Archive for the ‘Other places’ Category
Tuesday, July 1st, 2008
Sun 1st June
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Last day, so of course I’m burdened by an un-realistic list of things to do, presents to get, places still to see. Or maybe I’m just pre-emptively stressing myself in preparation for the return to ‘not being on holiday’. (I was going to type ‘normality’ there, but a moment’s reflection convinces me this would be stretching things a little) Horrible thought. So lost do I become in pondering the perversity of inflicting this kind of pointless anxiety on myself that I end up inadvertently adding to it; I’ve wasted far too long over breakfast. Idiot!
The taxi from the airport struck me as being fairly pricey. Prompted partly by notions of economy, therefore, and partly by a slightly mad desire to experience the full spectrum of Budapest’s public transport by using every available flavour, I have decided to get a train to the airport. (Despite using metro, bus, other type of bus, tram and taxi, I still failed - forgot to take trolley-bus. Damm!). Being prey to some anxiety about train times - why am I inflicting this on myself again? - and not entirely believing the guy at the front desk in the hostel when he airily assures me that the trains go every half an hour, even on Sunday, I reckon the thing to do is to go to the station, get a ticket and check the time-table for myself. Then I discover that the railway station I need rejoices in the name of Nyugati Pu, which I find deeply appealing. (No, I’ve no idea why, it just makes me smile. Something to do with the sound of the word, perhaps? ) Of course I have to go there at once.
Despite its delightful name, the actual station itself is a bit of a disappointment. Apart from a rather nice, if old-fashioned, wood and brass encrusted ticket office, it’s rather shabby and incredibly noisy. On the whole, though, I’m still impressed because the ticket costs about a pound and the nice lady at the enquiries window speaks very good English. She confirms that the trains do, in fact, depart roughly every half-hour, and the trip takes about 20 minutes. I can record as a matter of fact that she was correct in every particular. I should have believed the guy at the hostel, and am now feeling slightly guilty/foolish for having taken what is essentially an un-necessary side trip.
On my way back to the metro, I see signs for the Westend City Centre shopping mall. Vaguely recalling something in the guidebook about it being the largest in Central Europe, I am tempted in for a quick look round. Apart from (as far as I can figure out) being largely underground, it’s just like anywhere/everywhere else, except the signs in the shop windows are in Hungarian, of course. It’s all a bit depressing, and (despite a lucky find, which solves one of my present problems) I’m glad to eventually escape back out into the metro.
The rest of the plan for today (you can just tell this isn’t going to work out, can’t you?) involves visiting various museums and other places of cultural interest around Városliget (the city park). It ends up involving quite a bit of walking as well - not entirely sensible on a very hot, intermittently thundery, day. The handy card which allows free public transport and free entry to museums expired this morning. I just managed to get to the station and back in time, and I can’t be bothered with the hassle of having to buy bus or tram tickets at kiosks before getting on the bus. So I end up walking a lot. Stupidly, as I later realise it’s possible to get a day ticket for all public transport as well. My feet might eventually forgive me.
Fortunately, there are some compensations. Studying the map I work out a route which includes walking along Andrássy Út - a wide boulevard around/along which (apparently) much of the 19thC cultural life of the city revolved. Every so often there’s a café or two…and …oh look, there’s a bookshop with a coffee shop attached, and it’s open. On the initial pretext of finding someone to ask about English language versions of Hungarian folktales I poke my
head in…and spot a cd section in a corner. After extensive rummaging and some soul-searching, I eventually emerge triumphant clutching a cd by an outfit called Besh-o-droM. I’m immensely pleased when I finally get it home to listen to;
its fab, exactly what I was after - a kind of high energy mash-up of all sorts of Balkan/eastern traditional forms with a very contemporary attitude. Hungary’s answer to Ojos De Brujo, possibly. Given that I chose it on the strength of the name of the band and a photo on the back cover of the CD which gives some indication of the instruments involved, I reckon this counts as a major result.
Whilst I’m in the process of buying this, a youngish man darts into the shop, picks up a basket…and is promptly chased back out into the street by the shop assistants! ‘He’s a thief, bad man’, explains one of theassistants, before sticking his head out of the shop door to hurl what sounds like some high quality abuse after the fleeing villain. I can’t help but have a sneaking admiration for the bare-faced cheek of it - especially picking up a basket first, evidence of a practical approach to the business of thievery. Nothing so exciting ever happened when I worked at Waterstones.
Carrying on down Andrássy Út, my intention being to visit the Museum of Fine Arts in Városliget, I stumble upon a festival of sorts. Indeed, it would be hard to miss it; roughly ¼ mile of the boulevard (leading up to Heroes Square, next to City Park) is lined both side with stalls, and crammed with people. It’s now very hot indeed, and the noise and general press of people is reminiscent of an eastern bazaar - I feel like I’ve temporarily stepped out of Europe altogether. It’s not an entirely comfortable feeling, but there are all sorts of interesting stuff to see and hear. Almost despite myself (and tiredness and sore feet) I’m sucked in. As far as I can work out, the bulk of the stalls each represent some region, town or (perhaps) village, all touting their speciality; food, crafts, wine, music. Interspersed with this are several large catering outfits, and a few more general trade stalls. I’m very impressed a stall promoting a magazine (something like Time Out, from what I can gather). They’ve dressed the stall with huge great drifts of shredded paper (their publication, one presumes) and it’s peopled by two women and a man wearing the most fantastic neo-renaissance costumes made entirely of pages of the magazine. A brilliant, playful notion very well executed.
Slightly dazed by the heat and noise, I stumble on. Eventually reaching Heroes Square to discover what all the fuss is about. Horse racing. The entire square has been converted into a race-track, around which handsomely attired riders hurtle their mounts. The costumes recall the Napoleonic era (must be amazingly hot on a day like this!), and it occurs to me to wonder whether this is a traditional event. Or maybe it’s more of that national re-invention, so necessary after the communist interregnum.
Having set out with the intention of visiting the Museum of Fine Arts, that’s where I head, forging through the crowds on all sides. At least it’s cool inside…a cooling drink and sticky cake in the basement café are somewhat restoring. I tramp around most of the museum, slowly on account of the heat. Even the museum attendants are wilting, one lady slumping theatrically against a wall, fanning herself with a catalogue and pointing eloquently to a thermometer hanging on the wall. It’s reading 27C. Whilst I’m OK with most things metric, I only do temperature in ‘old money’, so all I glean from this is the impression that it’s unusually
hot. Well I never.
Although I’m sure it’s good museum, truthfully my major recollection is not of the art works, but some very comfortable sofas set about in the main atrium. Sensible and civilised, why would it never happen at home?
Tate Modern, for example, would be massively improved by some comfortable (that’s ‘comfortable’ as in enjoyable to sit on, not as in ‘looks good in a design-ary kind of way but you wouldn’t want to sit there for more than about 10 minutes) seating that’s simply there to provide ease for visitors, and doesn’t require you to buy anything. So dreary are these thoughts, and so comfortable the seating that occasioned them that I very nearly fall asleep.
In retrospect, that might not have been a bad idea, although distressing for passers-by had I started snoring.
Impelled by a (not very sensible) desire to at least try and see something else, I rouse myself and stumble back out into the heat and noise…listlessly wonder through some more of the stalls. Once again, I’m really missing someone to talk to. This seems like something for locals, designed as a family day out, and I’m getting that ‘ghost at the wedding’ feeling again. Spotting interesting stuff all over the place it’s very frustrating not to be able to find out more. Most people on the stalls have a little English, but nothing like enough for a real conversation and it’s too noisy and busy to try and bridge the gap any other way. There’s a crowd around one stall, and joining them I find an oldish man and younger woman strumming dulcimers and exchanging verses of song. From the raucous laughter of the audience, I’m guessing they’re exchanging insults…it looks like a kind of contest, and I’d love to know whether it’s improvised, and more about the form. I’m familiar with the notion of flyting (insult) contests from my storytelling researches, but I’ve never witnessed one ‘live’ so to speak. Is it still a living tradition here, or are they just resurrecting something for entertainment?
A little way on I come across a man in a smock and daft hat demonstrating various whistles and flutes…beautifully. I linger extensively, and would definitely have brought one had I not already got one yesterday. It’s touch and go. He’s got things I’ve only seen previously seen pictures of (double whistles, block-flutes, end-blown flutes) and he patiently plays most of them,
at my request. He’s getting some very interesting overtones and other odd sounds. I can’t tell whether he’s throat-singing at the same time, or whether it all comes from the instruments. I try a couple, but can’t get anywhere near. Very annoying not to be able to ask the questions buzzing around my head. Eventually I tear myself away - I can’t really afford one of the bigger flutes
(which I covert excessively) and I suspect it’d take a while (and somewhere a lot quieter) to plumb the technical depths.
Cutting across the park in search of a noted secessionist house, I come across a quiet corner full of tables and chairs. There’s what looks like some pretty serious chess and draughts being played here. Just in case anyone should think its all intellectual, though, there are also several groups of fag-chomping, beer drinking old codgers playing cards. And arguing (probably not about the game) very loudly, for the sheer enjoyment of it, I suspect.
I find the house, I photograph the house. I wonder why it’s painted in a variety of shades of a fairly un-prepossessing mushroom colour.
I should probably be thinking about heading back to pick up my bags and getting to the station. In passing, I pop into a supermarket in search of cooling liquids and also manage to cross the last thing off my present list. Two round tangles of smoked cheese, nestling together in a plastic pouch, looking uncannily like edible testicles. Should I be worried that I have a friend who will be delighted to receive this as a gift? I’d be
pretty pleased myself, which probably tells you all you need to know.
The train gets me there, and it all goes downhill from there
on, really. Hadn’t realised that there are two terminals at the airport, and I haven’t the faintest idea which I need. Luckily a passing woman takes pity on my attempts to elicit information from a puzzled old guy. Thanks to her I find myself in the right place. This is the last good thing that happens for a while. Huge queues, twice…oh, and once again as I have to pay a baggage fee. A little slightly panicked last-minute shopping. Don’t know why I rushed, I’m stuck in yet another queue…for ages.
Seems unlikely that Sunday is the night everyone decides to flee Budapest, so I conclude the airport’s a bit too small for its current volume of traffic.
Isn’t it marvellous the way we’ve managed to transform something as inherently exciting as flying into probably the dullest, most uncomfortable way of getting from place to place? It doesn’t matter so much on
the way there, wherever there may be, but it’s harder to bear on the way back. As is the rain and greyness
Welcome home. It’ll be good to be back, just as soon as the memory of all that warmth and light fades.
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Wednesday, June 18th, 2008
Sat 31st May
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This could get muddled, as I found myself whiling away the evening (and writing notes, badly) at a local wine festival. As near as I can work out it cost me around £3.50 to get in (plus free glass of wine), subsequent glasses being about 75p. Most bottles seem to be averaging around the £4-£6 mark, so I’ll almost certainly be acquiring a couple of souvenirs - assuming I can remember which sample I liked the best, and which stall it came from. A feat which becomes less and less likely as the evening wears on.
Almost for the first time on this trip, I’m sorry to be on my own. The only English I’ve (over)heard so far has been coming from a couple of Californian dudes of a certain age. The one with the blond dreads rummages around in his backpack and triumphantly produces a small lap-top. Whilst he’s earnestly extolling the virtues of some widget or other to his spectacled companion, I’m intrigued to notice that the lap-top rests in its own custom made card-board case….which is nestled inside a cloth brief-case type thing.
Not sufficiently intrigued to ask why, mind you. Largely because I suspect the answer will not only be forthcoming, but lengthy and heartfelt. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve nothing against California and its inhabitants, he said hastily. I had a great time in San Francisco and LA and various bits of Orange County, meeting some truly excellent people.
It’s just…well, what? What am I missing? Not just someone I can talk to, I think. I’m full to the brim with sights and sounds and tastes and textures, thoughts and emotions, and what I’m missing is that very specific ease that comes from being with someone who knows you. There are many advantages to travelling alone, but right now all I want is to share even a small part of what I’ve experienced over the past few days. To have that kind of relaxed, rambling conversation that I’ve always believed to be one of the finest fruits of friendship. Before I forget how it’s done. Believe me, a notebook is no substitute.
It’s possible I’ve had more than wine than I thought. Or not enough.
Certainly not enough to completely dull the pain of my aching feet. It has been a day of much walking, starting with a visit to the Museum of Decorative Arts. Another lovely building (designed by Ödön Lechner, the most successful Hungarian architect of the secession). Vibrant roof tiles, great ironwork and other detail on the outside…and inside like a fairy palace. Built around a central colonnaded atrium with an airy glass roof and arches and columns everywhere, all richly detailed with bas-relief motifs, all white. It’s the most distilled version yet of what I’m coming to recognise as a peculiarly, delightfully Hungarian mixture of Eastern/Turkish and Secession influences. Never mind the exhibits; it’s worth visiting just to enjoy this wonderfully exuberant building.
As it happens, the standing exhibition is very good, with some out-standing art-noveau glass, furniture and jewellery. I’m strangely heartened to come across a Worcester bowl decorated with a Walter Crane design, resting on a cabinet that hails originally from Chelsea.
The museum is slightly off the beaten track, and I walk back towards the centre of town. Quite why this seemed like a good idea, when there’s a more than adequate metro line, and buses galore, I don’t recall. Something to do with present shopping, possibly? Whatever it was, I was wrong, and I have the blisters to prove it.
I do manage to discover what the main synagogue (the largest in Europe) looks like from the outside. Why I should trust a guide book over the knowledge that Saturday is the Jewish Shabbat, I don’t know. Wrong again.
Never mind, I’ll do some pressi shopping. I’m going to have to be a bit lucky, though, as belated scrutiny of the guidebook reveals that most shops close at 1pm on Saturdays. Typically, by the time I’ve thought to check on this, its gone 1. Bugger!
This must be the bit where I have to think a bit about what I’m going to do, and the order to do it in. Crisis is far too large a word to describe the few fraught minutes lost in trying to work this out, but if I get it wrong I could waste half a day. No pressure, then. How do I manage to back myself into corners like this, even on holiday? Perhaps it’s a gift, but if so it’s one who’s utility is lost on me.
On the basis that if all else fails, I suspect the shops along Váci Utca (the main tourist bit) will still be open long after everything else closes, I take a slight detour to go an look at the Gresham Palace in daylight. This is a place that exhibits true class, the doorman diving instinctively a) I’m not about to cause trouble and b) I’d be staying there if I could afford it (One day, Allan, one day) he nods and smiles pleasantly as he opens the door for me. In return, I am suitable respectful of the atmosphere of hushed and expensive quiet that prevails within.
In truth, this is not hard, as it’s just as impressive by daylight. More so, in fact, as I’m able to notice small details of finish that escaped me last night. Take a good few photos, then just sit quietly for a while, drinking it all in.
I was right about Váci Utca, and reward myself by much footslogging and examining of a huge variety of stuff. By dint of a kind of stubborn patience am eventually able to find more or less what I’m looking for, but the effort must have clouded my judgement. Slumped over a large cold beer at a street café it’s some while before I notice that I’m more or less opposite a lap-dancing club. Lovely. The doorman/tout looks about 14 to me, and like that’s his first suit as well. Moderately entertaining watching him unsuccessfully trying out his patter on passing drunks (mainly English & German). It is only about half-past three, though.
Desultorily consulting the guidebook for location of music shop (CD of local sounds being one of the things remaining on my list) I discover there’s one not far away. Maybe I’ll go and have a look. It’s either that or fall asleep (combination of weariness and mid-afternoon cold beer).
Wonder of wonders, not only do I find the shop with ease, but it’s till open! Some earnest consultation with a man in the basement follows, and I become the proud owner of a very reasonably priced (about £8, I think) CD of pleasingly odd folk type stuff. On a whim I explore the rest of the shop and …hallelujah…amongst a modest selection of other instruments manage to find a wooden C whistle that plays really well, is sweet toned and mine for the ridiculously low sum of around £12. Result! I suspect the old-ish man who served me simply wanted to shut up shop and go home. Someone must have appreciated my tootling, though - get a very lovely smile from the woman who directed me to the basement in the first instance.
Meanwhile, back at the wine festival. Nearly time for another sample glass, after which any pretence at coherence will be a lost cause. There’s a live jazz band playing and a few people are starting to dance. A dance of another sort is going on a couple of tables away, I notice. An incredibly pretty woman is gradually being surrounded by attentive, semi-sober would-be swains. A certain glint in her eye leads me to believe she’s far too sensible to be taken in by any of them, but she’s also clearly (and perhaps a shade cruelly) enjoying herself no end.
Feeling suddenly a little skeleton-at-feast like, I reckon it’s time to grab my bottles and head off into the waiting maw of the metro.
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Tuesday, June 17th, 2008
Fri 30th May
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Time to go to church - Mátyás Church, to be specific. Like many of the major buildings around here, it has been built, destroyed, re-built, collapsed, re-built etc. more or less since the 13thC. In an effort (presumably) to stop this happening again, it is currently being extensively and meticulously restored. I know this because of the informative series of panels attached to the scaffolding (also a bit of clue) beneath which the church is lovingly cosseted.
Even lapped in scaff and missing most of its wonderful coloured ceramic roof-tiles it’s still an impressive structure. Inside it’s simply gorgeous. Perhaps on account of being a Brit (and therefore heir to a proud tradition of neo-gothic severity) I’m used to being boggled by the flamboyance of Baroque and Romanesque churches without necessarily being particularly moved. One appreciates the artistry, but it all seems a bit over-blown and florid.
I’ve never seen anything quite this, however, and I love it. Every inch of the interior is covered with a rich variety of painted patterns in a muted palette of (mainly) earth tones, red and blue. Figures here and there are picked out in gold, and there’s some great stained glass as well. I spot the raven again, tessellated all over one wall near the entrance, but most of the patterning is just that, patterns. The whole effect is like an explosion in a William Morris wall-paper book, although not so floral. Maybe it has something to do with the thread of the east that twines through so many things here. To me it gives a feeling of richness and warmth. It’s spectacular, but also subtle; quite apart from any intrinsic significance individual patterns may possess, this is a major achievement in a purely decorative, graphic sense.
It seems somehow more joyful than our sombre English stones. My enjoyment is only slightly marred by a number of people happily flashing away with their cameras. I’ve no doubt they got better pictures than me . I turned my flash off, feeling it overly intrusive in what is still very much a functioning place of worship.
Eventually re-emerging into the sun, no doubt with a fatuous expression of contentment and blinking like a mole, I am pounced upon by an extremely polite hare-krishna. Clearly more worldly than might be expected, he flatters me into listening by praising my dress sense and saying that I look too relaxed to be a Brit. Extracting myself costs a few euros, but I’m sure it’ll be spent in a good cause, so I can’t really begrudge it, as I say ‘gouranga’ with enough conviction to convince and saunter off in search of refreshment.
Temporarily cooled by ice-cream, I manage a bit more wandering in the old town…happily making small discoveries - a great sign for an antique shop, an interesting door, funky wrought-iron hedgehog (café/bar sign), a man with wings growing out of his head…and a small gallery full of modern paintings, etchings and sculpture, Koller Galéria. Through an archway, across a courtyard, ring the bell, then up a steep flight of stairs that doesn’t look promising at all. They manage to pack an astonishing amount of work into a little-jewel box of a place, two stories and a very secluded courtyard garden. It’s a pretty mixed bag, but it’s such a charming place that I don’t mind…besides, there are two works by a painter called Robert Csáki that are well worth the effort. Large oils, they depict strange child-like figures with oddly self-absorbed, almost death-mask like faces. They look like Odilon Redon portraits of David Lynch extras, and I wouldn’t be at all surprised if they crop up in dreams to come. Venturing back out into the sun feels slightly
unreal, and I’m resisting the temptation to look around to see if a small, serious looking figure is following me.
Right, now I definitely need something to drink. Choosing entirely on the basis of the name, I plonk myself down in a chair at the Café Miro. A happy accident, as not only does the place look great (very striking deep blue and orange walls, and amazing chairs with spidery wrought iron legs) but it also serves the best lemonade I’ve ever had, anywhere, anytime. Fresh lemon and lime juice, just enough sugar to take the edge off, lots of ice and great big chunks of orange and lime. Sensational. Isn’t it great when a place looks good, 
feels comfortable and comes up with the goods? A fitting tribute to a great Catalonian artist, in its way; quite why it should be here (I don’t think there’s any particular link between Miro and Budapest) I don’t know, but I’m damm glad that it is.
Whilst I’m sitting scribbling (and demolishing a tasty, citrus laden salad) a falconer wonders around the corner. You can tell, ‘cos he’s got a huge great hawk of some kind, hooded and jess’d, on one hand. For one glorious moment it seems like he’s heading straight for the café, but then he veers off and disappears around another corner. Too bad, I’d been looking forward to hearing someone order, ‘a cold beer, and something small and squeaky for my friend here’…in Hungarian, of course. A near miss, but deeply satisfying, none the less…of such small moments of strangeness…
A siesta would be good round about now. I wonder if there’s anywhere I can lie and snooze, without attracting unwelcome attention?
Eventually decide to venture a little river cruising, and set off to find the Danube, by the simple expedient of heading down hill. Perhaps unwisely, I pay for this treat in Euros, and thus get slightly done (relative exchange rates being poor just now) but it’s too hot for complicated maths. Serve me (and my local post-office) right for not laying my hands on enough Forints in the first place.
The cruise is pleasant enough - the commentary doesn’t tell me much more than I’ve already gleaned from random forays into my guidebook, but it’s good to be on the river. Seems almost obligatory, having come all this way. Besides, the management has sensibly crewed the boat with attractive young women (’twould be idle of me to pretend not to notice) two of whom impress me no end by passing a microphone back and forth between them, rendering announcements in 9 or 10 languages between them. Including, I think, Japanese.
Even more sensibly, the price of the trip includes a couple of complimentary drinks. Cold beer in hand, enjoying the fine views of the city, I find myself grinning widely with pure pleasure. An expression so vapid
that it would, I suspect, in normal circumstances get me looked at askance, if not actually arrested.
The cruise pauses at Margaret Island, where we have the option of an hour or so’s wandering about. Another boat will come and take us back later. Despite the obvious romantic/historical associations it has for the locals, I’m not that struck. Whatever it has been in the past, now it doesn’t seem like very much more than a large (it’s over 3km long) civic park. Nice enough, with well manicured grass and lots of mature trees, concrete paths and concessions stands (mainly ice-cream and bike hire) dotted about. It could be anywhere, really.
I’m briefly diverted by the appearance of a red squirrel, darting out of the bushes to skitter up a rubbish bin and have a good rummage. Behaviour which makes me wonder whether it’s only their relative rarity that makes them seem so special back home. The island is obviously a favoured spot for joggers. An amazing number of whom (both sexes and all ages/degrees of fitness) variously speed, pant and patter past whilst we’re waiting for the boat to take us back. Rather unkindly, the proprietor of the small café here has set his tables up either side of the path, forcing the joggers to run right through them, within arm’s reach of all manner of cooling refreshments.
Back on dry land, I decide to try and find the Gresham Palace. Partly as it’s supposed to be one of the sights of the city, but mainly in order to take some pictures to send to my friend Xanthe Gresham. In many respects this turns out to be a mistake as a) it involves wondering around Pest which is a very different proposition to Buda (of which, more later) and b) it’s got dark by the time I do eventually find the place, and the photographs prove disappointing. The building, however, is sensational (I resolve to come back again tomorrow, in daylight.) Originally commissioned by an English financier, Thomas Gresham, it was designed by the splendidly named Zsigmond Quittner and finished in 1907. It’s been lovingly (and, one enses, very expensively) restored, and is now an up-market hotel, and it must be one of the most perfect secessionist interiors in the world. The attention to detail, in both design and restoration, is impressive; everything is right, and the whole effect very much more than the sum of its parts. So lovely I’m almost dribbling with delight, and immediately conceive a deep-seated ambition to stay here. Better start saving now. I’m actually astonished they let me into the place at all - perhaps it’s not wearing jeans (linen makes a lot more sense when it’s as hot as this). It’ll be interesting to see whether I can get away
with it in daylight.
I’m now betwixt and between, wandering around Pest trying to decide whether to have anything else to eat. Not quite hungry enough. It’s all very busy, full of people and stuff going on, skateboarders and cyclists zipping everywhere, shops, bars…a vibrant city night-life, even I can see that. Unfortunately, having spent the last couple of days in quiet contemplation of this and that, mostly in old Buda, I’m
not really ready for this.Being accosted twice within an hour (maybe it’s the purple shirt) by the same pair of heavily made-up small town girls (from Lake Balaton, I discover) in search of a night on the town is a bit too much and I decide to call it a night and head for my bed.
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Friday, June 13th, 2008
Fri 30th May
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I know where I’m going now - which metro, tram etc…or so I think, until I try and take a short cut up to the castle again (in search of some things I missed yesterday) and hit two dead-ends in quick succession. Doubling back for the second time, I endure the puzzled scrutiny of a raffish
looking bunch of builders working on an apartment block. There’s a lot of cranes about, every street seems to have a house being done-up/over.
It’s only 10ish, and already pretty hot, and I’m feeling tired and stiff, so it’s a relief to reach the top of the hill and gain the cool sanctuary of the National
Historical Museum (housed in yet another wing of the palace). Here I spend an instructive and largely pleasant couple hours randomly filling in some of the holes in my knowledge of Hungarian history (not hard, as you could drive a large truck through pretty well all of them) and dodging school groups. Is it something about Friday, I wonder, as they seem to be everywhere today?
Despite it’s long and varied history (there’s been a royal building here of some sort for centuries, many of which were destroyed…then re-built/re-modelled…most recently in WWII, when most of it was wrecked; it was re-built in 1949 to a consciously anachronistic design dating from 1906) and largely re-built neo-classical exterior, the palace is the nearest thing to a real Tardis I’ve yet come across.
Not only does it seem to contain more museums/galleries/cultural institutions than you can shake a stick 
at, but they all look completely different inside. I strongly suspect that their aggregate volume is considerably larger than any sane contemplation of the whole conglomeration for the outside would suggest.
The interior of the National Museum of History alone encompasses sombre civic marble, gothic and 18th C chapels, a rather lovely baroque courtyard and some labyrinthine cellars, built on top of the ancient remains of …well, itself, basically.
In contrast, another part of the palace contains the National Library, the entrance lobby to which looks not unlike a very up-market airport departure lounge circa 1974. It’s all very confusing, but also enjoyable.
Stumbling around the cellars looking at bits of previous incarnations of the palace was mildly entertaining, but the real star of the History Museum was an exhibition about Mátyás (pronounced Mathias) Hunyadi - very good indeed. Said mid 15thC Monarch being something of a Hungarian culture-hero, fighting a lot of wars (successfully, on the whole), establishing law codes, wheeler-dealing with the great families of Europe, like the Sforzas in Naples (there was a marriage deal that eventually went astray). He also founded what was considered to be one of the greatest libraries in Europe.
Having said that, one might expect to see a volume or two…so I’m somewhat taken-aback (although delighted) to discover case after case of truly superb illuminated manuscripts. Bibles (of course), treatises on art and architecture, classical texts and commentaries. The incomplete Florentine-made royal bible is particularly breath-taking; lovely text, extremely fine illuminations and gold-leaf aplenty. Here it doesn’t seem out of place.
t all supports Mátyás’ reputation - amongst many other ascribed excellences - as being the local father of the enlightenment, the prototypical Hungarian Renaissance Man. Crossing places are always fascinating,and he seems to have occupied a pretty major one, inheriting (largely due to come clever politic-ing by his father) the mantle of a late Mediaeval Prince at a time of huge political and cultural change.
I’m absurdly pleased to discover why there is a wrought-iron Raven with a gold ring in it’s beak atop a very handsome gate outside. It’s Mátyás’ symbol, from his original family name of Corvinus. Latin for Raven, and also, apparently derived from their occupancy of a region known as Corve. I don’t manage to find out why there’s a gold ring in the beak, though. Frustrating as it’s the sort of detail behind which often lurks a good story.
As a storyteller I’ve long been convinced that the primary building blocks of identity - personal, tribal or national - are the narratives we are continually constructing/re-constructing about ourselves. This exhibition seems to me a very clear example of a conscious attempt to re-construct part of a national narrative, to re-assert a part of their sense of self that has recently been suppressed.
I find it hard
to think of this, and then contemplate the Statue Park (which is in some respects telling a rather different story) although the proximate causes, the recent historical events which necessitate the telling of both of these stories and lend them such incredible resonance, are ostensibly the same. It occurs to me that the signs of re-building I’ve been seeing all over the place are also part of the same process of re-definition, carried out on a personal, domestic level.
As a casual visitor (and lacking any personal experience or specialist knowledge) after the fact it’s obviously virtually impossible for me to gain any real sense of the day-to-day reality of the communist regime, and what that meant to those who lived through it. Maybe, though, it is possible to get at least an inkling of the shape of the hole that it’s left - because all of these re-buildings/re-constructions, re-storyings help define the edges of that void.
view all the photos
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Thursday, June 12th, 2008
(still!) Thurs. 29th May
Tired and happy, on the metro on the way back to the hostel; a youth, sitting opposite me. My first thought (due mainly to astounding girth of trunk-like legs) was ’shame, he’s caught America’. Very short, seriously gelled hair, t-shirt proclaiming allegiance to some brand or other, listening to music on his mobile phone.
Then he gets off. As well as the trendy satchel over the shoulder he also picks up the rather lovely, old-fashioned wicker basket that had been on the seat between him and the middle-aged lady I had assumed was it’s owner. The basket is about 18 inches across, and about as deep, and as he leaves the train I can see that it appears to be completely full of cherries. A good few pounds of them, ripe, shiny and tempting.
I am, somehow, obscurely comforted. It’s good to be wrong sometimes…or even quite often.
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