A Frank Introduction

At 7 AM the next morning, I was furiously packing my backpack for the capital of Fance. By 8:30 I was at the Bonn train station and by 10:15 I was rocketing southwest towards Paris, the City of Lights. Thus begins a new adventure with a new travel party: My Parents.

It’s true they were here over Christmas, but who can resist the opportunity to visit their son on the Continent? What son could resist the opportunity to stay in a real hotel room (and see the folks, that was important as well)? It works for everybody.

It was especially exciting to visit Paris with Mom (no offense Dad). She grew up with a book called “This is Paris,” studied French in high school (after the Latin program died, go figure), and would generally be classed a second-class Francophile (an first class Anglophile). When I stepped onto the platform, my parents were waiting with hugs and confidence in navigating the Metro system. I like putting myself in charge of the map, but there was a kind of relief in letting them get me pointed in the right direction (despite their jet lag).

After dropping off my luggage at our lovely, Rick Steves recommended hotel, we dove into the city. We were literally one block away from Napoleon’s tomb, so it seemed like a good place to start. The final resting place of everyone’s favorite 19th century megalomaniac is located in Les Invalides, a complex that includes a French Military history museum, a military hospital, and copious war memorials.

The Dome at Les Invalides. Directly below the spire is a very little man.

Napoleon rests beneath massive St. Peter’s-esque dome interred in a monumental marble sarcophagus. Around him are friezes and sculptures depicting him as a Roman Emperor meting out justice and military victory. With all the bombast surrounding him, you would think Napoleon had some kind of…complex. To be fair, much of the decoration was added by his lackeys who bought into his grand vision for France.

Napoleon is in the dark box lower right. The dome arches up beyond the frame.

The rest of the complex was buzzing with activity as limousines carrying military commanders rolled past fascinated tourists. Our goal was to visit the stuffed bodies of Napoleon’s favorite horse and his dog, but, given the luck I seem to bring to every such excursion, the wing we wanted was closed. Satisfied we had seen the memorials of enough of France’s decorated heroes, we headed for the Rodin Museum.

As we crossed the street, trucks rolled by laden with pedestrian and vehicle barriers and clumps of riot police patrolled the pavement. If we played our cards right see a real French striking protesters’ march! But first there was sculpture to see. As we crossed the street I looked over my shoulder and saw it. Paris’s iconic focal point. The Eifel Tower. If I didn’t feel like I was in one of the great cities, a city that inspires art, literature, and revolution, seeing that steel spike shocked me into the moment. We would get there soon. First…

"The Kiss" Probably one of Rodin's most popular images which means he grew to hate it. Oh artists.

The Rodin Museum is a combination of a former hotel that was converted to house sculpture and a well-groomed, but not overly fussy garden where you can walk around bronze casts of the master’s work. The interior felt oddly lived in and threadbare. Chairs and display tables were smooth with use, and the mirrors needed a dose of polish and Windex. This created a comforting effect. You could take your time. You were a guest in this wonderful home. Of course, the electric work of Rodin was incredible to behold. He understood how to animate rock, plaster, and bronze, but beyond that, he understood how to draw the viewer into the story. You see The Thinker, and know he’s grappling with the implications of Hell (not where he left his keys). You see the terrified faces of the The Burghers of Calais and know they are facing death.

About to be executed for resisting the British during the Hundred Years War. They were let off at the last minute.

After the art we needed our first Parisian coffee experience. Then we caught a cab to the Eiffel Tower.

It’s huge. Please realize I am from Cincinnati, home of King’s Island where a 1/3 scale replica of the Eiffel Tower has dominated my idea of the perfect summer day. That replica is pretty big. The real article takes it to a whole new level. It’s also surprisingly beautiful. I heard the stories of angry Parisians who thought it was an eye-sore and assumed they had something to complain about. An Erector set gone massive is not necessarily going to spruce up the neighborhood. But those early detractors left off the elegant ornamentation that circles the base of the tower and runs all the way to the observation deck at the summit. I enjoyed the rare satisfaction of discovering an object I had seen in countless books, magazines, and movies could seem fresh and undiscovered.

Of course, that discovery could only go so far. The place wasn’t open. The workers were on strike and we were left to fume at the Geschlossen gods. As we walked along the park that leads out from the tower, Dad discovered a strange memorial that was erected in 1989. The capitals of Europe line a kind of mausoleum, and I posed with the engraved, then-capital of Germany: Bonn.

It was time for some fine Parisian cuisine, so we wandered through the city and down the Avenue Bosquet to the Rue de Champs de Mars. These streets encapsulated everything I expected from Paris. The chocolate shops were clustered with cafes, bakers and florists wedged themselves in between. I ate tartar and drank French wine. I fully expected to see an artists set up on a street corner documenting the scene, and was mildly disappointed with he didn’t appear.

After dinner we gathered in the hotel lobby for stories and pictures of my European roving, then collapsed into bed. My mom apologized for the “Old People Schedule,” but my body was trilled to get more than five hours of sleep for the first time in a week.

Prague: Czech

(The requisite photo album. You can also linger over the images when you're done reading, or after the next installment which will elucidate some of the images.)

The number of possible puns for this post title are truly mind boggling. Czechpoint. Czech it out. Czech yourself. Czech-ered. Getting Praguers. A Prague in the right direction. Prague-rock. Prague-ressive. Prague-gress….the list goes on. If you have any doozies, please leave them in the comments. Moving on…

An alternative perspective on this trip to Prague can be found on Marty’s blog.

Back in February I went for a little skiing jaunt with my fellow Fulbrighters. Around a cozy table in Mittelwald we discussed places we needed to see before real life begins next August. Nearly everyone I’ve talked to has said, “Prague. You have to go to Prague.” After the Iron Curtain took a bow, Prague became the “it” city to visit in all its unbombed-out glory. Unfortunately, this means everyone has been to Prague and most people have new places on their dance card. During the conversation I discovered Marty wanted to hit the Czech Republic and couldn’t find anyone who wanted to head East. Over dunkel beer we swore to make the trip.

The rumored beautiful Prague, seen through a fog of imagination or maybe just morning smog.

By the following weekend, we had our tickets booked. Thus, at the beginning of April I was cruising towards the abandoned-air-force-base-now-Ryan-Air-hub of Frankfurt/Hahn Airport (which is nowhere near Frankfurt). The bus was slowed up by a wreaked Audi that was hauling a horse trailer. The trailer rolled into view, and I wasn’t sure if I should avert my eyes or stare in agonized horror at what I expected to be inside. With a little more progress I saw the horse calmly standing on the highway. His owner was holding his reins and the animal glanced at the car as if to say, “Ya know, I know of a way to get around that wouldn’t involve engines and mangled steel.”

The rest of the ride I tried to take in the spectacular rolling scenery without making eye contact with the girl across the aisle who seemed mildly creeped out by my frequent glances in her direction (really past her direction and out the window). We arrived with plenty of time until take off with only a minor meander through the parking lot. Note: never follow someone who walks with purpose without first checking the signs. Chances are they have less of an idea where they’re going than you do.

Ryan Air is notorious for charging cheap fares but wringing you for every penny. I had to pay a couple of Euros for not having an EU passport. Then my bag was barely over weight and I had to check it and pay again. They’re even talking about charging to use the toilet on the plane to which I say, “Empty plastic bottles don’t cost a dime.” Side note: Actually in Germany they do cost roughly a dime. Every beverage purchase you make includes a deposit on the container which you can return to the cashier when you’re finished or take to your local grocery store’s recycling center.

An hour after boarding we were touching down in Eastern Europe getting ready to explore one of the jewels in the Hapsburg crown. But first we needed a bus ticket and cash. One of the pleasures of traveling is discovering the coinage in a new country (one of the minor tragedies of traveling so much in the Euro Zone), then trying to constantly remember the exchange rate, eventually giving up the cause and treating it all like Monopoly money.

After a long bus ride and subway connection with fellow Americans, Italians, and Mexicans, we emerged near the heart of Prague at Wenceslas square, but we didn’t have time to explore. We needed our hostel. The streets of the city are narrow and wind like an exchange student who drank too much Pilsner (the most famous export of the Czech Republic). Somehow we arrived at the Prague Square Hostel without event, dropped our bags and went for a wander into the ciy’s night.

Tyr Church, a crazy Gothic edifice that looms over Prague Square.

We were both told Prague can be a deal. You just need to wander off the tourist beaten track. Once the buildings ceased to be reminiscent of movie set, we decided we could start looking at menus. We found a restaurant that sported a witch’s theme, and had great prices. We stepped inside and found one other table of two people with beer in hand. I asked if they were still serving dinner (it was around 10 PM. I’m used to things getting ready to geschlossen around then). The waitress looked like she would resign herself to foreigner stupidity for one more table and said, “Yes.”

Traditional Czech spread (according to the guidebook. Know that I know nothing about tradition that Lonely Planet doesn't tell me.)

We feasted on roast pork, beef, cabbage, and dumplings as you only can in Prague. Washed down with Pilsner Urquell and finished off with a tiny bill. It all went down that much smoother. Another drink then bed. We had a castle to explore. Unfortunately our roommates were still up and about and the light was on. I rolled over and drifted into oblivion. Marty wasn’t able to shut out the light and only got a few hours of interrupted sleep. This would be a theme.

A view down Charles Bridge. Unclear what the concrete barriers are for. If it's to keep cars from barreling through, I feel like the organ grinder could take care of any vehicles. It's not like he does anything but spin a crank all day.

We started with the landmarks of Prague, crossing the Charles Bridge to the massive staircase that ascends to the castle. The bridge has been around since the 14th century and was built in the spot of an even older bridge that united the two sides of the river (Prague means “Ford”). It was spruced up by Baroque artists who wanted saintly statuary and watch towers to loom over the proceedings. Now the bridge is only open to pedestrian traffic and features sketch artists, kitschy baubles, and small music acts. It also features hundreds of tourists posing with the saints and even more taking their pictures.

The view of Prague Castle from Charles Bridge. The high steeples are St. Vitus Cathedral, the smaller white spires are St. George's Basilica. The rest of the surrounding building is where the Executive branch is set up along with a couple thousand tourists.

A view over our shoulders as we climbed up to the castle.

The weather warmed as we climbed the steps to the castle, finally dropping layers at the top. We queued for tickets in a tiny room with that dead-ended into the desk causing every member of the line to do an awkward waltz every time someone walked away with their admission. We also rented “the best and ONLY audioguide for Prague Castle!” available in both British and American English as indicated by the Union Jack and Stars and Stripes on the poster (I have a sneaking suspicion our flag, the last one on the poster, was required after one to many American tourists railed at the hapless vendors, “I don’t speak British! I speak English!”).


The castle complex is the largest in the world when you factor in the Cathedral, monastery, museums, ministerial residences, shopping district, and dungeons. Most royal families relocate a couple of times but the Bohemians deemed their hill suitable for 1700 years of development. Now you have a tourist magnet that actually has plenty of room to let everyone wander without fighting for elbowroom.

The highlight of our excursion to the castle was St. Vitus Cathedral. They broke ground in the 1300’s and didn’t finish until the 1920’s. Six-hundred years of construction (not constant of course) meant the design could be tweaked by each builder creating a living textbook of Czech history and art. In the cathedral we met the patron saints of Prague and the Czech republic who cropped up on street signs, town squares, Charles Bridge, the Opera house, royal clothing and so on. King Wenceslaus, a good guy who lead the Bohemians to Christianity. He was assassinated by his brother (who, ironically, ended up a pretty decent ruler) and had a Christmas carol written about him that dogged Marty and I until we made a break for Vienna. St. Ludmila, his grandmother who introduced King W. to Christianity. She was later strangled. St. Adalbert, who went north to convert the Poles and was thrown off a cliff by the Prussian. St. John of Nepomuk who wouldn’t break the oath of the confessional and was hurled from Charles Bridge (hurled from heights happened quite a bit in Prauge including the Defenestration of Prague which tipped off the Thirty Years War). And finally St. Sigismund, an early king who strangled his son for maybe plotting to take the throne (strangling apparently isn’t rare either) but felt just awful about it and became a saint. There are some hermits and martyrs as well, but these guys were the biggies and the Cathedral and St. George’s Basilica nearby had remnants of all of them.

The final resting place of St. John of Nepomuk's remains. He was dredged up from the river with his tongue still intact. This was considered a miracle since he was killed for either speaking out against the king or for not revealing the queen's confession (this is an ambiguous point). The tongue was later revealed to be a piece of his brain. It all looks the same after a couple years in the river.

Mucha's window in St. Vitus. He was an Art Nouveu master and brought it all to bear on Czech history in this window and The Slave Epic.

A view down St. Vitus's nave.

A close-up view of the spectacular St. Vitus windows.

Other highlights of the castle include foundations from the dark ages, armored corpses from the fourth century, and Czech art by artists whose names I won’t defile with pronunciation. Part of the royal gallery was on display, but most of the collection was looted by the Swedes during the Thirty Years War. Never trust the Swedes.

František Ženíšek's "Oldrich and Bozena" (1884). It tells the story of Oldrich, a Czech prince, discovering a simple Czech peasent to fall in love with rather than wasting his time with those stuffy German princesses. It probably helps that Bozena has forgotten some...support.

We ate expensive (but delicious) Goulash, and walked through one of the oldest shopping districts in town that included a flat once inhabited by Kafka (a more recent favorite son).

We also learned there is a fraternity of royal guards. It includes the guys who guard Prague Castle, Buckingham Palace, the Royal Palace in Copenhagen and so on. I don’t really know what they chat about, or what language they would do it in. Maybe they just vent their frustration at all the obnoxious tourists who try to get them to flinch.

He didn't move, though his eyes were covered, so it's hard to say if he gets distracted. At the fraternity meetings these guys get to claim the most wearable uniforms (the Brits come in last with those crazy, fuzzy poo-bah hats).

Our exploration continued around Castle Hill where we saw Baroque convents and the houses of Parliament. Doubling back to the castle to descend the hill we saw scaffolding being assembled and a guy getting his picture taken with a shabby cardboard sign. Our curiosity piqued we investigated the sign. “April 5. President Barack Obama. Usembassey.cz.” Really? The president was coming here? We scurried back to the hostel and free internet via the U.S. Embassy which was closed “As we prepare for the arrival of the President of the United States.” Great for us, bummer for a tourist who lost his passport to the Vltava river.

A sunset shot of St. Nicholas Church. We'll see the interior tomorrow.

After hopping a fence to investigate a mysterious building flying the Stars and Stripes over Prague (turns out we own several acres of Prague’s city park) we finally confirmed the president’s arrival the following Sunday. Gates opened at 7 AM. We spent the rest of the night in a state of giddy anticipation by first visiting Restaurant Mozart (creepily quite restaurant again, but cheap food) then on to Reduta Jazz Club, a venue Clinton played when he showed up in Prague a decade ago.

Yeah, we're hip.

We felt pretty hip, offering our cover and settling in to listen to a five-man combo led by an Alto sax. Marty had heard about my foray into Absinthe in Barcelona and was game to try it once. I went to the bar and ordered two absinthes. I was given a minty looking fluid with no other accessories. Being inexperienced, I supposed this was diluted or already had the sugar thrown in. Turns out you’re supposed to order the water and sugar separately.

The first sip was biting into a handful of black jelly beans set alight after a week-long soak in gasoline. Marty smacked his lips and brushed away a tear. I apologized and offered to get the water. “No, we need to finish what we began.” By the end of the set our mouths were numb and our esophaguses refusing to cooperate. We decided to call it a night.

Next: We meet the president along with 20,000 of my closest friends (in the most literal sense of “closest”)!

The photos again. Enjoy!

P.S. If you want a different perspective on Prague, here's a trailer for a movie that's coming out in a few months called "The Brother's Bloom." The cast got me pretty excited (Mark Ruffalo, Rachel Weiz, Adrian Brody etc.) along with the writer/director and mixed styles, but mostly I was just excited to recognize a few key locations (even if the say "St. Petersburg." I think that was the trailer's editor's error.

That Pest-y Buda

(Here is a link to a photo album illustrating this adventure, though there's a link at the end, too in case you want to read the story then get a visual aid.)

The next morning I was up at 5:55 and headed to the shower. It was a late night, but the drive to explore Budapest, said to be the most beautiful city in Europe, was greater than my reluctance to get off the bunk bed. Everyone else was up, showered, dressed and ready to hit the streets before seven. Go Team Budapest!

It was a quiet Saturday morning in the Hungarian capital and we moved towards the massive Neo-Gothic Parliament, listening to our voices echo off the buildings and public art of the governmental district. We finally saw people when we approached the parliament building in the form of two guards with furry ushanka hats (the ear-flap hats). They were patrolling the chained off main entrance to the building. According to the guidebook we needed to enter a small door next to the main staircase. We stood by the chain, stared at the door and wondered what to do next. As we discussed, one of the guards began to stroll towards us. Apparently he would let us in, but to watch him approach was to see a man hauling himself through ankle-deep Jell-O. He took his sweet time pulling back the chain to let us pass. Little did he know we had a schedule to keep. Or, maybe he did and this was one of his few kicks for the day.

Regardless, we purchased our tickets for the English language tour from an older woman huddled in the small room next to the regal, main staircase. We had time to kill before the tour, so we walked back across town to St. Stephen’s Basilika. The Neo-Classical building took over 50 years to complete thanks to the collapse of the central dome, causing the architect to start things over at square one. In 1904 it was finally finished. The interior is layered in gold leaf, marble and paintings, a reminder of the power once wielded by Budapest on the European stage.
St. Stephen was the first King of Hungary and his right hand is enshrined in a chapel near the alter. Unfortunately there was a private service underway, so we had to leave the ornate sanctuary before seeing the relic. With more time to kill and not much sleep in our systems, we searched for an example of the famous Hungarian coffee café. After roaming for a few minutes, we realized the only coffee place near the Basilica was “California Coffee Company.” Obviously an import, with a menu in English, we felt a little guilty patronizing the place. They did have bagels, though, a rare product in Europe.

With a shot of Americanized caffeine in our systems and after reviewing our itinerary again, we headed past all the massive bronze art to the Parliament building to learn about the massive Neo-Gothic structure on the Danube. Modeled on the Parliament building in London, but with a dome and more spires, it really feels like an ennobling place to legislate.

The interior is red, teal, and gold, much like the interior of the Basilika. Statues of kings and other proud Hungarians line the walls. In the center of the main rotunda sits the Holy Crown of Hungary. Originally placed on St. Stephen’s head in 1000, over 50 kings have worn the crown. With time it has become more ornate and the coronation set expanded to include a sword, orb, and scepter. In the 16th century they put a cross on top, but in the 17th century it was accidentally bent over. Instead of straightening the ornament, the Hungarian’s left it lop-sided. Now the official coat of arms of Hungary proudly displays the now very distinctive crown.


At the end of World War II, the American Army captured the crown in Austria and took it home for safe keeping before the advancing Soviet Army found it. For most of the Cold War, while Hungary was firmly ensconced behind the Iron Curtain, the Crown Jewels were stored in Fort Knox. The Americans ran a bunch of experiments on the objects, confirming their veracity, then Jimmy Carter gave them back to the Hungarians in 1978. Who knew the U.S. took the Hungarian crown jewels as war booty?

We also saw the assembly chamber where the former upper house of parliament sat. Similar to the House of Lords in the British system, the house of wealthy nobles was pitched leaving a single National Assembly and a convenient open meeting space for tourists and conferences. As the third largest Parliament in Europe, the building is also notable for the traumatic modern history it has contained. In the 1944, the Nazis installed a puppet government lead by the Arrow Cross Party. Basically Hugarian Nazis, they immediately started sending Jews, people who sheltered Jews, and Roma to Auschwitz. In 1945, the Soviets conquered Budapest and installed their own satellite Communist government. In 1956 a massive popular revolution in Budapest succeeded in temporarily removing Hungary from the Warsaw Pact. The Russians weren’t happy and quashed the revolution. Thousands died in the conflict, but the Hungarians succeeded in establishing a more liberal form of Socialism termed “Goulash Communism” with relaxed travel restrictions.
We walked along the Danube, crossing from Pest into Buda, where we climbed to the Buda Palace.

A view from one of the first suspension bridges ever constructed, looking up at Buda Castle.

A royal castle has sat on the site since the 13th century. Sieges and wars destroyed the original fortification, and the current building was erected in 1770. The castle has an incredible view that you can enjoy by wandering up the paths in the hill or by funicular.

St. Stephen's Basilica is poking up on the horizon with the dome.

I didn’t know funiculars were a mode of transportation until I arrived. Now I see funiculars everywhere. Personally, I just like saying the word.
Rachel, Erin, Halley and I wandered around the castle, taking in the view of the surrounding hills and river. We also eaves dropped on a tour that described the ruins underneath the castle, evidence of the old Roman city. It’s been a popular place to build for some time. We then turned a corner and heard a bugle blasting a Reveille-like call. The Hungarian changing of the guard was underway, with soldiers marching in front of a rather non-descript building.

As the last notes faded, and the new soldiers settled into their posts, a middle-aged man who looked like a grizzled Robin Williams asked us if we knew where we were going. Crap, a freelance tour guide. He told us he would show us around the castle area and tell us good places to top to eat. An officially dressed officer then stopped by and whispered something in his ear. I figured he was being told off, but instead his eyes widened and he looked past us at someone walking by the building, “Look, look there! That is the Prime Minister of Hungary!” The Prime Minister was out for a Saturday stroll with his wife while security guys spread out around him. I couldn’t tell you his name at the time (I now know it’s Ferenc Gyurcsány), but I’m always a fan of snapping pictures of someone with political power.

PM Ferenc Gyurcsány and the missus are on the left of the frame.

Our tour of Buda hill left the potential tour guide behind, but we found the main sights by following the streams of tourists and tacky souvenir shops. Matthias Church sits a respectful distance away from the palace. Built around 1000 it was first restored in the Gothic style in the 14th century, then turned into a Mosque when the Turks took over in 1541. When the Turks were kicked out at the end of the 17th century, the Hungarians tried to make it Baroque, but just couldn’t fix it. Finally in the 19th century it was given its current Neo-Gothic form. Like everything in Hungary, it has a pretty complicated history including sieges, miracles and many coronations involving the crown with the slanted cross. It’s named after Matthias the Just, the greatest Hungarian King. I think his name was really what propelled him to greatness.

Inside Matthias Church. The original paintings were uncovered after the Turks left. they were touched up or redone in the 19th.

Outside the ornately painted and tiled church is the Fishermen’s Bastion, a Neo-Romanesque overlook of Danube, built for the Millennial (The Millennial really gave Budapest a lot of reasons to build). We took in the view and I considered chatting with a falconer who was standing in the middle of the bastion with his eagle and hawk for tourists to pose with.

I didn’t want to pay to put the bird on my arm, but I was curious to find out how he came by the birds. Were they rescued after injuries? Were they bred for tourists? Were they captured? Questions I will never know the answer to, because we had an entire city yet to explore.

The Fisherman's Bastion. It would be a perfect place to perform Shakespeare, or shoot a Disney movie.

Our final destination on Buda Hill was the Labyrinth. Way back when the Romans were on the hill, people started building tunnels under the city. These were expanded in medieval times and just kept getting bigger. They were used for storing supplies and people during times of siege, such as in World War II when the Russians defeated the Nazis in the Battle of Budapest. It’s an interesting history, so it made sense “Let’s Go Europe” would recommend we check it out. In fact, the tunnels were one of the highest rated things to do in Budapest.

One of the mystical passages leading to enlightenment and other such B.S.

After visiting, I can tell you it is one of the lamest things to visit in Budapest. The above history was taken from a small sign near the entrance. The rest was a futile attempt at profundity.

We walked down the dungeon stairs off the street into the dank tunnels. I was excited because it smelled like a cave, but instead of ornate formations there were hokey, pseudo-mystical inscriptions and the highest admissions price we paid all day. Instead of acting as a museum, the installation is supposed to be a meditation on labyrinths though human history. We started with reproductions of European cave art. There was no explanation, just images copied from Lascaux and Altamira. Normally I’m down for some Ice Age art, but this was just pointless. Then we found fake medieval fonts and mazes. Again, normally fine, but it was accompanied by a forced attempt at introspection and New Age mysticism. It’s enough to make me create crop circles.

Searching for the point.

The final section detailed the doomed Late Eocene species Homo consumus. The creature produced artifacts preserved in concrete such as Coke bottles and computers. It didn’t appreciate the world and went extinct 50 million years ago. Geeze. We finally went though the “Labyrinth of Courage” in the semi-dark, searching for the sun. We found the exit. Strike one against the “Let’s Go” series.

We finally descended the hill and crossed the river in to Pest, first searching desperately for a café of some kind. One of the bummers of wandering semi-aimlessly through a new city is food tends to cluster. If you find one restaurant, you’ve found ten. We didn’t know where the cluster might be and stumbled into the shopping district just as everyone’s patience was starting to slide. With sandwiches and Hungarian wine in our systems, we could continue our trek to the Hungarian National History Museum. We only had so much time to deal with and Halley looked at me honestly and said, “How much time do you need?” Oh, she hasn’t seen me in a new museum. “I will use as much time as I am allowed.” She suggested 45 minutes. I pushed for 1.5 hours. We decided 1 hour and 15 minutes would work.

The entry staircase to the National History Museum. There aren't as many Barbarians in the murals as I would have liked.

As you can tell, I learned a lot about Hungarian history. Not surprising considering I had everything to learn. Hungary has been conquered, invaded, and resettled dozens of times. This makes it a country fiercely proud of the moments in their history when they were independently ruled. This includes the line of beautified kings and revolutionary leaders. These people take on a mythic quality when exhaulted all over the city in massive bronze statues including “Heroes Square” near the City Park where all these heroes from throughout Hungarian history have gathered in one triumphant arch.

After learning about Maygar armor and 18th century bustles, we needed grabbed coffee again and were given the slowest service I have yet to experience in a café in Europe. That’s saying quite a lot. In Vienna, I practically had to tackle the waiter before I could pay and Carolyn and I could get to our waltzing lesson. This slow waiter was a problem because we needed a bath. Crossing the river for the third time, we headed towards the Gellért Baths. The thermal pool at Gellèrt is described as the only opportunity you will ever have to swim in a cathedral. We didn’t get this experience because the bath had a sign proclaiming it “Geschlossen” (It also said “Closed” and something in Hungarian that likely conveyed the same idea).

We considered its opening time and coming back in the morning, then consulted the map and guidebooks and found two other baths. One was a short walk along the cliff fronting Buda Hill. We saw the steam rising from the complex, but saw a locked door and a gathering of rough locals eying us in suspicion. We darted away and crossed the river once again, heading for the Metro so we could shoot to the suburbs to find Széchenyi Medicinal Bath, the largest medicinal bath in Europe which stays open 'til 10 PM.

The bathing culture in Budapest started with the Romans when they got to the region early in the first century and set up Aquincum, the capital of Lower Pannonia and a bastion against the Barbarians. The Romans were excited to discover Buda (then Aquincum) sits on a fault line, popping up the Buda Hills and percolating geothermally warmed water through the bedrock. They set up their elaborate bath houses and went about the business of being clean and healthy. The idea was forgotten through the more conservative Middle Ages, but was brought back to Budapest by the invading Turks who stole the idea for soaking in hot springs from the citizenry of Constantinople, the heirs of the Roman Empire. So it all came full circle.

The Széchenyi Medicinal Bath was built in 1913 with Neo-Baroque domes and classical statues. We found it by crossing through Heroes Square and thinking we were lost or locked out about three times before getting to the front door. It was open until 10 PM and it was only 8. We had plenty of time to soak and get rid of our Rheumatism.

As we stood in the doorway looking at the ticket booth we felt very foreign. Everyone seemed to know the system. There was a menu of options and even the English translation took us some time to process as it described methods for getting deposits and refunds. Erin finally stepped up and was quickly handed a basic ticket after speaking a few hesitant words. With tickets and cards ready to go, we wandered into the hall next to the booth. People in bathing suits were crossing in every direction with self-assured purpose. Some descending a slippery set of stairs, others entering little wooden doors lining a hallway. We could see the steam rising from one of the baths through the window to our left. There was no roof over them! The baths were just standing in the open freezing air and bathers were dashing from its warm water into the locker area that we slowly entered. This would be an adventure.

The floor was covered in an inch of standing water and we delicately stepped over and through it with our shoes. I parted ways with the girls, turning to the men’s locker area. Everything was steamy and damp. I put on the swim trunks I’d been carrying in my bag all day, and tried to look confident in my path as I followed a massive Hungarian up to the pool level. I stood in the frigid air, waiting for the girls to arrive, but finally gave up my stoic watch and hopped into the water.

The warmest of the outdoor baths. Cool, huh ? (or Hot)

It was heaven. The water was warm. Really warm and smelled earthy and healthful. I ducked my head under and could feel my muscles relaxing. Erin, Rachel, and Halley found me bobbing in the water surrounded by happy couples heedless of PDA norms and large businessmen. We stood under the fountains, then moved to a middle pool area. The first was a decently sized recreational pool. The second was long enough to swim laps, though it was a bit cooler. Halley swam the backstroke and snowflakes began to fall on her face. That is a unique Budapestian experience.

Venus emerging from her shell presides over the "lap pool". Note there is less steam over this one. We didn't soak for quite as long.

After exploring the sauna, the indoor pools and the final outdoor pool with jets and a whirlpool that whipped you around a loop with a 30 foot diameter, it was finally time to get dry. In case you were curious, because it is a public, co-ed establishment, there were no traditional Turkish– read nude – baths. This option is available in Budapest, but the sexes are segregated either with separate bathing areas or with different days of the week for men and women.

The baths are a regular part of many a Budapestian’s day. Online there are pictures of people soaking in the thermal, spring-fed pools playing chess and reading the newspaper while fortifying themselves with the mineralized water. Someday I will participate in such a chess game.

At 10 PM we were dry and cured of the obscure 19th century chronic diseases that ailed us thanks to the therapeutic power of the water. Dinner was supposed to be near the baths, but after walking along the unexpectedly massive blocks to our guidebook advised destination, we were told the cute traditional Hungarian restaurant had just closed the kitchen. We walked on, finally getting to the Metro. At this point we would eat anything. As we emerged from the station near our hostel, an Italian restaurant greeted us with bright interior lights and a bored looking waiter. He assured us they were open and serving, so at 11:15 we ordered our pizzas and they arrived near midnight. The only other customers were three dudes who looked like members of the Hungarian Mob, sporting leather jackets and slicked-back hair. The Mafioso effect was ruined when they started sipping massive glasses of soda instead of wine.

Our final destination was a bar the guy at the hostel told us about near the opera house. Near the trendy part of town, it seemed like a good recommendation. Mensa certainly worked out for us. The streets were eerily quiet and we couldn’t find the street marked on our map. Turning down side streets, we got a little nervous and finally resolved to just find a bar, instead of the one recommended by the hostel dude.

Happy noises emanated from a cellar off the road. The prices looked good, so we stepped down into the dungeon and were greeted with a tiny bar outfitted with three booths, three sitting tables and two standing tables. The clientele ranged from punk to business suits. In other words, this was a local hang out. Always a great discovery because it means drinks are cheap. We ordered a round of palinka, a traditional fruit brandy from Hungary. If the fruit makes juice, it makes palinka. Pears, plums, and cherries are particularly popular sources for palinka. We toasted with our tulip-shaped glasses and sipped the sweet liquor like the locals.

Then we ordered Czech beer and Prost-ed our successful conquering of Budapest. We had see everything on the list, and enjoyed it all, even the goofy Labyrinth. After the girls were hit on a particularly drunk Hungarian who needed to work on his English we decided to call it a night (or morning). Aside: Actually, listening to him was an interesting insight into how I probably sound to a native German as I find the right words but fail to decline them correctly or assign them appropriate genders.

After a brief nap, Erin and I were back on our feet and traveling back through the transit system towards the airport. Even though we had only been in town for 36 hours, we felt a familiarity with the city, lending us confidence as we retraced our steps to Germany and the work awaiting us in Western Europe….

If you actually read this whole thing, I hope you’ve gained a small appreciation and interest in a country that barely registered on my internal world map two weeks ago. I would love to visit again, though next time I might give myself some time to snooze and maybe attempt to learn some of the notoriously difficult Hungarian language.

Until then “viszontlátásra!” (Tschüss!)

P.S. Here's the link to the photo album again.

Anybody, Hungary?

Apparently Berlin has been blanketed with ads for winter escapes to Budapest for months. Bonn is not a key market for this campaign, so a couple of weeks ago when Halley, a fellow Fulbrighter living in Berlin, asked if I wanted to take a trip to the capital of Hungary to celebrate her birthday, I was a little surprised. I really didn't know much about the capital of Hungary except it was east-ish and...actually that was about it.

It’s a fourteen hour train ride from Bonn, so I looked at my air options and was introduced to the incredible world of European budget flying. I discovered German Wings, which flies out of the Cologne/Bonn International Airport, had tickets to Budapest for 50 Euro and Easy Jet had tickets for 50 coming back. That's with taxes, and very little foresight. If I order just a month in advance, I can find flights to all kinds of incredible destinations for 20 Euro and lower. Crazy. This discovery has lead to my new method for wasting time: searching for cheap flights to Milan, Copenhagen, Krakow, Reykjavik etc. Of course I don't plan on going to all of these places, but I love the thrill of discovering how frugally I could do it.

Unfortunately, there aren't many departure times, so I had to settle for flying out on a Friday, arriving around 7:30 in Budapest, then turning around to fly out at 10 on Sunday. Roughly 36 hours in town. Erin was also making the trip and using the same flights. We made a pact to make the most of what little time we had by getting up early, staying out late and sleeping when we're dead (or on the plane).

Friday January 30th arrived and I put my fossils away and headed to the Cologne-Bonn International Airport. I was expecting a tiny establishment with 5 gates, something like the Bismarck Airport, but was surprised to see a recently renovated, massive glass and steel structure. I have a habit of forgetting Cologne has about 1.8 million people in it and the surrounding area gooses that number even more. I met Erin and we boarded. I kept waiting for something to go wrong because the tickets were so shockingly affordable, but they let me sit and we were touching down in Budapest a few hours later.

The first order of business was getting cash. Hungary is in the European Union, but they are not in the Euro Zone, so Erin and I had to track down a ATM to get out a couple Hungarian forints (HUF). Or rather, fistfuls of forints. The conversion rate was roughly 280 HUF to the Euro. This is a difficult number to process quickly and it’s a little disconcerting to stand at the money machine and press the button for “10,000 HUF.” That’s a lot of zeros. The rest of the weekend would be punctuated with each of the adventurers – Halley, Rachel, Erin and I – staring at our wads of money, slowly calculating how much we even had.

The directions provided by the hostel we were gunning for suggested we take the bus into town. Dutifully we stood by the modest bus stop sign trying to figure out how to get tickets. The ATM had spat out one 10,000 HUF note for each of us and we had a sneaking suspicion that the bus driver wouldn’t appreciate making change for our 400 HUF tickets. Sure enough, after the bus arrived and the tourists who each had massive bills started boarding, we watched the change drawer slowly dwindle to nothing. We were the last two to step aboard and the driver just shook his head in frustration, looked at the other passengers, looked at Erin and waved us through. Free ride to the train station, I liked the place already.

The bus dropped us off behind a construction site. There were bags of concrete, lumber and antiquated equipment squatting in the dark. This was how I pictured Central (read “Eastern” Europe). We followed the confident commuters and climbed into the rusted train station that had clearly seen better days. Winos and homeless dudes milled around as Erin and I sized up the train ticket machine. It only took coins and we were still rocking 10 G’s. As we tried to figure out if the convenience store could help us, a control officer approached us. In every train station there were control officers surrounding the validation machines, watching you punch your card. Of course, some people have day passes, others have student passes etc. The controllers don’t check for this or ask why you didn’t stamp your ticket. They just stand there and everyone walk by. We never met a control officer on one of the trains. Bizarre, but I guess it’s a good way to create jobs.

The controller understood our problem and gestured towards an older woman sitting near the stairs to the tracks. She was behind a plywood booth reminiscent of Lucy’s Psychiatrist “Real In” booth. She had each ticket neatly laid out in front of her, and all the change we could hope for. With tickets in hand we could finally descend to the tracks of the oldest subway line in Continental Europe, and the second oldest in the world. The London Underground was the first in 1863, and the Hungarians opened their trains in 1896 in honor of the millennial celebration of Hungary’s founding. Some of the stations still have the ornate Corinthian filigree on the platform’s steel girders. The trains themselves are standard, if slightly used, examples of Europe’s amazing ability to make urban centers accessible and affordable.
We emerged from the station somewhere in downtown Budapest. We spent about ten minutes playing prairie dog, popping out of different tunnels trying to orient ourselves, while being lightly heckled by a homeless dude. We finally saw the street sign we needed, found the hostel’s address and stood in front of a massive steel gate. No lights were on. Erin and I eventually decided to press the main button on the panel next to the door to see what would happen. “Hello?” We stared at the speaker like baboons trying to figure out a radio. “Uh…” “Hello?” “Uh…wir…er, we’re backpackers...um looking for a backpacker’s hostel?” What did I say? We’re backpackers? Did we bring our water purifiers and iodine tablets? “Come on up.” The door buzzed open and we entered the dark passage way, following the wide staircase up to another grated door.

This one said “Hostel.” Entering we saw Halley and Rachel sitting by the computer in a brightly lit lobby. Okay, less horror movie vibe one you got inside. That’s always reassuring. We dropped our gear by our low-slung bunk beds that must have been lifted from a 4-H summer camp, and asked for dinner recommendations. The guy at the desk directed us towards “Mensa” near the center of Pest, the part of the city on the east Side of the Danube. Budda is the city on the western bank. I was skeptical. A “Mensa” in Germany is a cheap, government subsidized cafeteria for students. I’ve seen backpackers in mensas looking for a cheap meal. I really didn’t want typical mensa food, but the location suggested there might be restaurants in the area.

After passing swank designer boutiques and the Budapest Opera House, I decided this wouldn’t be a typical mensa. Indeed Mensa was a very trendy restaurant with a hip, nostalgic vibe and lots of young locals. The food was traditional Hungarian with a twist. For instance, I had Fisherman’s stew, a typical paprika infused dish (the Hungarians love paprika), served over noodles. This was topped with cottage cheese and a tomato and basil sauce. Fantastic. The venison, chicken-stuffed doughnuts and stew were all hits as well. An excellent recommendation. That night as we planned our excursions for the next day, Rachel and I notice that our guidebooks, hers from “Let’s Go Europe” and mine “Lonely Planet’s Europe on a Shoestring,” each demanded we try Mensa if we only ate in one restaurant in Budapest. Things were off to a great start.

We had a pow-wow and decided what we wanted to do the next day: Parliment Tour, visit the St. Steven’s Basilika, visit Buda Palace and Buda hill, visit the Labyrinth recommended by “Let’s Go Europe,” visit the Hungarian History Museum and finally, experience the famous medicinal hot springs of Budapest. If we had extra time, we would figure out what to do with ourselves…will we do it? Stay tuned!