Budapest: A Castle, Two Spas, and a Dash of Paprika

Cher amis et chères amies,

I have a confession. Until a few weeks ago, I had no idea where the little Central European country called Hungary is actually located. Even though I’m convinced sour cream and goulash soup run through the veins of my half-Hungarian/Czech-American husband, I’ve never been able to visualize where Hungary is among the “-ias, -stans, or -akias” situated on a map. For me, the same thing has always happened when I tried to put together my kids’ puzzle of the United States. There were all those similarly shaped midwestern states that I have never visited and are located somewhere between New Jersey and California. They always defied my attempts to force them into the spaces I thought they belonged on the puzzle tray.

                   courtesy of ghblanchette.com

  

When our son, Matt, decided to pay us a visit in Grenoble, we planned a short vacation to the family motherland by way of the city divided by the Danube River—hilly Buda and flat Pest (BOO-daw-pesht). It was an easy journey: Grenoble to Geneva airport by Aérobus and then easyJet airline to Ferihegy airport on the outskirts of Budapest. Only one hour and forty minutes by air, but a world apart from the French life we’ve become accustomed to.
    

Here’s a little information for those of you who are as clueless about Hungary as I was. Hungary is not considered a Slavic country even though it is surrounded by them, and the language of its people is unrelated to any Slavic language. Of course, this didn’t matter to me, as I wouldn’t have mastered this language in five years, let alone the five days we spent there. The best I could do was to spout out “szia” (SEE-yaw), which means “hello” and “good-bye,” and sometimes remember “köszönöm” (KUR-sur-num), “thank you.” Not to worry—almost everyone we encountered spoke nearly perfect English. Hungary is part of the European Union, but it has not adopted the euro (maybe lucky for them), and the forint (Ft or HUF) is the traditional currency (today's conversion is 237.26 Ft = $1). Neither geography nor mathematics is my forte, but I admit I had a hard time in the conversion department, and I caught my breath every time I saw a menu item priced at 2,300 Ft, which was actually only $10!
    

We’ve always preferred staying at bed and breakfasts over the traditional hotel

Lajos and Judit

chains whenever we travel, and that was the best choice we could have made for this trip. I had found a recommendation for the Bellevue B&B on TripAdvisor and in my favorite travel guru Rick Steve’s Budapest guide. Judit (YOO-deet) and Lajos (LIE-yosh) Szuhay are retired economists and ballet enthusiasts who rent warm, comfortable rooms and provide a traditional Hungarian breakfast of delicious breads, hard-boiled eggs, yogurt, fruit, and meats. During our hour-long breakfasts, they would serve up not only fragrant coffee but also Magyar (Hungarian) history, Budapest travel information, and little lessons in Hungarian pronunciation.

Parliament Building

The weather for visiting Budapest was not optimal for sightseeing, but it was not unlike the weather we had left behind in France—cloudy, cold (0° C), and windy. After standing in two lines—one to purchase tickets and another to enter—on our first full day, we toured the late 19th century Hungarian Parliament building in Pest that we had viewed brightly alit the evening before from the Buda side of the Danube. After a tour of the sumptuously decorated landmark with a peek at the Hungarian crown with the bent cross on top sent from Pope Sylvester II for the coronation of King, later Saint, István (Stephen) on Christmas Day 1000, we were ready for some warming up.

István's Crooked Crown

In the freezing and subfreezing weather that is even a little abnormal by Budapest standards for late March, the last place you might think to go for warmth is an outdoor pool. But this was no ordinary piscine. Budapest, as well as the rest of the Carpathian Basin, is blessed with having a thin crust covering a reservoir of hot water—100° F hot water—and has two dozen thermal baths called fürdö. The first one we visited is called Széchenyi, which was

Széchenyi Baths

built around 1910. The 11 thermals baths there range from 28° to 40°C (82°–104°F) and are regularly prescribed by doctors for what ails ya. (This science is called balneology.) We started with the inside thermal baths (the 40° temp.) and then when they closed for the night, we moved to the three outdoor pools that each varied in temperature. The wind was blowing overhead, and the air temperature was about -2°C as we scampered in our swimsuits between the building and the moonlit pools. The steam rose from the surface, but we were cozy warm beneath the water. The circular current pool held us in its grip for a few turns, but we broke free and started looking for one of the floating chess matches that often go on in the water.

    

Two days later, we tried out the Ottoman Empire-built Turkish bath at Rudas.

Rudas Baths

Built 500 years ago, it is very different from the Széchenyi baths. First, there is a strict segregation of the sexes—men can visit on Mondays and Wednesdays to Fridays in loin cloths or nude; women on Tuesdays; and both sexes (in swimsuits) on Saturdays and Sundays. We moved from pool to pool, from very hot to cold to modulate our body temperatures from 42°C (108°F) to 28°C (82°F). Some people, including Matt, doused off with a bucket of cold water suspended above by a rope before returning to the warmer water. There is a wet sauna and three progressively hotter dry saunas ranging from 45°C (113°F) to 72°C (161°F). We could only endure the last for about five minutes.
    

Steve, Matt, and Corinna

For us, no visit to a European city is complete without a visit to their market, and on Saturday morning, we toured the Great Market with fellow B&B guest Corinna who traveled to Budapest from San Diego. On three levels, vendors sell everything

Steve among the Stalls

from expensive to kitschy souvenirs; embroidered tablecloths; meats, fish, fruits, and vegetables; and of course, paprika! Yes, the red stuff—hot and sweet—in souvenir paprika bowls, spoons, and vases. All that “window-stall"

shopping begged for a lángos break. We shared one of these deep-fried doughbeds spread with cheese and topped with garlic and another one dripping with caramel.

Cheese and Garlic Lángos(partially eaten)

The eating continued with a gulayás (goulash soup) lunch for Corinna and me, some nokedli (small potato dumplings) and beef for Matt, and a cabbage dish with pineapple for Steve at Fatâl Restaurant (nice name, huh?). Later during our trip, we treated ourselves to the Hungarian equivalent of crêpes, palacsinta, both sweet and savory, as well as a Dobos torta and rétes (strudel). A few pounds heavier, we made . . .

Goulash Soup

    

A trip to the Hungarian National Museum to try to put Hungarian history in perspective, and Corinna headed to the St. Gellért thermal spa for a soak and a massage. By Sunday, our last full day in Budapest, we braved the cold weather to discover the Jewish Quarter, which had been closed from sundown Friday evening through the Saturday Sabbath. We skipped the long line at the Great Synagogue, but we were moved by the Memorial Garden behind it, where Hungarian artist Imre Varga’s (b. 1923) sculptures to the Holocaust victims—the Tree of Life, an upside down willow that represents a menorah with 4,000 plus metal leaves etched with names representing the Holocaust victims, with more leaves added as they are donated—and the “melting” block art that represents the forced march of the Jews by the Nazis to the death camps are viewed in silence.
                                           

Varga's Tree of Life

Varga's Melting Block

    

Leaving the Jewish quarter, we happened upon the most fantastical “indoor” space yet, Szimpla Kertmozi. Pulling back the black split curtain, we discovered a whimsical mélange of food vendors, bars, music, indoor gardens, and seating—both on the floor and in the air.

Chairs in the Air

          

Garden Fantasy

Matt Relaxing on Bathtub Couch

We ended our trip by hiking up to Castle Hill, the site we had been eyeing across from our B&B window during our entire stay. The Fisherman’s Bastion gave the perfect view over the Danube to Pest, and we had the surprise of seeing what we think is a tethered golden eagle posing for pictures.

Peter Mansfield, 16-yr.-old Martyr

Golden Eagle at the Castle

The next day, we parted from Matt in Budapest. He would be off to Bratislava and Vienna before returning to Budapest to meet up with a friend. We returned to Grenoble, paprika in backpack and already missing the warmth of the thermal baths.

A bientôt et bises,
Maureen

In the Opera District

  Long-lost Hungarian Relative?

Castle Hill Spirit

"Hoppering" to Paris and Back in a Day

Chères amies et chers amis,

     What do you get when you combine a snowy winter day, four women hailing from four different continents, and two art expositions in the City of Lights? You get a frosty girls' day out in Paris!

     The planning for notre voyage began last October when my French amie, Annette, proposed  a day trip to Paris to me from America, Ann from New Zealand, and Anjana from India. She had read that the Grand Palais was hosting an exposition of American artist Edward Hopper. Annette suggested we make a day of visiting the French capital by taking the TGV (Train à Grande Vitesse) from Grenoble to Gare de Lyon in Paris, walking  l'avenue des Champs-Élysées, and visiting the exposition in the museum. We met a few days later to discuss plans over lunch and decided to also get tickets for a Salvatore Dalí exposition going on at the same time at the Georges Pompidou Centre. We gave Annette the thumbs-up to make the reservations and buy our tickets.

     Between that October day and January 20, the day of our visit, we all did some reading up on Hopper, whom I had studied in an American art class at Rutgers. I wondered what my friends' take would be on this guy who had not been a mainstream American artist and had never been imitated in Europe, as far as I knew. I almost felt protective of this fellow American; I wanted my friends to like his work as I did.

     A few days before our visit, I began to glare at the TV weatherperson who reveled in the fact that snow had begun to fall on Paris and was delighted with the prediction that des flocons de neige would continue to fall there through the weekend. Flights to and from Charles de Gaulle Airport were being canceled. Trains were delayed. Temperatures were frigid. I started singing Cole Porter's tune, "I Love Paris," stopping at loving Paris in the springtime, not wanting to get to "I love Paris in the winter when it drizzles". . . or when it blizzards. I have lived for so  many years in the southern U.S. that I shiver just at the thought of temperatures below 40 degrees F. I didn't want any weather interference for our Paris plans.

Paris Rooftops from the Pompidou Center

     On Sunday morning, January 20th, at 7 am, we met in the darkness of the gare. The train was scheduled for 7:23 to first take us to Lyon Part Dieu station, and then we would make our connection to Paris. It was frigid but not snowing. I hoped I had dressed warmly enough for a day footslogging around Paris, but not too warm for the sure-to-be-crowded museums. The train arrived, we found a 2nd class car and mounted to the upper level. No seat reservations for this leg of the trip, but for the train to Paris, we had reserved seats. We settled into a set of four places assises facing each other, and in an hour and twenty minutes later, we were in Lyon with a scant 20 minutes to make the TGV connection to continue our voyage.

Annette, Ann, and Anjana

     The TGV to Paris was plusher than the previous train, and we pulled out our petit-déjeuner of tangerines, energy bars, and biscuits as the train pulled out of the station. On that nippy day, we were happy that the club car was open and serving hot café. By 11:00 we were in Paris. The Centre Pompidou, where the always flamboyant Dalí* was posthumously holding court, was a mere 15 minutes by foot from the station. The slushy sidewalks with the still falling, wet snow were slick and very crowded--a little precipitation never stops tourists in Paris.
*(click on the short film)

Dali's L'ascencion du Christ, Pietà, 1958

      After grabbing a few croque-monsieurs, a baguette, and a bagel with saumon (guess who had that) at the Pompidou snack bar, we needed to join the queue to enter the exposition. I won't say Dalí has ever been high on my list of favorite artists, but I did find that the show, highlighting him and his sometimes bizarre art, engaged me.
     
     Our timed entrance to the Edward Hopper exposition was for 4:30, and we were advised to line up about a half hour before our ticket time. Between the two shows, we took the Metro to the Champs-Elysées Clémenceau stop and "promenaded" down the Avenue Champs-Elysées within  sight of the Arc de Triomphe before heading to the Grand Palais. 

Le Grand Palais

     




     And they sure named it right. The Grand Palais is a massive building with the indispensable classical statues marking it as an important ancienne structure. With daylight disappearing and our feet numbing with the cold, we all were ready to head into the building. But wait. Another queue. But this time it was outside. In the snow. To ease the discomfort of the cold and sleet we had to endure, the Grand Palais thought to entertain us with a clarinet player who was unfortunate enough to be hired to play with frozen fingers (and lips) for those waiting in line at this time of the year. Happily for us, the line keepers took pity on us and allowed us to enter un peu tôt. (The clarinetist was not so lucky.)

     Hopper had spent some time in Paris in 1906,1907, and 1909, but he seemed to be a loner there and didn't paint in the cubist and post-impressionist styles of that time. Rather, it was then that he began his signature spare, clean-lined paintings. I wondered if the other exhibition goers found this style refreshing compared to the classic French works so prevalent around town or were just interested because he was American. Because we had done our homework, we knew which of his pieces we didn't want to miss, including his famous painting, Nighthawks, painted in New York in 1942. The exhibition was larger than we had expected, and we ended up hurrying through the last few rooms, trying to take in as much as we could.

 Hopper's Nighthawks,1942

    Like Cinderellas in Paris, we had to make it back to the gare before the stroke of 7 for our  nonstop TGV back to Grenoble. The warm train was a welcome change to the cold rues, and the three-hour ride was enough time to let us talk over our day and to start planning the next grand girls' day out. Maybe next time we can make it for when there's no possibility of having to thaw out afterwards.

Anjana, Maureen, Annette, and Ann (Thanks, Anjana, for the picture.)

amie: friend (f )
notre voyage: our trip
des flocons de neige: snowflakes
places assises: seat places
petit-déjeuner: breakfast
saumon: salmon
un peu tôt: a little early
rues: streets
    

    

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