Why Is Six Afraid of Seven? Because Seven Eight . . .?

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 14^th century — but the ornate 19^th-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 19^th 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 20^th 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.