You can take the girl out of Chipotle, but you can’t take Chipotle out of the girl: American expats and Mexican food
Two years ago, I briefly joined friends who were taking a year-long trip around the world. We met in Thailand while they were eight months into their adventure. Over Chang beer and fiery noodles, I asked them what they missed about America.
I thought they would say “knowing the language,” “fabric softener,” or “hot showers and air conditioning.” The answer was none of the above. They missed Mexican food.
Now that I have an extra appreciation for how our friends felt, I’m even happier that we tried Mexican food in Thailand. It was a mad experiment in international food relations. Our burrito was more of a spring roll, with thoughtfully applied ketchup in place of salsa. Mexican food in Siem Reap, Cambodia was a little better. The “guacamole” was bright green and appeared to be made of peas, but at least the consistency was right. The chips were made of crispy rice paper and the salsa was edible. I watched my friends savor each bite and thought, these poor souls. They simply don’t remember what it tastes like.
Mexican food is a uniquely American experience. You’d think it would be a uniquely Mexican experience, but no. Unless you live in Texas, the Southwest, or Southern California, “Mexican food” is a bizarre hybrid of American, Latin American, Caribbean and South American cuisine. It’s massive burritos with sour cream AND guacamole, margaritas from a machine, Cuban black beans, and deep-fried taco bowls with salad inside (you know, so it’s healthy). It’s kind of disgusting, and I totally miss it.
This year, I can relate to my worldly friends more than ever. Belgrade doesn’t really do Mexican food. Serbians are generally not fond of anything spicy. Mexican ingredients are rarer than an empty seat on the 41 bus line. Black beans? Forget it. Hot sauce? Ha! Cilantro is the Bigfoot of Belgrade markets–people claim they’ve seen it, but they can’t remember where. If they do find it, they paid a huge price and then never see it again. Maybe that’s how I should have spent my time here–forming a black market for cilantro and picante sauce.
There are Mexican restaurants in Belgrade–just not any good ones. Beans are canned and bland. phyllo dough is used instead of tortillas. Some grocery stores do sell flour tortillas (how are Serbians using these?) so at least I can make my own fajitas and tacos. It’s not quite the same.
Fortunately, we found authentic American-Mexican food at Iguana. Unfortunately, Iguana is in…Budapest. Yes, that’s three hours away, but we travel there pretty frequently and three hours is a lot closer than Texas. When the craving gets too bad, Muz and I count down the days until we’re back in Budapest so we can get the best quesadillas this side of the Atlantic. On our last visit, we even ordered jalepeno poppers.
I wouldn’t order these in the States if you paid me, but here they were good. Actual jalepenos, lightly battered, served with a local cheese that was a better replacement for cheddar and sour cream. What’s that on the side? Why, it’s a Michelada: a delicious concoction of lime juice and beer with a salt rim. Technically there should be some tomato juice too, but I’m not complaining.
We’ve been to Iguana five or six times this year, and it never failed to make us happy. It’s a little slice of home in a part of the world where “run for the border” has an entirely different connotation. But now that we’re leaving, I can’t help but wonder if I even remember what it should taste like. I guess I’ll find out soon.
Church on Sunday: A rocky afternoon at Sziklatemplom Church, Budapest
On a previous trip to Budapest with friends, someone asked me about the cross on top of a rock near Gellért Baths. A quick peek at the guidebook revealed that it was Sziklatemplom, a church built in a natural cave. While my companions decided to relax in Gellert’s thermal baths, I explored the cave church. Dedicated blogger or poor decision-maker? You decide.
Church admission comes with a free audio guide. The church chapels were created from a natural cave system. The caves were first inhabited by a hermit monk who used the hill’s thermal waters to help cure the sick. (If he was a hermit, how was he meeting and treating people? Just a thought.) The cave turned into an official Paulite church in 1926 and it was later expanded. The Paulite order is the only native Hungarian order. According to random internet sources (only the best for you guys!) it was founded in 1256, ended in 1773, and was re-instated in 1923; the monks of the order were once confessors to Hugarian Kings.
Oddly, the audio guide didn’t detail some of the church’s more interesting–and tragic–history. In 1951, during Hungary’s Communist era, the police sentenced Sziklatemplom’s chief Bishop to treason and death. Other monks were given prison sentences, and the church was sealed. After the fall of Communism in 1989, the Paulite order reopened the church for service.
The audio guide also featured a surprising amount of proselytizing. I skipped over some of this to focus on the discussion of the church, but to be honest, the architecture isn’t that interesting. It’s a simple church but not quite humble and not quite quaint. If you don’t have a lot of time in Budapest, I’d advise you to follow the lead of my friends and check out Gellért instead. Or go to a jewelry store on Vaci Utca and check out the best kind of rocks: sparkly.
To reach the church, go to Gellért hotel, face outside of the doors. Look for the big white cross; the church is below the cross and next to a statue of St. Istvan.
Bizarre Budapest II: A perplexing people mover
Riding a scary Budapest “vertical escalator” in four steps:
Step one: See that gold ledge on the right? That’s the platform. Step on it before it goes up too high, or risk hitting your head. Or miss it entirely and look like an idiot in front of everyone else waiting for the elevator.
Step two: Pretend you’re in something larger than a coffin.
Step three: face outward. (You don’t actually have to do this, but everyone else does.)
Step four: When you get to your desired floor, hop off quickly. Otherwise, the ledge merely flips over–yes, flips–and you may have to learn how to say “Doctor, I think I broke my leg” in Hungarian.
Step five: congratulate yourself for (1) not dying and (2) refraining from pretending you’re in a Harry Potter movie. Out loud.
Have a happy weekend, everyone!
Frugal feasting at Budapest’s Central Market
Budapest isn’t a backpackers’ paradise anymore. EU membership has its privileges—and its prices. Budget accommodations are scarce and restaurants can be pricey. Fortunately, there’s one place that a Real Housewife can find great deals and greater food: the Central Market.
I wrote about the Central Market last November, when I focused on souvenirs and smoked meats. There’s nothing wrong with making lunch of salami and a bottle of Tokaj, but the Central Market has more to offer. Upon entering the market, don’t be distracted by people carrying old-school wicker baskets, fruit vendors, and endless paprika stands. Don’t be tempted to buy a pre-made sandwich; STOP RIGHT THERE. That is for amateurs. Go to the second floor and make your way to the left side of the main entrance. You will see a long array of take-away hot food stands. This is where you want to be.
You’ll probably pass a long line of people waiting for langos, a Hungarian specialty of fried bread traditionally topped with cheese and sour cream.
Skip the langos line. Fried bread is okay, but there are far better ways to consume 1,500 calories. It’s not that great, not that cheap (even in the market) and the wait is way too long since every guidebook mentions this place. Pass the glazed eyes of Lonely Planet devotees, walk (or stop) by the wine and beer stand selling 20 ounce white wine spritzers, and end your journey at Fakanal Bistro.
It’s small, humble, and delicious. They’ve got stuffed cabbage, goose legs, fresh breads, goulash—you name it. The service is friendly, and the food is delicious. The location is peaceful but lively. And the prices are low for restaurant-quality food.
If you have room in your stomach after that, make your way downstairs to the bakeries dotting the first floor. There are several, so just choose a place that smells and looks promising. Some specialize in strudel; others have croissants and cookies. My favorite stand has dobos cake to die for.* Dobos cake is named after Hungarian baker József Dobos. It has five layers of cake between chocolate buttercream frosting and is topped with crunchy caramel. The caramel apparently keeps the cake from drying out. It also ensures that the cake will be eaten long before it becomes stale. YUM.
After cake, feel free to get a coffee upstairs or just pass out in the park across from the main entrance. Or better yet, walk off your meal by looking at some of the cheapest souvenir stands in town; they’re located on the other side of the second floor. Your wallet (and your stomach) will thank you. Your skinny jeans….not so much.
To go to the Dobos cake place I mentioned, walk in the main entrance and make your first left. At the end of that row, there will be a bakery on your right and a slightly tired-looking vegetable stand across the way. This is the bakery—apologies for not writing down its name! Get there before 11am for the best selection. The Central market is closed on Sundays.
Detective RHOB and mystery of John…D’oh! *
It had been a while since my last case, and I wasn’t too broken up about it. I figured the lack of Belgrade Mysteries meant that I was finally understanding this joint. I was no longer searching for clues about ice trays or dumpsters. In fact, I was now able to give directions or help people weigh their vegetables at the Mini Maxi. But just as I thought it was all over, another mystery pulled me back into the fray.
I was having lunch with American visitors when one of them returned from the bathroom. He had a puzzled look on his face, and I knew something was up. In a low voice, he asked, “um…so how to I flush the toilet here?”
Detective RHOB was on the case. I asked, “Can you describe the toilet? I’ll need the approximate height of the tank.” After some discussion, I realized he was talking about something like this:
I solved the case faster than a DC meter maid gives tickets. “There’s a tab on the top right side of the tank,” I said. “Push the right side of the tab and the toilet will flush.” Case closed. But I realized that it wasn’t the first time I’ve been presented with a bathroom brain-twister. Here’s a breakdown for the Balkan travelers presented with a “Dear John” case of their own.
Most toilets here have a dual-flush system. Press the bigger button for, um, bigger events and the smaller button…you get the idea. Here’s an example from an OMV rest stop. Most people could figure this one out, but I’m giving this john extra points for his buddy, “Big Willie.”
With other commodes, the mystery lingers like cevapcici with onions. I encountered the head on the right in Budapest. I thought I had to turn the knob, but nothing happened. (That I know of. I probably caused a small flood somewhere.) After using my detective skills I realized that the lever below was not fixed as I had previously thought. Another mystery solved. I was becoming an expert on Balkan toilets. And my guidance counselor said I’d never amount to anything…(Actually, he said I’d regret not taking typing class. FALSE.)
My detective skills were no match for the loo on the left, but it gets an honorary mention for being overly complicated. There’s a large panel, a lever, and a sort of aerodynamic design to it. Someone is spending a lot of time thinking about designing toilets. Then again, I devoted a lot of time photographing and writing about them. Who am I to judge?
Finally, there’s the deepest, darkest mystery of them all: pit toilets and the people who install them. If confronted with a pit toilet in the Balkans, stay away. Or bring tissue, soap, and quads of steel. I hesitated to post this, but I didn’t get my detective rank by turning away from the ugly cases. Sorry if you’re eating lunch right now.
The Balkans are full of mysteries large and small, so I’ll keep my detective hat on a little longer. I never know when I’ll open the door to a new case.
* Confused or non-native English speakers, the post title is a play on “John Doe,” the legal name given to an unidentified person, and the word “John” which is slang for toilet. I can’t get away from puns, sorry.
Church on Sunday: St. Matthias in Budapest
It took four trips to Budapest, two visitors, and the one day I decided against bringing a big camera, but we finally saw Matthias church. Matthias church is one of the highlights of the Castle District in Budapest. We first walked by this marvel on our first Budapest trip in November. At that time, and then again in April, the church was closed for renovation. But on our last trip, we noticed the doors were open and bought tickets to see what all that scaffolding was about.
Though the interior is a bit dark, it’s hard to miss how colorful the church is. It was originally built in 1015, but Turkish occupation (when the church became a mosque) and subsequent renovations have changed the building significantly. The current style dates from the late 19th century, when the surrounding Fisherman’s Bastion was also built. The church is officially the Church of Our Lady but King Matthias helped renovate the church and was married there-twice. The church was also the site of Hungarian coronations.
Budapest tourism was in high swing so there were some crowds and a lot of tour guides. After overhearing varying reports about what each window meant, I can’t vouch for any accuracy. We decided to simply wander around and take in the distinct colors used on walls, windows and the pulpit.
The church also features an interesting detail echoed throughout the Castle District: a bird with a ring in its mouth. The bird is the symbol of King Matthias, who, legend has it, once killed a bird after it stole a ring from the King. The truth is more elaborate, but the moral is the same: birds stink.
Lesson learned, King Matthias. Lesson learned.
Synagogue Sunday: Tabakgasse, Budapest
I primarily wanted to see the Tabakgasse Synagogue for “Church on Sunday” material, but it turned out to be one of Budapest’s most interesting sights. The synagogue holds three thousand people and is the second largest synagogue in the world. That means it can also hold a lot of visitors, but don’t plan on strolling inside–we waited in line for about 20 minutes to purchase tickets for a tour.
Tabakgasse (also known as Dohany Street Synagogue) is a neolog synagogue, a specific brach of Judaism that originated in Hungary. That’s unusual in itself, but the interior is even more unique. It’s gorgeous–but something gave me pause. I couldn’t quite explain my puzzlement until the tour guide confirmed that the the altar-like podium, pulpit and general byzantine design were more common in churches than in synagogues. There’s even an organ, something highly unusual for a synagogue.
Our tour guide explained that when the synagogue was built in 1859 it was purposefully designed to echo Hungary’s Christian houses of worship as a kind of see, we’re not so different gesture. Unfortunately, sinister forces disagreed. In 1944 Germany occupied Hungary and the Arrow Cross imposed brutal restrictions on the Jewish Community. The synagogue became part of the Jewish ghetto. That same year, thousands of Jews died in the ghetto from malnutrition and cold were buried in the synagogue’s courtyard.
The back of the synagogue features a memorial park dedicated to the people who died under the Nazi regime. A metal weeping willow features leaves inscribed with the names of thousands of victims.
Yet the synagogue’s best feature can’t be shown in photographs: the expert tour guides and organized atmosphere. Tabakgasse’s patient, informed staff made our visit even more interesting. If you’re planning a trip to Budapest, make sure to stop here for a Synagogue Sunday of your own–there are no tours on Saturdays.
The Ruin Pubs of Budapest
Budapest is the home of ruin pubs, bars that sprung up in dilapidated buildings and courtyards in the Jewish Quarter. While commercial redevelopment lags in this charming part of the city (think tiny streets and quirky stores), enterprising Hungarians have made it a unique part of Budapest nightlife. We decided to show Muz’s parents what happens when bad infrastructure, Hungarian ingenuity, and interesting drinkers get together. So we walked to Szimpla Kert (Simple Garden), one of the best-known ruin pubs in the city.
I was a little worried that the bar would be too slick and commercialized. This concern vanished as we walked up the street to the bar’s front door.
Maybe this ruin is a little too authentic for Muz’s parents, I thought. Yet when we stepped through the doorway and into the courtyard, we knew we had come to the right spot. People of all ages were sitting in the courtyard on haphazard furniture. The decor was mostly scavenged, but not too kitchy as to seem forced.
Besides, people don’t come to ruin pubs for the furniture. They come for the atmosphere. It was lively, but not filled with drunken stag parties. The clientele seemed to be tourists and locals of all ages. And while there are some commercial aspects to Szimpla Kert, like selling t-shirts and coffee mugs, it retains a homegrown feel.
There are quite a few ruin pubs in Budapest. In fact, there are enough of them that a new term, “art pub,” has sprung up. Though I’m not sure how long they’ll have the same atmosphere. That road development probably means that the Jewish Quarter is next on Budapest’s list for gentrification. I’m happy to see the city continually improving (even since our first visit in November), but I’ll be sitting in ruin pubs for our next visit. A life in ruins may be caused by drinking, but drinking in ruins is just delightful.
Palinka: Hungarian Hooch
- Image source here.
Hungary is probably best known for its wine, but on this last trip I decided to try another homegrown specialty: palinka. Palinka is a fruit brandy typically made with plums, pears, apricot, or peaches. Sounds rather like rakija, doesn’t it? Most countries in this region have some sort of local distilled brandy, but Hungary has cornered the market–or marketing, to be more precise–on the name palinka.
My glass was at Bor La Bor, an upscale wine bar/restaurant. We started our meal with glasses of palinka made from cranberries, apricot and plum. The waiter informed us that there was honey mixed with the palinka, and that we would find pieces of fruit in our glasses. Fancy.
My first sip was good, but as the drink became sweeter my interest waned. It was more like a tiny cocktail than brandy. After way too much rakija drinking here, I like my brandy to have a little bite.
The next night we took Muz’s parents to the wine bar we found on our first trip here–you know, the one owned by the lady with the glass eye who served wine by the ladle? Exactly. Muz’s parents were surprisingly game for a glass of wine there despite the inch of dirt on the floor and the cloud of cigarette smoke lingering in the air. Did I mention they’re awesome?
I thought the owner would have palinka here, and I was right. She took a half-empty bottle off the dusty shelf and poured me a glass of Barack (apricot). I played some Elvis on the jukebox and inhaled the sharp aroma of 60-80 percent alcohol, burning my nose hairs in the process. This was brandy.
Remember her? We do.
I enjoyed palinka, but it wasn’t as good as the rakjia we’ve had in Serbia. Maybe I’m biased, but I like how good rakija balances the sharpness of the alcohol and the flavor of the fruit. Brandy, in my opinion, should smell and taste like its base fruit without any added sugars or articifial flavors. My palinka didn’t have that quality. Then again, I was ordering it from a dive bar in Budapest, so it probably wasn’t the best palinka out there. Still, I consider myself lucky to live in the land of delicious homemade rakjia…and to still have a healthy liver after eight months of living here.
Life as Art in Budapest
Budapest has many charming statutes along the Danube, but Miloš is pretty clear about his favorite:
Solidarity, brother!
Here he commiserates with a furry friend who does not want to give up the OMIGODILOVETHIS, otherwise known as a ball. Miloš has developed an obsession with soccer balls. Fitting for a European dog, right? I’ve been trying to get Partizan and Red Star soccer balls to help Miloš declare his allegiance, but I haven’t found one yet. It’s probably for the best since this ball was destroyed in less than a week. Next time I’ll let him gnaw on the metal one in Rover’s mouth here. That ought to keep him busy for a while…
When getting there is half the trip: Road signs in Budapest
“They have worries, they’re counting the miles, they’re thinking about where to sleep tonight, how much money for gas, the weather, how they’ll get there–and all the time they’ll get there anyway, you see.”
– Jack Kerouac, On the Road
We spend a lot of time on the road. Lately, much of that road has been the route between Belgrade to Budapest. The drive is fairly easy, but summer lines at the border and construction have made the trip a bit longer. And now, just before we enter Budapest, UGH: merging lanes and traffic cones of construction work appear. Fortunately, Hungarian officials have tried to combat driver frustration with helpful signs. I like to call them “The Four Stages of Summer Driving”
Step 1: Anger.
“Traffic?!?” This stinks! Why can’t they repair the roads when I’m not on them? Why can’t these other cars get off the road? Don’t they know I have an important date with the Gerbeaux gelatto stand?”
Step 2: Bargaining.
“Maybe this will clear up pretty quickly. Also, ‘tereles’ is a funny word. I am still upset, though.
Step 3: Acceptance.
“I guess this is just a part of summer road trips. Hopefully there’s a rest stop ahead. I’m in the mood for a raspberry Fanta. And a clean bathroom.”
Step 4: Happiness.
“Finally! Now we can speed all the way to Budapest. Wait, is that a cop car? UGH…”
At least the signs are a good reminder that ol’ Kerouac was right. We get there anyway.
Lessons Learned in The Terror House of Budapest
I travel to remind myself that I don’t know much about the world. Usually, this reminder consists of pleasant discoveries in new places. In Budapest, it was a sober lesson, courtesy of the Terror House.
The Terror House is a museum dedicated to the victims of the Arrow Cross (Hungarian Fascist movement) and AVH (Soviet-supported secret police) regimes between 1944-1956. The museum is located on Andrássy út, a famous tree-lined street that is recognized as a World Heritage Site. The location is no accident: the museum building was the former headquarters of the Nazi and AVH secret police.
While the AVH may be well-known for annihilating the Jewish community, no one was immune to interrogation, detention, or execution for being an enemy of the state. Many of these activities took place in the building’s basement, a chamber of horrors that features photographs of the people who were held there. The aboveground floors contain powerful exhibits on the 1956 Revolution, the role of churches during this period, and labor camps. Powerful video testimonials (with English subtitles) offer glimpses of life during and after this period.
Faces of victims line the outer walls of the building
The words “Arrow Cross” echoed in my head, as a half-forgotten answer on a midterm exam. It was only as we ascended the floors of this museum that I realized how much I didn’t know about this period in Hungarian history. The museum presented information in a way that was more eye-opening than macabre. The exhibits were a beautiful, eerie reminder that what happened once, and then again, should never be repeated. Traveling and living in former Hapsburg territories made me think of Hungarians as more conqueror than victim. How wrong I was.
Soviet army tank and images of victims
I know this seems like a downer of a post, but it’s not meant to be. The museum was amazing, and anyone traveling through Budapest should see it for the gorgeous architecture, important history, and the reminder that there is so much more to learn about the world.
Not hungry in Hungary
Muz Heaven
I like to say, “you’ll never starve in Serbia.” After this trip, I may have to include, “or Budapest.” Unless you’re a vegetarian, that is.
Exhibit 1: the Central Market in Budapest. Veggies outshined by meat vendors. Muz was so moved by the carnivorous display, he took this photo.
Exhibit 2: “When in Rome,” I thought, and later ordered an appetizer plate: heaps of smoked meat, fried meat, and sausage arrived. Readers, I’d love to tell you that I was too principled to eat it, that I had my typical thoughts of PETA and global warming and hormones, and that I nibbled on peppers instead.
Hell, no. It was delicious. The only thing I couldn’t eat was something that appeared to be pork rinds. Muz took care of those. When I complimented the waiter on the sausage, he told me it was liver and cream. Sounds revolting-tastes amazing.
Exhibit 3: We were so happily surprised by the spicier flavors of Budapest (compared to Serbia) that we decided to find an Indian restaurant and really shock our systems. The delicious Majaraj did not disappoint. Vegetarian food was available, but we decided to continue with the theme and have curried meat dishes instead.
So if you’re going to Budapest as a quasi-vegetarian, be prepared to fall off the wagon. Better yet, just throw yourself off when you get there. You won’t regret it.
Central Market, Budapest
Veni, Vidi, Vici Vino
Don't worry, I'm sure this is perfectly sanitary.
Muz and I approach “food tourism” differently. I want to eat street food and try strange liqueurs. He wants to sit down at restaurants and sample local wine. We thought that Budapest wine bars would offer something for both of us: the atmosphere of street food, a seat, and cheap wine. We were sold.
Our first wine bar was a classy joint; it had flattering lighting, a food menu, and well-dressed, sober patrons. It was very nice, but we were looking for something else.
Our second wine bar looked appropriately seedy, but had shut down. This was becoming a challenge.
Our third wine bar: paydirt. Located in an alley. Walls scarred by years of nicotine. Tables fashioned out of junkyard lumber. This was what we had been looking for: something for working-class Hungarians who want a drink and a cigarette at the end of the day.
It was so authentic, in fact, that the proprietor—a no-nonsense woman with a glass eye—spoke zero English. With some help from a patron, we ordered our “ladles.” In these bars, wine is stored in metal barrels and ladled into a glass. You pay for each time a ladle is dipped. It’s not the best wine we’ve ever had, but it was the cheapest.
As we sat there, a woman drunkenly sang show tunes in her glass. A Raymond Chandler character came in for a double shot of vodka with beer. Students came in, surveyed the room, and promptly left. But we stayed for a second glass to enjoy the wine, sights, and atmosphere: cheap, questionable, and fantastic.
Gellert Baths: Muz edition
You might feel some...pressure
Muz and I decided to experience one of Budapest’s grandest and oldest tourist attractions this weekend: the baths. We skipped the museums and concerts and headed straight for Gellért, the grandest bathhouse. For anyone thinking of going, here are a few tips to keep in mind: bring your own towel and suit, or plan to rent them. Try to figure out the layout before you get there, since there’s little direction for English-speaking visitors. And if you’re looking for a massage, Muz has graciously offered his experience below.
This past weekend I decided to journey beyond my comfort zone and try a massage at a Hungarian bathhouse. Let’s just say that it was a learning experience, and I would like to share a few lessons with RHOB readers (all three of you).
Lesson 1: there are no female masseurs willing to give a man a massage. I didn’t know that before I paid. But, no big deal. Having another man give me a massage is not a disqualifier, so long as there is no nudity involved…
Lesson 2: it’s called a bathhouse for a reason. You don’t take a bath with your pants on. Everyone was in their birthday suit, including silly Americans who thought they could request a female masseuse.
Lesson 3: Hungarian masseurs are efficient. There are no pleasantries. When a Hungarian masseur tells you to take your pants off, and you respond “Shouldn’t you buy me dinner and a movie first?” he either does not get it or is not amused. Either way, when he’s beating the sh*t out of you on the table, you’ll be left wondering if maybe comments like these are better kept to oneself.
Lesson 4: Hungarian masseurs do not get embarrassed. When my masseuse asked me to lie on my stomach, I thought he would drape a privacy blanket or something similar over my rump. Well, I was wrong. No privacy blanket, and no hesitation about rubbing my rear in a way that no one ever has (or will from this point forward). I definitely had a Fletch “Moon, River” moment while on the table, if you know what I mean…
I liked my massage, but tomato/paradajz, I guess…
Main pool of Gellért
Private (gender-specific) baths at Gellért
What a long, strange trip it’s been.
Fat and wise...like a hybrid of Yoda and Jabba the Hut...
I took a picture of this pigeon on Vaci Street in Budapest because he was the fattest pigeon I had seen. We later realized he also had an important message for us.
He ambled down the street, unfazed by dogs, children and an American taking photos. He would waddle around obstacles and half-follow people into stores. It didn’t matter where he was going—he was just going somewhere. Much like a road trip through Eastern Europe.
Last weekend, Muz and I decided to go to Budapest via private transport. This sounds glamorous until you realize that private transport is an aging, crowded van. But they pick you up at your house and drop you off at your hotel directly. Nice, right?
Sort of. “Directly” means that you drive all over the city until the van is full, at which point the driver stops by his office and THEN gets gas. Shouldn’t he have gotten gas before he picked up his passengers? Don’t ask yourself these questions. It’s 7 am—oh, now it’s 8 am—and you should be in Budapest in 4.5 short hours!
Or seven long ones. The major North-West highway in Serbia was closed. Without notice. We took a “smoke break” while our driver found an alternate route, drove backward in the emergency lane to get off the highway, and found a path through back roads. A few hours later, a bridge was out of service, but at this point it didn’t faze us. We got out of the van for another break –“just ten minutes, half an hour,” we were told–and accepted the fate of the road. As if to make us feel better, an English-speaking passenger told us about the time a window fell out of his van and they had to drive back to the starting point to get a new vehicle.
Despite these obstacles, it was not a bad way to travel. Passengers shared snacks. We saw farmers travelling by horse and carriage. We even experienced a bit of intrigue when another passenger asked people to hold extra cigarettes across the border, since you’re only allowed to bring two packs per person into Hungary.
The return trip wasn’t much shorter, but it was better. Not only did we know to expect the unexpected, we saw our English-speaking passenger again and met a woman who had lived in the States for 10 years. They taught us Serbian tongue-twisters and told us about classic Serb movies, the best bakeries, and Balkan living in general. I guess our plump, bird-brained acquaintance was on to something. Getting there was half the fun. And the food was going to be very, very good.
Church on Sunday: Budapest Edition
Dramatic photo of St. Stephen by Muz
This week’s Church on Sunday is St. Stephen’s Basilica in…Budapest! Muz and I were here for the long weekend, enjoying the sights and wines and spas. St. Stephen’s is the second largest building in Budapest and can fit up to 7,000 or 8,000 people, depending on which guidebook you’re reading.
It’s a must-see both inside and out, and especially when you climb up to the top for a panoramic view over the city.
I’ll write more about our trip this week.
Sunset from the top of St. Stephen
Inside dome of St. Stephen's Basilica
Real Housewife of Belgrade 