Day Nine is beyond ridiculously
long, so I’ll combine only Days Seven and Eight and deal with not completing
the joke in the title of this post.
(Rule 4, right?)
Day Seven:
Impenetrable
The morning of our last full day in
Budapest dawned clear and bright, and I rejoiced, for we would be journeying up
to the other vantage point overlooking the city: Buda Castle. While we ate breakfast, there were two other
girls sharing the kitchen with us, and they asked us the requisite questions:
where were we from? How long were we in
Budapest? What would we recommend to do
there? And we bounced the questions back
to them. They were working as au pairs
in Geneva, Switzerland (as I had gathered from the American-sounding one when
she asserted that they should get a massage, as they wouldn’t be able to afford
one in Swiss francs), and one was from Brighton, England while the other was
from Washington, D.C. (ha! I knew
it). They seemed completely amiable, and
I found the southern English accent endlessly entertaining, but one niggling
nuance bugged me: either consciously or unconsciously, the American girl would
slide into a British vocal pattern.
Those who have been around English
people extensively, or even seen a lot of British-English movies know what I’m
talking about: there’s a lilt to the voice that happens; certain words change;
and the sentences/phrases end on an upswing quite often. (See there?
Word choice. And what you might
not have gotten is that I would’ve pronounced the ‘t’ in ‘often,’ though I do
do that anyway.) It’s not an annoying
character trait, especially as imitating accents/vocal patterns is unconsciously done, but to the wrong
person, it can seem pretentious. Verity
had noticed something different about the girl, and because of it, she couldn’t
quite place where the girl came from.
Shrug. An interesting byproduct
of hanging around people from other cultures.
Our cultural exchange terminated, we
began our trek to Buda Castle, and I really do mean trek. Because it was so
incredibly windy that day, just crossing the bridge became a treacherous
endeavor; I swear I left a piece of my nose on that sidewalk. Then we tried to navigate our way to the side
of the castle. I had reservations, as in
my experience, the state makes visitors enter a castle through the grandest
entrance possible, but we tried anyway, operating under the theory that we
should be able to find our way to the main part anyway; an entrance is an
entrance. We climbed stairs, stairs,
more stairs, and a ramp; we passed through gates and more portcullises; nothing,
eventually running into a dead-end parking lot for our efforts. Clearly, we’d taken the employee
entrance. Heaving a sigh, we retraced
our steps halfway to an overlook, and estimating where we had to go, we tried
to get there without completely leaving the castle.
‘Twas not to be again: we ran into
construction workers that barred out way.
“What do you have to do to get into
this castle!” Verity exclaimed to no one in particular.
Entrance? Nope. |
Still no entrance. |
We were about fed up with these
games; the view from the top had better have been worth it. Instead of chancing a third obstruction
(maybe a chasm or a terrestrial black hole of some sort), we marched back all
the way to the bottom and walked along the street bordering the bottom of the
hill, muttering invectives all the way.
We reached what I thought were the stairs without result, so when we
finally freaking found the funicular up to the top right next to what seemed like the road, we paid for the
damn funicular: no — more — chances.
Inside, we met a nice couple from South Carolina — originally Champaign,
Illinois, the happily informed me — who struck up a short convo merely because
they had heard Verity mutter, “Bloody.”
People are willing to talk about pretty much anything when they randomly
meet someone who natively speaks their language in a foreign land.
Hot damn: funicular! |
They're too cute! |
We reached the top and, after
kissing the ground, exited the funicular stop, gazed out over the city, and . .
. yeah, all the hardship was worth it.
From the funicular stop, the Danube and Pest half of the city seemed to
shoot out from the foot of the castle hill, gleaming buildings perching on beds
of yesterday’s snow. Church spires poked
out from the hubbub like giants in Munchkin Land. The city clutter stretched almost to the
hills in the distance and as fascinating as it had been watching yesterday’s
snow storm roll in, I was grateful that today was clear, sunny, and bright.
View of the Danube and Pest from Castle Hill. |
The very front of Buda Castle. |
Hungarian soldiers! |
Buda Castle! |
From left to right: theater and government building. |
After catching the tail end of a
rather oddly-time changing of the guards (it was about 10:15 AM. I know: question mark), we wandered past a
government building and the theatre before gazing out over the rest of the Buda
side, a side of the city I had not truly seen as of yet. This side was definitely calmer, more
residential, but no less beautiful.
Protected by closer hills and guarded by the castle and a TV tower, it
looked snug as a bug in a place without bug spray.
If the wind was bad at street level,
and doubly so along the river, it was quadruple-y bad atop Buda Castle Hill
with nothing to protect it, so we threw on hat and cowl, kept our heads down,
and soldiered on.
Buda Castle itself is divided into
two museums, the Budapest History Museum and the National Gallery. I’ve mentioned before that art and I get
along occasionally, but without the inducement of any great (globally-known)
master, I knew I’d skip the gallery, and I could stamp a ‘wait and see’ on the
history museum, so we travelled on to explore the rest of the hill.
Even though the quaint houses have
probably been reconstructed more times than I can count, the lanes still ramble
and meander like any good medieval streets.
Now lined with restaurants and souvenir shops hocking paprika and
Hungarian lace, they still lead from the castle to the church and our next
stop: Fisherman’s Bastion, which of course we stumbled upon by accident.
According to the French guidebook I’d
glanced at the night before, almost nothing of the original Matthias Church
still stands — only the front doors, which date from the 14th
century — but the ornate 19th-century reconstruction baroque adornments
still shone in the now-intermittent sun, and the roof arrests the eyes. Mosaic tiles of orange, brown, and teal swirl
in geometric patterns along the steep roof, contrasting starkly against the
white stone body, and against the partly-cloudy sky, the colors seemed brand
new. (Yup, another 19th
century addition.) But to get in, you
have to pay, and to me, that’s unforgivable.
Just like St. Stephen’s Basilica, I didn’t want to pay to enter a house
of worship, so the church would not be getting another forint from me, even if
it were to see the Hungarian royal crown and jewels.
Matthias Church |
Ah, white! |
That roof is beyond awesome. |
14th century doors! |
Along the edge of the hill stands
Fisherman’s Bastion, originally built at the turn of the 20th
century and then reconstructed after World War II, standing like dainty
Renaissance ramparts to protect a dainty church. In fact, it’s so named because a guild of
fishermen was responsible for protecting the city during the Middle Ages. The views up and down the Danube rivaled
those from Gellért Hill, but because of the tear-your-face-off wind, we
couldn’t linger up there for long, and sure enough, our noses decided that if
we didn’t warm up soon, they would pack it in and head for the Bahamas. So we found a café, ordered hot chocolate,
and assessed our next moves.
Fisherman's Bastion. |
View from Fisherman's Bastion. Whoa. |
I really wish wind were visible, and I'm not just talking about bent over trees. |
Since we couldn’t visit the castle
without visiting a museum, I put that priority on hold and focused on the last
big-ticket item on my list: the labyrinths of Castle Hill. Either because I had sold the idea well, or
she had nothing left to do, Verity came with, and we trooped down more stairs,
paid, and entered the caves.
Because Budapest perches on thermal
springs, the temperature two stories beneath the earth was infinitely warmer
than the frozen hell from whence we came; the climate was damn near pleasant. But that’s where the happiness ended, because
these passages were creepy with a capital creep. Dark stone, low ceilings, mineral crystals,
and dripping water all make a general creepsville atmosphere, though they tried
to counteract the very nature of these caves with strategic lighting, calming
Gregorian chants pumped in via hidden speakers, and innocuous fragments of
stone pillars dating anywhere from 1400-1800.
At some point, there were multiple paths, and we kept circling and
doubling back until we’d seen absolutely every route possible. After utilizing ye olde medieval toilets, we
exited onto the opposite side of the hill and made a beeline for lunch.
Are you ready for a bunch of pictures of rocks? 'Cause I am! |
Yup. Still rocks. |
Verity had to pose for this 'cause I'm not quick enough. |
You can see the random rock fragment displays in this photo. |
There are only so many artsy pictures you can take of rocks. |
Verity and I had stumbled upon
Budapest’s Hard Rock Café the night before, and even though it cost a small
fortune (even in forint) and couldn’t exactly be called Hungarian food, we made
this one concession to comfort/convenience and dished out the dough.
Oh man, am I glad we did.
The lady who seated us chatted
happily in English about how much she loved Americans and the States
(California and Vegas, in particular), and our waiter Gábor took care of us
like we were princesses, giving suggestions about both the menu and Budapest
even though he doesn’t live there. He
joked about both the British and Americans, about Hungarians, about pretty much
anything. When it came to ordering,
Verity stared at the menu, completely lost amid the choices, but my meal was
clear: I hadn’t eaten one in months and craved one when I saw it on the menu
outside the building, and when Gábor recommended it highly, the deal was
sealed.
One good ole American cobb salad for
this girl!
I had forgotten that they’re the
size of a small water craft. I still can’t
believe I ate the whole thing.
Then Gábor came over and sat down
next to me, explaining that the waiters were playing a game, seeing how many
times they could get customers to flip their colleagues the bird, and did I
want to help him out?
Uh, yeah!
So he called over the nearest
waitress and nudged me, and I discreetly flashed my middle finger. She danced from foot to foot in
frustration. “I knew you were going to
do a thing like that when you called me here!”
Gábor heartily thanked us and gave
us the bill and a comment card, which we grudgingly paid and blithely filled
out, respectively. We split up after
that, with Verity deciding to tour the opera house, then the “grotto church,”
and finally the main Jewish synagogue, and me doing the grotto church first
followed by, why not, the Budapest History Museum, just to get a better
understanding of the city and its history.
It took about three years of walking
past colorful graffiti and wild cats, and I’m pretty sure another chunk of my
nose fell off along the way, but I finally arrived at the “grotto church.” Built into the side of Gellért Hill
relatively recently, it was originally part of a monastery which they tried to
expand under the Danube but failboated the calculations. Quite considerably. Taking it as a sign from God, they left the
church as was and held mass partly outside on the plateau, but like most things
religious in Hungary, communism took care of that, destroying the main cross
above the altar and completely blocking the entrance with a giant concrete
slab. They charge an audio guide fee
which is really an entrance fee, and I bitterly parted with my forints yet
again. I got bitterer and bitterer as
the tour progressed. Instead of going in
depth into the history of the church with a side of religious explanation, what
I received was information I could have read on Wikipedia or in a brochure and
a sermon.
Outside of the grotto church. |
Random wild cat. Gah. |
That little rock off to the right is a remnant of the cement that blocked the entrance. Let's commemorate rock with more rock. |
Needless to say, I texted Verity to tell
her to save her money and take pictures from outside, especially as nearly
everything inside is brand-spanking new.
And they don’t even have a revolution to blame, though I guess communism
comes in a close second.
After spending too much time and
definitely too much money at the grotto church, I hurried over to Buda Castle
Hill, taking the right path up by
foot this time, briefly stopping to wave at Verity as she made her way to the
grotto church. Huffing and puffing from
running up the hill in the lingering snow, I nearly collapsed upon reading the
sign in front of the museum: closed. Operating hours were until 4 PM in the winter.
Ugh.
Another reason to hate the grotto church. And
winter.
I texted Verity to apprise her of
the situation and offer to meet her somewhere closer to the synagogue so we
could shop together for dinner and lunch tomorrow, and while I waited for a
response, I wandered further around the streets of Castle Hill: more of the
same as my first impression, but as the sun set over the hills behind Buda and
the TV tower, I became marginally less bitter about the whole Buda castle
experience. Realtors are right:
location, location, location. A good
sunset and good views can make up for a lot.
View of the Danube from the Buda side. |
Sunset over Buda. |
Streets on Castle Hill. |
Coolest. Gates. Ever. |
Stiiiiill sunset. |
Back of Buda Castle. |
Parliament building at sunset. Sometimes white buildings are fun. |
We finished up the night with a
hodge podge dinner (someone had stolen Verity’s
yogurt, so she made a special trip downstairs to buy more) and packed before
hitting the hay at the socially-acceptable time of 10 PM.
2/17/2012
Day Eight:
Today Needs a Title
According to Verity, today went like
this: “Sat on a train. People go on;
people got off; more people got on.
Continued sitting on a train. Got
off the train. Oh, it snowed. There you go; there’s a bit more detail. It snowed in Budapest; it snowed most of the way
here; it didn’t snow in Prague.”
I’ll attempt to be a bit more
detailed, but she pretty much hit the nail where you hit nails.
We woke up to more of the white
stuff and, gasp, no one had stolen our breakfasts or homemade lunches during the night. We returned our keys, received our deposits,
and trudged through a new layer of fluff to the metro stop and eventually the
train station.
Snow, anyone? |
I expected Hungarian trains to be a
bit behind the French TGV in terms of technology, and they didn’t disappoint. Not that a train can really be “low-tech,”
but they seemed like every other mode of central European transportation: old,
worn, tired. One of the toilets was
locked, and the next one had literally overflowed so that urine coated the
floor and stank up that section of the train.
(Thank God that was in the next car.)
I had to traverse three bathrooms over two cars in order to pee, and on
a six-hour journey that was already running late because of the snow, the
prospect was not fun.
For most of the time, I wrote or
read and watched a Hungarian teenaged boy teach his younger brother how to
read. Verity tells me she spent most of
her ride avoiding the small feet of two children sharing one seat.
Upon arrival in Prague, grey skies
and drizzle greeted us as we stepped off the train to a surprisingly modern
train station, considering from where we’d come.
Prague train station. |
We followed the hostel’s directions easily,
and an American and Canadian male twosome let us into the HostelOne building,
where we met Rod the Receptionist.
The first words we heard out of his
mouth were deadpanned towards the boys: “You’re seriously eating Chinese for
dinner? Why didn’t you just get McDonald’s
or KFC?”
Hee.
Rod checked us in, offered to take us out to the bars after the one in
the basement closed at 12:30 AM, and showed us around: the computers, the tiny
lounge/common room, and the spacious kitchen.
We stashed our belongings upstairs in our 10-person dorm room (with bunk beds this time) before getting
grocery shopping and restaurant recommendations from Rod. When we returned from the grocery store with
breakfasts of yogurt/milk, muesli, and fruit (and the garlic and mushrooms he’d
asked us to kindly pick up), he made fun of us mercilessly for being “so damn
healthy.”
We met a Canadian boy and a German
boy in our dorm room, both of whom seemed to be really nice, and the former asked
for hostel recommendations for Budapest as that was where he was headed
tomorrow. We stowed our stash, yet again
praying to the hostel food gods to keep it safe, before heading out to
dinner. We vacillated between
experiencing the culture and giving in to convenience, and eventually the
latter won, so we journeyed 1.5 blocks down the hill to the burger restaurant
Yes Burger, which had been recommended by two separate hostelers.
Best choice since that hot chocolate
yesterday. Verity ordered a Mexican
burger with real jalapeños on it, and
I had a killer chicken burger with some sort of garlicy-basily aioli that could
put your grandma’s to shame. Coupled
with homemade ginger lemonade, the meal made me forget my guilt over not eating
a Czech specialty.
Contrary to our promise to Rod the
Receptionist, neither of us had the energy to even make an appearance at the bar
downstairs let alone go out afterwards, so we climbed into bed fully equipped
with earplugs and dropped of immediately.
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