Portugal's a Party

Albufeira, Portugal

            Just before heading back to the US, I decided my remaining time in Europe would be best spent killing two birds with one stone: i.e. going somewhere I’ve never been before and getting tan. I’ve explained the tanning phenomenon here before haven’t I? Well let’s just say that after a year of Alsatian snow storms, perpetually grey skies and an inordinate amount of rain (I went to London a bunch), I was ready for a sunny, sandy week at the beach, catching some much-needed rays.

            And who better to accompany me on this journey than my friend Colleen? Studying for her masters at University of Manchester, she’d seen less sun than I, and was ready to plop poolside for a few days. So, we pulled out the proverbial map of the world (and by this I mean list of destinations RyanAir flies to), nixed the cold-weather locations (everything not on the Mediterranean), and settled on the southern coast of Portugal, an area known as the Algarve. Neither of us had been before, but we heard the weather was flawless and the scenery breathtaking, so we booked.

Monday, May 16^th: We arrived. It was raining. All day. We stayed in the room watching German sitcoms on TV.

At the beach

Tuesday, May 17^th: I awoke in the morning surprised to see sunny skies and open beach chairs. We made a mad dash for the pool.

Tuesday, May 17^th, 4pm: Burned to a crisp. Reasons why: A) Portuguese sun is much stronger than it appears. Somewhat like a Long Island Iced Tea. B) Portuguese sunscreen does not work. Somewhat like chugging water trying to cure a hangover from said Long Island Iced Teas.

Wednesday, May 18^th: It rained.

All day.

Albufeira Old Town

But instead of hiding inside, we roamed the area outside our hotel, the lovely city of Albufeira, Portugal. And possibly the largest tourist trap I have ever laid eyes on. Every second establishment on the street is a bar, generally with the same kinds of names and catering to the overwhelmingly British clientele. Oh yeah, I forgot to mention that. Everyone here is British. Few exceptions. So, most bars have giant Union Jack flags, restaurants serve a full English breakfast, and souvenir shops sell British license plates with children’s names on them instead of Portuguese license plates. Absurdity. I felt like I had entered some sort of alternate British universe. To be honest it reminded me a bit of all those college spring break hangouts – full of bars that offer you free shots to enter (and that are filled with seedy people) and restaurants that serve the same food at the same price everywhere you go.

Typical bar

Needless to say, I bought nothing. I don’t need anymore shot glasses, British flags, mugs, tea cozies or t-shirts with bikini-clad women on them. I did, however, sample the local beers. They were delightful.

Thursday, May 19^th: Thankfully sunny. We spent much of the day by the beach (putting on sun tan lotion every 15 minutes or so), and then prepped to go out because at midnight, I would be turning 23.

So we went out. And for dinner I had the chicken piri-piri, which I was told I had to have while in Portugal (it’s a specialty), which was essentially lots of chicken bones and a few pieces of chicken meat covered in a blend of spices. But it was good.

Lagos, Portugal

At night we ran into, and I kid you not, probably 50 stag and hen parties. Like I said, every person in this town was British. They all came to celebrate the bachelor or bachelorette party of one of their friends, and they were all obscenely drunk.

At midnight I turned 23 with a shot of Medronho, a Portuguese liquor akin to brandy. Yum!

Rock Outcroppings

Friday, May 20^th: Otherwise known as my birthday. We decided to add a bit of culture into our itinerary and went east as we explored the southern coast of Portugal and the rest of the Algarve. We first went to Lagos, home to the first European slave market, and one the cuter towns in the Algarve. With winding streets, whitewashed buildings, and little boutiques selling pottery and handicrafts, I could tell it catered to a more sophisticated clientele. From there we went to a point overlooking the ocean, with the famous Algarvian outcroppings of rock that give the destination some of its beauty. Our final stop was the so-called “End of the World”, the most southwesterly point of Europe, equipped with one of the most powerful lighthouses in the world. It was beautiful.

Cataplana

Saturday, May 21^st: We decided this night would be the night to sample the most famous dish of the Algarve, the Cataplana. Named for the type of cookware it is made in, which is generally made of copper and resembles two clam shells hinged together at one end, the cataplana is essentially a seafood stew. Made of big chunks of white fish, clams, mussels, and shrimp all cooked with onions, potatoes, tomatoes, and white wine. The food is steamed within the giant clam-shell contraption and served into bowls piping hot right at the table. 

All-in-all I would say Portugal was interesting. I think if I had gone to Lisbon I would have been face-to-face with a little more Portuguese (rather than British) culture. But I must admit, I worship the sun, and 5 days on the beautiful, white sandy beaches of Portugal won’t do anyone harm. NOTE: If you don’t want to be accosted by people selling you shots on the streets or useless British trinkets in stores, stay in a nice, secluded hotel far from civilization. 

An Eastern European Adventure, Part III: Romania

I’m not quite sure I remember getting into Romania. Too concerned with finding somewhere to sleep after a 16-hour overnight train ride on the worst train ever constructed, I had blinders on walking through Bucharest station, boarding the metro trains, and navigating the streets to our hostel. Upon arrival at Doors Hostel we were informed that our beds would not be ready until noon. Horrified at the fact that I had another 5 hours to go until I could possibly catch some shuteye, my face fell as I pondered a miserable morning of much-too-early sightseeing. Seeing this, the girl working behind the desk felt bad for me, and showed us to a common area with couches where we could sleep until the beds were ready. I fell asleep almost immediately.

See what I mean?

Five or six hours later I woke up refreshed and ready to explore the capital of a country I had only really ever heard discussed during the gymnastics exhibitions of the summer Olympics. But before we could even leave the hostel, we were invited to lunch with the all-Romanian staff working there. As it turns out, the mother of one of the guys had cooked a traditional Romanian meal for all the hostel employees, and there was plenty to go around. What we ended up eating was called sarmale, a mixture of pork and rice rolled in cabbage leaves and heated over the stove in some kind of broth. Pile it onto a piece of bread and top it with sour cream, and you’re good to go. I guess that’s the good thing about getting a late start to our day – we got a free, home-cooked Romanian meal, and were the only non-Romanians there!

We walked from our hostel to the nearby Bulevard Unirii, Bucharest’s copy of Paris’s Champs-Elysées. Not nearly as majestic as the Parisian original, the city’s main thoroughfare was dotted with dried-up fountains, enormous billboards, and dilapidated buildings. However, it boasts a width of one meter more than the Champs. Well, let me tell you, width is not everything, folks.

A statue we liked

Overall I would say the city is underwhelming, as far as capitals go. It has the potential to be really beautiful, with large buildings and good infrastructure, but it just looks run-down and forgotten. After roaming around a bit, we grabbed a few beers and headed to Revolution Piazza, where the first shots of the 1989 revolution were fired. Now it is home to a statue of Carol the First, the first Romanian king, the National Art Museum, and the University Library. Their version of the Plaza Athenée, a famous Parisian hotel, (remember the final episodes of Sex and the City?) is also there, as the city’s Hilton Hotel. Fun fact: during WWII, the Plaza Athenée was once home to both British spies and the Gestapo.

For dinner we stopped at Caru’ Cu Bere, Romania’s oldest beer hall. With stained glass windows filtering the light into the impressively painted interior, intricate embellishments decorating the banisters, and traditional dancers crowding the central dance floor, diners really get the feel of a traditional Romania that has long-since disappeared in the cities. For dinner, Brad paid heed to the old-style Romania, eating tripe soup followed by potatoes and minced meat topped with a generous portion of Romanian sheep’s cheese. My salad and meat skewers hardly compared.

Dancers at Caru' cu Bere

The next morning Brad and I awoke before dawn to catch a train to Transylvania. Firmly ensconced in Brahm Stoker’s Dracula, the two-and-a-half hour ride seemed to fly by for me. Cliché, sure, but when is there a better time to read the horror story than when on the way to the famed character’s supposed home? Once out of the city, we noticed how beautiful the Romanian countryside truly is. Snow capped mountains and rolling green hills are interrupted by wide, flowing rivers and unpaved roads sprinkled with horse-drawn carts loaded down with local goods.

We met our guide at the train station in Bran, and set off by car to explore two of area’s most famous castles and the Rasnov fortress. The first of our many stops was Bran Castle, built in 1369 by a German merchant. In the 15^th century the family’s descendents were killed and the castle was taken by the Austro-Hungarian Empire, then ruling the region. Made famous from the 1920 movie Dracula, the castle is said to have housed the Wallachian king who inspired the character in Stoker’s novel, Vlad the Impaler. Apparently he killed everyone around who did not obey his rules and was called “the Impaler” because he killed his victims by impaling them on large wooden stakes. Over time, he killed 50% of the area’s population, including over 600 nobles in one night. Dracula, which many people called him, mean’s “devil’s son” in Slavonian.

Transylvania

Many legends surround the castle, and strange traditions regarding death in the area lend some credence to Stoker’s novel. In the region, when a person dies and comes back to haunt the dreams of a family member, it means that the dead person has become a ghost. In order to kill the ghost, you must put a stake through the person’s heart. This often requires exhuming the coffin from the ground, opening the coffin, and then staking the heart. While this is not entirely legal, it continues to happen in the countryside of Romania, including as recently as last year. Dracula fans, does this ring any bells?

Bran Castle

Outside the castle resembled a small carnival, with shops selling everything from multicolored wigs to giant wheels of cheese. Of course every souvenir imaginable is also available, but in my opinion, there are none worth buying. Famous for their cheese, Bran’s fromagiers set up stalls and allow customers to sample their goods before buying. Impressed with the selection and the taste, Brad and I decided to purchase a sheep’s milk cheese that was soft, almost like a goat’s cheese, and aged in a casing of tree bark. Note: very earthy. We did eventually get up to tour the castle, but as this was not the primary residence of Vlad the Impaler, there was not much to see, apart from what was left by the rich German family.

After the castle we trundled off to Rasnov fortress, which the Romanians attempted to make infinitely cooler by placing a large Hollywood-esque sign of “RASNOV” in the hillside below it. Built in 1335, the fortress has never been entered by force in all of it’s over 800-year history. Originally built to protect the poor who had trouble with the nobles, the fortress had two main squares, a dorm for the people living there, and a second for the animals. In the 17^th century the fortress was abandoned, and now it had been turned into a giant tourist trap. With really nothing inside and nothing to see, shopkeepers and trinket-sellers have set up shop inside the fortress selling ice cream and other useless things like magnets and beer mugs. In my opinion, the fortress is not worth the entrance fee, or the strenuous hike up the mountain to reach it, but the views from the top are quite breathtaking.

So Hollywood right now.

 From the castle we drove over the mountains to Sinai, the location of Peles Castle, the summer home of the first king of Romania, Carol the First. Built from 1873-1913 by a team of engineers from all over the world, it was the first-ever castle built with an elevator, central heating, electricity, and running water. Inside there is much to see, as each room represents a different part of the world, including Italy, France, Turkey, and Moorish Spain. In the Hall of Honor, the highest room of the castle, the stained glass ceiling can be opened electronically. The Weapons Hall is home to over 3700 different pieces of both ceremonial and wartime weapons, including a 300-year old executioner’s sword that was used to behead nobles. The castle also has several secret doors that lead to hidden passageways and staircases throughout. In the Italian room, used for receptions, there are gold-plated ceilings, Vasari paintings, Venetian mirrors decorated with Murano glass, and 14 different types of marble inlay. In the Moorish hall, inspired by the Alhambra palace in Grenada, there is a crying fountain of Carrera marble. In sum the castle spans three levels and has more than 160 rooms. Fun fact: it even has a French-style movie theater.

Peles Castle

 Here is one thing I probably should have mentioned before about Romania: it has the largest number of wild dogs in Europe, with numbers in Bucharest alone topping 200,000. I must admit, it made me a little apprehensive to walk around the streets in the early morning hours or at night because they are literally everywhere. And they do not like when you enter their territory. Coming home from dinner on Saturday night, Brad and I sprinted through the suburban streets near our hostel to avoid getting bitten by what looked like a pack of giant, rabid, man-eating dogs. Note: those who fear large dogs, or dogs at all rather, don’t go to Bucharest.

On Sunday we had the first “relaxed” day of our trip, sleeping late, eating leisurely meals, and fitting in the final things on our sightseeing to-do list. We finished with Romania’s answer to Paris’s Arc de Triomphe (noticing a theme here?), which looks almost exactly like the real thing except that it’s in the middle of nowhere outside the city and does not give way to any large or imposing thoroughfares. We eventually tromped back to the hostel in the pouring rain for a lazy afternoon and evening.

Monday morning came early with a 5am taxi to the “airport”. If you can even call it that. Bucharest Banesa Airport is by far the WORST airport I have ever been to in my life. It is essentially the size of a small grocery store, has no chairs, nothing to eat, and has probably never been cleaned. I wasn’t entirely thrilled to be boarding another terrifying WizzAir flight, but was pretty pleased to return to be returning to western civilization.

That concludes my trip to Eastern Europe, but stay tuned for more from Spain, Portugal, and more!

An Eastern European Adventure, Part II: Serbia

And so the adventure continues…onto Belgrade! I must admit I was rather surprised by the 8-hour trip from Budapest to Belgrade. It was, in fact, rather pleasant. We passed by many small Hungarian towns, noticeable from a distance only by the rise of the tall church steeple at the center of town, multiple lakes and ponds, farmers tending to their cows, and probably fifty tiny train stations whose name I could never even dream of pronouncing. Once we passed the border with Serbia, passports freshly stamped, I noticed the train began to roll at a strikingly slower pace. I can’t say I wasn’t warned about the Serbian railways, but I do believe I could have run faster than the train at some points.

Belgrade graffiti

Not much changed in terms of scenery until we pulled into Belgrade. Very bleak with few new buildings, it looked as if nothing had even been built since the 1960s. Drab weather contributed to the overall depressing look of the city, and at first glance, we were glad not to be spending much time in Serbia. Around dinnertime we got into our hostel, the “Chillton” (I wish I was kidding), changed, and headed out for a meal. We had asked those working at our hostel if they had any recommendations for somewhere to eat, and they pointed us towards a restaurant called “?” (again, not kidding), the oldest restaurant in Belgrade. We asked for traditional, and definitely were not let down. Before eating, we ordered the domestic beer on tap, Jelen, and glanced at what I can only say was a very Serbian menu. For dinner we started with a honey- and walnut-covered polenta, which a) I never knew was Serbian, and b) was absolutely delicious. Brad then continued with some fried pork bonanza that was essentially a flattened and breaded piece of pork rolled into a long tube, stuffed with cheese, and then dipped into a deep-fat fryer. He claimed he was loosing muscle mass on the trip because I didn’t eat as often as would have liked, so I assume this helped make up for some of the weight loss. I had a sort of pork stew served in a whole wheat bread bowl, complete with onions, mushrooms, pork, and small bits of bacon. Not thrilled by the looks of the meal, I was hesitant to dive in, but enjoyed it thoroughly in the end.

Questionable pork stew

After dinner we headed to the grocery store to stock up for the 16-hour train ride we had to next day to Bucharest, Romania. Not in the least delighted at spending 2/3 of my day in a more-than-probably dilapidated train car, I was tempted to buy copious amounts of alcohol. In the end, we would be happy that we didn’t, but that is a story for later. Upon bringing our groceries back to the hostel and checking my bank account, I ruled going out not an option until I had allocated more funds from my American account into my French account and was sure that the money had gone through. While sad to not go bar hopping on our one night in Serbia, I nevertheless had to pay attention to what my bank account was telling me: “Perhaps this would be a good time to reevaluate your finances instead of sticking your face in a mug of beer, ok?”

At the Kalemegdan, overlooking where the
Danube and Sava rivers meet

Thursday morning we got up very early to explore the city, as we only had until 3pm, the time of our train departure, to do so. We went first to the old fortress, Kalemegdan, which is the oldest part of the city of Belgrade. Originally built by the Romans in the 3^rd century, the fortress sits high up on a hill overlooking the place where the Danube and Sava rivers meet. Attacked and invaded many times, the fortress had to be continually rebuilt over centuries. Rebuilt by Justinian in the 6^th century, it remained under Byzantine control until the 12^th century when it fell into the hands of the burgeoning Serbian state. The name of the city, Belgrade, or Beograd in Serbian, means “white town” or “white fortress”. After the Battle of Kosovo, the fortress was partially destroyed, and had to be rebuilt by the new occupiers, the Ottomans, in the 15^th century.

While at the fortress, Brad and I met a lovely Serbian journalist, who spoke to us for a long time about the history, politics, and current events of the country. Both feeling remiss about not having studied up much on Serbia before coming, this was a great way to learn about the city, and country, we were exploring. We learned that the situation with Kosovo is a delicate matter, with most Serbs wanting to separate peacefully so both countries can then enter separately into the European Union. “It is like when you have a person in your house who is sick, but then dies. You are sad, but you feel relief,” Dragan, the journalist, mentioned, as he explained how Serbs felt about Kosovo. He also explained that Kosovo is the real heart of Serbia, home to many churches, palaces, and important monuments. Truth be told, there aren’t very many in Belgrade.

The Victor, showing you his ass

Dragan also spoke in depth about Ratko Mladic, general of the Bosnian Serb forces responsible for the many atrocities carried out during the 1990s, and, at that point, a war criminal still at large. Listening to him speak about how important it was for Serbia to catch and prosecute this man before the capture actually happened, has made this past week’s current events all the more interesting and meaningful to me.

As we walked around the fortress, we passed by a large monument of a naked man, called “the Victor”, erected after WWI to commemorate Serbia’s victory over the Ottoman and the Austro-Hungarian empires. Built by a Croatian artist, it faces out across the confluence of the Sava and Danube rivers towards what was, at the time, part of the Austro-Hungarian empire. Originally the statue was meant to stand in Terazije Square, but ended up in its current location after people complained about his nudity. Dragan told us that to this day, people continue to complain about the statue because it was built by a Croatian (Croatia and Serbia are rivals). People say, “Just look at that statue, showing all of Belgrade his ass!”

Bombed building

From the fortress we walked down to the train station to get our tickets to Bucharest. We got a little lost along the way, as all the grey, dirty, and graffiti covered streets and buildings pretty much look the same, but we eventually made our way there. We then headed out to the far eastern side of the city towards Sava Cathedral, passing two bombed buildings from WWII along the way. The Cathedral of Saint Sava, the largest Orthodox cathedral in the Balkans, and one of the largest in the world, is dedicated to Saint Sava, the founder of the Orthodox Church. The cathedral is built on the grounds where the Ottomans burned his remains in the 16^th century. From the outside the cathedral is truly remarkable.  Built in the traditional Orthodox plan, the exterior is a bright white topped by multiple blue domes. The interior, on the other hand, is nothing to rave about. It looked like a giant empty parking garage with no levels. It is completely grey with no art on the walls, and most of the art and artifacts they did have were huddled off to the side in some sort of makeshift shrine. Okay, yes, probably under renovation, but all in all, a glorified car park in the shape of cool dome.

Cathedral of Saint Sava

Leaving the last item on our tourist to-do list, we made our way back towards center city to the “bohemian quarter”, called Skadarska, to grab some lunch. Told that this was the best area for restaurants, cafés, and bars, we decided to lunch down a small cobblestone pedestrian street, probably the only beautiful place in all of Belgrade. For lunch we split a “mixed grill”, which in Serbia clearly means “mixed fry”. Served with French fries, the pork, two types of sausage, and hamburger were probably the least healthy option on the menu. Mixed grill, ha! Not a single thing on that plate had ever even been near a grill.

After lunch we raced back to the hostel to grab our bags and head down to the train station. Not knowing what to expect for the ride, we waited with bated breath as the train approached. When we entered the train, Brad and I had completely opposite reactions. As he looked around and took stock of our surroundings, he got a little angry, wondering what in the world I had gotten him into, and if he could quickly get off the train and beat up the ticket agent for giving us what was, I kid you not, the most disgusting cabin aboard the train. For a ticket that was double the value of our first journey, it was 100 times worse in quality. While Brad got a little peeved, I, on the other hand, could not stop laughing. I don’t think I’ve ever laughed so hard in my life. Simply the fact that I had to spend 16 hours in this cabin made me laugh so hysterically that I cried. Literally, tears poured down my face as I stared at the trash and dirt all over the floor, the tattered curtains that were falling down, the windows that had not been washed since the train was built in 1900, the seat cushions that were torn from the walls at awkward angles and practically impossible to sit comfortably on, and the overall state of utter disrepair that our cabin was in. Yes, we attempted to switch cabins, but after being yelled at by our Serbian conductor, we decided it would be best to stay put. “It’s a good thing we didn’t get alcohol,” Brad said, “because I probably would go punch somebody in the face if I drank anything right now.”

Our delightful train cabin

I spent the first hour laughing as Brad tried to find a silver lining. “Let’s just be thankful we’re not on an overnight train in Pakistan.” Well, he made a good point, I suppose. However, in truth, there were not that many positives to find. During hour #2, as I gazed around the cabin, I seriously regretted not purchasing a tarp to cover the upholstery. But instead of letting ourselves get too preoccupied with the disgustingness that surrounded us, we played games to entertain ourselves during the ride. As we rolled slowly through the Serbian hills, we would pretend we were the royal couple and wave out of the window to passing groups of women and children. Surprisingly more fun than it sounds. We spent the rest of the time devising methods to prevent people from entering into our cabin: perfecting nervous ticks, inappropriate stretching methods, weird laughs, strange voices, etc. As the journey wore on I became more and more aware of the fact that I desperately needed to use the bathroom. Having glanced at the toilet on my way onto the train, there was no way I was going in there without reinforcements. Realizing that I only had a small bit of toilet paper left from the roll I expertly packed in Budapest, I knew I was going to have to make other arrangements. I needed to get creative. Out of the many books we had in the cabin, we chose the one we thought could spare the most pages. Our choice? Brad’s Let’s Go travel guide from 2007. The country? Sorry, Ukraine.

Not pleased with the train...

After that harrowing experience, the journey wasn’t too bad until nightfall, when the train conductor decided to put the heat on full blast in the cabins. Of course, it being our cabin and all, we had a thermostat that was clearly broken and our cabin turned into an absolute furnace. I could not escape the nightmare. Around midnight we examined cabins around us and found one nearby that was open and remarkably clean. We moved our stuff in and actually managed to get a little bit of sleep until 6 large Romanian men came bursting in at 5am to share the space until we pulled into Bucharest around 7am. Moving was not an option, as all the other compartments were equally filled, so we stayed put with the space (and smell) until we finally got into the city at 7am.

Call me weird, but however awful and disgusting that train ride was, it is by far one of the fondest memories I have of my trip to Eastern Europe. I don’t recall ever laughing so hard at a situation I was powerless to change. My thorough enjoyment was the lemonade out of life’s lemons, for sure.

And so, that’s it for this installment of the Eastern European adventure. Check back soon for Part III: Romania.

An Eastern European Adventure, Part I: Hungary

         2 days before I was set to fly to Morocco, a bomb tore through Marrakech’s central tourist district, mere feet from the hotel where I was meant to be staying. Needless to say, that put me a little on edge. After much contemplation and discussion with my friend and travel partner, Brad, we decided to cancel the trip. This left us with about 24 hours to come up with something entirely new. Frantically searching the internet for cheap airline flights, hotel deals, and exciting itineraries, we landed on eastern Europe. Neither of us had ever been there before, and to be honest, felt unlikely to go back later in life. And so, with little hesitation, we booked a flight to Budapest, Hungary, and a return from Bucharest, Romania, with no plans in between. Exhilarating as it is to travel “by the seat of your pants”, it can also be somewhat nerve-wracking. And as the story unfolds, you’ll find out why (mostly in installment #2).

Budapest

            I met Brad in London’s Luton airport Sunday afternoon. With a delayed flight, we had five hours to catch up. Friends from our study abroad program, Semester at Sea, it had been a few years since we had seen each other, but memories began to flow as we sat down with a few beers. When our flight finally boarded at 9pm, we were excited to be off on a less-than-planned journey. However, what we didn’t account for was that our cheap-o flight on WizzAir would turn out to be more trouble than it was worth. What exactly do I mean? Well, when we had been sitting on the runway for about 45 minutes, listening to the flight attendants chattering incessantly into the microphone in Hungarian, with no clue as to what was going on, we were getting a little exasperated. When they finally decided to inform the non-Hungarian speaking passengers what was going on, we found out that two of the plane’s tires had inexplicably burst on the runway (hm…), and it would take two hours to fix them. In the mean time, we would stay put on the plane because they thought we would “be more comfortable that way.” Personally, I found the situation quite funny. Things like this are always bound to go wrong on trips, and all you can do is laugh. And while I couldn’t help but burst out laughing when looking at Brad, I’m not entirely sure he had the same mentality…

Budapest Great Hall Central Market

            After two and a half hours of work, they finally decided the plane was ready for takeoff. I must admit, I did not feel too secure. Off on somewhat of a wrong foot, but sure to right ourselves somehow, we braced ourselves for a bumpy ride. At 2:30am we arrived in Budapest ready to begin an adventure. Adventure #1: finding a taxi that wouldn’t rip us off. We had heard from guidebooks and travel forums that taxis in Hungary could be somewhat scary. They tell you not to, under any circumstances, take an unmetered taxi. What did we do? We took an unmetered taxi. There were very few taxis at the airport at this time of night, and the guy seemed to have some sort of official taxi driver badge around his neck. So we thought, why not? However, as he began to lead us towards the lone black sedan in the parking lot, I grew more and more nervous. Before allowing him to start the car Brad asked for some sort of identification. His replied, “Eh, taxi driver, little English,” with his hands pushed together as if in prayer. Remembering his official-looking neck badge, we decided to chance it. In the end our concerns were for nothing, as we arrived at the hostel after just a short ride. But once inside, our sleep was not to come so easily. In our 8-person bedroom, we were lucky enough to have a Finnish man with a serious snoring problem. So affectionately dubbed “737” by Brad, he honestly sounded like he had a jumbo jet up his nose. Thank God for earplugs.

Langos

            In the morning we were in serious need of caffeine, so our first stop was a local café for some coffee. We ordered two “lungos”, having absolutely no idea what they were, but appreciating the caffeine-boost. Afterwards we walked the short distance to the Great Hall Central Market, an amazing indoor “everything” market. The first floor was all sorts of foodstuffs, including vegetable vendors, butchers, and liquor stalls. On the second floor, vendors were selling traditional Hungarian goods like lace table runners, hand-embroidered table cloths, and clothing, mixed in with touristy items like shot glasses, t-shirts, beer steins and postcards. After wandering the market a bit, we stopped at a stall for langos (note: different from lungos), a Hungarian fast food specialty. Not something I would ordinarily immediately opt for, we had been told by more than one person that this meal was the way to go. Essentially deep-fried flat bread, it is eaten warm, topped with any number of meats, vegetables, and cheeses. I got one topped with “Hungarian sauce”, which seemed to be sausage marinated with a lot of vegetables in a tomato base. I then added tomatoes, peppers, cheese, and some pepperoni. When in Hungary…I guess.

Danube River Monument

            Since the weather was amazing outside, we did quite a bit of walking around before meeting the free walking tour we would take for the afternoon. We walked up the Danube towards Parliament, which is apparently the biggest parliament in the world built in a historical style. On the way we passed a curious little monument on the riverside that was composed of many pairs of shoes, all shapes and sizes, facing the river. Not knowing what it was that I was looking at, I asked a nearby woman and her son. She told us it was a monument the Jews killed during WWII, who were lined up here, shot, and pushed into the water to drown.

            Around 2pm we started a walking tour of Buda, the more historical side of the city. Our guide, Adam, clad in Sketchers, a neon green hat, and a fanny pack, was possibly the most hilarious and yet most awkward person I have ever met. He also claimed that Hungarians were the best race of people in the world and practically invented everything. Example: bike protests. Random. He told our group very curious facts about Hungarian people, including that they all “look Chinese” when they are born. In addition, since we were, “conversing as friends,” he gave us pieces of much-needed advice, such as, “Casinos I don’t recommend because this is a place you can lose your money,” and “Hungarian is only possible to learn through love.” The second one I don’t doubt though, because the language looks incredibly difficult to learn. Before we started the walking part of the tour we got some facts about the beautiful city of Budapest. Originally two different cities, Buda and Pest, separated by the river, the now-joined metropolis is home to over 2 million people. Buda, meaning water, and Pest, meaning oven, refers to the city’s very famous natural hot springs, which are all over the city and are believed to have medicinal powers. We also learned that Budapest has continental Europe’s oldest metro, built in 1896 (nothing has changed since then).

Adam

            As we walked along the Danube, the 3000km-long river, Adam explained that it by far the most international river in the world, passing through 10 different countries. From the Pest side we looked across to Gellert Hill, on which there is a fortress that was originally built by the Austrian army, and a liberation statue from 1990, when the country broke free from communism. Of the 9 bridges in Budapest that cross the Danube, we crossed from Pest into Buda on Chain Bridge, the first bridge across the river in the city.

            Once in Buda, we hiked up to the Royal Palace, once home to Hungary’s kings. The once-inhabited building, completely emptied and destroyed by communists, provides incredible views of the Pest side of the city. You can easily make out the tallest buildings in the city, St. Stephen’s Basilica and the Parliament, each at 96m tall, in honor of the year 896 when the Hungarian nation was first formed. No building in the city is allowed to be any taller than these two buildings, just like Washington, DC and the Capitol. We walked around the Buda side of the city for a while, listening to various Hungarian myths and legends, stories about the president, and the long-winded history of the invention of the Rubix cube. We passed a Trabant car, a very old car literally made out of plastic, which is apparently very popular in Hungary. Adam bought one himself in 1990 for a total of…I kid you not…60 euros. 40 for the car and 20 for the radio!

            Our final stop on the tour was Matthias Church, originally built in the 11^th century, and later popularly named for the 15^th c. king of Hungary. Reconstructed in the Gothic style, the church lies in the center of Buda’s Castle district and is the coronation church of Hungary. The colorful ceramic tiles used to decorate part of the roof are a Hungarian secret, and many buildings in Budapest are covered with them. Behind the church is the Fisherman’s Bastion, a neo-Gothic and neo-Romanesque style terrace that gets its name from the guild of fisherman that defended this part of the city in the Middle Ages. In total, the tour was meant to be two hours long, but instead it took 4 and a half seemingly never-ending hours. When it finished, we crossed back over to the Pest side of the city for beers, deciding to drink the local beer, Dreher. After a few much-needed drinks, we took a sunset cruise up the Danube, watching as the city transformed, newly clad in its majestic evening robes. When we were finally ready to grab a bite to eat it was 11pm, and there was nowhere to go! Everything was closed, so we settled for a less-than-inviting Chinese restaurant before calling it a night.

60€ Trabant

            With another night of fitful sleep, 737 being still there and all, we again roused ourselves early. Our top priority of the day was to go to the train station and book our train to Belgrade for the next morning. The process of getting our train tickets was incredibly laborious and time-consuming. Still trapped in the 1980s, the system the Hungarians use is in no way computerized. They take paper impressions of credit cards and write out each ticket by hand, a process, which, for us, lasted until lunch time.

After lunch we made our way to the Terror House Museum, a museum located on Budapest’s finest street and dedicated to the victims of both the Nazi and communist regimes in Hungary. The building itself is the former home of the secret police of both the Nazi and communist governments. In fact, many of Budapest’s Jews were executed in the basement of this building. The exhibits in the museum are clearly designed for Hungarians, as all of the writing on the walls is in Hungarian. However, the English paper explanations, provided in each room, help non-Hungarian speakers to understand the meaning of each room. The exhibits in the museum finish in the basement, where many prisoners were kept and tortured. I couldn’t help but think back to Auschwitz, and how the misery of Hungary’s double occupation mirrored much of Poland’s own.

Scechenyi Baths (not even remotely close to
the number of people there at the height of the afternoon)

            From the museum we walked up the tree-lined boulevard Andrassy, past Heroes’ Square, and on to the most exiting stop of the day, the baths. As I mentioned, Budapest is famous for its natural thermal springs, which shoot water out of the ground at an astonishing 175°F. Obviously this is too hot for people to bathe in, so the water is cooled, and the bathhouses all over the city keeps pools at varying temperatures to suit everyone’s needs. The Szechenyi thermal baths are the public baths of the city, so we decided to go there (instead of some touristy place) to get a real feel of what Hungarians do in their free time. And Hungarians certainly do love their baths. I was overwhelmed by the sheer number of people. I swear, I had never seen more people in one pool in my entire life. Now those of you who are like me, and don’t really like to share their swimming pools with a thousand other people, would be reluctant to enter the baths. Sort of disgusted by the idea myself, I thought, “When in Hungary…” and decided to get in. Now from what I gather, the water itself has special healing powers, being chalk full of minerals and all. I’m not entirely sure whether or not that’s really true, but the locals (and many tourists) certainly seem to think so. I even met a woman who had come all the way from Michigan to sit in the waters and heal her ailing arthritic knee. From the pictures, you’ll probably think that these “baths” are glorified swimming pools with jets, which, essentially, they are. But I will tell you something, the pool that’s kept at 18°C is the coldest water I have ever felt in my life. I practically sprinted back to the more thermal waters. Trying to get our money’s worth, Brad and I paraded around the baths trying every single pool, sauna, and steam room available. And there were plenty. They even had menthol steam rooms with increased medicinal properties (or so we were told). Being a slight prude, I must admit that all the naked ladies in the bathroom were a bit off-putting. I felt accosted by hundreds of pounds of doughy flesh from which I could not escape. Eventually I did escape though, and I had 10 very pruney fingers to serve as testaments to my many hours there.

In front of St. Stephen's Basilica

            After the baths we had one last major sightseeing item left on the list: St. Stephen’s Basilica. The church was built to honor Saint Stephen I, the first king of Hungary. Along with the Parliament building, it is the highest building in Budapest, standing at 96m tall. The inside of the church is pretty, but very dark, as much of the decoration is in deep red, green, or blue marble. However, the biggest attraction of the church is neither the resplendent gilding nor the ornate use of marble, but rather the right hand of St. Stephen himself, which sits in a reliquary in the Chapel of the Holy Right Hand (I kid you not). Closed to the public after 4pm, the hand was of course unavailable during our early evening visit. But I saw a picture, and I’m pretty sure a dead guy’s hand is a dead guy’s hand, no matter what kind of box you keep it in. I was only mildly disappointed to miss the opportunity at seeing a nasty, crusty, old hand.

            As evening drew on, we meandered back to our neighborhood for dinner. Not wanting a repeat of the night before, we erred on the side of caution and had an early dinner at a small Hungarian café that had been recommended by one of the girls in the hostel. To start, we split a bowl of goulash that was absolutely to die for. Hands down the best thing I ate in Hungary. A traditional Hungarian meal, goulash is essentially a beef stew made with lots of vegetables and seasoned with paprika and other spices. Reddish-brown in color and incredibly tasty, it could have been a meal within itself, but as it was the only Hungarian dinner we would have, we had to press on. For our main course, we split a “grilled specialty”, which was basically a giant platter filled with rice, potatoes, salad, grilled chicken, grilled pork, steak, and roast duck. We washed it all down with a local Soproni beer, and felt like we had enough fuel to last at least through the next day. Really an unbeatable meal and a great price.

Goulash

            After dinner we headed back to the hostel to pack for the next day and get ready to go out. We had heard from friends that a bar called Szimpla was pretty amazing, and decided to check it out. And it was such a fun bar. Teeming with expats, the bar had a really cool, grunge atmosphere that was complimented by some pretty amazing music. Spanning two floors, and tons of nooks and crannies, the bar had tables squeezed into some pretty bizarre spots, with every kind of chair imaginable, including an old bathtub. However, girls - I do not recommend using their bathroom facilities under any circumstances. Take my word for it.

            Wednesday morning we were up early and hustled our way to the train station so as not to miss our train. By 10:30am we were safely in our seats and on the way to Serbia, an adventure you can read about in the next installment of “An Eastern European Adventure”.

Until next time…

The Royal Wedding: An Unforgettable London Celebration

           Newspapers called it a “storybook wedding”. Magazines said it was a “fairytale romance come true.” And sitting there in Hyde Park, watching the magic unfold, it truly was.

Outside Buckingham Palace

            Yesterday I had the incredible fortune of being in the city that seemed at the center of the universe. All of the world’s eyes were turned towards London as England’s most famous couple finally said, “I do.” And to be honest, the experience was once-in-a-lifetime. When Prince William and Catherine first announced their wedding date, I thought to myself how amazing it would be to witness the Royal Wedding first-hand, to be in London when all the parties, processions and preparations were going on. I knew it would be a day I would cherish forever and never, ever forget. So I made it happen.

Mom's picture from the Royal Wedding, 1981.

But for me, this day was more important than the wedding itself. It was important because of the family history I had tied to it. Exactly thirty years ago, at Charles and Diana’s wedding, my parents stood amongst the crowds in front of Buckingham Palace. They saw the famous kiss on the balcony and witnessed London in its finest hour. To be in the exact same spot, thirty years later, well, it was moving. Let’s just say I could feel their spirits there with me.

Hyde Park on Wedding Day

           


So yesterday morning, as I trudged off in the early hours towards Hyde Park, I was more excited than usual. Being ill-equipped to camp out for two nights before, I couldn’t even hope for a spot in front of Buckingham Palace. According to our cabbie, it had been closed off since the night before because there were too many people. Instead, we made our way towards Hyde Park, where three giant screens would project the procession and ceremony to tens of thousands of viewers. Upon arrival, we could see the crowds were already looming large. Most of the park’s viewing area was filled with people picnicking, drinking, and waiting for William and Catherine to make their first appearance. As we were only two, we managed to squeeze ourselves into a spot near the front, with great views of the action. While we waited, we popped the cork on the first of a few bottles of Prince William commemorative champagne.

British pride

            As I looked around me, I noticed that the park itself had been transformed. It appeared as if I had stepped onto carnival grounds, complete with ferris wheels, funnel cake stands, Pimm’s vendors, and row after row of port-o-potties. But nobody seemed to mind the seedy atmosphere. They were there to watch the wedding of the century, and everyone was giddy with excitement. I saw more wedding dresses than I could count, from little 4-year-olds dressed up like princesses, to 40-year-olds in bridal couture. Men ran around in their morning suits while ladies wore intricate, head-turning hats. The faces of William and Catherine appeared everywhere in the crowd, as many onlookers wore masks to look like the happy couple. There were children with red, white, and blue mohawks, sporting Union Jack face paint, and carrying giant flags with the couple’s picture in the middle. I have never in my life seen the Union Jack employed so cleverly. Everything from flags and face paint to pants, capes, suits, hats, t-shirts, and scarves.

Commemorative royal masks

I listened carefully to the people around us. I wanted to know where they were from, how long they had been here, and how much this wedding meant to them. In our immediate vicinity I heard at least three or four foreign languages, and met English-speakers from around the world. The family in front of us, half-Indian, half-American, had camped out overnight in the park to make sure they got a good spot.

Catherine arrives at Westminster Abbey

When the coverage of the wedding and procession finally started, the crowd grew very quiet. As each member of the royal family appeared at Westminster Abbey, loud cheers and applause pierced the skies. And when the yellow-clad Queen exited her car, the cheers grew louder than I had ever heard them. This is truly a country that loves its monarch. Finally, at 11am, the time came for Catherine to appear at the abbey. As she stepped out of the Rolls Royce with her father, the crowd gasped at her unbelievable beauty. Many clapped for her elegant, lace-covered gown, and when it was announced that Sarah Burton was indeed the designer, you could tell that Britain was pleased with the choice. During the actual ceremony, not a sound could be heard in the park. Those who couldn’t find seats on the grass filled the sidewalks, standing, eyes glued to the big screens. The only break in the silence? When William put the ring on Catherine’s finger and many thought it wasn’t going to fit! Men in the crowd chuckled while women moaned at the misfortune of it all, until the ring slid on and sighs of relief rang around the park. At the end, when William, now Duke of Cambridge, left the abbey with his new wife, blue and red confetti rained down from the skies.

The famous first kiss.

Just before the start of the procession back to the palace, we made our way to the streets, attempting to get close enough to Buckingham Palace to see the couple emerge onto the balcony for their first kiss. However, unlike at Charles and Diana’s wedding, the police held the barriers fast, and even blocked off access to many side streets. There was no getting to the palace. And so I spent the time of the procession jostling my way through the streets outside the palace, in what felt like a never-ending line at a Disneyworld ride, with people pushing through for a better view, and kids riding atop their parents’ shoulders to glimpse a bit of the action. People stood on every available surface – from steps to stoops to windowsills – all in the vain hope of seeing the carriage go by. But with crowds 20-people deep from the barriers, it was seemingly hopeless. Many didn’t stop from trying, and for that I give them props, but I eventually made my way into a nearby pub to watch the kiss and RAF fly-by on TV.

A modern monarchy.

         At 1:30pm the multi-hour wedding saga was nearly over. And as the couple made their way back to Clarence House in an Aston Martin, I took the tube back home. Today, sitting here and looking back on the day, I realize how truly lucky I was to witness this magical event mere feet from where it was actually occurring. I may not have gotten to Buckingham Palace to see them in person, but wrapped up in the crowds and clinking champagne glasses with some of London’s finest, I witnessed the wedding in a unique and unforgettable way.