b u d a j e s t

Budapest is a city of cafés.  No matter where you’re rolling to, you’ll always find a place to eat, have a kavé, watch the other people finding their way through the city, eyes to the river, to the newspaper, to the camera lens.  There’s comfort in taking the time to sit down somewhere and be still. And I’m not romanticizing café culture here.  It’s just how here is.

I just returned from a leisurely lunch at the Roosevelt Etterem across the Lánchíd and from the Magyar Tudományos Akadémia (the Hungarian Academy of Sciences) in Pest.  It is a self-service place with good food that seems to serve the business lunch clientele.  In my gorilla-like haste to eat, which I justify as being brought on by a 5:30am run this morning and therefore early onset lunch starvation, I didn’t think to make the plates of food look bloggie.  But you can see some of the food here, on flickr.

After lunch it was one last stop for a cappuccino at the Lánchíd Café across the river in Buda.  Perhaps it wasn’t the greatest idea to have a hot beverage when the temperature is nearing 35 C, but it gave me the energy to propel myself back up into the castle so I can sit here typing this now.  See what I do for you, my darling Internet.

So, in other news, tomorrow IT begins—THE weekend for Grand Prix racing fans in Central Europe.  Yes, thousands will watch agog as the Formula One cars fling (up to 5gs) around the Hungaroring circuit just outside of Budapest.  The world’s most expensive sport and it is generating a lot of buzz around this little ruby on the Danube.  Millions of people watch the races every year.  And in some senses, Formula One conjures up images of summer at the Maritime Alps, the très chic in luxury white linens promenading Haut-Monte-Carlo…

Ok.  Now I lived in Indiana for almost six years.  I’m no stranger to racing, nor race fans, so when I saw on several occasions Formula One described as glamorous, an event that has driven ticket sales for this Formula 1™ ING Magyar Nagydíj over 400 Euros a day and has booked (and pre-paid) nearly every luxury hotel in the city, I was naturally suspicious intrigued.  After all, my own auto racing image catalogue begins at Busch Light and ends at confederate flag bikini.

So as I sat down to write this friendly weekend around-the-town-goings-about with my most objective narrative voice, I felt much relief to read the race described this way in the local around-the-town-goings-about news and local guide blog:

…despite the glamorous, Monte Carlo image of Formula 1, the crowd is largely composed of decidedly unglamorous – and often blind-drunk – fans from Germany…

Yep.  Reads like every Memorial Day weekend at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway to me.

So even though race weekends are often studded with a lot of fun surrounding the actual race, which I still can’t believe anyone would actually pay to attend, I’m still not exactly sure what I’ll be doing.  It’s certainly one of the best scenes for photographers, street talk bloggers, sight seers, and narrative poets, so you may just find me in the city center taking a few things down.  Then again, there is the Központi Vásárcsarnok (the central market) yet to explore, the Pálinka Festival in Nagykunság, and that inviting whisper of Slovakia just around the river bend.

There’s something very intimate about waking up with a neighborhood.  Especially in a place where the activities are on the outsides of houses, buildings, businesses.  Whether you’re walking, running, going to get the morning paper or going to work, you’re quickly part of the early morning waterings, the bread deliveries, the sweeping of night-petals from the café patios.  There are familiar people walking their old, fat dogs.  Green jump-suited workers almost ready to clean the cobblestones, quietly familiar with the statues, a kave and cigarette before the tourists come with their cameras.  Museum workers with bags of fresh pastries for breakfast.  You pass women in early morning strolls, admiring their steady, patient paces.  See a familiar hand pushing open the windows of the National Gallery.  It is the time when the sun in its quietest hue, before the long heat of the day starts its rising over the crown of the Parliament, Duna like a gold-star sapphire.

On Saturday I finally made it to Váci utca.  Utca just means street, as tér means square.  Now, Váci utca is a pretty famous street in Budapest (on the Pest side).  It was two streets that were joined in the 18th century.  The northern side is completely closed to car traffic and there is a pleasant mixture of 19th, 20th, and 21st century buildings, shops, stores, restaurants, banks, museums and theaters.  The shopping is mostly high end with everything from European perfumeries to the finest Hungarian porcelain shops (which I have not and will not go into on account of the certainty that in one swoop I would knock over a million forints worth of ceramics and have to join the Russian circus before the summer is over).

There is real history on the street and quite the crowd to take it all in.  It was where Sándor Petőfi worked odd jobs, penning early lyrics for the revolution, and Franz Liszt performed at the Inn of the Seven Electors at the age of twelve.  And still there is a great mix of the modern as well.  At 5pm, in anticipation of the football match between Hungary and Austria, both teams’ fans took to the street to match and chant the team slogans and songs (in full disclosure, the team supporters rioted later, though in a different part of the city, and I’m glad I wasn’t there for that—apparently there were smoke bombs and batons involved—you know how European football fans can get a little nutty).

Later that night, after walking about 10K during the day to and from Pest (and an early morning run), I met up with Györgyi at the local pub, Sörözgető a Vári Vitézhez, or just Pub Söröző (beer) which is about 15 steps away at the backside of my house.  There are four outdoor tables, one grumpy but totally adorable waiter, Laci, who spends equal amounts of time watching football, drinking wine, and waiting on tables (when he feels like it).  And while American and German accents liter the streets of the Castle District, no one speaks English or German at this place.  And since I’ve been there on more than one occasion now, I know that the same people will eventually fill the tables.

When the neighborhood starts to calm down, the old man with the little old dog, Nala comes out of his building across the street.  He will drink half of a bottle of sparkling wine.  And the married couple–he drinks a tall beer, she a white wine, both a shot of pálinka.  The gentleman drinking a glass of red wine gossips with Laci about a recent water polo match, calls a friend who speaks English to ask whether RELCOME is a word because he saw it on a doormat.  The blonde woman in a nice summer dress with the white lab puppy who has just mustered courage to walk into the pub alone to find Laci who will secretly slip him a piece of Debreceni sausage behind the bar while his mom reads her text messages and drinks Chardonnay.

And between Laci’s tales about the rigó (birds) he feeds cherries to on the tér, and the strums of the guitar lesson taking place across the street on the second floor, I will have Gösser, Dreher, or a cappuccino.  It doesn’t really matter.  You wake up with the neighborhood here and you set with it too, all the while a lengthening stitch in that rolling canvas.

Wednesday night I ventured out to the Pest side.  And before I blurb about it, there is no better time than now to briefly discuss pronunciation.  For you English nerds: pɛʃt.  And for the rest:  peSHt.  Seriously, don’t be afraid to pronounce it correctly.  It won’t bite you on the way out of your mouth.

So we walked over to the Pest side of the Danube.  It takes about 15 minutes to walk down to the Chain Bridge, another 10 to walk across, and voila, you’re on the Pest side of the river.  At night this is a particularly magnificent walk, as the bridge, monuments, even river are lit by what seems to be a thousand tiny moons.  The stone, marble, and brick are even more brilliant than during the day, no offense, sun.

Behind the glitzy art nouveau Gresham Palace Four Seasons, there is the beautiful Szent István tér capstoned by the stunning Szent István Bazilika (St. Stephen’s Basilica—Budapest’s largest church).  Another block or so and you’d reach Vaci Utca, which is the street for shopping in Budapest.  I haven’t been yet, but probably will soon.  Especially because the word floating around the ex-pat circles is that there is an American-taste-bud-approved Mexican cantina around that part of town.

We stopped at Café Negro and sat on the large outside terrace facing the square and basilica.  It was about midnight so the crowd was buzzing with locals and tourists.  Slightly chilly, we sunk low into the deep leather armchairs.  Even though the drinks were Manhattan prices, the atmosphere of sitting out on the promenade at that time of night with the sights and sounds of the square would have been worth double the charge.

As I re-read what I write here, I keep catching myself in this travel voice and it’s a mixture of nostalgia and awe and really annoying to me, but I just can’t help being happy here.  But I promise as soon as I stop experiencing things here that waver along perfect, then I’ll get back to my usual cynical sass.

In the following video, my magyar tour guide and translator extraordinaire gives you a brief panorama of the night from the national gallery, the Chain Bridge, and the cafe.

With all of the traveling I’ve been doing, and a great deal of it is not on foot despite my winded prose about how much walking I’ve taken up, I thought I would briefly comment on what the fuel costs are here, since there is such heat about it in America.

First, I should say that I have yet to see a Ford Expedition XXXXXXXL here.  Or a Hummer.  And political statements aside on this blurb, I can resolve to being entirely practical:  those cars would absolutely not fit here. And I don’t mean fit in like me at a Hungarian real estate meeting, I mean, they would not be able to drive down the streets because the streets are literally too narrow.

Now, the passenger seat driving experience here is terrifying new for me.  But I find rush hour and the near scrapes of other cars, bikes, and passengers on foot as a kind of adventure.  And really, if you need to get out of rush hour traffic quickly, or a packed concert parking lot–just hire a European driver.  They will sass that car right out of the lot without any trepidation or fear.

So yes, almost all of the cars here are honestly the size of Lebron James on a scooter.  And since Toyota just overtook GM in world auto sales, it’s no wonder that the VP of GM was in Europe this week trying to promote it’s little baby cars, which Europeans actually love and who are the only people seemingly buying American cars anyway these days.  So why aren’t they selling these cars in America?  Probably because if you were to actually drive one, the liklihood of you getting smushed by a Hummer is about 3-1.

And speaking of gas prices, Americans shouldn’t be too quick to complain.  In Hungary (and much of the rest of Europe), the regular gas is averaging 320 forints per liter.  Now a standard 15 gallon American car is approximately 58 liters.  This means that for you to fill up your car in Europe, it would cost—wait—let me calculate the terrifyingly low dollar to forint rate—okay—

18,500 Forints =  125 Dollars.  For one tank of gas.

Ouch.

Another reason why we walk everywhere.

One of my guidebooks for Hungary warns that no American, no matter fraternity/sorority membership, Irish genetics, or the amount of fine arts degrees you’ve accumulated, should EVER try to party in equal step with a Hungarian.  And I’ve realized that this warning doesn’t just apply to the long weekend nights of outdoor pubs, beer gardens, and club circuits, but also to just the amount of stuff to do.  Which is why I am posting my weekend roundup on Tuesday instead of Monday.

Friday:

As I have been doing for several years now, Friday has been my day to work on revisions.  In the case of this week, I was revising the first bits of non-fiction I’ve been working on and a few poems that slipped in during the week.  Like the North American Sports Network, which other than the tourists, broadcast the only American accents I hear here, the tradition of my Friday evening revisions is a real comfort.  In the evening I went to Café Miró, which is a little coffee house at the back of the castle district, which also serves good local draft beers and extensive cocktail and wine offerings.  You can also eat meals there, but like every restaurant in the castle district the prices are probably really inflated because of the tourists and the vicinity of the very shmancy Hilton down the street.  Also, I would imagine that the waiters aren’t that friendly on the whole to most of the tourists, but I haven’t really encountered it since I’m always out with my equally sassy Hungarian bodyguards.  And since it’s two short cobblestone blocks away from my flat, it’s a fantastic place to have a drink outside on a Friday night before a slow walk home, the long way through the castle.

Saturday:

On Saturday I went to Györgyi’s hometown, Szeged, where she was attending to some flat business.  It’s about 2 ½ hours south of Budapest (on the southern boarder of Hungary) and is home to several of Hungary’s best universities, in addition to being the city of sunshine.  It was the stomping ground of Atilla (of the Huns–that Atilla), is the home of paprika, and is overall just damn damn cute.  It’s a small city relative to Budapest, though the 4th largest in Hungary.  The downtown area is amazingly peaceful, and similar to almost every other place I’ve been to in this country, the streets are filled with people eating ice cream cones, sharing chats on benches, and strolling along the avenues in the evening.

In the afternoon we enjoyed an ice cream from Dóm Cukrászda as we walked passed the famous open air-theater.  In the evening we walked through the main part of downtown and had some wine at Virág Cukrászda.  There were so many people there, eating dinner, eating ice cream, having drinks, beer, wine, coffees.  It’s so hard to explain how peaceful it is, so hopefully the videos and some of the pictures will do it a small bit of justice.

After the Virág Cukrászda we went to a beer garden. It was called Sörkert, and despite the fact that it was midnight, there was every different type of person there:  college students, people on dates, friends, older folks, drunks, kids (most of whom weren’t drinking).  Basically there is a little stand, which serves beer, pálinka, jägermeister, sodas, and snacky foods.  You take your drinks to a picnic table and enjoy—kind of like gas station BBQs in Georgia but with slightly louder, drunk people.

And you’re probably thinking, wow, what a full night, must be bedtime next.  Alas, no.  The next stop was Szote Klub, which seems to be the pattern here:  Café, Beer Garden or Pub, then Klub to close out the night or really welcome the morning.

Sunday:

Sunday started late, as you can imagine, though well.  We went to a little place called Öreg Kőrössy Halászcsárda on the Tisza River that is known for serving a Hungarian staple:  fish soup.  It is served in a little kettle (the way it is traditionally served in most of the Danube region) with a side of peppers and bread.  Totally delicious.

Now, so it doesn’t sound like ALLL I did during the weekend is move from one beer garden to the next, I should briefly explain the business side of my time there, not that it was my business, but I like to inflate my importance as American side-kick.

I mentioned that Györgyi was in town to tend to a meeting with other owners of a building of flats (where she rents a flat to medical students during the school year).  Anyway there was some issue with the building permit because the contractor hadn’t built a required parking deck or something and there were some several million forints that had to be dealt with and a parking deck to build in order to correct the problem.  From my perspective it was absolutely insane–17 fiery Hungarians debating real estate contract resolutions for about an hour in a converted beauty salon during the early afternoon heat.  Actually despite being slightly overwhelmed, it was really hilarious in that opening scene from one of those American-dazed-by-foreign-culture movie kind of way.  It would be similar for anyone who was a lone American side-kick who couldn’t understand anything (which was clear to everyone anyway as they tried to shake my hand and Györgyi said only, “Ő amerikai, ezért nem fog beszélni”—she’s American, that’s why she won’t talk.

Before leaving Szeged, we went back to Virág Cukrászda, the outdoor flower confectionary, and had one last coffee.  It was late and the drive back to Budapest would be dim lit with cars blasting by double the speed limit.  But the sun was setting, there was music playing in the town square, and people seemed to be enjoying their evenings as usual.

Arriving back in Budapest, it was really clear to me that it’s a big, breathing city.

Even at midnight there were still people at outdoor patios drinking, eating, talking.  There were couples walking down the streets, across the bridges, looking peaceful among the lighted statues and monuments, galleries, museums and churches.  It seems like in most of my adult life I have gone back and forth between small towns and big cities, though in most of the places I’ve adored, there have been certain intimacies there.  I’ve never known when to call someplace home, exactly (other than Ohio), but I feel righted here.  Even if it’s the same course along the ecliptic.

This morning I had one of the best and hardest runs of my life.  I’ve taken some time away from running seriously, mostly to recover from pneumonia, though since feeling better I really haven’t run outside except for a few times in Hilton Head pre-arrival here.  Those of you who are runners know that when you’ve taken some time off, whether it be one month or one week, it can be scary to get back onto the road.  But the body is a remarkable instrument and I think for most runners is apt to take on the old forms again.

So today I decided it was now or never for me to get back to the serious side of my running life and headed out in the cold and somewhat dreary morning for a steady 5K.  I started on the quiet walking path that looks out over the hills, which is a good place to start because there are almost no people except locals walking their dogs.  And because it was raining, I made it all the way to the edge of the castle (in front of the National Gallery) and to the little lookout point without seeing many tourists at all.  Now as I’ve mentioned several times, the castle is at the top of the hill, so to get anywhere you have to go down.  At the edge of the gallery, I slowly walked down the scariest, wet, spiral staircase to the bottom level.  I had never been that way before and was prepared to encounter anything at the bottom, including a locked stairgate or (driven by my subconscious american fear) a palinka-crazed murderer.  Alas, I was all alone at the bottom of the castle on a thin cobblestone path lined in pines.

A peaceful rain was still falling, and after about another three minutes of running I came to the most amazing site, and probably one that no one really gets to see unless you really lead yourself off the usual tourist path:  the iron-cast door of the castle, which was open just enough for me to run through and out onto the busy Buda streets at Clark Ádám tér.

There is one path that I’ve found back up to the castle that is about half steep incline and half stairs, which is much better than all stairs, trust me, though almost at the top my heart nearly exploded and I was wheezing like an Olympic runner in Beijing.

Now as far as the tourist crowds go, the opposite logic seems to hold true when determining how many people will actually be touring around.  For example, you’d think that Sundays would be a slow day for tourists.  Or early mornings.  Or late late nights.  Nem.  This morning was another perfect example of counter-tourist-logic.  Rainy.  Cold.  And more tourists than I’ve ever seen.  Most of my run back through the district was spent jumping into the streets and dodging cars (and let me emphasize it is NOT easy to run on wet, cobblestone streets) because the sidewalks were clogged with groups and their gigantic American golf umbrellas.  Like American-sized cars, America-sized umbrellas do NOT fit on these streets.  The people were bumbling into each other, some getting poked, some getting smashed against the bricks.  It’s a miracle they could catch anything at all the tour guide was saying.

Still, with a mixture of pride and embarrassment it occurred to me how many thousands of photographs I will be appearing in once they are downloaded or developed.  They’ll say, “Honey look, here she is again, that crazy Hungarian girl running in the rain.”

And really, I can’t think of better motivation to get up in the morning and put in the hard, local miles.

As I mentioned in an earlier post, the grocery store can be a somewhat perplexing experience because there are very few English cognates in Hungarian.  Therefore, if you are caught in the deli without a dictionary, you’re likely to ask yourself, is this chicken, turkey, pork, or some special Hungarian thing I don’t know about but probably tastes like the other three?  So in the spirit of culinary adventures and mystery meats, I’ve taken a few shots of food and drink for today’s slideshow.  This is pretty much what I have been eating the last two weeks.  I didn’t take pictures of any American foods that I’ve prepared because most of you can see a quesadilla anywhere (though the picture would have been priceless that captured the look on my face when I spotted the tortillas in the grocery store’s specialty aisle and proceeded to act like lunatic junkie stumbling upon the free smack samples).

On Sunday, I visited two towns outside of Budapest.  It was nice to get out of the city for the afternoon and evening.  The first town— Szentendre.  Founded by the Romans in the 4th century (and like so many villages in this part of Europe) it’s right on the banks of the Danube.  There are countless galleries, cafes and the streets are peppered with cobblestones.  The style is almost entirely Baroque and the houses are colorful, quaint and edged with potted petunias.  Szentendre has the largest Serbian population in Hungary (they fled the Turks in the late 14th century), though in the 1920s artists started to move in and is still quite popular among artists.  The light is very soft, and even though seemingly popular among tourists, it was very quiet as if time really hadn’t changed much of anything at all.  I saw one old woman actually peaking out of her little window and chatting with another woman in the street.  It’s exactly what you would imagine for a small European village.  Gentle and old fashioned.

We enjoyed people watching and a cold Dreher at a little café in Fő Square with a view of the cross that was raised in 1763 by the lucky few that survived the bubonic plague.  At the bottom there is a little clip of a horse-drawn carriage ride.  They would eventually make their way down to the Danube where we would hear the driver explaining the fascinating intricacies of the European Union’s economic policies to the frightened family aboard.

After the brief rest, we continued to walk around the town and, due to all of our hard work sightseeing, we believed we deserved an ice cream.  These little ice cream shops absolutely kill me with their adorableness.  I had a little scoop of Vanilla and After Eight.

We left Szentendre and continued on Route 11 toward Visegrád stopping along the way at a roadside stand for peaches, plums, and apricots.

Visegrád is set on the narrowest part of the Danube and if you make your way up to the ruins of the citadel (Fellegvár) (built by King Bela IV from his wife Mária Lascaris’ jewelry money) you can see the most stunning view of the river curving right toward Budapest and left toward Slovakia.  And it was once the most spectacular castle in all of Hungary.  It really was breathtaking.  You could sit up there for hours.  When we were there, the evening was slow forming over the water and a gentle mist was dusting the view.  On the hills across the river, there were little house that almost looked like paintings.

The highlight of the night was dinner.  On the way back, we stopped at a roadside trout restaurant that was called Friss Pisztráng, which means simply, fresh trout.  In between shots of something, the guy manning the grill station on the bank of the river quietly prepared the dinner:  whole, fresh trout, crisped up with the skin, teeth, eyeballs and all and served on a plate with a big salad.  There were four different ways that you could order the trout. (It was the only thing on the menu, which is probably one of the most honest ways to have a restaurant—do one thing and do it extraordinarily well.)  I had mine with pesto.  It was amazingly delicious.  As we sat there with our beer and trout I really had to pinch myself.  The experience in these small European towns is so vastly different than American life (or maybe even just city life) in so many ways, but I really don’t know how to write it out, write about the pace of something.  As we ate and drank it started to rain.  We were under a tarp but a few cooling drops blew in.  The waiter and griller were drinking and smoking and every so often a wet herding dog jogged over to get a little reprieve from the rain, or maybe a fried potato.

In all, it was truly the perfect summer Sunday evening.

On Saturday night the French Institute of Budapest (Francia Intézet) hosted a big bang on Bem rakpart, which is the main drag on the Buda side of the Danube.  The French Institute is sort of a cultural institution here, though I’m not totally sure what goes on there.  They have music performances, fashion shows, gallery exhibitions, literary conferences, etc., and on Saturday they closed down the street and had a big party with French wine, cheese, and food vendors, including other frenchy things like lavender artisan soaps, perfumes and fashion baskets.

The street was mega packed and really cutely decorated.  In addition, there was a great lineup of French DJs who were spinning for around five hours.  The atmosphere was totally rad and accompanied by the best thing about street fairs—lots of relaxed people having fun, drinking good wine and beer and the permeating smell of grilling meats.

And I have to admit that the event organizers were really quite helpful. Györgyi had loaned her car to András a few days ago and he parked it on Bem Rakpart when he was finished with it.  Since most people don’t drive their cars around here (as you wouldn’t in New York City except for an extreme emergency taking you into the country, i.e., Brooklyn, or a trip to Whole Foods) it’s common to not check on your car for a few days.  As Györgyi, Buba and I were on our way toward the festival, we realized that the car had been moved, as there were no cars at all parked on the street.  With András’ quick phone calling and the help of the cute and slightly drunk event organizers, we learned that the car had been moved somewhere by someone and should be in the city and probably in Buda. Luckily it only took about twenty minutes to find the little darling and we were able to get back to the fête with plenty of time to celebrate.

At 10 pm (as seems to be quite normal here this time of year) a little riverboat pulled up alongside the bank and started shooting off a 20-minute fireworks show.  The whole thing was choreographed by the DJs and rivaled the best of American July fireworks (though granted, in America, I never saw nearby passing riverboats almost burst into flames from the offshooting embers).  Afterward we had some wheat beers and strolled down the road toward the Lánchíd where there was another festival in full swing.

It’s amazing to be on the bridge when it’s totally shut down to cars and trains.  With everyone walking around, you feel almost part of the glowing ions that can be seen from people walking along the banks of the river or from the hilly districts of Buda.  There is a certain light that is cast from the bridge and it’s almost eerie to be inside of it, especially at night.

Unlike the French party, this was a kind of artisan street fair with traditional Hungarian music, Hungarian artists, and Hungarian food.  Now every country has some kind of fried dough doused in sugar that always makes an appearance at fairs.  In Hungary it’s called kürtös kalács.  They’re coiled up in a cylinder, fried, and then sugar and cinnamon are fired onto them as they roll on a rotisserie to harden the sugar.  Being that it was nearly midnight and we hadn’t eaten dinner, we went for classic Hungarian fare: sült kolbász.  This is a particular treat for me, as I only ever eat it at Christmas time and sometimes Easter. (and the one time my mom accidently shipped me some in Indiana that had been in her freezer for two years–so it’s a miracle I can eat it at all, really, and still love it).  Seriously, if you haven’t eaten Hungarian sausage, close your internet browser, turn of your computer, drive to your nearest Hungarian butcher and try it.  And then tomorrow, run ten miles.

Last night was the first night I started to feel a little bit at home.  I sat outside on the cobblestone street that boarders the ruins of Buda Castle and watched as about twenty tourists took pictures of the wild cats.  And by wild cats I don’t mean Hungarian Jaguars or anything like that, but being that I’m not a cat kind of gal, I don’t know what to call house/wild cats that now live in the ruins of Prince Stephen, Duke of Slavonia’s medieval masterpiece.  Royals?

Anyway, I was sitting there in my jeans and Barak ‘n Roll teeshirt eating a granny smith apple (yes, they taste the same), just watching the evening set and everyone stroll slowly by.  The fact that it is getting dark here does not encourage people to head home.  In fact, it’s the second life of the city and district.  It’s when the cafes are serving night kávé and people are emerging after big dinners to walk down the alleys.  Go out at midnight and you may see three or four couples hand in hand admiring the way that the moonlight accents the statues of famous Hungarian princes and generals.  In my case, I was on my way toward the National Gallery and a better view for a Lánchid Bridge photograph.  In the course of my time here, I’ll probably post too many pictures of this bridge.  But please forgive me.  It’s like living next door to the Sacré-Cœur Basilica or the Bridge of Sighs and not taking a photograph of it every day.  It asks you too.  It’s real, living history.

After the dark had set on the river, fireworks started to zoom up from one of the boats docked on Duna (which you can see on my previous post).  As they crackled in the sky, there was not even one July 4th sensation bubbling in my throat.  I didn’t feel like an American at all, actually, but rather a well, yes, I live here gal and yes, this is the kind of thing you see here, and yes, this is why we love it.