Tag Archives: Budapest

A Day Is Rising

A Day Is Rising

Posted on by • 0 Comments

 

In the morning light after dawn-glow purchase
The taste of chill as winter rises.
The dew residual dampens the ground
And sends sunshine sparkles a-dazzling round.
Footsteps plod and skip, all fall,
With weary minds and a child adventure.
The cursing klaxons, the red lights looming.
Urbania rising through the silence booming.
Lines of passengers all set to be
Like chaste and bridal tainted reverie.
The smiles, however, abstain- upended
As morning’s gloom quells caffeine pretensions.
Stray dogs and pigeons plot their day
In bays and coups, the best plans laid.
The beast in shuffle settles then
As noon day flow comes threatening.

Jukebox Junkie

Posted on by • 0 Comments

 

For those of you familiar with Bogyó és Babóca you’ll be probably aware of the catchy theme tune which introduces the cheery pair of friends. For those of you unfamiliar, think of the many animation pairings, except perhaps for Pinky and the Brain, and you should be getting that sunshine, adventure, and existential angst feeling.
Well, Tara did her tour and now it’s Keela’s turn though I am not certain as to the extent of the appeal beyond the opening tune itself.
Awakening early morning Keela no longer cries out for her mother’s milk first thing. Instead, she bobs her head and rounds her lips, emitting a hum and doodle that is a mimicry of B & B themselves. That she also grabs for the books probably indicates an appeal in the feature too but a night time despair is more easily subdued by a rendering of the tune than by any graven image.
So what is it, I ask myself, that has made her latch onto Bogyó and Babóca so suddenly and so intensely? And then suddenly it hits me! With The Community, a comedy series I used to watch with my girlfriend, and with Keela present, there was also a noticeable reaction to the theme tune but what remains is the difference that B&B are also available to touch in book form on the floor. What then does this suggest? To any old fool the answer now dangles before the nose, but I’m not any old fool! I’m the worst kind:)
But Just in case you’re wondering:
A hint of animation on-screen
A dash of animation in books
And a catchy tune to boot!

But does this all explain Hello Kitty?
Well, some mysteries intend to remain unsolved…

 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CY8MqB9fZsk

 

The Hideaway

Posted on by • 0 Comments

I’ve hidden in this place before, more exposed than truly hidden.
Revealed by an awkwardness, an intent, that didn’t fully flourish.
Now here unbound I can be myself, behind the music and the language,
Within the shadows and glow light, the half sense to write or just listen,
Till the pen balances thinking with drinking.
A crumpling of a coffee packet accompanying, as the music spills on into jazz, into life,
And the wonder at not understanding other people talk,
Takes nothing from the very fact that they are my company, and in theirs I revel in a notion of life, where my fantasies flourish.
I may be mistaken, even choosing to be so
And I allow the play its new act, my life a new scene, and the writer once more to reality.
(sound of pen dropping and beer slurping:))

The casual Eye

The casual Eye

Posted on by • 0 Comments

Reflections, musings, all indirect.
The shadows of timidity set.
Eyes bound to embrace if by chance
And then in blush turn once more back.
To shaded Eyes, the hidden glance,
The brushing back – displaying risk.
Another eye to eye embrace
Till two souls set save embarrassment.
A nail pick and a fumble still
The night resides in circumstance.
Ill-comfort or the lack of breath…
One’s terrified by the sombre poet.
Hope, yet eternal, Springs then falls
It is the chill of winter Afterall.
And so the fleeting glance- perchance-
Is nothing but the final failed romance.
And yet in words as these, such coined,
There is a lurch towards new Hope!

Tina Turner’s

Posted on by • 0 Comments

The night before my birthday, my fortieth, and I hit Tina Turner’s…it used to be called Anya’s but that half-Greek fantasy set sail down towards the ninth district, somewhere around Mester utca, a long time ago. The soap I bought, a dried up reminder of a notion I once had.
The whole place is infested with memory and even my darkest hour, not worth mentioning, being part of the fabric of this place provokes a Dichotomy, an idea of improvement based upon a previous moral digression, thoroughly equated therefore by its having occurred within the confines of this place.
It was always an awkward place, often ruled by boredom, fatigue, drunkeness, and paranoia. It, however, served well as a last resort. It never closes, you see,”… and that has made all the difference…”
I sometimes long for this place in the blur that is pre- fatherhood memory, but in truth, a moment like this, actually living the memories, is the closest anybody can get to all things past. Sometimes it’s worth coming back for the trip – the reality of what was left behind, suitably soft, a drawing smudged to suit a tolerable indifference.
The corner in one of the upstairs booths, was my workbench of occasion, though never to the extent of B City and the Soproni place, now Cheerio – then nameless (at least to me), and yet Tina’s, ahem…Anya’s (like the stalwart calling Snickers Marathon), provided some of the material for my future. Here dreams were shattered, rebuilt, born yet before, and after. Time bent here… as these words may take me back, they may in time propel me forward, or at least be read again in a time not yet recorded. For now I just create them in the hope that someone, maybe even me, can read them in a future!

My Old Self

My Old Self

Posted on by • 0 Comments

I saw a ghost of who I was, today.
A younger familiar me.
He passed the church at Lehel tér
Going places not for me.
He passed over Feri’s bridge
And down along Podmaniczky
To where there now lies nought for me
but bloated memory.
I felt the shadow of my past
on the stairwell at the bank,
When days and nights and morning’s hand
were defined by what I drank.
And on each step as I went down
I heard the old pain murmur,
“a tired mind worn by the night
could too soon be torn asunder”.
And so I took another turn
and left the West End go
and prowling down on Vaci street
I decided to go slow.
Now sitting here on this May day
the cars in sunshine glitter,
the people walking to and fro,
and some sitting down to chatter.
I feel the cool breeze of the moment
and let my senses go
Infusing in the utter present
I’ll accept what was before.

Pass the Bottle

Pass the Bottle

Posted on by • 0 Comments

 

The very frustrations which can nightly arise when battling my four-year-old over sleeping duties pale, usually, in comparison to the joy which she brings. That she has just sat up again from her sleeping poise raises the shackles, especially when she demands her right to speak. “I am trying to work” I tell her and have made it a compromise that I do some of it here in her room. The classical music plays in the background, a Youtube selction meant for sleep, but perhaps I chose the adult selection for my kid is certainly no closer to her slumberation. That she commands another assault just now forcing me to play my own guilt cards, only serves to heighten the tensions on the Bedside Parallel. I go back to my typing, realising that the tappitty tapping will soon be used as an excuse to be awake, only that I have worked here many times before and she has nodded off without so much as a protestation. It is Christmas, and we are in Nagyi’s, and this definitely has something to do with it, but the fact that last year I signed up for some How to Get Your Kid to Sleep newsletter would suggest that this is more than a minor technical difficulty: this has, in fact, become a lifestyle.

The other terrorist has been placated but promises to erupt past the witching hour with plaintive tones that would set all the devils below a tad off kilter. Hell may have no fury like…some woman, or other, but here ón this blessed Earth it’s the wee ones that win the day, and night, their very shrieks calling out beyond the confines of a humanity: they are the very driving force that must surely render any universe, ours included, and THEY do not rest ón the seventh day. I’m not even sure they rest at all. Even in their sleep I imagine they are racing headlong into furniture, eating razor blades, and making dogs very very nervous: all the while being called cute by those fucking visitors…yeah, you know who you are. You don’t think we haven’t noticed you beginning to back out the door from the very moment you have been invited in. The lack of space ón the coat rack which may have led you to be insulted because the back of a chair had to suffice, now seems a blessing in disguise. Imagine trying to excavate any article of clothing from under that pile there a-hanging…or worse, what if you had taken up the offer of having your jacket put in the bedroom…UPSTAIRS! Run you miserable bastards and don’t bother coming back again to make such contrivedly concerned comments such as “Aren’t you a bit cold?” to a four year old who can tell the difference, and especially when inside the flat it’s 22 degrees celsius, even if it is sub-zero outside. Perhaps, and I’m not suggesting you are dying, but if you are feeling a little chilly maybe it’s cos you is already dead!!! So zombie yourself the hell out of here and leave me to my two little Síoga, and my woman, who is at this moment out there in the demilitarised zone, soaking up the glow of the nonsense that is TV Landia, a state I am aspiring to once I’ve finished this.

Adonkey

 

What’s in when going out?

What’s in when going out?

Posted on by • 0 Comments

 

If you mention Móricz Zsigmond körtér it often evokes a feeling of nostalgia, and this for a place I have but a recent memory of. I’ve thought and taught here and drunk but a bit and yet I feel it’s somewhere I’ve been before, a place of greater memories, even if it isn’t.
There is a certain atmosphere in the area what with the tram rushing through as well as the 6 and 61 finishing up here. The schools, bookshops, fastfood places, all a step off make it a vibrant hub and now with development of the Metro 4 complete this area has come into its own. It owns the night scene Buda side, even if Lövõház is challenging to the north, and with the restaurants, bars, and general nuisances fanning out in all directions from the square, it’s certainly a pin to put in your google, or mental, map. Bartók Béla út, which dissects the square, is the main source of attraction and distraction with Szatyor, Nevada Pub*, Moha*, to name but a few offering up in terms of not only food and drink but other forms of spiritual nourishment. Nevada with its Cowboyish Wild West look, swinging doors to boot, has live music from the middle of the stairs on your way up: a live set-up in such a confined space?…interesting! (Sometimes a DJ may take over.) Booking a table is almost a prerequisite especially if you’re a group, or come looking for the perfect seat. The winter sees activities contained indoors while the sun shine draws forth a smattering of chairs making it a perfect beer and leer environment, even if your lungs and ears have to compete with the slight inconvenience of pollution from the ever busy Bártok Béla út…
Szatyor across the street has a sprawling ground floor with tables all ariot, while upstairs the seating is shared with a space for performances, exhibitions, and all the rest. As with Nevada it can get tricky to find seating around the weekend so be warned.
Whereas Nevada is a pub with grub on offer, Szatyor is a cafe with its own culinary aspirations. An offer of garlic soup followed by a Lángos was one of the lunchtime treats when I was visiting , and I tried it (poor students that afternoon), so while many may judge that as its downfall, it was most certainly for me its selling point. Like Nevada service in Szatyor never breeches the barrier between polite and friendly with smiles being somewhat a rare commodity.Maybe it’s the pressure, maybe it’s me, but especially in Szatyor’s case it seemed to be a little off-putting.
Another place worth mentioning is Moha which can be found farther down the street towards Gellért tér, and which is also inclined to entertainment beyond the food and drink on offer. As a place for breakfast it works, with ham and eggs amongst the choices, and there is an atmosphere which suggests something greater bubbling just beneath the surface. The grand piano in the corner may have something to do with it; my interest peaked. Of all the places I’ve mentioned it is the one place which I have not had the chance to sample evening time, so as to what to expect I can only fictionalise. A sign indicating a movie theatre hidden somewhere out of the morning’s grasp leads me to conclude that this place is aspiring to something bigger. As to whether it will achieve this, well, that remains to be seen, or will perhaps remain forever relative, because afterall, what is success? How can it be…blah blah blah.
That there are plenty more places to choose from goes without saying but to a man who has now got two children and too little time, such voyages of exploration are somewhat staggered, at least in comparison with what has gone before. These days memory must serve in place of accuracy, perhaps, and so I leave you to ponder and, if you wish, to contradict my words, for afterall, and in the end, there is no right nor wrong, just subjective truths:)

http://szatyorbar.blog.hu/
https://www.facebook.com/MohaCafe?fref=ts

 

*UPDATE: Since writing this review I have been down that way again and found two changes, not to the locations but to the names.

Nevada is now Osztrák Söröző: https://www.facebook.com/osztrak

 

and Moha is The Rabbit and the Duck bar, with a great logo to boot.

http://rndbar.com/

https://www.facebook.com/rabbitandtheduckbar/info

 

 

©TheHairyTeacher2014

Jurányi

Jurányi

Posted on by • 0 Comments

 

 

I missed the opening of an exhibition here recently and frankly if I had turned up and there hadn’t been free wine I may just have thrashed the gaff. Now the drawings were good as far as chalk on wall goes but I wouldn’t call it an exhibition: a drawing exhibited, but not warranting the whole nine yards. Unless there was free wine!

Well, anyway, inside this old school building, well preserved as it is, there is a passageway down beyond the entrance. Turning right and following the coloured lines one will find the gallery, the exhibition area, but more importantly the cafe/bar.

On offer there is a selection of sandwiches (tasting as if unwrapped), cakes – tempting to the sweet-toothed, and the remaining array of drinks you’d expect of any cafe.

Tucked inside the building one does get a feeling, what with hard chairs and checked tiled floors, that this could be canteeny, but being in the heart of an old school that doesn’t sound too shocking. There has been an attempt to brighten things up with the trademark colouring set not only on the corridor floor but on the programs strewn about, almost inconspicuously.

It is clean and there are even a few more comfortable sofas but what makes this place may be the view to the street or the courtyard or the chance to eavesdrop on artists’ conversations, but if like me you can’t speak Hungarian very well the former option is not enough. However, it doesn’t lack in energy replenishment: a lunchtime menu exists with soup, sandwich, salad choices, but for a person who craves atmosphere it is a bit of a let down.

Perhaps it’s the quiet before the storm; a festival event is scheduled for two hours from now. Perhaps it’s Friday. Perhaps it’s the hum of the fridges, the rain starting outside. All factors accounted for I ‘d say this place is a handy option in ‘out of the bustle’ this side of town, when bars and chain cafes aren’t your thing.

It could grow on me as a retreat from the crowd, but for now I must go in search of that very thing.

 

(NB: This was written in April of last year but all criticism is valid until it’s now!!!)

 

©TheHairyTeacher2014

It Could Be Anywhere

Posted on by • 0 Comments

 

It could be Ireland but for the snow that comes in drifts, light flakes deceptive.
The green grass muddied once more encased,
and Spring entombed, perhaps,
so what comes next.

 

The rising cheer has so soon abated, as mother nature holds her breath.
Allowing still the chilling fingers caress the shrinking countryside once again.

 

Those tired of darkness they beg for Springtime,
the blossom’s mercy, the rose’s promise.
Blood on the carpet green, yellow, pink – exciting,
now all abounding with whitish sheen.

 

Little diamonds, slivers, pearing down in string-like curtains;
sending silence across the thoughts –
the land once more is sleeping.

 

Beneath, the street, ensnared only by our own vain wishes,
with city light and city surface,
sets cars heaving past hellbent on murder:
Their spring fizz slushed again in sludging cleanliness.
What’s left of autumn now is surely gone.

 

The blackened leaves tattoo the quiet streets
worn inky thin they’d stain like tarmac melt-
That once upon a knee in jeans attired.
Why? With such heat? Why, with youth, of course!

 

Contending here again with the damp, the chill, the beast
As another false alarm is trodden down.
Traffic moves again in lumbered, measured, plod.
What of the coming Spring?
Perhaps it never comes!

 

©TheHairyTeacher2014

Copyright © Martin O'Regan
Back to top