I am recently returned from the beautiful city of Budapest where the only variety of crunch under discussion was whether to have the almond cluster or the cherry strudel with one's coffee; and where thumbnail plastic models of medieval Magyar kings seem sane alternatives to Obama and McCain. It is a city of old-world European boulevards converging into expansive, cafe-lined squares whose elegantly crumbling neo-classical and art deco buildings are enlivened with legions of heroic and romantic figurines and statues; with stern caryatids balancing ornate balustrades on their heads; with industrious nudes in stone and plaster relief; and with the pigeon shit crowned marble busts of important men frowning at the music students and German tourists below. I often thought that there were more people on these buildings than in them, and whenever Rhonda and I stopped at a street corner to consult our map I felt the heavily chiseled eyes of the stone figures were always reading over our shoulders. But fortunately the human Hungarians on the street and in the restaurants were friendly and unaffected and even the waiters and vendors were scrupulously honest.
We strolled along the marzipan towers of the Fisherman's Bastion and the nougat clad Royal Palace; gasped at the darkly marvelous Hungarian paintings in the National Gallery; pondered the layered mysteries of Esterhazy cake; sailed the Danube river in search of Szentendre and then trundled back on the efficient HEV train. We wandered around Saint Stephen's Basilica and decided not to go to the opera; we were not too, too impressed by the Matthias Church but enjoyed the church carved out of rock on Gellert Hill. We thought cute Cafe Alibi trumped giant, multi-chandelier-ed Gerbeaud as a place to sit and do nothing; we sipped glasses of Palinka and Tokaji after deciding against Unicum; we agreed that Hungarian wine was spectacular and that Angelika was a nice place to eat dinner. No sign of Starbucks anywhere. We were engrossed by the Hungarian History Museum and pleasantly surprised that a short sightseeing cruise in a bubble boat from the Elizabeth Bridge up and around Margaret Island was well worth the money. Alas, every city has its souvenir stuffed Vaci Utcaand it was sad to see the famous Chain Bridge splattered with grafitti. But one night we walked through the busy Clark Adam traffic tunnel under Castle Hill to get to untouristy Cafe Deryne on the other side, and that was fabulous. We missed the Tomb of Baba Gul and the Museum of Terror because we simply ran out of time, but that is always the way with vacations.
We strolled along the marzipan towers of the Fisherman's Bastion and the nougat clad Royal Palace; gasped at the darkly marvelous Hungarian paintings in the National Gallery; pondered the layered mysteries of Esterhazy cake; sailed the Danube river in search of Szentendre and then trundled back on the efficient HEV train. We wandered around Saint Stephen's Basilica and decided not to go to the opera; we were not too, too impressed by the Matthias Church but enjoyed the church carved out of rock on Gellert Hill. We thought cute Cafe Alibi trumped giant, multi-chandelier-ed Gerbeaud as a place to sit and do nothing; we sipped glasses of Palinka and Tokaji after deciding against Unicum; we agreed that Hungarian wine was spectacular and that Angelika was a nice place to eat dinner. No sign of Starbucks anywhere. We were engrossed by the Hungarian History Museum and pleasantly surprised that a short sightseeing cruise in a bubble boat from the Elizabeth Bridge up and around Margaret Island was well worth the money. Alas, every city has its souvenir stuffed Vaci Utcaand it was sad to see the famous Chain Bridge splattered with grafitti. But one night we walked through the busy Clark Adam traffic tunnel under Castle Hill to get to untouristy Cafe Deryne on the other side, and that was fabulous. We missed the Tomb of Baba Gul and the Museum of Terror because we simply ran out of time, but that is always the way with vacations.
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