suppose his unique experience being of middle-eastern heritage, reared completely in a leftist, socialistic, stereotypically white country like Sweden, does offer perspectives uncommon to the average Joe. Anas and I made plans to meet up later this week before he goes home to Sweden to finish our intense conversation. To be honest, I felt a little like Socrates teaching Plato, the older sage communicating his knowledge to the younger and much more handsome pupil. Considering our encounter took place in a Turkish bath, iced the experience.
Szechenyi Baths
One cannot avoid the baths when seeking activities in Budapest - they are both a tourist destination and something of a cultural must for native Hungarians. I must admit, prior to going, the idea of a collective bath with a large mass of others did not necessarily get me excited. My mind races right to the unsanitary conditions of such activities and I begin to develop the hebbie-gebbies. Nonetheless, I ventured out, this time opting for the metro line that runs underground the Andrassy. I learned that this subway line was built for the 1900 world's fair, or something to that effect. It was built prior to our modern understanding and construction standards, and thus, barely below ground. I imagine at the time - before modern cars - that it is was quite a development, the first in continental Europe probably.
I fought with the ticket machine for a while and the non-English speaking attendant seemed disinterested in assisting me, but did bark some orders which I ignored. Finally, a ticket fell into the slot below. As I grabbed it, memories of grade school construction paper filled my mind, and reminded me that this quality was probably something the communists instituted years prior to save resources. I glaced at the directional line and found the metro stop I needed. Once inside, I felt like I stepped into a movie set in a Hollywood back lot. The metro cars may be the originals from 1900 and, if not, certainly communicated a similar asthetic. Thank God I took a seat because the train zipped along at a rapid pace that surprised me and I could easily have stuck my hand out the window and touched the wall, probably a mere six inches from the train - again, this was an example of one of the first subway lines in the world. I arrived quickly at my stop for Szechenyi Baths and exited the station to find myself standing somewhere in City Park. I looked right and figured the large, ornate building occupying a large piece of real estate must be the spot. After a few failed attempts, I found the proper entrance. At 8 PM, I paid my entrance fee - about 8 USD - and followed the crowd to see how the hell this worked. A string with a key served as my guide to finding the safe place for my belongings while I bathed with the masses. I disrobed in an extremely large gym-type locker room and again followed the crowd back up the stairs and out into the baths.
At this point, I must communicate that the term baths is a bit of misnomer. A few better terms for Westerners, American especially, would be simply, city or public swimming pool. There are, of course, some big differences like three distinct pools - one hot, one medium, and one cold. The hot and medium baths had bubbles (similar to jets) and the cold pool seemed more like our typical lap pool where people actually swam back and forth for exercise. One foot inside this one communicated to me that I had little interest in that experience. Signs inform guests that a pre-bath shower and scrub are essential before dipping with the masses - this I liked, as it assured some sanitary standards. I did not see any enforcement of this rule, but hey, at least it was suggested. Being in such a social scene alone, and in my skimpy European style bathing suit (when in Rome), proved another opportunity to feel alive. I hide my slight angst and decided the best course would be to just get wet. So, I picked the pool with the fewest number of children.
After about thirty minutes, a horrible development occured. My spray tan (a gift from a friend of mine in LA who wanted me to look "fabulous" for my trip) was beginning to lose its "grip" due to what I could only deduct were the minerals in the water (a healthy alternative to the chemicals we would use in America). It was a complete flashback to that time in Palm Springs fifteen years ago when I went to the white party and lathered on some of what was then a new development in beauty care - the tan in a bottle stuff. The heat in PS literally melted off my tan and I dripped the orange stuff off onto the white towel I was using. Mortified barely explains my state of mind then as an insecure gay kid almost literally and figuratively melting in a sea of judgemental, body conscience gay men. But, this is a whole different story. Some of those feelings revisited me now in Budapest. Although I am very confident now about my physique, the whole melting experience in front of strangers, however judgemental or not, still caused a little anxiety. As a twenty five year old back then, I quickly made an exit and probably sobbed a little from embarrassment. Now, as a seasoned 41 year old, I decided to tell myself to deal with it and proceed with the experience.
A wonderful one it was. I enjoyed the faces, the smiles, the heat, the laughs, the people again living totally in the moment, in the experience. As the sun began to sink and dusk began to take hold of the sky, I too found myself lost in the moment, content and delighted, and now completely sold, on the concept of community bathing. This communal bathing moment, opened my mind to some thoughts regarding nothingness and freedom. Something about being amost naked in a pool of humanity allowed my mind to consider why the experience offered such joy. The nakedness and lack of physical possesions offers complete freedom to live in the moment. The baths gave me a clearness of desire, even thought, of things (who needs things when bathing?). I was struck by the simple message the experience offered - that tossing aside material things opens me to new experiences. Free from the worry of thinking about things unloaded my mind and released me of the prison of common thought about my stuff - maintainence, accumulation, order, and upkeep of them. I embraced something outside of my norm, my life standards and culture. I swam among strangers experiencing a common journey of mind and soul. Beautiful. This propelled me to consider that a sort of personal anarchy, spiritually speaking, instead of the rule based mentality we typically use as our mode of operation, our default, truly is the way to God. God, or being in the now, is actually found via the new paradigm, the new experience. As they say, the Devil is in the details. Learning the rules and focusing on the future steals us of the now and bogs us down into the past and the future. When we get caught up in rules, standards, or the customs of our upbringing, we forget to simply live our lives. God is stolen when we forget the current moment. Our real life literally stops when we are in the past trying to consider, or learn, a lesson so that we can apply it to the a situation in the future. Being open to new, atypical things, people and experiences may be a way to experience God. Perhaps, that is reason my soul longs to travel the world. It knows how to feed itself real mana from God. I have always been a strong believer in taking the road less traveled. For some, this is a scary concept - the foreign in life. But consider this, the once foreign turns into the common once you visit it routinely. The cycle can then be shifted back to a variation of the opposite in order to re-find the new. As your new thought, belief, experience, custom, attitude gains steam over the old, it becomes common again. Thus, a thing, experience, custom, attitude, and activity can be both good and bad at the same time - two sides of the same coin as they say. A thing can be both typical and atypical to different people at the same time since we are all on our individual journey back to our collective whole. Travel gives us the surprise we need on our path toward fulfillment and/or englightenment. A surprise makes something more special, due to the very nature of surprise. It is something fresh, new and thus much more appreciated and meaningful and good (relatively speaking to one's personal journey). This is why swimming in Hungary, as opposed to doing this back home in America (something I have done hundreds of times) becomes so meaningful.
After nightfall, I headed out of the baths, two hours seemed plenty for my soak and after my contemplative mood, I was eager to grab some dinner and investigate the nightlife.
I fought with the ticket machine for a while and the non-English speaking attendant seemed disinterested in assisting me, but did bark some orders which I ignored. Finally, a ticket fell into the slot below. As I grabbed it, memories of grade school construction paper filled my mind, and reminded me that this quality was probably something the communists instituted years prior to save resources. I glaced at the directional line and found the metro stop I needed. Once inside, I felt like I stepped into a movie set in a Hollywood back lot. The metro cars may be the originals from 1900 and, if not, certainly communicated a similar asthetic. Thank God I took a seat because the train zipped along at a rapid pace that surprised me and I could easily have stuck my hand out the window and touched the wall, probably a mere six inches from the train - again, this was an example of one of the first subway lines in the world. I arrived quickly at my stop for Szechenyi Baths and exited the station to find myself standing somewhere in City Park. I looked right and figured the large, ornate building occupying a large piece of real estate must be the spot. After a few failed attempts, I found the proper entrance. At 8 PM, I paid my entrance fee - about 8 USD - and followed the crowd to see how the hell this worked. A string with a key served as my guide to finding the safe place for my belongings while I bathed with the masses. I disrobed in an extremely large gym-type locker room and again followed the crowd back up the stairs and out into the baths.
At this point, I must communicate that the term baths is a bit of misnomer. A few better terms for Westerners, American especially, would be simply, city or public swimming pool. There are, of course, some big differences like three distinct pools - one hot, one medium, and one cold. The hot and medium baths had bubbles (similar to jets) and the cold pool seemed more like our typical lap pool where people actually swam back and forth for exercise. One foot inside this one communicated to me that I had little interest in that experience. Signs inform guests that a pre-bath shower and scrub are essential before dipping with the masses - this I liked, as it assured some sanitary standards. I did not see any enforcement of this rule, but hey, at least it was suggested. Being in such a social scene alone, and in my skimpy European style bathing suit (when in Rome), proved another opportunity to feel alive. I hide my slight angst and decided the best course would be to just get wet. So, I picked the pool with the fewest number of children.
After about thirty minutes, a horrible development occured. My spray tan (a gift from a friend of mine in LA who wanted me to look "fabulous" for my trip) was beginning to lose its "grip" due to what I could only deduct were the minerals in the water (a healthy alternative to the chemicals we would use in America). It was a complete flashback to that time in Palm Springs fifteen years ago when I went to the white party and lathered on some of what was then a new development in beauty care - the tan in a bottle stuff. The heat in PS literally melted off my tan and I dripped the orange stuff off onto the white towel I was using. Mortified barely explains my state of mind then as an insecure gay kid almost literally and figuratively melting in a sea of judgemental, body conscience gay men. But, this is a whole different story. Some of those feelings revisited me now in Budapest. Although I am very confident now about my physique, the whole melting experience in front of strangers, however judgemental or not, still caused a little anxiety. As a twenty five year old back then, I quickly made an exit and probably sobbed a little from embarrassment. Now, as a seasoned 41 year old, I decided to tell myself to deal with it and proceed with the experience.
A wonderful one it was. I enjoyed the faces, the smiles, the heat, the laughs, the people again living totally in the moment, in the experience. As the sun began to sink and dusk began to take hold of the sky, I too found myself lost in the moment, content and delighted, and now completely sold, on the concept of community bathing. This communal bathing moment, opened my mind to some thoughts regarding nothingness and freedom. Something about being amost naked in a pool of humanity allowed my mind to consider why the experience offered such joy. The nakedness and lack of physical possesions offers complete freedom to live in the moment. The baths gave me a clearness of desire, even thought, of things (who needs things when bathing?). I was struck by the simple message the experience offered - that tossing aside material things opens me to new experiences. Free from the worry of thinking about things unloaded my mind and released me of the prison of common thought about my stuff - maintainence, accumulation, order, and upkeep of them. I embraced something outside of my norm, my life standards and culture. I swam among strangers experiencing a common journey of mind and soul. Beautiful. This propelled me to consider that a sort of personal anarchy, spiritually speaking, instead of the rule based mentality we typically use as our mode of operation, our default, truly is the way to God. God, or being in the now, is actually found via the new paradigm, the new experience. As they say, the Devil is in the details. Learning the rules and focusing on the future steals us of the now and bogs us down into the past and the future. When we get caught up in rules, standards, or the customs of our upbringing, we forget to simply live our lives. God is stolen when we forget the current moment. Our real life literally stops when we are in the past trying to consider, or learn, a lesson so that we can apply it to the a situation in the future. Being open to new, atypical things, people and experiences may be a way to experience God. Perhaps, that is reason my soul longs to travel the world. It knows how to feed itself real mana from God. I have always been a strong believer in taking the road less traveled. For some, this is a scary concept - the foreign in life. But consider this, the once foreign turns into the common once you visit it routinely. The cycle can then be shifted back to a variation of the opposite in order to re-find the new. As your new thought, belief, experience, custom, attitude gains steam over the old, it becomes common again. Thus, a thing, experience, custom, attitude, and activity can be both good and bad at the same time - two sides of the same coin as they say. A thing can be both typical and atypical to different people at the same time since we are all on our individual journey back to our collective whole. Travel gives us the surprise we need on our path toward fulfillment and/or englightenment. A surprise makes something more special, due to the very nature of surprise. It is something fresh, new and thus much more appreciated and meaningful and good (relatively speaking to one's personal journey). This is why swimming in Hungary, as opposed to doing this back home in America (something I have done hundreds of times) becomes so meaningful.
After nightfall, I headed out of the baths, two hours seemed plenty for my soak and after my contemplative mood, I was eager to grab some dinner and investigate the nightlife.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Walking About Budapest
Like any good tourist, I had an agenda - my list of things to see, and experiences not to miss, during my nine days in the city. My homework prior to my arrival in Budapest - online research, books, travel shows, and conversations with Hungarians - surprised even me, since I tend to "wing it" when I travel. I compiled everything into a compact little folder that I shoved into the computer compartment of my backpack. Now that I was more mobile, sans the backpack, the list could be removed, read, then easily followed. The first item, strolling down Andrassy Boulevard, seemed a great place to start. It was noon, the sun was shining - already warming the air - and I wanted to take off my clothes. Andrassy crossed near the hotel, so it was an easy jaunt to begin the trip. I peeled off my shirt, let my shorts slide down past my hips, and began the stroll. I wondered to myself if showing my bare chest in Budapest was culturally insensitive, but did not let it press my conscience enough to keep me from doing what I wanted. The spray tan I got before I left LA was not going to last forever, so some natural sun (Vitamin D production is key to good health) seemed appropriate. I have to admit, my eyes did wander to passersby every so often to see if I was the only one without a shirt. Halfway through the stroll, I did notice one guy who probably should have left his on, but hey, at least I was not the only one doing it. As with most justifications, his one example was enough. The Andrassy, a massive tree-lined street begins in the city center and extends to what they call Hero's Square - a monument to former Kings of Hungaria and other heroes of the people. On either side of the street, regal and elegant, rest what can only be described as massive, architectural gems - places so grand, so picturesque that I got a little emotional looking at them. As someone who "flips" homes, these are the fantasy places of my dreams. And, considering some of them are in need, I let my mind race with potential. Most, however, shine - examples of the days when master stone masons and other craft/trade people genuinely cared about their work, their art. These places were built when money to the rich of Budapest probably seemed to be of little importance so long as the results were perfectly executed. As I walked the cobble stone path down the center, I imagined this place hundreds of years ago, during these grand times before cars and trucks, before the inconvenient conveniences we so desperately utilize today. The magic of this boulevard cast a spell over me and I lost all concept of time and place as I continued East toward Heroe's Square. The House of Terror temporarily caugt my attention, enough to knock me off the path and to the left side of the street. The building that houses this museum (a place where the horrific acts during the time of the communists in Hungary is presented) is superb. Although it is a modern structure, it somehow fits nicely among its drastically dissimilar neighbors. Once inside, the energy of the place - which I must admit was very negative - completely began to sour my mood. I have learned that even though these types of places are important (so that we don't repeat mistakes of great magnitude), they are not places I want to invite into my experience. Then and there, I opted against one of the items on my list (it is my list afterall) and headed back to the lively high of Andrassy Boulevard. Witnessing Heroe's Square and the surrounding museums and structures, reminded me of my trips to great cities like London, Paris, and even Istanbul. The city planners were genius. The scale, forms, planning, and overall layout create a sensation in the observer that simply overwhelms. Nearby, I wandered over to City Park which houses Vajdahunyad Castle and the Szechenyi Baths (which I was to visit later this day). I caught a wedding in the park, walked through a festival, enjoyed families with kids playing, running, and chasing. Basically, I did one of my favorite things - I watched people living their lives. After a number of hours, my jet-lag and lack of sleep propelled me to head back to the hotel for a little nap. On the way, I sipped a couple mini-bottles of Hungarian Schnapps (another not to miss experience) and walked down a parallel street - one that houses the foreign embassy buildings/homes and other mansions. Once back at the hotel, I fell fast asleep, content with my dreams of the day. I had a big night planned and needed some rest.
Day One
The backpack on my shoulder, even after several rotations back forth, proved quite irritating after two solid hours of wandering the city. My eyes, happy from consuming the architectural super structures built mostly, I believed, in the late 19th century, also complained from a lack of sleep and various particles in the air. The blisters on my feet screamed, and betrayed me with each step. Yes, I was ready to get more serious about finding a hotel and less serious about sightseeing, at least for the moment. I checked the map and located a hotel, one that I had previously seen on the internet as well, but ignored (perhaps studpidly) in favor of the room with the fat naked fruit guy. After another twenty minutes of walking, I found the place on Kiraly utca - number 41. For those who have never ventured to Eastern Europe, or Europe in general, may not be used to block after block of connected stuctures with large wooden gates, usually double doored, that typically lead into entry ways and courtyards. So, finding addresses and places is not always as straightforward as it might seem. The door to Connection Guesthouse Budapest is nothing remarkable and I passed it on my initial attempt. With a quick back-track move, I located the gray doorway and rang the bell. The attendant buzzed me in and told me to head to the first floor. Confused over which was actually the first floor (don't laugh until you try it), I had to climb back down a flight to find a guy opening the door for me. Immediately, I knew this would be the place - a locked and secure front door, a clean and cozy environment, and an amazingly friendly front desk clerk. He let me know that he had made a mistake when he buzzed me in - they did not have a room for me, but he quickly began searching for another place for me. After a few minutes, he located a place and sent me on my way to them, but now without first letting me know that it was only for one night. Shit, I quietly paniced a little, thinking I'd have to repeat the day's search all over again tomorrow. As if he read my mind, he informed me that if I could not find a place Saturday night (as it was the much publicized and popular Sticky and Sweet Madonna Concert in Budapest that night and many, many hotels had sold out), I could crash in their lobby loft for free. Delighted with that news, I headed off to the other one-night stand hotel so that I could drop my bag and begin my sightseeing in earnest. As I was rapidly becoming an expert in foot travel through my newly beloved city, I found the second hotel quickly. A failed haggle attempt later, I paid the lady what she wanted and procured the keys. After fumbling with the locks, I entered into a pretty horrible "hotel apartment" as they billed it - 5 stars (not sure about what universe the 5 stars resided). I tossed the bag on the bed, changed my shoes and ventured out the door. I had a city to explore and with the hotel fiasco now resolved, I instantly found new energy, and with only four hours of sleep, I considered myself lucky. Now, where to go first?
The Morning After
The morning of my escape, proved fruitful for my soul. To be honest, my body tingled with anticipation about the adventures which awaited me, as well as the one I had just escaped. Ask anyone who loves to travel and most will tell you that the best part comes not from the planned activities or the tourist visits, but from those unplanned, serendipitous moments - either alone or with others - that conspire to treat those involved with once in a lifetime moments, insights, and memories. For me, my mouth still smirked about my previous night - with the naked fruit eater - while I wandered the streets of Budapest with my backpack hanging off my left shoulder. Although I had no need or desire to stay with him any longer, I certainly found the entire situation so amazingly like something only I would manifest, that I simply had to accept it as something purposeful and necessary. The smile I wore explained to the world, that I was content with my circumstances - lost, alone, and sweaty with a heavy backpack on my shoulder in a foreign city with no place to crash for the next nine days. Existential crisis be damned - I knew in this moment that I was alive and my journey real. I had no idea where to go, expect of course away from the place I had just deserted. A few blocks down Jozsef krt I found a hole in the ground, actually a metro entrance, which invited me down. I entered the earth to find a soviet era metro station, complete with a few very minimal tobacco shops which in addition to cigarettes, sold an interesting variety of pastries and drinks. After considering the map I had taken from the "guest house" I realized I had no idea where to go to find new accommodations. The stench of urine and trash blew through the underground, and at 7 AM without food or even a drink of water, it sort of overwhelmed me into abandoning the metro option for safer ground and air above land. Once outside again, I recovered my sense of direction enough to move toward the River Danube - a place I had viewed in movies, travel magazines, the Amazing Race, and in books from my Hungarian neighbor back in Los Angeles. At least I believed that area to be beautiful and probably more like the Budapest I thought I would be visiting. This turned out to be quite a brilliant move. Slowly, the buildings and surroundings began to take new form. My eyes filled with architectural beauty and my senses soared, overcome by the city that too was waking up with me as I walked the streets. It was an odd mix of government cleaners and workers doing matainence work and city beautification activities, shop keepers pulling back the metal gates, people heading to work by foot and car, and a sprinkling of club-goers making their way home from the bars (which that night I discovered stay open until 5 or 6 in the morning - and these are NOT afterhours bars, just regular places). I continued walking along the Danube River on Rakpart (a road that changes names several times along the river), and could not help myself from locking my gaze across the river from the Pest side (where I was) to the Buda side over the water. The pictures on the website and the books I had viewed prior to my arrival, absolutely did not capture the glorious vision of the hillside structures - the Buda Castle, the National Gallery, statues, churches, and countless idealic homes. I fell instantly in love with the city of Budapest at about 7:35 AM on August 21, 2009! I have a feeling it is going to be a life-time love affair.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
The first night
My initial reaction, at the airport was that Hungary appeared very neat, modern, and somewhat "Western" in standards. I had pre-arranged, via the internet, a stay at a so-called gay guesthouse, which after my experiences in Phuket, Thailand, should have given me slight pause. Nonetheless, the guy I had been working with assured me a nice private room in a centrally located area of Budapest. Things started off roughly when, at the airport, I could not find my pre-paid driver. Eventually, he found me and we were off. Within seconds off the airport grounds, the communist past of the place slapped me into a whole new opinion. My mind flashed back to twenty years ago when I visited East Berlin (before the fall of the wall). The city buses, cars, billboards, buildings/tenaments, looked very "fixed" in time - and not a current one. The drive from the airport took quite some time, or so it seemed, since it was pushing midnight at this point. The taxi exited into an area that looked like it had been bombed during some war - with life going on without any repairs? Crumbled buildings, rubble, and abandoned cars littered the landscape, causing a marked increase in my heartburn. We pulled in front of a building which I would guess was probably a remarkably significant one architecturally speaking about two-hundred years ago. On this night, however, she was certaily showing her wrinkles. I swallowed my angst, and got out of the cab. At this point, Nenad, the man who had arranged my stay, exited the creeky green door of the dilapitated building and said hello. He informed me that due to an overstay by other guests, I would now be staying in this place. He escorted me to an elevator the size of a very small coat closet and we squeezed in together, traveling up two flights. The interior courtyard of the building boasted a magnificent inner space, complete with iron rails with plants spilling over with dramatic flair. It was, however, equally sad - neglected, with plaster falling off the brick, but I was trying to focus on the pretty parts. We got to the flat and the door was open. I nearly gasped when he showed me in to the place and my first view was of a nearly 300 pound shirtless man sitting at a dining table eating saugages and fruit. I am certain I did not hide my shock, well, horror at this development. After a brief moment of digestion (pun intended), I further gazed into what was obviously someone's home - complete with furnishings, family photos, thousands of plates hanging on the walls, and more Catholic crosses and pictures than the Vatican. Nenad sat me down and quickly asked to collect my money for the four nights we had pre-arranged. Luckily, I did not have enough Hungarian money to pay, so I suggested I pay for one night only. To this, he was not pleased and repeatedly asked why. I let him know that the switch was not what I had agreed to during our discussions on line. He explained that the large man was also a "guest" but that it would be okay. Hardly, I thought, amused with myself for getting into this situation. Nenad left and I went into my room - which was obviously a room used by someone who had been kicked out quickly to make room for me. Unsure of my next move, I meditated to calm myself and then went out into the common area. The chubby man was still eating and offered me some plums, picked from his brother's farm in Slovenia. As is always the case in these situations, breaking bread works. Once I gave up my judgement and opened up to the experience, we had a marvelous conversation and he provided invaluable information about Budapest. Nearly three hours later, I ventured off to bed, still certain that I would leave in the morning, but happy with myself for not completely acting like a spoiled American. Before he woke in the morning, I showered, gathered my things, and escaped - tossing the keys back through the locked gate. Once free, I wandered aimlessly through unknown stretts in search of new accommodations.
Flight to Budapest
The flight on BA turned out to be operated by Malev Hungarian Airlines. Although again in coach, I was surprised by the pleasant service and efficency. Which, of course, leads me to question why American airline carriers cannot find a way to offer a free snack (a wheat bun flavored with a razor thin slice of some kind of pork) and a free alcoholic drink (a glass of cheap red) on domestic flights? It reminds me of how American companies tend to sabotage themselves by squeezing out additional profits to the point of ruining the product. Every traveler I encounter complains of American airline carriers - no food, drinks, or ammenities at all for free and upcharges for everything? Considering America's economic advances and overall business acumen, it is embarrassing that we have such an abysmal domesic travel operation. Next to me on the plane, sat a nervous 26 year old Albanian kid who had missed his flight out of London (where he now lives with his Lithuanian wife) and had to purchase another one, my flight, to Hungary with an additonal leg on to Albania. He amused me with his thumb twiddling, rapidly increasing during periods of turbulence, throughout our journey. He fled Albanian, leaving his entire family, when he was 15 to seek a better life in Britian. His story provided yet another moment of appreciative reflection for me. His eyes glistened with envy as I communicated my story, and he repeatedly asked, "How you be retire?" - his mind unable to wrap itself around how a 41 year old (four years shy of his own father's age) - could stop working in order to travel around the world. I suspect his story is not unlike countless other immigrants, in either America or Britain, who arrive for a chance at a better life. He has worked countless hours in England, found a wife - developed a semblance of a life there - yet he remains desperately homesick, feeling forever the alien in another country? Albania's economy still struggles, and my friend sends money to his father in Albania. As I digested our conversation, I wondered how many of my fellow Americans truly appreciate, understand, and seize the ability we have to pursue our dreams and actualize our experience?
41 year old travel moment
41 year old travel moment - The orthopedic inserts my chiropractor gave me to help keep my spine aligned (and keep me from developing any additonal back pain) have caused blisters on the back of my heels. The brownish leather, dressy athletic style Pumas I have been wearing are a hair too big and the inserts float inside. This tiny floating space allows the pressure of my weight - increased by the contents of my backpack - to push down at the heel (because the inserts are elevated), with a small bit of my foot skin filling down into the gap. I started to notice this while exploring London, and it has slowly developed into quite a problem here in Budapest. I realized last night while soaking in the Szechernyi Baths (more on that later), that I seized the moment to travel again at just the right opportunity. Even without the backpack, walking miles upon miles on blistered feet at this age certainly conspires against me more than it would have twenty years ago when my bloody feet (caused not from inserts, but from general over use) barley paused my enthusiastic zeal for travel. Although I am still fit and active at 41, continue to thrive while traveling, my body sometimes acts against my mind - which still nimbfully believes itself to be forever 18. Enough on that for now, back to the actual adventure.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
lunch with Diego
The tube (subway/train system) in London operates beautifully, and I would have been ten minutes early for lunch at our previously agreed upon destination had I mastered the directional courses and changing points of the trains. Instead, I wasted valuable time jumping on and off various trains, frantically fumbling my way through the tube toward my final destination at Piccadilly Circus station. For those familiar with the tube, my inability to quickly find my way from Kensington to Piccadilly, no doubt, provides a little amusement. After a few trains/lines that took me off course, I did manage to arrive at the station at the exact time of our meeting. Late, I rushed through the streets, attempting to find the bar where we were to meet. Five minutes later, there I was, standing alone at a corner in soho. Now, the streets felt completely different than they had the night before, although there were early afternoon drinkers, this time sitting instead of standing around with their pints. Some street food vendors had set up make-shift tents, selling Mexican food, mostly burritos, and Thai food near our meeting spot. The smell of both immediately caused anticipatory moisture to develop in my mouth as I had not eaten since I shoved a small pastry down my throat hours earlier. Five, ten, fifteen, and then twenty minutes passed - and still, no Diego? I was beginning to feel a little bit like a male prostitute, milling about just outside of some of the seedier shops (porn stores and peep shows) waiting for him. To pass the time, I wandered around the block a few times, to do some people-watching. Tourists mostly sauntered into the sex shops while the locals quickly grabbed food for lunch from various vendors and brick and mortar restaurants. Upon my third loop, I noticed a vision in purple heading toward me. Today, in full model mode, Diego walked the imaginary runway toward our meet. I have to say the whole vision made me chuckle. He was over-the-top, stunningly handsome - his Latin hair slicked back, wearing some over-sized designer sun-glasses, a purple t-shirt which he had cut up (and later I discovered his mother had re-sown to his specifications), and white jeans (which I dare say almost no one can pull off properly). And, to think I was about to head off to grab lunch alone, fearing that I had been stood up. He greeted me with a hug and European kiss kiss. Then, we walked off, in search of a restaurant. No Italian (not my favorite) and no Mexican (not his), barely limited our options. We decided upon a place, which I believe was named Balans. Full of life and energy, so we assumed the food was lovely. That was not to be. His fish was dry and my hamburger (ordered medium) was cooked so thoroughly that any mad-cow potential had been completely eliminated. Cold fries, dry bun, and deep fried bok choy with his fish? Had it not been for our lively conversation and consultation with the Spanish-English dictionary Diego carries, the whole lunch would have been a bust. More than fifty US dollars later, we were out the door. The street vendor food for three pounds probably would have been a better option (travel tip for the day).
I had mentioned to Diego that I wanted to see a show that night since soho is basically in/near the theater district, I had been bombarded with (and fell for) their advertisements. He led me to the half-off vendors for a same-day deal. The shows I wanted to see -- Billy Elliott, Mama Mia, and Priscilla -- were all sold out. After a few more attempts, with no luck, we moved on to option number two. I wanted to boat down the River Thames when I was here twenty years ago, but could not spend the money (poor college kid mentality). Diego thought that sounded good as well. It was at about this stage that I realized Diego was going to be my all-day companion. I imagined just having lunch and then moving along on my own, so this revelation brightened my day. I would get a handsome, intelligent, sweet companion as a tour guide and friend, and Diego gets to practice American English (a fair trade considering he skipped English school to be my guide). We opted to walk the streets toward the river, instead of taking the tube. The weather has been wonderful - 80s and sunny - which is rare I was told many times. We passed various monuments - all the places I had been so keen to see when I was twenty. We stopped at 10 Downey Street for a photo, and again for one at Big Ben, and Westminster Abbey/Tower, before making our way to the river. I purchased Westminster/Tower/Westminster tickets for us and we boarded the boat. Everyone who knows me knows that I am loath to do anything tourist-like these days since I continually seek the uncommon over the common experience. However, something compelled me to take this journey. We were shoved into the boat next to a large family from Liverpool who provided me with a lot of chuckles, although I did not let them in on my amusement. The ride was interesting, although I was really hot from the sun beating down on me, and tired from being up so late and having jet-lag from arriving the day prior. Diego too seemed tied, so we decided against the return ride and exited at the London Tower dock. A brief stop at Starbucks (yes, I was breaking all my rules. Thou shall not visit American establishments while traveling), for an iced latte and we ventured back toward city center.
At this point, I began to realize how much I enjoyed Diego's company. We swimmingly conversed in spite of the language barrier, enjoyed just being in the moment, and genuinely cared to ensure the other was having a nice time. I had found what I was hoping for on my journey -- connections with strangers who shared my desire to live in the moment and engage with experiences. At various times throughout the day, Diego had mentioned that he needed to head home early since he had to feed the cats (three gatos owned by the mother of his girlfriend in London) and prepare for English school which requires him to rise at 6:30 am. However, as the day progressed, Diego kept finding other things for us to do together - this, of course, I enjoyed. We headed next to Carnaby Street, a car-free avenue of shopping and restaurants/pubs. Diego searched, and I watched, for a stylish duffle bag he could carry instead of the Abercrombie & Fitch bag he now carted around. I learned that he is diabetic, discovered when he was fifteen. He has a semi-permanent pump attached to his skin which delivers medicine/insulin when he needs it. So, he needs to carry his supplies with him at all times - thus the need for a bag. I, of course, could not help but think about his cross to bare. It also reminded me that most of us (perhaps all of us) has an internal balance of some type. On the surface, this kid has it all -- killer looks, amazing body, fashionable style -- that literally provoke heads and necks to pop and turn. Yet he deals with something that constantly keeps him grounded and real. I have no idea about his since I did not directly ask him about it, but it may explain why I found such an amazing soul and mind beneath his exterior beauty? I remember being a fat, unattractive kid, coveting the looks of the pretty people. I remember being a poor kid, coveting the riches of the rich. I used to think that I had it so bad, because of my obvious shortcomings. Life and experience certainly provide for a little relative thinking. This lesson comes to me often - reminding me to be appreciative and loving of who I am and what I have. Accepting my very own experience for the gifts and burdens that are my own. We each have them, the so-called good and the so-called bad. And, although the proverbial grass is always greener on the other side, they too have to mow it. I guess what I am saying is that we should all be happy with our own lawns. Heck, not only be happy with it, but have a picnic on it. After all, it is the one we have and all the rest is illusionary.
We parted on the tube with a good bye and thanks just as easily as we had joined at the pub with a hello and how are you. I have no idea whether or not I will ever see him again, but I am grateful for the time and space and lessons we shared. Off to Budapest in a few hours.
I had mentioned to Diego that I wanted to see a show that night since soho is basically in/near the theater district, I had been bombarded with (and fell for) their advertisements. He led me to the half-off vendors for a same-day deal. The shows I wanted to see -- Billy Elliott, Mama Mia, and Priscilla -- were all sold out. After a few more attempts, with no luck, we moved on to option number two. I wanted to boat down the River Thames when I was here twenty years ago, but could not spend the money (poor college kid mentality). Diego thought that sounded good as well. It was at about this stage that I realized Diego was going to be my all-day companion. I imagined just having lunch and then moving along on my own, so this revelation brightened my day. I would get a handsome, intelligent, sweet companion as a tour guide and friend, and Diego gets to practice American English (a fair trade considering he skipped English school to be my guide). We opted to walk the streets toward the river, instead of taking the tube. The weather has been wonderful - 80s and sunny - which is rare I was told many times. We passed various monuments - all the places I had been so keen to see when I was twenty. We stopped at 10 Downey Street for a photo, and again for one at Big Ben, and Westminster Abbey/Tower, before making our way to the river. I purchased Westminster/Tower/Westminster tickets for us and we boarded the boat. Everyone who knows me knows that I am loath to do anything tourist-like these days since I continually seek the uncommon over the common experience. However, something compelled me to take this journey. We were shoved into the boat next to a large family from Liverpool who provided me with a lot of chuckles, although I did not let them in on my amusement. The ride was interesting, although I was really hot from the sun beating down on me, and tired from being up so late and having jet-lag from arriving the day prior. Diego too seemed tied, so we decided against the return ride and exited at the London Tower dock. A brief stop at Starbucks (yes, I was breaking all my rules. Thou shall not visit American establishments while traveling), for an iced latte and we ventured back toward city center.
At this point, I began to realize how much I enjoyed Diego's company. We swimmingly conversed in spite of the language barrier, enjoyed just being in the moment, and genuinely cared to ensure the other was having a nice time. I had found what I was hoping for on my journey -- connections with strangers who shared my desire to live in the moment and engage with experiences. At various times throughout the day, Diego had mentioned that he needed to head home early since he had to feed the cats (three gatos owned by the mother of his girlfriend in London) and prepare for English school which requires him to rise at 6:30 am. However, as the day progressed, Diego kept finding other things for us to do together - this, of course, I enjoyed. We headed next to Carnaby Street, a car-free avenue of shopping and restaurants/pubs. Diego searched, and I watched, for a stylish duffle bag he could carry instead of the Abercrombie & Fitch bag he now carted around. I learned that he is diabetic, discovered when he was fifteen. He has a semi-permanent pump attached to his skin which delivers medicine/insulin when he needs it. So, he needs to carry his supplies with him at all times - thus the need for a bag. I, of course, could not help but think about his cross to bare. It also reminded me that most of us (perhaps all of us) has an internal balance of some type. On the surface, this kid has it all -- killer looks, amazing body, fashionable style -- that literally provoke heads and necks to pop and turn. Yet he deals with something that constantly keeps him grounded and real. I have no idea about his since I did not directly ask him about it, but it may explain why I found such an amazing soul and mind beneath his exterior beauty? I remember being a fat, unattractive kid, coveting the looks of the pretty people. I remember being a poor kid, coveting the riches of the rich. I used to think that I had it so bad, because of my obvious shortcomings. Life and experience certainly provide for a little relative thinking. This lesson comes to me often - reminding me to be appreciative and loving of who I am and what I have. Accepting my very own experience for the gifts and burdens that are my own. We each have them, the so-called good and the so-called bad. And, although the proverbial grass is always greener on the other side, they too have to mow it. I guess what I am saying is that we should all be happy with our own lawns. Heck, not only be happy with it, but have a picnic on it. After all, it is the one we have and all the rest is illusionary.
We parted on the tube with a good bye and thanks just as easily as we had joined at the pub with a hello and how are you. I have no idea whether or not I will ever see him again, but I am grateful for the time and space and lessons we shared. Off to Budapest in a few hours.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Ventured out on my own last night (Tuesday), which as a solo traveler becomes easier and easier. Many say that they find the hardest part of traveling alone is eating at a restaurant. That never bothers me much. For me, I am finding it harder and harder to enter a social situation where everyone else seems to know everyone and I'm the outsider barging into the circle. Back in LA or elsewhere in the US, I have zero problem. I can easily dominate a social scene. However, something about foreign places gives me pause. I guess that's why I force myself to do it. Stretching out of my comfort zone reminds me that I am alive. Last night was no exception. I wandered about soho, trying to get the feel for the place I wanted to start. Initially, what I noticed were the scores of people hanging outside the bars/pubs with their pints/drinks and the ever-present fags (that's cigarettes to us Americans). The curbs and sidewalks don't really exist in this part of London, so they have cleverly painted double-yellow lines where the curbs/sidewalks should be. And, after grabbing my first pint of lager, I learned that the double-yellow "curbs" are not to be crossed. A city worker-bouncer type guy, hastily escorted me back into the lines. Big Brother hello - Orwell's vision seems alive and well. I stood alone on the street, sipping my beer, marveling at the beauty of how other people live. Wearing my True Religion jeans and a fitted powder blue thermal probably suggested that I was a visitor, given the odd glances and outright stares I received. In these situations, I find it useful to assume I am being viewed positively - as an object of desire - rather than as an object of ridicule. It took one full pint before I talked to someone, and only then because I overheard a guy comment to his friend about me in Russian. Reminds me to always be careful what I say when I think no one can understand. A quick hello in Russian let them know that I was in on the joke. For the next two hours, and two pints, Youri and Alexi entertained me with their stories of being Russians living in London. As is typical in these situations, we bonded over the reaction of locals to outsiders and the pros and cons of living and traveling abroad. They both have been in London for years. Separately, they each teased about how much the English drink, which to me seemed a little funny considering the drinking reputation of Russians in general.
Diego caught my attention immediately, not because of his looks necessarily, but because he seemed lost. I introduced myself, he reciprocated, and I learned he was visiting from Madrid for a month, working on his English. The rapport was quick and fruitful. Through him, I was reminded how blessed I am to be on this journey of mine. I sometimes forget that what I am doing - traveling the world and not working for a couple of years - is a dream that many have, but never fulfill. As I stood outside a London pub, talking to a 28 year old model from Madrid, I experienced one of those moments - a blissful epiphany, softly admonishing me to be ever grateful and ever present for the gifts of my life. Through broken English and my broken Spanish, I communicated as best I could to Diego how I managed to manifest my reality. I remembered with him those dark days as a poor kid in Indiana, with no real hope or encouragement from others. I used to covet other people's lives and be in awe at others' experiences and possessions. I came late to the understanding that whatever I want, I can have. And, I manipulated that rule with abandon. But, having everything is not happiness. At the risk of sounding ungrateful, it is only through the accumulation of things and money, that I came to understand a separate poverty. Everything seems to have its counterbalance. I think now, on this journey, away from the material abundance and comfort of home, I remember again just how much I am when I travel. I only packed a small backpack for this trip (basically the pack I use when I go to the gym). Gone for a month with only a small bag. Talk about narrowing down to the bare essentials. Metaphorically speaking, the lack of luggage on this trip, is offering great rewards.
I am meeting Diego for lunch. He is teaching me a lot, and he probably does not even know it.
The trip on British Airways was actually pretty wonderful - the upgrade I had arranged through a friend did not come through as the flight after mine to London was cancelled or delayed, causing them to push more people onto our flight - such is life. Coach, middle seat turned out okay, nothing that a few glasses of red and a sleeping pill couldn't fix. After so many business class trips from LA to HK, one gets used to the perks, but what can you do? A really sweet girl sat next to me, bursting with excitement over her sojourn to Rome to study abroad for 3 months. I, of course, took the opportunity to build upon her enthusiasm with my own stories of studying overseas during college and how it absolutely opened my universe and changed my life forever - for the good that is. To be honest, her joyful anxiety filled me up as well. Although we were wildly different from each other, our mission seemed quite similar - seeking the adventure of new experiences in far off lands.
The train ride from Heathrow reminded me that I did not remember London. Everything seemed different from the memories of twenty years ago. Red roofs and decaying factories dotted the landscape as we traveled into the central part of London. Old buildings shoved up against newer, modern architecture crowed the streets until we arrived at Victoria station. This I remembered well, and I was amused to find myself thinking of Harry Potter now, a much different thought than that as a twenty year old, twenty years ago. Funny how modern references sometimes skew our perceptions of things. I was greeted with that familiar smell, the one that I get when I travel to cities across the world, not totally definable, yet completely understood by those who've been. London has a scent, as does Bangkok, and you'll need to visit to know what I mean.
The flat I had arranged in Kensington truly is in a posh area of London. I easily found the French cafe where I was to pick up the keys and made my way across the street into a beautiful brink building. Excited by the feel of the place, I quickly dashed to the vintage elevator - the kind with double metal drawn back gated doors like one would find in an old loft building. After a few fumbled attempts at the locks at the door, I finally entered into my tenant's flat - perfectly neat and tidy and very modern. Yes, I would enjoy staying here. Immediately my mind raced with future visits to London, which to me was a great sign that I wanted to spend more time here.
After fighting jetlag, I ventured out for a walk-about and ended up grabbing a lager at a pub in soho. Well, I need to grab a little nourishment before I get into my adventures there...more later
Monday, August 17, 2009
The adventure begins today. I am leaving Los Angles at 5:35 PM and arrive into London at Noon on the 18th of August. I have arranged for a flat in Kensigton area of London. My tenants in Los Angeles have a flat on Thackeray Street -- in what is apparently a very posh neighborhood. I am to gather the keys from a friend of theirs who runs a French restaurant in the area. They have generously offered me the place to use for two days before I head off to Hungary. I haven't been to London since I lived in Scotland twenty years ago, so I am curious to see what has changed, besides me. The last time I visited London, I ran into Yoko Ono and Sean Lennon walking down the street and I quickly snapped a photo of them. She cursed me up and down, but I got the shot. I think fifteen years in LA has quelled my need to act stupidly around celebrities - they are only people after all. And, most of the ones I have met are not that interesting anyway. Real people, the ones you meet once their facades are dropped, are much more engaging. My goal for this trip is to be lucky enough to re-engage with like-minded souls across our globe. It's a passion I have had for over twenty years and the solo travel experience offers opportunities galore. More later once I get to London.
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