Buda and Pest

 

Oh brave new world in which we live. As the shroud of Omicron falls once again to obscure our new-new-normal, the importance of escapism has once again risen. And so, as an early Christmas gift, I give you 10 minutes of it, by writing about the wonderfully surprising city of Budapest. 

A short break in Budapest was planned a few months ago in the post-pre-covid freedom era of 2021. This time unsolo, I had two of my closest companions with me, so the feel of the trip was a little different to Lisbon (my other escape this year) from the beginning. All I knew about Budapest, frankly, was stag and hen dos. Quite honestly, I was afraid that the place wouldn’t take me much further than the Norwich high street of my teens on a Saturday night. For this, Budapest, I must apologise. My experience was quite different.

At face value, Budapest (pronounced Budapeisht) seems a city, like many others, split in two by a river. In fact, Buda and Pest are two cities united by the river. This first great fact was slapped on us by Nick, our highly energetic airport taxi driver. Nick had a long well-crafted beard, olive skin and excitable green-grey eyes, a metropolitan look with a distinctive Hungarian twist. By the end of our 40minute ride into town, we knew all about Nick’s love of Palinka (the local ‘grappa’ style booze) and how he has fond memories of getting blind drunk on it with his father [not hard to do, I discovered]. We also learned basic Hungarian including obligatory swear words, and a little about modern politics. The latter we learned is as touchy as in any country; I always enjoy a sentence that starts with ‘we’re not racist here but…’.

Buda and Pest

With these stories winding around my impressionable head, I dont think my image of Budapest being basic-boozy-brit-abroad was yet gone. But when we began to navigate the tall, narrow streets of the Jewish quarter, where we were staying, in the 4pm darkness, my impression began, very cautiously, to waiver. Unfairly comparing it to other Western European cities, it evoked Paris, with tall renaissance-style buildings with balconies, also Copenhagen with its hygge basement bars, and of course some of Berlin’s graffiti underworld. I was liking it already.

Catering for the stag and hens

We stopped in an open pop-up market to try some local food and drink. To be honest, our basic Brit desire to try a local alcoholic delicacy named ‘unicum’ was probably the main motivation for this stop. Unicum, named so because the well-loved ex-king Stephen (see: St Stephen’s Basillica) tried it and thought it tasted ‘Unikum!’ (Unique). What can I say. Well, I can say that it is like a bitter jaegar, and I wont ever try it again. Goulash (pronounced ‘Gouyash’) however, I could eat from its steaming freshly baked bread bowl every day for the rest of my life. If you go, order traditional beef goulash, or the chicken paprika because your life will rapidly change. It turned out that this outdoor pop-up was in fact one of the reputed ruin bars, disappointingly revealed to us as we googled ‘ruin bar’, which we had hoped to move on to. Shrug.

                    

Sadly, Malaga and Lanzarote also come to mind as the 4pm darkness turns to 9pm chaos. We enjoyed eating our metaphorical popcorn as we watched an actual fisty-cuffs fight complete with breaking glass noise, followed by drunk Brits bundling into taxis complete with shouting at driver. We chose a seemingly more local watering hole called Vauhaus where pints were 500HUf (£1.20), wine perhaps even less and you could buy plates of fried Hungarian sausage slices and liver pate with bread for £1. No need for anything else, we were, thankfully not veggie, and therefore very happy. Night one not breaking boundaries, but small things nudging at them…

Delicious Hungarian pick me ups

Day 2 

With a little pushing, I forced my bleary-eyed travel companions out of the boiling airbnb for an ever-obligatory free walking tour. We all sighed at the massive crowd grouped around the meeting point in Pest (East of the river), which contrasted greatly with the covid-friendly tour I went on in Lisbon. The crowd was parted in two, us being sided with the slightly dull looking lady, sighs growing louder. As ever, however, we were not let down by the tour and the dull looking lady was only ever dull in my judgemental eyes.

St. Stephen’s Basilica, advertising complete.

St Stephen’s basilica was the first stop. Hidden behind a barrage of heavily-branded Christmas stalls, the dome stretches to a convenient 96m above the square (Hungary was settled by the Magyar tribe in 896 BC - perhaps a coincidence, perhaps not, but the parliament is also 96m high). The basilica relic is named after the first and most popular king of Hungary, and is home (quite literally) to the savioured king’s ‘incorruptible’ right hand. It is also home to the left leg of Hungary’s most famous footballer Ferenc Puskas. To be fair more facts were reeled off, but the limb-related ones were the only ones that stuck. 

British embassy with a familiar teddy bear statue.
 

We travelled past the ex-British embassy (a few brexit jokes cracked, tired smiles) which quirkily houses a miniature statue of Mr Bean’s teddy bear, and moved down to the river front where we hung our heads to the story of the Hungary’s unenviable past. TLDR as follows: Hungary, being landlocked, has always been an appealing landmass to rule, and sadly a bit bully-able for the superpowers that surround it. It has done a bloody good job of holding on to its borders, despite good (successful) attempts from Romania to nibble away at them. Unfortunately, during WW2, sweet Hungary got gobbled up by the Nazi regime and so began a long period of oppression. The ghastly treatment of the Jews during this period is one of the most difficult pieces of history I’ve heard in a long time, with over 800,000 being persecuted through deportation or worse. The scars of this are bared all over the capital, not least in the ‘Shoes on the Danube’ tribute on the Pest side of the riverbank. Desperate for saviour, the hand of Soviet rule was offered out to a drowning Hungary, who gladly took it. Unfortunately, poor Hungary didn’t know that the Soviet hand would very soon become a tight, asphyxiating grip and Hungary were plunged into four decades of communist doom and gloom. If you go to Budapest, visit the Museum of terror, though don’t make the same mistake that I did thinking it was going to be a generic ‘horror’ tour with ghoulies and gizmos. It’s not. The uplifting end of the story is that the soviet regime was lifted in ‘91 and the country has grown from strength to strength since.

Shoes on the Danube

After the tour, on the search for a hot chocolate to brighten and drizzly cold November day, we spotted the ‘Budapest Jazz Bar’ on the northern side of town. I love jazz, but generally find it expensive and a bit inaccessible. However, when we turned up after a cheap massage (Note to self: never go cheap on massages) later that evening, I could not have been more thrilled. Unfortunately but not unfortunately, due to a short detour via an excellent wine bar (the Tasting Table), we had missed the ‘formal acts’ of the night. Instead, we took a front table in the ‘late lounge’, where a tired, somewhat alcoholic looking man plonked himself down at the piano. When he started playing, he lit up, my travel buddy who hates jazz lit up, and most importantly the room lit up. So began an evening of watching the silent conversation between improvising jazz artists, sipping on £4 whisky sours and whiling away the time. Buda (or should I say Pest), you’re winning me over.

Whisky sour and jazz

The quintet

Day 3

On the third day, our plan was to do as tourists do in Budapest and visit one of the many thermal spas that dot the city. We chose the Szechenyi spa, aka capital of all spas, and importantly the one with outdoor space located to the North of the city. If you are so successful as to navigate your way into the spa, signage is not a strength of the place,  you may find yourself rather in awe of it. It’s true; the water boasts a slightly yellow tinge and the overall odour took me back to the plaster-covered public swimming pools of my youth, but the sheer size and variety of the place is incredible. After vetoing the indoor pools, crammed with hugging couples wedged in like sardines, we found our way outside to the real star attraction. Surrounded by swathes of mustard-coloured Victorian architecture and spraying fountains, the three steaming hot outdoor pools appear to be, as my travel buddy described it, the Disneyland of Eastern Europe. We shed our towels and ran straight from the 8 degree spikey November air into the 38 degree baths, trying not to stare at the snogging couples and the surgically augmented bodies that the pools clearly attract. This said, they do attract just about everyone, from older men on ‘later in life’ stag-dos, to kids on the verge of an ADHD diagnosis, and not to forget, us. The people watching is probably the best bit of it all. 

Szechenyi spa - Eastern European Disneyland 

And so for 3 hours, we meandered our way between the pools, the steam rooms, the saunas, the beer (hop) spa and the fabulously naff restaurant where you sit eating chips and chicken in your soggy swimwear while pigeons (indoor) peck at your tootsies. We loved it, memories being formed on top of memories. One hundred percent worth the visit. Wouldn’t go back.

Navigating the spa in our robes

After washing ourselves clean of the spa (you sort of need it), we wondered around the Hero’s square, eating candy floss and watching an absolutely humongous ice rink be prepared for the evening open. Susie, travel buddy, was insistent on a spin, so I reluctantly took to the ice, fearing for my digits at the mercy of hundreds of chest-puffing, hormone-filled teens showing off their, to be fair, excellent ice skills. Again, with it being the biggest ice rink in Eastern Europe, there was a Disneyland feel to the whole affair with the Bavarian-looking Vajdahunyad castle looming over it, etching a gothic silhouette. With a little imagination, the rain could be imagined as snow, and me a floating ice-princess. Yeh. Nice venue either way.

Scared for my digits 

Susie and big rink

     

Heroes’ square at sundown 

Our final evening took us full-circle back to the local Jewish quarter, now seen in a more sombre light. We hunted the streets, keen to avoid shots bars and strip clubs, and finally got lucky by landing a table at Spinoza, the king of all Hungarian-Jewish restaurants. As the piano played quietly in the background, we ate our goulash and spätzle (kinda fried noodles), and reflected over a lovely few days with a bottle of Hungarian ‘champagne’. When the end of the meal came, and we thought we needed no more, the friendly waiter convinced us to try the notorious Palinka mentioned by our taxi-driver Nick. The next day I felt like I’d had a lobotomy. My advice, just say no.

Death trap: Palinka

And so, with time fast running out, on our final morning we made the tiring climb up to the ‘Liberty statue’ on Gellert hill, in order to truly pack in everything that a cultured 30-something should do in Budapest. Despite complaints from the back that is was a terrible idea to bring our flight cases up to the top with us, and the somewhat ill-timed news that my beautiful fish (in London) had made the  sad leap out of its tank and into the afterlife, the view was absolutely stunning. Only now could we really grasp a sense of the vastness of the city, sliced in two by the Danube, as well as decades of dark history. And yet still it stands strong and beautiful, full of personality and life. Budapest, I’m sorry, you are absolutely fabulous. I fully recommend a trip.

Beautiful Buda and Pest