The bells didn’t really toll for me,
they didn’t really toll for anybody.
At least not far as I could see
but I’d been blind since infancy.
Maybe a harpist can
make it this way.
Or maybe I’m just a slave to passion.
I would take it
as each passing day,
a constant wonder with its grave indecision.
A rumbling, a murmuring,
the old and the new.
A rattling, a rippling,
that share the same hue.
Progression, obsession,
the life’s daily grind.
Advisor, contriver,
the truth’s hard to find.
A beauty, a bounty,
a conflict with lust.
Surrender, asunder,
when dreams turn to dust.
Early on a Friday morning
The murmuring began.
„Don’t go to school today my friend.
Today let’s have some fun!”
„But I’m the teacher” I proclaimed,
„ And without me then there’s none.”
„So be it” that damned voice continued,
„They’ll not miss you, not anyone!”
I’m a pedestrian who cycles a bike and occasionally gets into a car, on the passenger side (the cause of confusion more than once).
As a pedestrian I will not stand at a red light and wait while the street remains empty of cars and other motorised transport, though I must say that I don’t usually step out in front of cyclists either. I will wait for the green man if there is a risk to my well-being but I’m not about to be that overly cautious type who denies themselves the ability to discern between what is or is not potentially dangerous.
When it comes to being a cyclist I appreciate it when a pedestrian realises the red cycle lane and tries their best to stay on their side but where a cycle lane passes through a junction such as at Budagyöngye, the cycle lane mingling with the bus stop area and the entrance to shopping centre, I’m also tolerant of the absent-mindedness of pedestrians or for that matter their sheer dogged determination to catch that bus. As I move through this part slowly I never have to practise wild, evasive manoeuvres as I have sometimes seen done by other cyclists. However, the fact that some pedestrians never get out of the way is rather an inconvenience and, well, rude.
Never having being a motorist; I flirted with the option at one time, but this was mainly confined to back roads around the city of Cork, deserted as they were, and as I have never had the inconvenience of ‘stepping out’ pedestrians and ‘dodging and weaving’ cyclists, I cannot say but as to my experiences watching others and being in the car with some of the greatest offenders when it comes to highway fascism.
In Budapest motorists rule which has led to movements like Critical Mass being set up with the intention to try to extend the awareness of a cyclist’s right to the road, at least a small part of it. Successfully executed in their mobilisation they have managed to turn the streets of Budapest, once a death trap into something akin to a promise of safety. There are still places where the cyclists have to decide between life and haste. The Chain Bridge (Lánchíd) comes to mind.
The measure of their achievements is most noted in the emergence of a greater number of cycle paths around the city which is all very well and good till the conflict begins to shift towards the two groups who should be united, the pedestrians and the cyclists. You see not only do motorists treat all and sundry with contempt but so too does the hierarchy appear between cyclists and pedestrians. Too often I have heard the warning ting-a-ling on the pavement where no cycle path is drawn and while I consider it polite to move aside, an insistent ringer is most deserving of all available expletives, and where both those on foot and on bike have to contend for a tiny patch, e.g. along certain parts of the bank walk between Margaret’s Bridge (Margit Híd) and the Chain Bridge, it becomes abundantly clear which group considers itself the superior.
This, I have seen boil over into assaults, physical or verbal, and I have been witness more than once to a cyclist being seized, handlebars first, and getting an almighty dressing down from a disgruntled pedestrian. The worst case was when a hulk of a man held a girl up who had been merrily ringing her way along a pavement near the Varosmajor, and not on the cycle path side. She had, at time of accostation, been attempting to squeeze her bike between the wall of a building and a parked car (note the car was on the pavement and had graciously allowed enough space for a slightly built man to pass through at a struggle) and had thought to remove the man mountain from her path, he half wedged, half wriggling already between said obstacles. With her ring-a-ding-dinging his anger was forthcoming!
Do I propose a solution? Not really, other than a modicum of respect all round. As for the big man he could probably do with a chill pill; the girl on the other hand I’d prescribe a reality check. I, for now, have had my say. I do bid you all adieu. Safe travelling!
http://criticalmass.hu/english
“It’s better to light a candle than curse the darkness.”
Why this phrase would mean anything in relation to the Hungary – Ireland football friendly would be to understand me a little better. A few years ago the Rolling Stones came to Budapest and I laboured over my decision to go, till the point of no return, i.e. the day after the concert was over! Never having had the opportunity before, unless I count my working in the Ajax Arena during their Bridges to Babylon tour where alas I was situated utterly underground, I dismissed it with fair aplomb. But if it were confined to the high and mighty the expense could be an excuse. However, I’ve done the same with free exhibitions, cultural events etc. So when presented with the prospect of seeing Ireland play here in Budapest, and let me add I’ve never been to an international football match, friendly or otherwise, I could hardly pass the chance up, except that this has often seemed to be my Modus Operandi.
Late in the day and ticketless I still had the resolve. Adventure was the name of the game when it came to arriving on the night with hand out a-begging; I was not perturbed. I thrived on the spontaneous, the unpredictable (you might say this of any Irish football fan!) and this was what the moment presented.
The first glitch came when a friend pulled out leaving me to face the beast all alone. The prospect of wandering aimlessly suddenly took on a tainted appeal. The alternative: to watch it in a pub and thereby surrendering to my nature, my track record, began to beckon. My shoulders hunched, my head dropped, and I could feel the last gasp shudder of resignation. Then suddenly; maybe it was the beer, or maybe it was the plain stubbornness, but I gallantly stepped forth (really?) and braved the oncoming storm and struck out to face my destiny. I would prevail this time. I would not let this town, and my sheer laziness propel me to another defeat. I had oft times before suffered at the hands of such excuses but tonight, I knew, would be different. Hurrah!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WLrrBs8JBQo
“Where’s Noah?” a friend I happened to have met, cried out.
I wasn’t sure he was coming but I did find encouragement in the notion that maybe I was one of two if the choices were to be made. Why me, you may ask. No other reason than like all humans I am basically ego-centric. I have my preservation instincts, and what’s more I was surrounded by a sea of people unknown to me. Even my friend was merely a pub friend. By that, I mean, he was somebody I only ever met when in the…, well you guessed it, the pub!
I had reached the Puskás Stadium and had the fortune to meet some Hungarians who offered me a ticket, at face value, and so I was on my merry way. The rain, the torrential rain, did nothing to dampen (!) my spirits. If anything, it only served to seal my ambition. Ticket-ful, I marched forward, a drenched anybody in a tide of everybodys.
Beyond the queuing and the further moistening we were soon to emerge from outside into the interior. Somewhat liberated from all the pushing and shoving we still had to contend with the wet. Soaked to the skin surely applied here but what was most troubling was that my phone was amid all that water, somewhere buried deep in a tangle of soggy tissues and sundry. It was a worry but was also nothing I could in the immediacy do anything about.
After a twenty minute delay the match was underway. The crowd roared, the chances came and went, and all wrapped itself up nicely into an experience, and that it was. It was my first international, I had had to brave the initial solitude, and I had gotten one hell of a steeping in cloud juice and, whereas, my prune-tipped fingers could be reinvigorated by a constant rubbing, the foot-stamping did little for my toes. The water-logged socks held them together, almost amniotically. I prayed that nought would creep forth from within when I finally ventured to peel those ragged bindings off.
As to my feelings on the match they could best be described as reserved. It was in truth a mediocre affair with little to entertain, or at least it would have been had I been stuck in a pub or at home. Instead in the stadium and my condition abounding I found myself peculiarly elated. So what if there had been no goals. Who cares if there wasn’t all that much action? So what! Who cares? Maybe others did but I didn’t. I had conquered the demon that was distraction, the devil that was my inner voice, the anchor that too often since moving to Budapest had weighed me down instead of spurring me on. I had done what I had set out to do. Finally (Végre), and I was none the worse for wear.
Situated at a busy junction, yet separated from the main road by tramlines and a cycle/ footpath*, the Lipóti Pékség (bakery shop), at St John’s Hospital (Szent János Kórház) tram stop, now in its second year is the epitomy of success. Along with rivals Fornetti, they have been carving up the market share of late and while others like Princess still hold prominence at some metro locations one does have to wonder as to for how long more.
The small park adjoining this particular outlet makes it all the more alluring for the early morning commuter and whereas Hungarians are not as inclined as some other Europeans to the early morning coffee trade (many cafes in the centre don’t open till well after nine am), things are changing. A healthy flow of customers passes through here each morning but as to how many stay for a cup of Joe, I cannot say. Now when it comes to buying pastries and such Hungarians are no strangers. Some, in fact, may tell you that Hungarians don’t have the money for such luxuries a cup of coffee but that’s not about to stop their ‘pékség’ intake. Priorities is what it’s about really!
Sitting in the covered outside seating area provided, the flower pots almost encroaching in their splendor and proximity, if one could just for a moment filter out the noise and put their backs to the road, it may be a type of paradise. Perhaps I’m stretching it here but what with a tram-stop that caters for two tramlines, frequently running, and a bus stop with 3 to 4 buses stopping, dropping and picking up, it certainly is a place for the people watchers. As this is a day long process business is never too far off which is apparent by the selection of cakes and sundries now available that weren’t here last year.
It’s also perfectly located 3 stops from the busy hub that is Moszkva ter/ Széll Kálmán tér and on the 61 tram-line to the picturesque suburb of Hűvösvölgy, itself home to the lower terminus of the children’s railway, the upper station situated on the hills in Normafa boasting spectacular views of the city.
http://www.gyermekvasut.hu/english/chrw_home.php
There is a hospital nearby, if that’s your thing, a supermarket, a couple of bars and a park. It is also quite near the cog-wheel train terminus so if its tourism Buda-side you’re after with a break between places you could do worse. The Lipóti Pékség is one of a chain so don’t expect anything different here, but for easy tastes and snacky urges, it serves its purpose well. The coffee on offer is better than any canteen crap but it probably won’t be found listed in this year’s Connoisseur Coffee Magazine
(if there is one…Let’s check! http://www.connoisseurcoffeeco.com/specials.html
No luck but this may be of interest ).
Now if you’re this side of the river to see the castle and you find yourself here you’ve gone too far but before you turn back take it from me…if you’re on holiday relax, the castle’s going nowhere…sit down, enjoy the sights and sounds and if you do decide to hurry back from whence you came why not take the park option, a pathway just off the 59 tram starting point leads under the cog-wheel rail tracks past a sports centre and school and returns you to Moszkva tér through the park.
Whatever you choose you’re never lost if you have a minute to sit down and get your bearings, and why not here!
*http://thehairyteacher.com/?p=439
Of late I’ve found myself amid the glory of early morning and late evening, the former extending itself into my dreams, the barriers of sleep often not yet passed. The latter by its volition has accompanied me on the weary path home, trailing my feet, distracting my mind, not yet able to sleep. There is a restlessness, as I’ve discovered, in tiredness which I dare say can be both inspiring and disconcerting. The mood, the fears, are founded on instability, which offers plenty to the imagination, both good and bad.
However, what I’ve deemed most signicant in these tainted musings is the urgency to see things in their immediacy rather than flitter off in protracted fantasy; observing because that’s all that the mind can muster, ironically, allowing one to be more lucid. The feelings are subtle, the shifts come, from darkness to daylight, but in the void, exploration of those changes, the passive state, seems to empower itself.
1.
The train left the station on time, it’s just that I had been too early and had, in my haste to not be late, already been twenty five minutes in my seat. I didn’t, however, waste this time. Instead i used it to find a voice, my voice, which considering my sleep deprevation, came forth in gushes. I chose all the media at my disposal to record my flurry of thoughts, and each one worked. Even a haphazard text to my woman seemed to find itself, amidst the muddle of words that I’d intended. I’ve often argued that I’m an early morning man but I’d never considered this before, the pre-dawn world of late night revelers, shift workers and the bleary-eyes commuters still adjusting to this new day. To all intents and appearances the last two groups shared the purpose of coming and going and work, while the first two shared the notion of bed as an imminent destination. Maybe even the first and last shared the disconnection born of drink and fading dreams. All were traffic, aligning with the chaos of the morning’s streets, transport, shadows.
Sitting, observing this, more a stranger than any, being sober and newly awakened to this rhythm, I was out of my comfort zone but needed to move without thinking, to remain inconspicuous, to just fit in. What was I to them on whom I placed so much expectation? They knew the plan! Did they, in me, see the same depth of wonder: the personal dramas, stories, histories, that I indulged in with them? However they behaved, they were intensely and collectively my muse. Apart from those others when in a lamp lit room, listening to the howls down below, the faceless voices, here on the street, at this hour (apart from the drunks) they were faces, voiceless. I’d listened, I’d observed, I’d done it all but today I tried to see myself as they saw me What is it that I conveyed unto the complete stranger? A mirror could tell me I wasn’t handsome, yet not, still, twisted ugly. I had certain discernible features, things which made me stand out from the crowd, or at least, a crowd. I could be viewed as different, but what I wanted to know was; did my appearance bring others stories of integrity, interest; did I cut it with the tough guys, intrigue the pretty ladies, not the dolly birds I’m sure, and did people see me first as intelligent, or dumb?
So I set off on this, my odyssey – my objective to be subjective, but through the imagined eyes of others.
2.
The bicycle is placed against the building’s front wall, just beyond the entrance. Leaning back to pull the door shut, the darkened shadow passes me. I only catch him from behind, a weary walk about him, his step the step of early morning. His pony tail drops to midway down his back. My eyes run to his ass. I haven’t forgotten lust; I just don’t find it in the early hours. He’s skinny beneath those jeans, but in a rolling fantasy he may emerge a lover. I step onto my bicycle then; I have a way to go. It’s early but I’m late. Gustavo’s still in bed, lucky creature.
3.
Pulling the bins to the edge of the footpath I turn back to the door, to the entrance to my building. A bried flurry as a man skips out around me, and the bin. He glances at me, I at him. He is bearded, his eyes look tired. I turn aside and enter again my domain. Do I have time for a quick cigarette and coffee? I always do! I am my own boss.
4.
A man approaches from behind as I pull up to the bus-stop. I worry ever so slightly; I mean I’m just suspicious. His quick step has slowed. He steps out almost exaggeratedly, however, perhaps to convey his unthreatening state. He turns and looks back, he stomps his feet a bit. He’s waiting too. As the bus approaches I catch him further in the headlights; he’s not rough looking as his initial demeanour, he’s just an easy-going, dressed down sort of guy, probably foreign by his colouring. As we both jump on the bus, I notice his blue eyes as well as the blond hair. He could even be Scottish, a Viking maybe, but he’s too short to be really Swedish.
At the terminus I step off and head towards the railway station. He does too but I soon lose sight of him as I get distracted by the oncoming faces.
5.
Somebody sits in behind me. Busy on my laptop I’m not inclined to look up, and certainly not turn around. My thesis is due and this hard copy in front of me is a mess of ink stains and half-arsed ideas. In any other country I would be able to get across my meaning more succinctly, perhaps, based upon the linguistic similarities but here everything is so different, and the bureaucracy is beyond painful. I mean slip my professor an envelope and see all doors open but at the moment it’s nothing but forms and more forms from ladies in offices who, not blaming them, don’t know anything about the said forms and can only pass me on to the next person. Did they have it this bad in Kafka’s Czechoslovakia?
What’s he doing back there? Whatever it is it’s annoying. Jesus my whole seat is wobbling. I tried pushing back already and admittedly he seemed to quiet down. How do I know it’s a ‘he’, call it woman’s intuition, or plain evidence. He’s a scratching, snorting, marauding bear, shuffling constantly. Probably the fleas!
After a while the wobbling becomes more tempered, there are even moments, not long mind you, when there is peace and tranquility reigning but curse those trays attached to the seat backs.
Gyor comes and I pack my stuff to leave. I turn to see my tormentor as I leave. God knows he’s much younger, and thinner, than I imagined. I look away and on looking back I catch his eye. He’s not altogether attractive, and I’m no lamb, but there is a flicker, a delight. Is he flirting with me? Am I colouring? I pick up my bags and head for the doorway. I’d better wait there I guess.
(TBC)
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.
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
