Love Letter to Budapest.

I state without hesitation that Budapest is one of the most romantic cities in the world. Maybe I say that because my trip there in 1972 was driven by a romance I was having with a Hungarian in Australia. He and his family escaped Budapest in 1956. When I decided to go to Europe, he suggested that I visit his old hometown and report on its status. In hindsight, that was quite a reckless suggestion, because at that stage in history we were in the middle of a cold war with Russia and the very words Communism or Soviet sent shivers down the spine.

Val and I were hitchhiking all over Europe. When we got to Vienna, we decided to hitch to Budapest, three hours away. The border crossings were not at all like the punitive experiences we were expecting. Hungary had ‘soft communism’ and the customs officers were very friendly. 

In that era, Hungary was reported as ‘the merriest barracks in the block’. To get a visa, one had to check in to the police every day, hand over our cameras and stay where they dictated. They put us in the Fisherman’s Bastion that was (in 1972) a forlorn antiquated building on the banks of the Danube. At night we heard the hollow notes of a tinny piano and looked across at the other building to see a young ballerina practising in the warm orange light that contrasted to the darkness surrounding us. 

Like everything in the city, it looked as though WW2 and the ’56 revolution had only just happened. The buildings were a sooty black and covered with shelling craters. Statues stood faceless or headless. There were no privately owned cars, except a few that had been hand built from scrap metal. At night there was a complete absence of street lighting. There was but one very heroic little dress shop that had its windows lit up. The restaurants operated out of basements and were wonderful meeting places with gypsy music, the local ‘Bulls Blood’ wine and the hottest goulash I had ever had. This was where the locals went to escape the misery and sadness of the empty streets.

Budapest was built in the last days of an exhausted and eroding empire. The grandeur of her architecture reflected one last gasp of defiance. The sort of defiance that made it not only survive but thrive under repressive regimes. Despite the generally depressed atmosphere, the city and its people exuded a pride and energy of unique ambience. Their resilience shone through. It was a heady brew of heroism and capitulation, sophistication and abrasiveness, demure and wild. Its resolute and sardonic spirit was constantly reinforced by the ever present Danube River, bisecting the city. 

Imagine my delight when almost 50 years later I flew into Budapest and saw her in all her former glory …  almost harking back to the splendour of the Hapsburg years. My abode of 1972, the Fisherman’s Bastion, was gleaming, as were all the other ancient buildings near The Chain Bridge. The night lights never seemed to go out. 

When it comes to Baroque architecture, the endless stunning buildings sometimes overwhelm the senses. It is often compared to Vienna, but there is a flighty tension, excitement and passion in the air that is missing in the more sedate European city. Plodding and staid, she is not.

Budapest! I lived here! Among spirits! All soul! All Flesh! Coffee houses! Ecstasy! Wondrous night gone down in flames.

Poem by D.Kosztolanyi