The Train to Moscow…

A Central European Train…

Last week was fun.  We drank shots of palinka, entertained a new friend for dinner and hopped a train to Moscow.  That last bit might have been the highlight of our year – if our destination hadn’t been Bratislava. 

Suffice it to say, it was a comedy of errors.  We scurried into the steaming car rushing to the handful of scattered, available seats - cajoling the neighboring passengers to collect their sweater and book and salami sandwich so we could sit.  We cheekily sat down while the laggards stood.  In spite of the open windows, there was no trace of a breeze.  I realized this was going to be a long ride.  In our adrenaline rush, it didn’t occur to us to verify the train was, in fact, destined for Bratislava.       

Five minutes before departure time, the train left the station.  Hungary is a country where trains run fashionable late – never early.  “Excuse me; is this the train to Bratislava?”  “Nyet.”   The unsmiling people – to this point displaying no noticeable sense of humor – guffawed.  Ten minutes outside of Budapest, at a stop which Igor christened “Let the Callahans off the train” we exited.        

We stood on the platform and laughed – not a nervous “oh crap” twitter – but a bend over and grab your stomach belly laugh.  The passengers raucously joined us – their laughter only fading once the train chugged on down the track.  We snapped a quick photo of the “Russian Railway: Beograde-Moskova” sign on the engine which only made us laugh harder.  We reflected on the obvious signs we had missed: the sorriest looking brown garbed passengers we had ever seen, a sweltering car smelling of too many miles already travelled, a group of people with not one natural born comic in their midst.     

An attendant on the platform told us trains to Budapest Keleti don’t stop here (he politely left out that trains from Keleti generally don’t stop here either).  He pointed in the general direction of the number 1 tram and did his best to describe the route back to Keleti.  Fortunately, Pat and I were familiar with the 1 tram.  We had taken it by accident a few weeks earlier on our way home from the market instead of the 14 tram.      

We easily found the tram stop and deciphered the route map back to Keleti, returning in time to unwind over a beer and get all the Moscow jokes out of our system.  Everyone agreed the story value offset the inconvenience.  Not until days later did I realize the misadventure could fill my blog writer’s block.       

Still and all, in spite of the laughter, my internal critic chastised me and wondered if our life will always be a series of trains to Moscow.  The rest of me was pretty excited.  How cool that we actually can take a train to Moscow.  We managed to laugh off one of our bigger mistakes yet.  And we recovered.  (It was a bonus that we found a restaurant at Keleti with good beer and seemingly decent food).     

We caught the next train to Bratislava tucking ourselves into our seats only after repeated validations that “Yes, this is the train to Bratislava.”  The car was cooler, the people friendlier.  They didn’t look like people who laughed at misfortune.  As we sat down, I told my husband “Alls well that ends well.” 

This weekend back in Budapest, after the embarrassment and silliness subsided, I sat down at my desk to catch up on my journal.   Years ago I scribbled a bucket list in the back.  I rarely look at it.  

•  Live overseas (Done) 
•  Start a blog (Also done – I had forgotten this one!) 
•  Read Don Quixote (Picked up a copy on my way home Friday)  

On the bottom I appended “Take the train to Moscow.”   How cool would that be?  And to think, before last week, I never even realized it was possible.

The things we’ll carry home….

Syd and Pat - biking and beer

Our American friends, Syd and Deb, visited this past week.  Syd mentioned in passing the unique perspectives we will take back to the United States some day. He’s right – I hope.  These perspectives won’t relate to the social benefits infamous in Europe or universal healthcare or the incredibly practical features of the man purse.  We plan to tuck into our suitcase a renewed focus on friendship – and the priority friends should have in our lives.

Last weekend, we returned to Bratislava.  We enjoy the old world charm of the cobble stone streets; a lazy cup of coffee nursed on the main square; and the stick to your ribs Slovak cuisine.  However, more times than not, we return to Bratislava simply to visit friends.

Biking with friends…

Sunday we biked through Austria.  We arranged to meet Igor and Vlasta.  They had invited a family of mutual Slovak friends to join our ride.  I love to bike from Bratislava into the farmland, vineyards, and villages of eastern Austria.  The more the merrier.

Our US friends and our Slovak friends quickly bonded.  We made no attempt to recreate the Tour de France. We cruised more like I picture Julia Child biking through France: 10 minutes of leisurely pedaling then coffee; 15 minutes further and a stop for beer. As Igor sometimes says, “I bike for strudel.” And we did. In seven hours of biking, the team logged perhaps 25 miles. Deb and I broke off mid way and spent a few hours in the Al Capone pub nursing drinks. It was biking as it should be.

Over the course of the ride, plans were agreed for the next day. Pat,

New friends…

Syd and Deb would meet Vlasta, Igor and their son Gregor at the music shop around noon. They erased Vienna from the Monday agenda and penciled in lunch.  During dinner Monday night, they relived the day for me – a three-hour meandering through politics, world events, classical music, and how to make Pat’s English a bit more understandable to the non-English speaker (“Seriously dudes, I’m on it and I’m gonna nail this.”)

Slovak visits begin with a shot.  This day started with, as Syd recounted, “the best rum I have ever tasted”.  Lunch followed in a nearby restaurant and the visit concluded back in the shop over a glass of wine.  Nearing three o’clock, Pat asked Igor to call a taxi to drop them in the higher reaches of Bratislava to conclude the day with a bit of sightseeing.

And old friends…

Igor responded by taking the 20 minute tram ride back to his house to pick up his car.  A taxi was out of the question.

At one point, the group bantered about the idea of repeating this day again tomorrow.  Ultimately, Syd and Deb decided to visit Vienna.  But it was a surprisingly difficult decision.

Igor and Vlasta own the music shop – and they are busy.  But they possess a gift of making each person feel important – valued.  And they structure a life which allows friends to take center stage.

Pat and Vlasta

 

So when that day comes and we pack our suitcase, the first item will be a reminder of the priority friends should play in our lives; the ability to make these friends feel special, unique and cherished; and the realization, as Igor once said, that “Work will always be here. But friends stop by only once in a while.”

May 1st: Labor Day

A tribute to the workers

Someone once asked me why the United States doesn’t celebrate Labor Day on May 1st “like the rest of the world”. Then I didn’t know the answer – I still don’t. I’ll take a guess. Labor Day is, at least in this part of the world, associated with communism. Labor Day is the embodiment of the “Workers of the World Unite” credo.

Last year we were living in Bratislava on Labor Day. I taught conversational English before work. Holidays created easy class material. We consumed the first 30 minutes talking about the holiday, its history, and the local traditions. Around May first, we talked about Labor Day.

You need to keep in mind, I’m an American. For us, Labor Day means little more than hot dogs on the grill, a three day weekend, and the end of summer. It is probably the least controversial holiday of the year – right up there with Mother’s Day. So while some holidays might carry an implicit warning (Example: “End of Fascism Day”). I was pretty comfortable chatting about Labor Day.

One man in the class started to talk about Labor Day during communism – everyone came out to the square waiving flags and feigning happiness. He imitated the communist version of “Uncle Sam” – the Labor Day cheer leader. Most of the class laughed at his antics. Then, one girl became emotional and shouted, “I don’t understand how you can all laugh. It was hell and you know it was.”

As an expat – and especially an expat living behind the former Iron Curtain – I never see these things coming. And once I do see them, it’s generally too late. I’m have to glance in my rear view mirror to try to figure out what I just hit.

As it turns out, Labor Day celebrated one of the basic tenants of communism – the special place the laborer held in society. On this day, everyone was expected to come out to the square, laugh, sing, and waive the flag. If anyone noticed you weren’t having enough fun, it could be reported. Your celebration intensity was a litmus test of your faithfulness to the party.

We tend to think the worse part of communism was the lack of freedom. But many of my friends assert the worst part of communism was the core distrust it encouraged. A neighbor, friend, boyfriend could be the person who turned you into authorities for expressing doubts about the country, its leaders or the party. A casual dinner party comment could come back to haunt you.

I am reading a lot – both fiction and non fiction – about this part of the world during the period just before, during, and since communism. This theme of distrust is pervasive. One morning, while reading in the coffee shop, I stumbled upon Vaclav Havel’s New Years Day speech. He delivered this speech on January 1, 1990 – just after being elected the first president of a free Czechoslovakia. It framed behavior I noticed, but didn’t understand.

“We fell morally ill because we became used to saying something different from what we thought. We learned not to believe in anything, to ignore one another, to care only about ourselves…. The previous regime – armed with its arrogant and intolerant ideology – reduced man to a force of production, and nature to a tool of production. In this it attacked both their very substance and their mutual relationship. It reduced gifted and autonomous people, skillfully working in their own country, to the nuts and bolts of some monstrously huge, noisy and stinking machine, whose real meaning was not clear to anyone…. .”

I’m less surprised now when emotions bubble over, when an inadvertent question elicits an emotional reaction. A lot has happened in my life between this Labor Day and last. I won’t wish people a “Happy Labor Day” this week. While most people wouldn’t react negatively, I realize some will.

I’m learning to anticipate landmines and to step carefully around them

The Ruin Pubs of Budapest

Szimpla Ruin Pub

A friend spent the last week in Budapest with us.  Whenever someone makes a special effort to see us, I feel compelled to show them something local and cool and a place they couldn’t find alone.  Sadly, when you live someplace, you never do cool and obscure things.    Generally, I stick to my routine.  When friends visit, I resort to google:  “Local cool stuff to do”.    I had read about the “ruin pubs” of Budapest.  My daughter (who is studying here) goes to one called Szimpla (I was going to use the verb “frequents” but I like to believe she went once, glanced around, and realized it just wasn’t her thing).  Lonely Planet named Szimpla the third coolest bar on the planet and the coolest in Europe.  Sounded like a plan. 

Some garage sale items…

The ruin pub concept started in the 1990s – after the fall of communism and when a lot of abandoned buildings required refurbishing.  Basically, you buy an old building, fill it with a eclectic garage sale furniture, and open a bar (or more precisely many bars strewn across many rooms).     

When I read about the pubs, they sounded like a secret society – a place where university students and beatniks sequestered to nurse a drink and discuss the most compelling issues of the day.  I was wrong.  Anyone and everyone go to these pubs.  Below are links to information on the approximately 20 pubs – generally central Pest based – along with pictures and maps.  In any event, obscure or famous, the coolest pub in Europe seemed like a pretty cool thing to do.     

Szimpla is in the neighborhood between the Synagogue and the Keleti train station. 

Inside Szimpla – the entry way

This area has seen a resurgence over the last five or more years.  The street leading up to Szimpla holds a cornucopia of interesting food choices.  I sampled two of them: the world’s smallest India restaurant (two tables, seven seats, an adorable India man, great and cheap food) and a dive Thai place (slightly bigger, good food, less adorable).   I recommend both.      

Szimpla has a sign out front and depending when you arrive, a pair of Hungarian bouncers.  The “door” is a bit more like a truck entry way – always open, it would seem.  Ten or so feet of entryway leads to a network of bars:  small room bars, big room bars, roof on and roof off bars.  You can sit in a bathtub (actually I noticed two) or a dentist chair or a life guard stand.  Some nights, movies are shown on a screen in the back courtyard.     

The center courtyard

My daughter warned us it gets packed on weekends.  We went early enough (around seven) to wander the bar well before it filled up.  The wine was mediocre, the beer great and the prices good.  There are a few rooms with food – but overall, I’d recommend eating at one of many casual options lining the street.      

The third coolest bar in the world is a pretty lofty claim.  But it was certainly the coolest bar I’ve ever visited.  So if you are in Budapest, give it a try.  It isn’t a secret but it is uniquely Budapest and it was a blast.   Thank goodness friends drop in now and again to motivate us to explore. 

 

More ruin pub information: 

http://ruinpubs.com/

http://welovebudapest.com/en/clubs-nightlife/articles/2012/09/07/the-best-ruin-pubs-in-budapest

http://www.szimpla.hu/en

 

Market Day…

Market Day Purchases!

In Budapest, the main market hall overflows with fruits, vegetables, meat, paprika, and tourists.  This historic building should be on everyone’s list of things to see.  It is a mix of Hungarian farmers mingled amongst paprika retailers selling the ubiquitous spice in hand sewn calico pouches.  There’s something for everyone.      

My Saturday market is on the other side of town, the Lehel market.  It is in a modern building which resembles a ship (invariably, a Hungarian will say “Go to Lehel, it’s in that ugly building behind Nyugati.”)  While the exterior may be modern, inside is the patina of days gone by.    Farmers bring their fare from the country.  Spices are in buckets.  Vats of pickled food are everywhere.  This is where Hungarians shop.  

Last weekend, I visited the Lehel market for the first time.  I found everything I needed for the week.  At first, it was a bit overwhelming.  So I made a reconnaissance swoop to get my bearings before returning for my purchases.  When in doubt where to buy the best quality at the fairest price, I queued behind the old Hungarian women.          

My first purchase was a wicker basket.  I have coveted these baskets as they dangle from the arms of fellow shoppers waiting for a freshly baked baguette at the boulangerie.  By that time, their baskets are overflowing with produce, and they tuck the crunchy loaf safely on top before returning home with their purchases.   I have wanted to be one of those women.    

With my basket dandling off my arm, I set off for a second round – this time stopping to buy.  Last Sunday, I planned to make chicken soup.  I have always considered pre chopped vegetables an extravagance or a reflection of laziness.  But at 80 cents for a large package of chopped soup vegetables, I relented.  The women who chopped these must need the few extra cents they charged for their labor.   

Strawberries, pears, tomatoes, oranges (not from the hills of Hungary), soup noodles, eggs (I love buying eggs by the piece), herbs, flowers, and on and on.  The chicken man proudly held up a full bird.  The intact head flopped left, the feet stuck out of the body cavity.  I choose a simple breast.  I wasn’t ready to go “full bird” local.       

By the time I finished, my basket was heavy so I jumped on the tram to head towards home.  There, I visited Raymond, the cheese man, for a bottle of Chablis; bar of dark chocolate; and slice of hard, sharp cheese.  Two pieces of strudel later, and I was done.  When I came through the apartment door, my husband snapped more photos of my food basket than we have of our three kids on the day they arrived home from the hospital.   (And I’m gonna hear about this). 

Few people in the market speak English.  But pointing and miming is easy.  Five fingers got me five pears.  Shaping my hands like a bowl, a bowl sized bunch of tomatoes.  I’m pretty sure next week, when I swipe my hand across my throat in a Mafiosi gesture, the chicken head will stay behind. 

At home, I shopped at the Boulder farmers market – a Rastafarian organic grocery paradise.  I paid an arm and a leg for my produce, and I did so happily.  Here, I shop with Hungarians.  I didn’t pay an arm and a leg for anything.  And I had a blast.

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PS:  You may have figured out, I love to grocery shop.  Next week, I swear, I’ll write about something else!