Budapest, Hungary

Near the Museum of Agriculture


Allegedly dubbed the “Paris of Eastern Europe,” Budapest, Hungary is a city you should get out to as soon as you can (it adopts the Euro in a year or so). Compromisingly situated upon the Danube, and full of fantastic sights, it’s a wonder that it hasn’t become a more popular travel destination. That said, there’ll be aggravations anywhere you go, and Budapest’s got a good-sized handful—mostly in the form of its elderly museum caretakers.

I arrived at Ferihegy International Airport early Wednesday morning with my friend Caleb, dog-tired but eager to jump into the sights the moment we put our bags down.

First things first, we grabbed some breakfast at a little sandwich place not far from Deak Ter metro station. Greedily I selected several open-faced monstrosities loaded with all kinds of counterintuitive toppings. Hard-boiled egg halves, decoratively sculpted pepperoni slices, olives, peas, cucumbers: you name it, they had it, and it was delicious.

Anyway, we moved on to the hostel, which was tucked away on the second floor of this gloomy apartment building just around the corner from St. Steven’s Basilica. It’s called Central Backpack King, and it’s a fantastic little place. If you’re ever in the city, look ‘em up. Friendly folks, most of whom are attractive young women, work the desk and are always eager to help out. Can you ask for more?


So, that all settled, we started roving around town. We popped into the Basilica to take a peep at the mummified hand of St. Steven (which is pretty overrated and cannot actually be seen directly) and then hopped across to the Buda side of the Danube. The city’s divided into two sections: historic, residential Buda, and commercial, happenin’ Pest. Once in Buda we checked out the age-old castle, which sits on a commanding hilltop overlooking plains to the east.

We spent a few hours at the castle and checked out the Military History Museum. The next day we returned with the some NYU in London comrades whose travel plans just so happened to coincide with ours. Waiting for them to show we caught the National Museum, filled with exhibits on the history of the city’s development. I received a silent finger wagging from some constipated usher for sitting down in what looked remarkably like a real-life seating area. Later when the London posse showed we caught the labyrinths (reeking of sulfur or vinegar or whatever) and then descended to the riverside.

Next day we rode the metro to Heroes Square in eastern Pest. We observed the motley architecture of the Museum of Agriculture and viewed some of the peripheral works of the French impressionists over at the Museum of Fine Arts. At one point, silently fuming over being followed with prejudicial attention by the burly crones that guard the place, I lost it and rolled my eyes at one. She promptly gestured for my ticket by attempting to grab it from my back pocket. I just stared at her in mild disbelief, wondering if I was being sexually harassed. Everything was in order, but my tolerance was at an end, so we moved on to the nearby zoo (miles better than some throwaway Monets any day of the week).

The highlight of the trip was unquestionably Friday night at a nightclub/bar/music venue called Kuplung. If you imagine a party in a rundown courtyard, with Christmas lights hanging from rafters, graffiti on the walls, dogs padding by nonchalantly, you’ve got a pretty good image of this place. It’s converted from an old bus garage, and has a big bar and lots of tables, though a lot of people were sitting on the floor, Indian-style in little campfire circles, so we did the same. We were with some awesome fellow travelers staying at the hostel that night, including a couple of Californians, some Mexicans, and a fantastic Serbian couple who are some of the friendliest people I’ve met in my travels thus far.

It was a brilliant night. I remember lights everywhere, on the way there, in the club, on the way home…

I got talking to the drummer of the band Blues/Vers, a blues rock quintet that got the crowd dancing with a weird mix of rockabilly, glam, and even early punk. In remarkably good English (that sounded as if it’d been learned watching hours of interviews with British bands), he told me something to the effect of, “There’s this famous Hungarian children’s writer, yeah? Well tonight’s songs are all about these poems he wrote about fucking.”

Other interesting characters included a concert organizer from Berlin and a cute girl from Portland, OR who I remember trying to impress by mentioning Karl Blau and Anacortes, Washington.

The night wore on. I drank several glasses of something called Zlaty that was on tap. We all watched the band and raved about East Europe. The Serbian couple, Milan and Milana (no joke), told me upon my asking a little about the consequences of the conflict with Bosnia in the early ‘90s. They were surprisingly objective and in no way self-pitying.

Afterwards we all had the greatest gyros ever to grace this tiny, disgraceful planet and stumbled back to the hostel.

Overall it was a fantastic trip. Go some time.



Paris pix up on: FLICKR