Europe - Part II - Finally
Yes, it's been a while since Part I. You've probably forgotten I even went anywhere by now. But pictures were taken, some words were scribbled down, and these things need to be shared. I'll try to gather my wits for another post or two regarding Krakow and the rest of Poland, and I imagine this shall in fact occur - the only question is the precise temporal space this event will occupy. I'm back in the New Yorks, and their various temptations and allures have thus far bid effectively for my attention. Maddy and I have carried a good eighty- or one-hundred-pound futon for fifteen blocks; I have arrayed shelves upon the very walls of my room; I have begun teaching myself the forgotten art of the guitar; I have fought a gang of midgets. All this, you may hear about if there is time. For now, I must build up further calluses, then sleep before my first - and one of my few - early classes. I hope you're Hungary, as the rest of this post is served in a delicious Budapesto sauce.
As it turns out, Budapest is actually too hot to sustain life. Nobody thought to inform us of this, giving duplicitous addresses such as "Budapest, Hungary" in place of the more accurate "Budapest, The Surface of the Sun, Where the Streets Run with Molten Iron and You May Drink Nothing but Magma." Well, magma and wine, really, and I will admit that the latter went over (and down) rather more smoothly. The hotel actually provided a bottle of this, their nation's pride, as did most venues - and hobos on the street. The streets themselves were all right, too - the first link, and this, were both directly across from our hotel, and other such sights prevailed. Certain pediments, however, proved both intellectually and aesthetically incomprehensible.
Naturally, the food, too - as one might expect in a country called Hungary - was excellent. Ultimately, we ate a good deal of this, as we discovered cafes to be both prevalent and effective in the reduction of heat-induced discomfort. Let me make it clear at this juncture that the Hungarians make iced coffee the way it was meant to be since approximately the beginning of time - with ice cream in it. Why exactly we are too dim to have conceived this delicacy is anyone's guess.
Castle Hill is rather a nice hill (when I do not have my camera set improperly - just assume the brightness symbolizes extra heat), with a castle quite appropriately situated atop it. Also located there are two museums, which I review below (ratings out of five small woodchucks):
The Hungarian National Gallery
(Seventy Very Very Small Woodchucks out of Five Small Woodchucks)
One quickly notes that restricting oneself exclusively to Hungarian art in a truly massive museum somewhat limits the quality of the applicable works. Put bluntly, here you may find many of the stupider painters and sculptors, comprising their misinformed cross-section of the history of Western art. To be fair, this is not the case for all of them - but sometimes the lessons of their respective periods seem to have been lost on them entirely, or alternately they have taken them to nearly fanatical extremes.
Note one fellow's 18th century series of fruit still-lifes, differentiated from one another primarily by the placement of a white cockatoo - which after a few examples, or at least the first half dozen, reveals itself as symptomatic of an obsession. What is the objectively ideal placement of a cockatoo on a pomegranate? We may never know for certain, but this man did his part in striving to find the answer.
Also, don't miss the fabulous Baroque oil of Christ springing from the tomb into an unmistakable dance move, arms outflung, toes pointed in proper ballet form, face characteristically solemn - and bowling over stunned Roman guards with his Fred Astaire-worthy hijinks. While I recognize in myself a certain penchant for exaggerating such events, know now that this is the unadulterated truth. Sadly, Maddy was prevented from getting a picture by the descent of a Museum Crone, upon which our eventual vengeance will be swift and uncompromising.
The Budapest History Museum
(One Half of a Training Wheel out of Five Small Woodchucks)
About as fascinating a glimpse at Budapest's storied history as you can glean from tiny pottery fragments and flecks of stone. Grainy photographs indicate precisely where in some dusty pit each tentatively identified wood shaving was unearthed! Come here if you've ever wondered what sorts of dubious artifacts never quite make it into the ordinary museum cases. For six or seven stories, you will wonder how little ancient Hungarians must have eaten, if that pebble was a bowl. Or maybe a spear. Bonus: at one point, the English translations vanish entirely, a friendly reminder that no, you really should not care.
We descended the hill inside a room on a track, which had little going for it as a room but which was unmistakably mounted upon a track.
The Hungarians, like the Czechs, appeared to enjoy their music, and in spite of the hot hot heat, their blues/rock scene turned out to be commendable. Indeed, the band we caught wedged firmly between the two above genres was among the best we'd heard - I hesitate whether to say 'on the trip' or 'ever,' so I will leave it to the reader's imagination. Thankfully, they did not have CDs for sale, or we might have bought one. Thousand.
Much of the remaining time was spent in one park or another - except the Park Which Is Not Named, whose forbidding cliffs drove us back like many an explorer before us - and reading Harry Potter to one another, which Maddy has deviously tricked me into both doing and enjoying.
A final note - when buying fruit in Hungary for such literary picnics, be sure to weigh and tag the fruit right there in the produce section. Otherwise, you run the risk of a verbal altercation with an old person whose language is entirely incomprehensible to you, who will ultimately confiscate your fruit.
At one point or another, we took a train out and found that it was headed straight for Krakow! But that's a crazy story for another crazy day. All in all, Budapest was at least laudable on most counts. Heat, history and all, it still deserves (and perhaps needs) a parting hug.
As it turns out, Budapest is actually too hot to sustain life. Nobody thought to inform us of this, giving duplicitous addresses such as "Budapest, Hungary" in place of the more accurate "Budapest, The Surface of the Sun, Where the Streets Run with Molten Iron and You May Drink Nothing but Magma." Well, magma and wine, really, and I will admit that the latter went over (and down) rather more smoothly. The hotel actually provided a bottle of this, their nation's pride, as did most venues - and hobos on the street. The streets themselves were all right, too - the first link, and this, were both directly across from our hotel, and other such sights prevailed. Certain pediments, however, proved both intellectually and aesthetically incomprehensible.
Naturally, the food, too - as one might expect in a country called Hungary - was excellent. Ultimately, we ate a good deal of this, as we discovered cafes to be both prevalent and effective in the reduction of heat-induced discomfort. Let me make it clear at this juncture that the Hungarians make iced coffee the way it was meant to be since approximately the beginning of time - with ice cream in it. Why exactly we are too dim to have conceived this delicacy is anyone's guess.
Castle Hill is rather a nice hill (when I do not have my camera set improperly - just assume the brightness symbolizes extra heat), with a castle quite appropriately situated atop it. Also located there are two museums, which I review below (ratings out of five small woodchucks):
The Hungarian National Gallery
(Seventy Very Very Small Woodchucks out of Five Small Woodchucks)
One quickly notes that restricting oneself exclusively to Hungarian art in a truly massive museum somewhat limits the quality of the applicable works. Put bluntly, here you may find many of the stupider painters and sculptors, comprising their misinformed cross-section of the history of Western art. To be fair, this is not the case for all of them - but sometimes the lessons of their respective periods seem to have been lost on them entirely, or alternately they have taken them to nearly fanatical extremes.
Note one fellow's 18th century series of fruit still-lifes, differentiated from one another primarily by the placement of a white cockatoo - which after a few examples, or at least the first half dozen, reveals itself as symptomatic of an obsession. What is the objectively ideal placement of a cockatoo on a pomegranate? We may never know for certain, but this man did his part in striving to find the answer.
Also, don't miss the fabulous Baroque oil of Christ springing from the tomb into an unmistakable dance move, arms outflung, toes pointed in proper ballet form, face characteristically solemn - and bowling over stunned Roman guards with his Fred Astaire-worthy hijinks. While I recognize in myself a certain penchant for exaggerating such events, know now that this is the unadulterated truth. Sadly, Maddy was prevented from getting a picture by the descent of a Museum Crone, upon which our eventual vengeance will be swift and uncompromising.
The Budapest History Museum
(One Half of a Training Wheel out of Five Small Woodchucks)
About as fascinating a glimpse at Budapest's storied history as you can glean from tiny pottery fragments and flecks of stone. Grainy photographs indicate precisely where in some dusty pit each tentatively identified wood shaving was unearthed! Come here if you've ever wondered what sorts of dubious artifacts never quite make it into the ordinary museum cases. For six or seven stories, you will wonder how little ancient Hungarians must have eaten, if that pebble was a bowl. Or maybe a spear. Bonus: at one point, the English translations vanish entirely, a friendly reminder that no, you really should not care.
We descended the hill inside a room on a track, which had little going for it as a room but which was unmistakably mounted upon a track.
The Hungarians, like the Czechs, appeared to enjoy their music, and in spite of the hot hot heat, their blues/rock scene turned out to be commendable. Indeed, the band we caught wedged firmly between the two above genres was among the best we'd heard - I hesitate whether to say 'on the trip' or 'ever,' so I will leave it to the reader's imagination. Thankfully, they did not have CDs for sale, or we might have bought one. Thousand.
Much of the remaining time was spent in one park or another - except the Park Which Is Not Named, whose forbidding cliffs drove us back like many an explorer before us - and reading Harry Potter to one another, which Maddy has deviously tricked me into both doing and enjoying.
A final note - when buying fruit in Hungary for such literary picnics, be sure to weigh and tag the fruit right there in the produce section. Otherwise, you run the risk of a verbal altercation with an old person whose language is entirely incomprehensible to you, who will ultimately confiscate your fruit.
At one point or another, we took a train out and found that it was headed straight for Krakow! But that's a crazy story for another crazy day. All in all, Budapest was at least laudable on most counts. Heat, history and all, it still deserves (and perhaps needs) a parting hug.
