A couple of weeks ago, my great pal Tara came all the way from the High Desert of central Oregon to spend time with us. She truly blessed our mess and I miss her still, but it won't be long before we are both Oregonians once more.
One of the things I most enjoy about hosting friends in Budapest is watching how the place affects them. This may be a slightly sadistic tendency, knowing how moving here has affected me. I get a perverse kick out of witnessing the transformation of the psyche, however subtle and temporary that metamorphosis may be. Regardless, long term visitors walk away with distinct and sometimes disconcerting impressions of this place. I guess these transformations, good or bad, are why some humans like to travel, enjoy some alone time away from that warm (and worn) blankie called the comfort zone. I believe it is impossible to have a tepid opinion of Budapest. One can certainly have a love/hate relationship with the city, but no one finds it less than fascinating in one way or another.
Tara Sobrio is a yogi and an incredibly intuitive one at that. She picks up vibes and moods, makes note of postures and the way a person's limbs hang from a chair while they are sitting. These things say a lot about someone ( and collectively, the culture at large) and Tara is talented at interpreting them. I looked forward to her impressions. She reads people more accurately, more humanely, more sincerely than anyone else I know.
I don't think she had been in this country for half an hour before those impressions began to form dramatically. We took the blue line metro from the airport back to our flat (station is a two mintute walk away) The typical afternoon commuter's doom and gloom on that fifteen minute ride was heavy and palpable...I imagined it quivering like a heat wave above our heads. I thought I could see the moment when Tara first felt this melancholy that wasn't hers. Stepping off of the metro, I said with a grim smile, "Could you not feel it?" She most definitely did.
A couple of days into her visit, Tara commented about the way many Hungarians carry themselves, particularly the elderly and, of course, the drunk. Slouchy, a skeleton turning in on itself, as if hiding one's heart away.. This posture is the physical manifestation of the stereotypically national mood...hunched over from labor, closed off for fear of exploitation, bitterness that life has to be this way.
I have become accustomed to it, without even noticing the change. I relate to it in a way, admire people even for not cluelessly and constantly wearing a cloying mask of optimism. Of course, people are much more complicated than mere stereotypes and the longer I live here, the less I feel I actually know about that tangled, tortured web known as the Hungarian psyche. My own cynicism has only intensified and the few times I do forget where I am and let slip a casual smile aimed at a person who meets that smile with a confused expression and knitted brow, I'm not hurt, angry, or even a bit surprised. I've just kind of accepted it, grown a callous of sorts to this behavior. Whether or not this is a good or bad thing remains to be seen, although my gut tells me all of this is ultimately beneficial.
Before Tara arrived, I had anticipated a yin to the yang of Budapest might eventually be in order. A sort of tonic. I'd considered Bratislava, but I'd never been before and while that city is developing its own quirky, lovable reputation (Some folks wanted to name a recently completed bridge after Chuck Norris), I also knew it would not be different enough from Budapest.
Vienna was the obvious choice. Classy and close by.
I knew before Tara came to visit that I wanted her to be able to compare and contrast Budapest with Vienna. A visit to that city, on the edge of western Europe and a three hour train ride away, would be just the thing to shake the pall a person can acquire after a week in Budapest.
I told Tara that Vienna was remarkably different than Budapest even if the cities were once quite similar. The Viennese seem happier, more likely to return a smile from a stranger, more likely to have better posture.Yes, even the average Austrian seems lighthearted, not something the Germanic people are known for, compared to the average Hungarian. This difference has much to do with Vienna's comparatively good fortune, having weathered Europe's turbulence over the past century to the point of becoming one of the continent's most liveable cities. Both cities are beautiful, but Vienna is the more pragmatic (yet somehow more open to change and different ideas), tidier sister who got her shit together early on. Budapest is still suffering from crappy choices made in the past, still nursing an authoritarian hang over, plodding into the unknown future on what seems to be a long, slow walk of shame. Budapest, she's my dear, tragic friend. Vienna, well, she's my secret crush who is way out of my league.
Tuesday morning we took the bus to Keleti railway station to purchase our tickets and hop on a Railjet. The great thing about purchasing a return ticket from Budapest to Vienna is that for a few extra forint, your ticket will carry a city public transportation endorsement for three days. Public transpo is already dirt cheap in Vienna (probably the only thing that is in that city) but free is even better. Our plan was....well, there was no real plan, only to take the metro to Stephansplatz, and then to emerge within the Schloss Ring section of the Ringstrasse, where the big gothic church dominates a bustling, historic part of the city. This was the only part of Vienna that I was familiar with. Not only is Mozart's home within walking distance of the U3 stop, the elegantly clipped and pollarded garden that sprawls in front of the Hofburg is also close by...perfect place for two people, with little money in an expensive city, to spend a little quality time.
Although I'd seen the outskirts in passing from the window of a train, somehow I still maintained an image of Vienna in its entirety to be similar to the innards of Schloss Ring. Have I learned nothing about the seduction of central European "centrum", how they manage to convince foreigners, if temporarily, that every part of any given city is gorgeously baroque and reeking of history and teeming with happy locals?
We arrived at Westbanhoff railway station around two in the afternoon and took the U3 to the church...people were actually giggling on the metro, and there was no sense of subtle menace one can sense at any given time on any given form of public transpo in Budapest. Also noted: no audibly juicy, public make out sessions.
We emerged right beneath the two Romanesque towers of St. Stephan's cathedral (the structure displays both Gothic and Romanesque styles) and after taking in the scene, exploring the streets and shop windows for a bit, began to seek out a good place for coffee.
The Viennese café scene is, of course, something an American visitor must indulge in. No huge thrills or fanfare, just a chance to slow down, enjoy conversation, (or solitude if you prefer) indulge in a basic, sensual pleasure for its own sake. I'm not so sure Americans are very good at this kind of humble, benign escapism. The trouble was not in finding a place, it was in choosing from the dozens upon dozens of options. I wanted to return to the Prince Coffee Club, which I knew was close to the cathedral but to no avail...I had no sense of its exact location and the people we asked had no idea the place existed. These ringed cities just totally confound my already stunted sense of direction. A helpful woman in a funky little bead shop suggested The Café Central... she seemed like a tasteful individual so we followed her lead. Besides, it was just around the corner.
What a lucious cappucino. What divine sacher torte. And of course, an outdoor café offers an unparalleled opportunity for prime people watching. In a somewhat jarring turn of events, our little Euro-reverie was interrupted by the ravings of a young man, barking out some sort of drunken warning, apparently addressing all of the patrons of the Café Central, his colleague/aquaintance/handler looked on in dismay.
You know how some things seem like the universe telling you something? I'm fairly agnostic about this idea, but I experience this feeling quite often nonetheless. Most often I get it after the alleged communication has taken place. This man's display was disturbing and had I not chosen to be entertained by it, it could have been kind of a bummer. Turns out the universe wasn't speaking to me that day. Not through this guy anyway.
Still, with only a few hours to spend here, our sense of urgency to get on with our visit may have been hastened a bit by this guy's behavior. We asked for our bill, which came at too leisurely a pace for our purposes. We had walkin' to do.
It was all very free form, as I said. We came upon an small, artsy, outdoor market and browsed the stalls there. We sorta happened upon the Hofburg garden and strolled though it, enjoying the buds and new foliage of its clipped and tamed plants, arranged into orderly groups and alleés.
Taking note of the time, we headed back toward Stephansplatz, perhaps for a bite to eat, more window shopping, and then back to the U3. We planned to catch the last train out of the city, 18:59, back to Budapest. Westbahnhof was only about ten-fifteen minutes away via metro from St. Stephan's.
Again, the ring road messed with us, and it took us a bit longer to find our point of departure. But we had fun finding it with time to spare, eventually ending up at Mozart's house where some sort of private soiree was taking place. Mozart's house is really unassuming, located beneath St. Stephan's cathedral. The good stuff is inside and we had not the time nor the inkling to go inside. I did get a pic of the address plaque...
...and the funny costume shop across the way.
Stephansplatz was happening in a big way. If Tuesday night is always that crazy, the weekends must be ridiculous. We decided that dinner in the city might be frustrating and foolhardy, given our time constraints, so we found the U3, descended, and were soon speeding toward Westbahnhof.
This particular train station is attached to a rather sizeable mall which houses one or two small grocery stores. And while it would have been nice to enjoy a lovely gourmet salad with a glass of gewurzstraminer, outside beneath the ever lengthening shadows of St. Stephan's frilly spires, a quick, box salad and savory pastry to go would have to do. Honestly, we did everything right.
It was on our way to the train platform that I noticed something was amiss. The Westbahnhof train schedule given to us at Keleti did not match the schedule on the arrival and departure boards above on our way up the escalator. There was no platform assignment for our departing train. I was still convinced we had an hour to catch the train, so we sat down to eat our food.
But I was mildly tweaked. Something was bugging me. I needed to know which platform we should go to to board. We were tired, Boone had been texting me (and I could not reply), and I was eager to space out, in the comfort of my train seat, at the passing landscape for a couple of hours, and see my boys again after a really fun but long day.
I guess my nerves may have affected Tara because she may have also felt something was amiss. We put our meal on hold and went to the information window.
Inside was a dour, unsmiling man who, even as he saw us approach, continued to stare at his computer screen, perhaps in the hopes that we might just go away if he stared long enough. I thought, whose bright idea was it to put the Hungarian in the information kiosk?
He eventually looked away from the screen in our direction... I asked him, "at which platform do we board the next train to Budapest?"
He looked at me with as much incredulity as he could force his face muscles to express. "It just left."
I was confused.
"Well, when is the next train to Budapest and which platform can we board it?"
"Next train is tomorrow morning."
"WHAT?"
"Yes. Last train tonight cancelled."
"Are you sure? CANCELLED?"
He grabbed a train schedule and dramatically crossed out the final trains, departing to all cities, with his big, fat, Austrian Sharpie. He shoved the schedule through the kiosk window, pointed to the crossed out departures, and slapped it down on the counter for me to take ot not take. He then resumed staring at his computer screen. No time for this possibly hysterical American woman. I'm sure my face had turned a lovely shade of crimson. What could I say or do?
Tara was equally enraged but, again, as a yogi, kept a much clearer head than I. While I fussed and fretted about not being able to contact Boone and Aidan, basically stewing in my displeasure, she calmly returned to the table where we had been dining and finished her salad. I was considering sleeping right there, at the table, in Westbahnhof. She wisely suggested that we first try to find a cheap place to stay close to the station. I did not think there was such a thing as a cheap place to stay in Vienna and our stash of Euro was paltry. But we had to try.
Tara, cool and utterly collected, approached a couple of young station employees with the hope that they spoke enough English to point us in the direction of an affordable hostel. The Hotel Binder was one metro stop away, one of the men told her, and probably about fifty euro.
We found the Binder easily enough with the help of a kindly 24 hour grocer. The place was just outside the underpass of a freeway, in a part of town that exists in every city worldwide...although I never considered the fact that Vienna also contained similarly shitty neighborhoods. We entered the hotel, into a bar populated exclusively by desperate, sad-looking, fifty something men, all dragging hopelessly on cig after cig. They were all gazing at a silent television set, having clearly given up on life, at least for the time being. How very Hungarian. The room was blue with smoke. We asked the rotund bar tender about room availability and he sighed deeply and led us out of the bar to the hotel office. Like millions of other continental Europeans, this guy spoke decent English...when I asked him initially if he did he nodded, "Of course."
In no time we were given the keys to a room and shoved our remaining euro toward the Austrian hostel keeper. We were not clear headed enough to have requested a non-smoking room but I am not entirely convinced it would have mattered.
We popped out of our smelly quarters for a quick trip to a sleazy 24 hour internet "cafe" (run by a very helpful and sympathetic individual who even let me try to call Boone on his Android) to send the most pathetic e-mail I had sent in quite awhile. Full of misspellings, inappropriate capitalization, and lots of bad language, the mails were sent to Boone and Aidan, informing them of our plight and our expected departure in the morning. I was obsessed with contacting the boys, convinced that they were pacing the floor, waiting for our return. I asked Boone to text me when he got the message so I knew that he knew.
The room was clean enough and would have been fine except for the smell...the years of smoking had taken its toll and the room itself was now suffering from emphysema. Tara showered...I glowered. I went to bed in my jeans. Neither of us slept well, choking and slightly dizzy from the nicotine fumes flooding the room...it was as if the ghost of Humphrey Bogart was watching over us, elegantly puffing away. Smoking was a de riguer, apparently, in this place...the evidence could be found in the bathroom, where dozens of smokers had used the toilet tank lid as an ashtray, resting their cigs there as they went number one or two.
Outside, the sound of metal being dragged down the street screeched into our restless dreams as the demolition of some structure or another continued throughout the night.
Five o'clock came early enough. I was still panicky, having not heard from Boone. We easily caught the first train back to Budapest...not far outside Vienna city limits, I finally got a text from Boone, telling me he had finally gotten paid and to enjoy a cappucino in the dining car. I replied by doing just that, knowing that my purchase would show up on his cell phone.
We arrived back in Budapest, no worse for wear, really, just reeking of old cigarette smoke. I learned that Boone had fallen asleep early, apparently unconcerned, and that Aidan had received my e-mail very soon after I had sent it. He did not want to wake his dad so he told Boone about our inconvenience that morning. All was well. Tara and I brought home yummy cheeses and chocolates. After a nap, we all decided that a trip to Szentendre, where the postures are casual, easy, contented, (blissfully ensconced within the lovely historic center, shielded from the suburban reality) was just the thing. And it was. It was Tara's last day and I felt good about her leaving Hungary on a positive note, having enjoyed the artsy beauty of Szentendre, feeling the precious good vibes that are at times all too scarce in our part of central Europe. Perhaps the remedy for brooding Budapest was always close by, just a few kilometers north of the city. At any rate, I'll take getting stuck in Szentendre over getting stuck in Vienna any day.
