Suday October 13 2013

 

If the global economy, and especially the European economy, is struggling you’d have a difficult time proving it here in Budapest. 

Walked for 10 miles from the Centra to the zoo, back to cross the Chain Bridge and funicular up Castle Hill Everywhere there is laughter and crowds.  On Castle Hill the line of tour buses ran out of sight, and the groups which they had disgorged onto the cobblestones merged to form one contiguous mob, each defined from all the others by some guide holding high an purple umbrella or an arbitrary number stapled to a stick or, in the case of the most prepared, identically tee shirts of a colour no one would wear by choice.

And as usual in Europe, the hum of the crowd was a collage of languages all being spoken at their idiosyncratic cultural volume and with no one taking notice.  Well, no one but the unilingual English speakers, who seem to become disoriented when they are in the minority.  But even here, where the local language bears little resemblance to the Queen’s tongue, many locals are comfortable in English, and virtually all are willing to make some effort to understand and respond to requests for directions or queries about one of the thousands of monuments which dot the city.

There are other sights and sounds here that are seldom if ever found at home. 

A tall strikingly handsome man with dreadlocks and a deep tan is dressed in what I, in my ignorance, can only describe as a 16^th century jester’s getup, but which is probably an ethnic costume with centuries of history behind it.  On his arm is a Golden Eagle which, for 2000 forints (about $10), he will let you hold and have your photo taken. This calls up images of similar operations at home years ago where a roadside tourist attractions would sometimes have a bear on a chain which you could feed junk food or stand beside—just outside the range of the chain of course, because it was a bear, and letting it attach itself to your arm would result in losing it—to have your photograph taken.  We have thankfully stopped that practice because of its inherent brutality.  But what was going on here with this man and this eagle was more in the way of poetry than captivity.

Then there was the Ostre Aker Musikkorps, a military band belting out polished versions of rousing classics.  Not a marching band, although it might once have been, but a seated, grey haired group with a lively young woman and her perky baton at the front.  They played the whole time I was within hearing distance, bouncing from one song to the next and never missing a beat or a note for that matter.  I thought about how they came to be there, in a single-tree square on top of a hill in Budapest, a tuneful oasis in an ocean of atonal conversation.  There was no open cello case into which passing tourists could drop coins.  I wondered if the Hungarian market is so vibrant that government can afford to pay musicians to serenade tourists by the hour.  If that’s the case, then the European Union would be wise to reconsider its reluctance to admit this country for economic reasons.

Then it was a zigzag walk on small, quiet streets back down the hill and on to Vorosmarty Square for a pleasant lunch at the 155 year old Gerbeaud Café.  We were treated to more music, this time classical violin, which judging by the open instrument case on the ground, was apparently not subsidized by government.  The music was lovely, the food and wine and beer were very good but, I thought, did not justify the prices charged.  I stewed a little about this, yet as I sat there the shroud that was my funk was lifted by the laughter and sunshine, and I came to the conclusion that any restaurant which has provided value for money for a century and a half probably has the right to charge whatever they want.