On Saturday the plan was to stay close to Budapest, to do some museum tours or hiking, depending on the weather.  Despite the overcast skies, hiking was the winning activity.  I’m not sure about anyone else, but coming from such a rainy, cloudy hometown, my inclination is to always put off museum-ing until fall has dried up and fallen off.  And even though I’ve heard it’s quite beautiful, dry and sunny here during the winter months, the cold alone can drive anyone indoors for Late Renaissance and Baroque art exhibits in the National Gallery.

So we head to Pilisszentlászló, a town about a half hour from the city (by car), though small enough to avoid most listings in guidebooks.  It is close, however, to the very tourist-popular Szentendre and Esztergom, both of which I visited this summer.  Near the Danube and Slovakia, the little town is known around Budapest as a nice afternoon getaway for a light hike and leisurely lunch.  I saw one church, one pub, one restaurant, and one hotel, and though there are probably a few more, there was a certain charm in the one-onlyness of it.

Part of the national forest, there are organized hiking trails (though not well groomed nor closed to small off-road vehicles—so if you hear the rumbling of an ATV engine, it’s best to move toward the side of the path or embankment).  The indicator that you are on the right trail is a small painted sign on a tree or two.  But even though some where clogged with mud flow or downed pines, the paths were well worn, and for the most part it was clear that you’re heading in the right direction.

Even with the clouds, the green in the trees were extraordinarily vibrant.  We passed a few families who had small children slung into those kid-carrier backpacks, and the whole atmosphere was slow, open and fresh.  We saw several fires at the entrance of the forest, and people circled around them with small grills and tents.  For the camping types, I imagine it is a lovely fresh-air refuge from the city, a great place for a fall weekend or day trip.

After a little hike, we had a late lunch at the well-known restaurant there overlooking the hills: Kis Rigó Vendéglő.  It was a real local joint, though completely crowded even at 3pm.  A place to get traditional fare like cauldron-cooked Hungarian gulyás, dark beers, and hearty meat dishes.  And to add a little spice, they had a full pálinka menu, though I wouldn’t recommend a tasting before a hike.

Overall the trip combined some of the best of the things I’ve discovered here—a pleasant atmosphere combined with the generous spirit of locals.  And as the fall rolls forward, I imagine that Pilisszentlászló will come even more alive with the changing leaves on the paths and campfires of city-folk who for a few hours can escape the business of Budapest.

This week a pack of powerful storms and cold rain arrived in Hungary, leaving behind it every emblem of Fall.  Walking out of the castle for a late lunch on Monday, I could see my breath hanging above the path then wafting back to the stones of the old wall.  And this morning, my running shoes were collectors of the yellow leaves fallen from the trees, and the shells of newly hatched chestnuts.  The ones that haven’t fallen are causing the carriage of the branches along the side streets to droop.  And every few seconds you can hear the click and tumble as one dislodges and hits the cobblestones.

The cloudiness does and always will remind me of Ohio.  And of course it is because I grew up in the northeastern part (by some accounts the cloudiest in the United States), moved away to the sun, move back again.  There is such a comfort to the kind of drizzly weather.  After the humidity sets and the rain stops you are really aware of the world aching and dripping around you.  The sound of it, like nothing else.  And though the sun is much more reluctant to stay hidden here for very long, fall has still arrived.  I think that most people here are welcoming it, though it does not stop the tour groups, the outdoor cafes, the park bench sitters with their thermosed teas and second hand books.  A pleasant change has come to the old city:  cooler weather, the sound of rain, the autumn colors cresting up the hills to the castle.

On Saturday I stayed close to home and attended the 17th Annual Budapest Wine Festival.  The event coincides with the country’s wine harvest and is attended by thousands each year.  The event was absolutely lovely.  Luckily, I didn’t have to go far to get there—just a few cobblestones away in the palace and gallery terraces.  Since being here, I’ve gone to a lot of little festivals and fairs, but this festival really seemed to converge on life’s essential pleasures.

After weeks of nearly intolerable heat and humidity, a round of storms finally broke through, and by late Saturday afternoon, the temperature was mild to chilly—perfectly fall.  Locals and tourists alike were scattered throughout the castle district, dressed in corduroy and fleece, sweaters, wraps, scarves.  And from most people’s neck hung a black cotton sash with the words bor fesztivál budai vár printed on the fabric, and of course, a wine tasting glass inside.

Though never tricked by two-buck-chuck swill, I wouldn’t really call myself a wine connoisseur.  I know the motions, the swirls and the smells and the proper way to taste wine.  I enjoy hunting for floral inside the glass, which of course is a necessary skill for the lovely Hungarian whites.  But mostly, I enjoy wine with good friends and good conversations, and occasionally, a round of poem revisions.

By seven, the sun was setting and the Danube was starting its light works with the near full moon.  Some estimated the crowd at about 10,000 with a few hundred vendors (both from Hungary and the guest country, Italy).  I would have to say that the best part of the night was sitting on the edge of the marble fountain drinking a dry wine from Tokaji and nibbling on a serving of blue cheese just as the fireworks began.  And under the influence of (the wine), the Duna, the castle, the cobblestones, the tossing leaves, and the finally-fall-has-arrived-weather, I really thought: it does not get better than this.  Another day here, another charm.

Hungary is divided into regions:  Northern Transdanubia, the Northern Highlands, the Great Plain, southern Transdanubia, and the bits around Budapest.  The entire country is just under 36,000 square miles (approximately 167 miles North to South and 328 miles East to West).  For comparison, the state of Ohio is just over 41,000 square miles (approximately 230 miles North to South and 210 miles East to West).  This should give you a better idea of why it’s possible to travel around the country quite easily to visit these small towns and villages.

This weekend I went to Veszprém, which is one of Hungary’s oldest towns, close to Hungary’s “ocean”—Lake Balaton.  It is a historical and ecclesiastical seat of Hungary and (I do not get this trend) proud home to a glass-enthroned bone of Queen Gizella (first Queen of Hungary) and wife of (István) Stephen.

The feel is certainly historical, but even more religious than the other towns I’ve visited.  In his struggle to Christianize Hungary, King István set Veszprém as the country’s first bishopric, and it has remained (for over a millennia now) symbolic of early Christianity.

The town is a must for any student of art and architecture, especially because of the incongruent feel that only occurs in a place that has hung around for so many centuries.  In the castle district alone, you can move from the Gothic St. Michael’s Cathedral to the Baroque Archbishop’s Palace to the Petőfi Theater, which is late-Secession.  The castle gate emulates medieval (probably a 9th century Frankish fortress), though it is a replica (built in 1938), and the Town Hall is Neo-Classical.

There is Hungarian, Latin, and Greek etchings on walls, buildings, plaques, and monuments.  The light is elegant here.  More fresco than fresh.

And yet the town is a town, like any other.  The young men in the seminary wait outside with cigarettes for the pizza delivery, which rumbled up the cobblestones.  And by 3pm, the cafes start to fill with young business colleagues and college students enjoying a kicsi sör (small beer) or a glass of wine and a bowl of soup in the open-air patios.

German tourists click away at the statue of the Bavarian Queen and young boys play with their dogs at the ruins of the monostary.  And as usual, geranium and ivy windows open to the air, curtains aloft with wind.  It really is a “the city of Queens.”  Gentle.  Unlike my neighborhood, the slightly more famous Castle District of Buda, there weren’t any tour busses, nor guides holding sticks with group numbers high into the air.

While it’s true that Magyars are historically moody people, they’ve been caught (for over a thousand years) between the forces of the far east and far west—arguably more so than any other state in central or eastern Europe.  And while happiness is a relative term, these little towns are really peaceful.

Maybe it has something to do with a place, like the people, sticking around for so many centuries—being razed and ruined and built back up again.  People go on living, working, visiting with neighbors, creating art, going to church, to the markets.  People take their time, with the town and with each other.  There’s something really admirable about that.

Midway through last week, Koni and Korinna had to break from lessons to go to driving school.  I took the opportunity to go to Vác, the most charming little town on the eastern bank of the Danube.  The town itself has been around since the year 1000, and though it was destroyed by a few wars, the first in the 17th century, it’s been rebuilt and re-adorned with Baroque and Neo-Renaissance buildings, marketplaces, hospitals, cafes and churches.

In fact it was such an empire-refuge that the Habsburg Empress Maria Theresa (champion of civil reform and education, and mother to Marie Antoinette and HRE Leopold II and 14 others) absolutely adored Vác and kept a residence here.  At the northern end of the town, there is a triumphal arch (if you don’t know what it is—think Arc de Triomphe in Paris) built for her, and is still to this day is the only one in Hungary.

And it’s easy to see why it was a place for an Empress.  The town is utterly peaceful, even now in its “modern” age.  Despite it’s close proximity to Budapest and even in the last August week where most here were on holiday, the streets were all but vacant.  A few old women gabbing on park benches, some teenage girls enjoying an ice cream, a group of children running in the central green while their parents looked on.  But there weren’t hoards of people.  It wasn’t cluttered in any way.

When strolling through the alleyways where the houses are painted in yellows and pinks, you can feel like evening’s consort, the light low and cool through the trees.  The lawns were manicured, the tulips were evenly planted, and the church bells rang in increments with melodies that sent the blackbirds and swallows into a cloudless flight.  It’s a place of cobblestone and brick.  Flowerpots in every window.  Wrought-iron fences and streetlamps.

I sat on the outdoor patio of a local café (with a beer and camembert and peach-stuffed chicken breast) and watched the sun slowly setting.

I’d like to come back to Vác soon because I didn’t get a chance to see the Rococo artwork inside of the churches, specifically the Dominican Church of Our Lady of Victory.  But I’m not sure when I’ll be back.  There are hundreds of little towns to explore with countless little miracle charms.  This weekend I’m off to one of the great historical towns in Hungary: Veszprém.

Sharing a boarder with southeastern Slovakia, Nógrád isn’t a big Hungarian town.  It’s not a town at all, actually, but a village, a real old-Europe village where the shadows of older times lurk much closer than in the bigger cities where there are occasional cobblestone reminders.

Just before daylight the village roosters were awakened by the circadian rhythms and began their territorial singing, and soon after the daily announcements from the loud speaker.  I was told that they announced twice that the pharmacy would open on Friday from 10:30 until 11:30.  Apparently one hour is all that is needed for prescription pick-ups and vitamin refills.  These announcements were strangely soviet to me, though after a few days I warmed to the rustic simplicity and resolved that they were, like most everything in the village, quietly idyllic.

I suppose if you are an average Midwestern American like I am, and you were suddenly transported into Nógrád, you might feel some familiarity.  The creeks, marble arches, honeysuckle in bloom.  German dogs sunning themselves in the grass next to the peach trees.  The woodland and the pastures, the apple groves.  People harvest various fruits and vegetables, others ride bikes, gather flowers, run for the train or the ice cream truck.  But the pace is distinctively small town European.  The mayor, for example, makes
mákos rétes (poppy seed strudel) and delivers a few portions to the family I stayed with.  The mayor.  And grandmothers are always calling the grandkids to their homes to eat the ice cream they picked up from the confectionary.  Hungarian kids are always getting ice cream rewards.  And Túró Rudi. Of course you’d be hard pressed to find the spectacular ruins of a castle on the top of an average Ohio hill.

I stayed with the family for a week and organized English lessons for the two eldest children (15 and 14).  And when we weren’t playing tennis, touring the father’s vast property on quads, riding horses, or eating Hungarian specialties to the point of excruciating pain, we talked about American gossip rags, celebrities, pop art, comic books, cooking, and American sports.

I gave them vocabulary lists and they actually gasp made notes on them.  And doublegasp listened to me and asked questions.  And triplegasp actually used the new words.  And seriously, for you educators out there, when was the last time your student’s mother interrupted your lesson to bring you ice cream bars and raspberry syrup for the sparkling water?

As I look through all of the pictures I took over the week, I really appreciate even more the quaintness of these little towns outside of Budapest.  And while for some a place like Nógrád is just a place for a summer or weekend home, it’s another example of the kind of feeling I was hoping to find when moving here.  Unspoiled by the bus exhaust and tourist mobs, it is simple, pastoral.  A place where you can write, and actually hear your own words coming back to you.

Nógrád, 7 am

It’s the end of blackberry season.  This morning the rooster’s lungs seem strained in his cockled melody of morning.  The plums are so fat the branches bow to the grass, and honeybees are wingside hoping to suckle the warm nectar drip.  The family is still sleeping, as are the farm workers though the young mare needs tending in the barn.  The village dogs that spent the night moon-howling are resting now in thin alleys of morning sun. Dry creek beds crackle as the train vibrates past.  Split wood shifts on the piles in the north stables. And on the distant hill, morning is as green as time here, is as new as the words for it.  Everything is alive and resting.  The empty wine cellars dug cool into the hills, the peach pits mixed with pebbles on the side of the lake.   Everything is resting and everything is moved.  The pottery wheel, for example, turned slowly by wind.  The stones of the gunpowder-ruined castle with no memory of that season of lightning.