The two of them just sat there in the evening’s shade,
the sun just then was setting,
but oh how they wished that it had stayed.
For in both they could feel this moment,
this chance to be alone,
deep in side themselves they knew that
too soon it would all be gone.
Just as an afterthought I chose to go into Google search just to view the pictures available under ‘ Partner’.
Where has all the romance gone, I ask ya!
Though a definition to partner includes the idea of two people undertaking any amount of actions, the word can be found littered across business to sport, from dance to relationships, in all instances it does have that cooperative feel but within the realm of romance I get the feeling that now, well for the last 10 – 15 years ( I’m working to the prehistoric scale here), it has taken on a role much like Ms did before it. Exploring Ms /miz/ we find ourselves delving into the feminist world, and the struggle within it, as with PC (political correctness not personal computer), to redefine somebody without attaching a stigma. Miss was very much unmarried, Mrs married, but Ms allowed for ambiguity, of which an advantage may be gained where people would be of the tendency to discriminate on the first two titles. Employers come to mind.
Well for me the word partner cropped up more and more often as the nineties grew older with people perhaps finding themselves victims of discrimination if their marital status or sexuality was to become public knowledge. In a world too often dominated by conservative values unmarried couples with children and same sex marriages were, and let’s be honest, still are frowned upon even in more liberal socities. Whereas the latter group have highlighted this point through their reception at Gay Pride marches, the former too finds itself getting the short end of the stick when it comes to basic legislation. A former student of mine, on hearing that my girlfriend was expecting, actually advised me to get married if I wanted to avoid the reams of paper work which would most certainly be incurred. I didn’t listen to her and needless to say in hindsight it was the worst thing I could have done.
I, personally, still use girlfriend when referring to my partner as we are unmarried but sometimes wonder as to the juvenility of that. Some of my friends have even suggested that girlfriend seems less commital, though these people also reside in the married domain and therefore may be begging the question.
Occasionally I have to wonder as to a person’s sexuality if they mention their ‘partner’ but allow time and further information to raise me from my ignorance. Now ‘girlfriend’ as sometimes used by my female students to refer to their friends who are girls still manages to draw a giggle. Boys will be boys!
On the whole whether you use partner, wife, lover, girlfriend, spouse it makes no difference for love by its nature renders the inane tolerable, and by inane I mean any debate on titles! Careful now!
On my partner’s (girlfriend’s*) insistence I have decided to sit down and write this. It’s merely a reminder as to the Best Burger review I did earlier.
The burger itself: The retro burger contains meat (no surprise there), buns which are larger than the usual with that certain sheen to the top bun which makes it all the more distinctive, and maybe even slightly rustic. Sour cabbage or a mix of cabbage and red pepper are also included. It is a messy affair which allows for plenty of finger licking, a habit which only serves to accentuate the pleasure! I am not, by all accounts, high on table etiquette in such cases, rather relishing the prospect of getting down and dirty.
In truth I don’t remember all that was inside but I do recall it being top notch burger-isation (ref: The Best in the West).
For a more comprehensive list of ingredients I would advise a trip to the Best Burger or try on-line for recipes to play around with at home. Below’s just a sample.
http://homepage.interaccess.com/~june4/hamburgers.html
Picture courtesy of:
http://www.gasztroblogok.hu/burger-house-caffe-gasztro-23548.html
See original review
http://thehairyteacher.com/?p=451
*http://thehairyteacher.com/?p=489
The Paul Street Boys/ Pál Utcai Fiuk
by Ferenc Molnar
25/5/2012
The intention of this is merely to supply an appreciation of a book I’ve read only recently. Actually as I write this I have yet to finish it but as I intend this piece to be slightly longer than the few thoughts I write here tonight I am sure that the story will conclude before I do. So it is with caution that I go in search of references, links, by way of a route to take, as tomorrow I plan to walk the streets, feel the vibe, and perhaps take a few photos. A written record will also be deployed, hopefully, and if I am brave enough to chatter into my dictaphone this too may come in handy. Not that babbling away to oneself, or apparently so, is unusual these days what with the number of hands free devices on the market, and more and more of them are becoming less and less conspicuous. It’s getting harder and harder to tell the loons from the rest but perhaps the former are more pointedly recognisable these days by their satisfied silence. We’ll see.
http://members.virtualtourist.com/m/tt/8ecfa/
25/5/2012
It was a Friday and after a week of mulling over the prospect, book in tow to every class, questions asked of every student, a picture began to form. To some it was a mere child’s book though a pride, perhaps a sentimentality, shone behind those eyes, in those expressed words. To others it meant nothing; it was school and all the hardship that that period entailed. Being a mandatory read unfortunately allows in the element of bitterness that comes with the set curriculum of our youth. Some, however, tend to reminisce though this too brings with it a naivety no less tainted than the anger. Neither is the full picture but in setting out along the streets of the story, the places where it all took place, I endeavoured to find at least an element of the truth, if not in the story itself, at minimum in the very life which still reverberates in the heartland of the eighth and ninth districts.
My journey began on emerging from the Kalvin ter metro and, following along the Vámhoz Korut towards the river the big market is the first great landmark though the church in Kalvin ter was a surprise, and therefore new to my appreciation, especially since it has been somewhat obscured for the last few years due to the Metro 4 hoardings.
As the red brick of the market building comes into view so also does a little left turn and it’s here that the first street mentioned in the book is encountered, Pipa utca (Pipe street). With phone camera and dictaphone the points of interest would from now on be noted, [using either original phone photos and audio files or a revised photo shoot with Andi and excerpts from the book], any chance to write too inhibiting to the overall progress. This writing, in fact, is taking place in IF café on Raday utca.
A moment was needed to stop and collect my first thoughts/impressions; some pictures and sound comments to boot. At this pace a healthy estimate is to finish stage one of the three stage projected walk today.
14:00
Well a burst of energy carried my little legs farther than I had imagined, or for that matter, dared hope. I found myself on Koztelek, a very familiar street but couldn’t find the fabled ‘smoking’ pub, or eternal house party as the legal loophole requires,
http://www.ratebeer.com/Place/state/city/skanzenclub/25806.htm
http://welovebudapest.com/en/cafes-bars/skanzenclub
while the City Gate office complex on one side and park/ playground on the other were looking altogether other than what I’d imagined in light of the novel. The tobacco warehouse was certainly gone but standing resplendent, was the Jazz School (http://www.lfze.hu/kapcsolat ).
Crossing Ulloi and the first the Semmelweiss complexes I was soon at the corner of Maria utca. Road works spoiled the feeling but some of the ramshackle spelt of the wear and tear which probably traversed the period that Nemecsek and co. wandered these same streets.
On Maria there are clinics, the eye clinic telling a tale of two halves, for left of the door lay a building dilapidated, windows broken, brickwork crumbling, while above the door and to the right things seemed to be somewhat in order. Could people see this, well you would hope they could, afterall! Was it a sign of the times? With construction sites littered all across the eighth on the far side of the Korut; as in other districts, the old is often forsaken in favour of the new. Like Boka’s shock at the final realization of the fate of the Grund to upward development, maybe here, and now, it’s become about the knock and rebuild, though where there are derelict areas, maybe there is a greater history of war here than I first realized. By here I mean the eighth district, not the city of course.
A glance up Pál utca told me that nothing special resided there so I strolled to the junction of Maria and Baross. Looking further along Maria I noticed signs, and lights, and things, but that would be for another day.
Today I took Baross to the Korut only to find myself, at the corner of Baross and Jozsef Korut, looking at Stex ( http://www.stexhaz.hu ). I’d taught a student in there once on a lunchtime hour. A good food choice if the walk to this first significant juncture has made one peckish. It, also, has to be noted that on both sides of the Korut running back to Ulloi there are cheaps eats, gyros shops and things while across the street moving into the Corvin area one can find oneself in the newly renovated environs with cafes, cinema and bars abounding.
But, for now I wandered back, passing Csepreghy utca, before arriving again at Pál utca. The former has a few offers but Pál utca, except for a sign, and only that, for wine, holds only a Karate club (https://www.facebook.com/gojukaihungary ). The notion that the building that houses this club could have been the one erected… “…come Monday…” …gave it a significance. Wars were, and may still be, fought here.
Initially I had the thought with time constraints (I had a class in just over an hour) to finish with a stroll down Kinizsi, left at Knezich and end up where Nemecesk ended up, at number 3 Rákos utca, a name which doesn’t exist anymore (http://members.virtualtourist.com/m/tt/8ecfa/ ). It’s now named Hogyes Endre utca, but there is a building there at No. 3, the sign Unitarius Templom above the door merely suggesting, as does the traffic in and out, that some part of the interior is taken over to prayer, and contributions to renovations of the façade, perhaps. One may even stretch it to a prayer for the soul of a warrior, eternally dying till that page is turned, till his hand runs cold and his skin pale. Eternally living within our hope because for every word Molnar emits, till he finally states it, we, too , search for light like the hapless boys, but, perhaps, in truth the grim reality is more apparent in Nemecsek’s own words, but certainly also in the walk so far. This, time and decay, is the way of things, replacement too, and lest we forget where Boka and his squad had their day with Nemecsek’s heroic contributions, no less honourably in the way of war, and no matter how desperately they were depicted, Feri Ats, his Pásztor boys, and the rest of the Red Shirts, didn’t have theirs. Loss, then, as Nemecsek seems, only, able to see is as a part of this victory, this life, as all else.
With a somewhat melancholic disposition I did, in truth, find myself leaving Hogyes Endre utca, though at the time it was a mere emptiness. Now some hours later over notes I have found these words but, one must take into account the fact that it was not until sometime after this first excursion that I finished the book and so it is with a retrospective licence that I complete the gaps of my afternoon’s musings. And gladly.
Sauntering back up onto the Korut through the little park area which is at the corner of Hogyes Endre utca and Ulloi I found myself dashing across at the zebras which led me the far side of Jozsef Korut. It still wasn’t too late so I could probably risk rushing up Ulloi towards the Botanical Gardens. The rain which was forecast hadn’t yet come and didn’t seem threatening and therefore I, unlike Nemecsek, would not be suffering for my troubles. In fact, the oppressive state of the atmosphere of late had somewhat dissipated. The sun burned brightly, which was bearable, and with this I was accompanied up past various side streets, past Klinikák metro till finally I veered left at Korányi Sándor utca and along the side of the university, the grounds of which before, would all have constituted the area of the Botanical Gardens.
Passing what I roughly translated as the Natural Museum (proper name forthcoming*) on my right I noticed the grounds of the university becoming more and more wooded, almost tropical. I was in the right area, this I knew, but where could I go to collect a photo, a true souvenir, a testimony to the occasion. The boys, Boka, Cso’nakos and Nemecsek had first scaled the perimeters of this place on a side street but looking at the map I wondered if that acacia tree may not be on Szigony utca, not Korányi. It didn’t matter. It would, another time.
I spotted a sign, passed a flower garden, and was suddenly at the gate. My wonder, even confusion, was precipitated by the realisation that it was almost an anti-climax. The fact that I had neither the time nor the volition to spend my money on entrance at this point helped alleviate any doubts. I would be back, and that was enough for today. I took my photo, noted a bar on the corner facing the garden entrance, and made my waydown Ille’s utca. As I passed Tomo utca I realized I was straying slightly inwards from the parallel with Ulloi and while this was, in truth, exciting I did have a class in what was now 45 minutes. I headed onwards, however, Práter utca having caught my attention.
Turning onto this street I was taken aback by the street life. This place, even if negatively aligned in most people’s minds, still holds an allure born of the very fact that its street corners are teeming with life, at least a lot more so than the residential districts of Buda.
Heading back then, down along Práter, I found myself almost wandering past Molnár Ferenc te’r. It didn’t happen, however, and I managed to get the last shot out of my camera phone. Across the street nestled at the bottom of the newer high rises there was a bar full with revelers and I wondered if I could sit among them, and if I’d go unmolested. No reason not to except that here more than any other place in Budapest I felt that thorough sense of community! Today was also a work day and so I could legitimately avoid the beckoning to prowess and so it was that I wandered off down Práter my dictaphone sucking from my soul all that I dared reveal. With the Korut back in sight I noticed a few statues clustered and suddenly I became astounded. Here, more than any other place that I had imagined, a sign of the whole episode appeared. There was Nemecsek and his buddies playing marbles and just off two other characters of infamy looked on. There would be an Einstand and there would be a reckoning but at this moment I could prevent neither. I could but look on, impotent in the knowledge that what would transpire had all but spawned from this first distaste. If only I could tell them all, the Pasztor’s too, that this was merely a piece of land, no more, but it wasn’t my place, and I didn’t have time. I rushed on while those figures stood in preparation of what was to come next. What would they have done if they had known I wonder.
30/5/2012
Just now I’d like to return to the beginnings of all things and why for one did I chose to go on this pilgrimage to Pál street. It wasn’t actually because of a deep love for Ferenc Molnar, I hadn’t read any of him before, nor had I ever heard about that particular book. What drew me to this adventure was by no means connected in any way, or at least that appeared to be the case.
It all started with a Russian style breakfast which included blini (pancakes), caviar, sour cream and lilac onions.
http://www.ehow.com/list_6362706_russian-breakfast-foods.html#page=4
We had champagne, pezsgo actually but I’m not about to differentiate here, and strawberries which were deftly introduced to the alcohol at some point. There was fresh strawberry jam and homemade scones. Okay I must empahsise Russian ‘style’ here! It was a veritable feast, a taste sensation, a joy to behold… and the fact that it was a breakfast meant it really set us up for the day. Perhaps the pezsgo had us feeling ever so heady, lulling us as is a prerequisite to lazing on a Sunday afternoon.
Now how does this relate to Pál street or its environs? It doesn’t but it was there at breakfast, invited as we were by our friends Borcsa and Doma, that I was presented with a book. This book, ” Paddy Clarke ha ha ha” by the Irish writer Roddy Doyle had thus far in life eluded me and in truth I took it somewhat politely. I never expected it to amount ot much, but it worked. It played with my own schoolboy experiences, it reminded me of times and beliefs long left unvisited and, as my girlfriend would later point out, it probably awoke in me some need to revisit and reconsider the impact of that period upon who I am.
While reading it I was reminded of a book I had recently bought as a present for my brother, The Paul Street Boys, and I thought that it might complement Doyle’s book as a comparitive of not only two countries, Hungary and Ireland, but also childhood in turn of the century Budapest and sixties suburban Dublin. It was at this juncture that the Pál street saga was truly born.
15/7/12
A typical summer’s day…rain and a little bit of sunshine. It didn’t use to be this way, or at least that is what our selective memories want to claim. Personally I do remember more possibilities to get out and about, on adventures not unlike The Paul Street Boys.
Growing up on Cork’s Southside in a neighbourhood which falls within the city limits, and which used to be on the extreme peripheries, I experienced all that gang warfare as a child could throw at us. I’ve also witnessed change over the years which has me now on this return home for the summer trying to pick out the familiar on a landscape which is forever morphing. Not that that’s difficult from my family home inwards into the city centre. It’s going outwards through the areas that used to be the bog, the woods, the fields, the countryside; these are the areas I find less recognisible. There are, of course, contours which hint at a bygone familiarity but these are being slowly eroded over time. I say slowly but think back to my father’s memories and the changes he must have witnessed and believe, with a degree of certainty, that my own life has seen progress that would have been multi-generational in any other era. Now change is endemic – in modern society it is a feature. Perhaps it’s this lack of stability, even in our surroundings, that I would like to explore here, and it’s perhaps with both the Paul Street Boys and Roddy Doyle’s Paddy Clark Ha Ha Ha that I can find it, being that both hint at the despair which change can bring. I may never achieve more than a rudimentary commentary on the whole affair but nevertheless I’m still entitled to my endeavour. Forthwith I shall continue unabated, or at minimum undeterred by doubts about this project, a project which still lacks its own clear definition. For a traveller who doesn’t get the opportunity to do so as much as he once did I’m intrigued by the possibility than a literary exploration may find me rambling the highways and byeways of an as of yet relatively unexplored domain…a spontaneous journey into the academic. How utterly uncertain; how bad!
21/7/12
9/8/12
Tragedy struck in the way of downloading my photos from my phone to the laptop. Lost most of the Pál utca tour shots, though never mind cos the streets are still there and are ready to be revisited. I’m wondering as to how I can approach anything concerning this project now without stealing from other things important to me. The family and my work projects taking precedence I’ll still visit here and my project file which I hope is still extant on my C drive. Ode to the techology dinosaur, that he may find his footing in the age of re-enlightenment.
(to be continued)
There is burger joint on the steps that lead down from Nyugati Square, Skala side, to the underpass. You are by all accounts required to ignore the temptation of a homogenised Subway (brand placement nonetheless) and move one flight farther down to the Best Burger. It’s a Gyors Étterem, not to be mistaken for Győr or Gyros as once I did! Let’s be honest. I may again depending on my mental state.
Well to cut a short story long in my earlier days here in Budapest this landing, if this is what one would call it, was home, and still is, to a small bar. In the winter you sat inside and suffocated in the fumes of blazing cigarettes. The only way to counter it was to add your own to the equation, and certainly when strapped for cash a cheap beer and a dirty rollie coupled with the ci-mog, while rarely fulfilling the former at least allowed for higher levels of nicotine to pass into your body. Nowadays with the smoking ban all that fun’s gone but it does lend to a smell of freshness rarely before encountered. This holds especially true when considering to venture a lunchtime beer where before one would have come away smelling like an ashtray.
Concerning burgers, that’s next door and while being introduced earlier in this piece, chronologically it was a later addition to the steps, and most welcome. Sitting with a beer and a ravenous ensuing, one was now offered choice, real choice. A retro burger from the Best Burger at Nyugati does not taste like one in Beijing, Tokyo, Vladivostok or even Cork (where’s that?)! It’s home grown, Magyar Termék maybe, at least in concept and composition and it’s a taste sensation. To put it mildly it’s delicious and not just for those post beer experiences, or other munchie inducing activities. You see, if like me, you get the notion to have a burger, perhaps influenced by a billboard, but not yet ready to compromise your dignity to yellow arches and royalty ( inebriation and geographical disadvantage excepted), then this is the place to be.
It shares its terrace with the bar next door so if the mood prevails one can have the best of both worlds. Shoppers weary of the load they are lugging may find time for respite from the chore, the drudgery, of being dragged around to look at every handbag, gladrag and high-heel. Those whom the heat has oppressed may fall to countering it in a two tier motion, lending hand to energy inducing feeding while at the same time thirst quenching. And if you find yourself inclined to vegetarianism and teetotalling there is still room for a veggie burger and soft drinks. This place, but dare I say places, lends to the all-inclusive, not the exclusive. Give it a try. Don’t be shy
https://www.facebook.com/westbestburger
https://foursquare.com/v/best-burger/4e275e0d62e17c33019388ea
For further thoughts on this:
http://thehairyteacher.com/?p=482
!
The sunlight threatened o’er a rooftop.
In the shade my glare weary eyes relaxed.
Still the sheen spelt across the terracotta border
promised something I could not live without.
Even if the fierce light burned deeply,
to the point that my pain limit was tested,
my pleasure was also in extracting
the life source, the energy, the soul.
I closed my eyes at the next gap,
which fell between two tall buildings,
let my eyelids bathe in the evening’s rays.
I allowed myself joy where once there was pain.
I hurried between the cars. At another time it would have been dark, but Spring has arrived dragging summer along, and of late the evenings had been stretching. The flashing green light gave me the right to be on the road but I just wasn’t sure I could venture across without looking. This city was unforgiving to those who were careless or apt to take it for granted. Rules here applied on a hierarchy*: a pedestrian stepping amongst motorised vehicles was the lowest of things. The way was safe, so my senses proclaimed, and I made the far footpath still intact. Engines rumbled about me but in the cooling evening shadow the sound held a pleasant air even if the stink still couldn’t.
I don’t know if he’d spotted me from afar as vulnerable, or was I just one of many. The latter would pertain to truth but for now I felt like the unlucky antelope, singled out for special attention. Why couldn’t that have been my role where girls were involved! Through the hedgerow I first glimpsed him rising from his porchway step, his drunken friends resplendent in their slurring (noodling: ref to Hungarian) support.
His smile, gapped and stained, with his watery eyes, were his weapons, as was his charm, lost on me, however, as I struggled to deciphre words. He may have been chosen because he was the most eloquent of the bunch but as I had sprung my defences early, assuming no understanding – it wasn’t my language afterall – nothing of his initial assault filtered through. He was not deterred, nor was I. The change in my back pocket was ready for use. I only needed to deploy it.
I smiled genuinely, I had no reason not to.
„Mit akarsz?” ( What do you want?)
A mumbled reply.
„Igen igen,” I countered, „ de mit akarsz?”
I hinted at an urgency but in truth my only haste was to sit and have my drink before the bus arrived. It would, therefore, be best if this negotiation could be rendered short but significant.
„Apro.” (Change)
„ Jo!” (Good)
„ Csak egy kicsit?” (Just a little?)
„ Csak egy kicsit!” I replied as I handed him a 200 forint coin. Not much but on these streets not a little.
He smiled appreciatively and left with a goodbye. I, likewise, passed on a salute and perched nearby, opened my bottle, and began to drink. I should go unmolested, I assumed, because, at least, I had been kind. Isn’t that how Karma works!
* http://thehairyteacher.com/?p=439
Bearing down upon you the Lions at the Chain Bridge (Lanc Hid) appear to have no tongues leading to such legends as the sculptor, Marschalko János, committing suicide having realised his error. However, from another angle the tongues appear to be firmly in place debunking at least the first part of the myth. To find out more about the man who made it all happen, and some, here’s a link to try:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chain_Bridge_%28Budapest%29
As for the story about Marschalko, now you shouldn’t believe everything you hear, especially not late at night and a few beers in, while in the company of a beautiful woman who seemed to be able to make even the shadows recede in reverence!
Posted in Budapest Life
To say he laughed heartily would be an understatement, he bellowed, and with every expulsion of mirth heads swivelled till at one point an old man stayed fixed on the proceedings. Whether entertained or annoyed I never found out though the Big Man for his part was undeterred, perhaps even thrilled, by all the attention. Stories which would have best been kept slightly hush-hush became public information and just in case there was any doubt as to the validity of many a tall claim his name dropped acquaintances were put in context: “Shur you always see that kind of thing in the Guards.” The Guards, or Gardaí, being the Irish Police force, and he being bulky enough to have the pleasure of being mistaken for one, even had he not been, people who perhaps disagreed with his politics rather kept their mouths shut. He was not a man to be messed with!
Along with his laughter came a package of pride. He was a Corkman and could not for the life of himself imagine why anyone would want to leave that great city by the Lee. When I nearly mentioned for love, I checked myself. I already ran the script through my head on that count. The idea of reading love sonnets to this man was akin to teaching table manners to a Hyena, though the latter in this case I could imagine being civil enough as to ask as to the necessity of the knife and fork.
To say that this man was uncouth, boorish, ill-mannered would be also to betray in myself a sense of snobbery which I struggle not to adhere to and it is for this reason that I take to these characters quickly. He was afterall entertainment on a 3 hour train journey that would otherwise have been a simple game of Cat and Mouse between my partner, Andi, and me, and our daughter, Tara.
This was our return trip so we had already experienced the extent of Tara’s curiosity concerning public transport. To say that the Big Man offered us a welcome distraction would be serving it up diluted. Even she, at the tender age of one and a half, could sense the awe which this man commanded. Her father may be her beacon but this fella was a mountain of being.
Well this ‘mountain’ was most entertaining but just as the train arrived in Dublin, as if he knew, he questioned us as to our destination, ie accommodation, and when we replied, giving the name in question, he offered his mightiest howl yet. At this stage the others began scrambling for the exits, though the train was still ten minutes off, and when we shot him half quizzical/ half sheepish looks he went on to explain. Monday’s their busiest night, it’s Guards and nurses night!!! He needn’t have said more…but he did and, whereas, I’m sure he had no intention of being cruel, the very fact that he had nothing reassuring to convey only served to compound my worst fears.
It had all been too easy: the booking, the price, the location, and now here I was with my partner and child about to head into the jaws of the beast that was nightlife Dublin.
