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!
“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!
“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.
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
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!
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.
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,
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.
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
Ready steady...Lead onKeep an eye openPipe Dreams
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.
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 Győror 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
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:
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!
A finely scented pipe, by that I mean tobacco, ornate in its design
The drift of smoke, the owner’s look, all the ingredients for conspiracy/ intrigue.
With a sun set reflecting off the windows on the far-side the sunlight, in rebounds, trickles across to where I am, but then suddenly, perhaps a moment, a cloud or a passing minute, it’s gone.
I’m left instead in the veil of a bright bank walk evening, the benches are filling up.
The joggers are sweating, while the cyclists glide arrogantly by.
On the river a tour boat moves southwards, the snap happy tourists confined; perhaps not, perhaps they’re just weary,
And at Batthyany they’ll be ready to dock.
The cars down below, they stop and they flow,
now and then I gain a new neighbour
But high perched on this wall maybe they can’t see me at all,
Or maybe they just never notice.
Again I look up for ideas, inspiration is fading it seems
The treelined ‘rakpart’ calls me onwards…
and downwards to the city beneath.
Ah yes…the pubs where i would have frequented
the cellars, the smoke and the beers…
A tourist boat, another now passing distracts me,
A new life it seems.
I hear the squeak of an unoiled bicycle, the rubber on tarmac below,
a bird I heard earlier is silenced as the traffic’s beginning to grow.
Walking on a stop or two instead of standing, waiting for that bus, perhaps helped remove expletives from the run of these few preceding words. Sitting on the wall here on Varosmajor utca, 2 stops off Széll Kálmán tér, I’m in the early noon sunlight, somewhat protected by a thin, cotton ball film of cloud, and by the cooling which I’d expect of September.
However hot it is today, it seems to me perfection.
A fly ventures to land on my bag, I let it.
The constant rumble of traffic; music!
The notion of an approaching bus still leaves me hurried but my error allows me this one sentence more…at least.
A gentle breeze cools off my peripheries, though it’s now that I’d love a kilt, let some real aeration in.
A grandmother and grandchild spend this time conversing. They weren’t at that first stop.
People walk by, cycle past, move with the constant pulse of city life.
Sometimes, just barely, a moment like this enthralls, not the long protracted pen-stroke of a cafe pause, but the honest meanderings of a pensive, if meditative mind.
The bus arrives to break the last thought and as it rattles and squeaks along to its next port of call, doors slamming and banging, bells buzzing and fussing each time, I’m reminded of how easily it is to write when the object is not writing itself, but the mere restful state of observing.
Leaving Budapest for the summer, the buildings mock me. They stand resplendent in their morning veil as I glance back over my shoulder Buda-wards, not fearing to become a pillar of salt, merely to find hidden in the secrets of those spires and ornately tiled roofs, a sentiment, a love for this city.
Pest greets me as I cycle through it, the hustle and bustle, the noise, the traffic, the bars.
I know it’s early but whoever came up with that silly notion of it being too early to have a beer! The postman crosses swords with the all-night reveller in a kocsma, both on dawn patrol.
Soon I’ll be home, to Ireland, my first home, but having made this a clear second, the other places in which I’ve resided shuffle for attention. They’ll get it in moments of reminiscence, but for now I must contend with the idea that for two months, while alleviating homesickness, I may also become homesick.
