OFF Your Bike!

September 16th-22nd marks European Mobility Week, and for its part Hungary has this weekend closed various roads and organised the so-called Critical Mass bike ride for the 22nd. The organisers state that The aim is to draw attention to the harmful effects of present modes of transport on human health.

Whilst not for a moment decrying or disputing the obvious benefits to both the environment and the cyclist’s health, I am far from convinced that the explosion in numbers of Magyars (and others) wheeling their way in amongst us more sedentary walkers and users of public transport, is a cause for unequivocal celebration. Safe from harm in their fluorescent helmets and resplendent in the latest cycling gear, their unvoiced superiority regales motorists and pedestrians alike, as they shoot up hills and over bridges past queues waiting at bus and tram stops. Yet, while their physical well-being may be improving, those of us negotiating life on the pavement are finding it increasingly fraught with the ever-present hazard of being hit by a bike. Since when have the pavements been declared open to cyclists? Without a bell, akin to adolescents on their skateboards, they silently weave in and out of unsuspecting pedestrians, quite unaware of the danger lurking just behind. However, unlike the teenage skateboarder who can hardly claim to be saving the planet, our errant cyclists, sure that they occupy the high moral ground, feel free to do as they please without fear of censure.

The humble pushbike was hardly if ever to be seen on Budapest streets twenty years ago – it was the transport of the country peasant who could not afford the several years’ salary to buy a Trabant (let alone a Lada), and in areas where buses were infrequent. Villages were full of men and women riding slowly along their streets (not pavements), to and from market – and in evenings, with neither lights nor helmet to protect them, men would wobble drunkenly home from the pubs along dimly-lit roads – a real hazard for motorists.

Today I stood at Jászai Mari tér waiting half an hour for a friend, and counted approximately 45 cyclists pass the sign requesting they dismount, thus enabling pedestrians to navigate the narrow walkway left on Margit hid to walk safely to the island. Of these, just two dismounted. Subsequently, we too took our chances along the same fenced pathway, the risk exacerbated by the fact not only that we had a three-year-old toddler with us, but that my friend is blind and also had a guide dog. Yet only with eyes in the back of our heads could we have negotiated the walk peacefully, as cyclists pedalled inches behind us, waiting an opportunity to overtake. Their selfish disregard for pedestrians can be witnessed everywhere in the city, in spite of the fact that there are increasing numbers of cycle paths provided for them – and which they would not for a moment contemplate sharing with pedestrians!
I agree that the time has indeed come to draw attention to the the harmful effects of present modes of transport on human health – the mode of transport being of the two-wheeled variety. Time they got OFF their bikes!

Time Travel

Last weekend I stood on a somewhat wet and windy Andrássy út to hear a friend play the piano on one of several temporary podiums that had been erected along its length - the occasion being the celebrations of both the centenary of Mahler’s death concurrently with the 200th anniversary of the birth of Erkel. This was a somewhat unlikely tribute by a bevy of highly-talented pianists braving numbed fingers and the electronic amplification of their heroic renderings, to two composers who wrote little if anything for the instrument! This fact notwithstanding, the pianists fittingly selected to play Chopin (whose anniversary is also this year) and Liszt (whose will be next year). The broad avenue was closed to traffic, and all around me I was aware of the many foreign tongues expressing delight and admiration, hands clasping guide books and maps, and young employees of the Hop-on-hop-off bus distributing leaflets with great alacrity.

In recent years, tourism has increased notably, while the months now covered by the presence of foreign visitors in the capital, and the events organised to tempt them here, have grown significantly. The many arts festivals, food and wine festivals, popular and classical music events, to name just a few, have seen Budapest experience the phenomenon of tourism as never before.

How difficult it now is to recall the situation which prevailed when this part of Europe was effectively isolated and forgotten by those whose foreign holidays ended in Vienna. Not that travel to communist lands was outlawed or impossible – but the yards of red tape and a fear of the unknown were enough to keep all but the most intrepid at bay:
An artificially low exchange rate (in 1980) of just 62 forints to the pound, and a return flight of 200 pounds, did little to induce the potential traveller. In addition, one had to procure a 30-day visa from the Hungarian embassy (or endure a long wait and a lengthy procedure at Ferihegy airport on arrival).Then followed the uncomfortable scrutiny by passport control, questions by grim-faced customs officials, and the feeling of insecurity as to the legality of bringing certain items (like jeans) into the country. Within 48 hours one had to register at the local police station – another intimidating experience.

Tourism, both as a concept and as a reality, was non-existent. Aside from East Germans using the only possible method available to them to meet their relatives from the West at Lake Balaton, one could occasionally witness a dirty old coach bearing Russian plates and some party faithful making its was around Heroes’ Square, but that was all. Monuments and bridges lay in total darkness – no illuminations dazzled the eyes of the awestruck tourist on the river bank – there were very few days a year when the expense was deemed justified. The one airport terminal saw as many – or as few – flights in a week as now arrive in a single day. No tourist maps, tourist offices or information, and all else only in the vernacular. A real experience of travel and the unknown for those who were willing to take their chances!

It was thus a real pleasure to now find myself among the hordes of people who had chosen to visit this unquestionably beautiful city, which was for so long hidden in both metaphorical and actual darkness. It is possible that some native Hungarians feel there are now enough tourists – but my suspicion is that like me, they enjoy the feeling that Budapest is no longer ‘’off stage” and that their isolation has truly ended.

Baja Revisited

It is now thirty summers since I first went from England to the southern Hungarian town of Baja to teach English, and this weekend I returned to meet my erstwhile students. Baja is little-known by visitors, lacking the more obvious sights or notable events which would make the journey to Hungary’s southern border unmissable. Yet its tranquil atmosphere, its imposing main square and its beautiful setting on the Sugovica river guarantee that I can easily be persuaded to re-visit it.

Back in 1980, a four-hour train journey in sweltering temperatures, ending with the expansive bridge over the Danube at its widest, was my usual way of reaching Baja. Then, just an old pedestrian bridge linked the sleepy town with the small island (Petöfi sziget) where I was both to hold the course, and to live for the weeks of my stay. The English lessons were arranged for employees of a furniture factory by its manager, a self-confessed Anglo maniac, in the factory’s modest holiday home at the far end of the island. In the breaks we sat out in the garden and waited for the manager’s young son, Gordi, to cycle along the sandy path, past the KISZ (Young Communists’ Association) building, and back to the bridge to fetch us lángos (deep fried flat bread). Little could we have foretold that thirty years later he (Gordon Bajnai!) would be running the country!

Afternoons were frequently spent swimming in the Sugovica which wends its way to the mighty Danube nearby. Apart from the enormous main square (Béke tér) the town’s main meeting places were the market, and the fish market which was located on the stone steps leading down to the water. Evenings saw us take our (wooden) seats at the small local cinema, or sit chatting around the fire, watching Baja’s speciality of fish soup bubbling golden orange in a cauldron in the garden; mosquitoes were an inescapable part of life there. With no motor traffic on the island its silence was interrupted only by the cooing of the wood pigeons or the splash of the water. More islands lay further downstream, and a ferryman sat by the shore in his old rowing boat, well beyond the crimson sunset and into dusk, waiting for passengers.

Life after 1989 saw some unexpected changes: a second building where we had held an English course was temporarily transformed into a brothel, while the Yugoslav war yielded undreamt-of opportunities for those seeking to make their fortunes from cross-border gun-running and other forms of smuggling, and the town’s cafés filled with dubious clientele from both sides of the border. Baja today is a hotchpotch of the old and the new. Inevitably, there have been many changes – for my part, the least welcome being the demolition of the old bridge to Petöfi sziget and the construction of one able to take motor vehicles; much building has also taken place on the island. The market continues to thrive, though the fish market has relinquished its small cove to the mooring of small motor boats; the cinema is closed, though none has been built to replace it. The buildings on the main square have been restored to their original splendour - churches and parks likewise. Meanwhile, the spectacularly ugly concrete department store stands still in all its communist glory – a true reminder of the horrors we all accepted stoically as a part of life at that time!

But wandering the quiet paths alongside the sandy shores of the Sugovica with its motionless fishermen, the sun’s setting reflected in the river’s small waves, the smell of soup wafting from the Halászcsárda (fish restaurant) and the willows hanging in the deep green water, I realise that even these changes have not spoilt this town. I will be back.

End of the Saga?

Anyone who has followed this blog from its start, almost one year ago, will have noted the occasional entries connected with the fate of the Music Academy. It has, unwittingly, become a symbol of the ‘planning’ which characterises many aspects of life in the country.

The completed renovation of the nineteenth-century building in Liszt Ferenc tér, was originally planned to coincide with its centenary in 2007 – this did not come to pass, and the new deadline became 2011 – the 200th anniversary of Liszt’s birth. Work was set to commence in 2009, then this too was postponed. Finally, amid closing ceremonies and marathon concerts, a grand Farewell was taken last autumn….only for teaching to continue for the following academic year as though nothing had happened.

Now, apart from the ghostly strains of a piano being played in a far-flung practice room, and the odd thud of heavy boxes being moved along in its empty corridors, the Liszt Ferenc Zeneakadémia is deserted. The renovation work should soon begin, though as everyone is well aware, this senseless timing means that there is not even an outside chance that the building will be open for the important anniversary next year. That renovation is both necessary and long-overdue, is not in question. But having missed so many planned dates to start the work, would it not have been logical to delay this by a mere twelve months more in order to allow access to the building when, inevitably, musicians will flock to Hungary’s capital to celebrate Liszt’s birthday next year? It may be a little shabby, but the Zeneakadémia is hardly in danger of imminent collapse. Meanwhile, the unsolved problem of where the institution might move to during the renovation period seems to have been solved. An office block at 25, Űllöi út, between the Museum of Applied Arts and Kálvin tér, and which once housed the country’s Standards Office, will become the temporary home of the Academy.

The vexed question for those working and studying there – for there is no point here in enumerating the countless shortcomings of an office block for the teaching of music – is quite how temporary this sojourn is likely to be. The reason cited for every problem in Hungary is a lack of money – and there is no question that the renovation of the Academy will be a costly affair. However, as with many other large-scale projects in the country, the EU has provided funding. Yet only this week, the Wall Street Journal commented on the stance of Hungary’s present government towards the outside world, stating that: Mr. Orban, who took office in late May after a landslide election victory, has made it clear that he believes Hungary can survive without more IMF and EU aid. There remain, then, two critical questions: Is the Zeneakadémia already in possession of the money earmarked for its renovation? And, if they are, what will be the situation if – as seems to happen as a matter of course with such things – the designated sum is insufficient, and more money must be found?

Hungary is strewn with half-finished building and renovation projects which bear the stars of the EU flag, promising a secure source of capital that will see the job finished - the fourth metro line and Margit híd to mention just the two most obvious. If additional finance is required for these or other works (which will now need to be raised nationally), one need not speculate long on the relative priority that will be given to a music academy against a bridge or an underground line.
The 150th anniversary of the founding of the Zeneakadémia as a teaching institution, is in 2025….

Home from Home

In common with many people at this time of year, we travelled away for a short holiday. Summer it may be, but summery it was not in Donegal, Ireland, our chosen destination. However, the unspoilt beauty of its green hills and mountains, the heartfelt warmth of its people, and a total dearth of tourists (there must be more sheep than people in this area) were magical. Just three other people combed the empty miles of sandy beaches which look out over the Atlantic, while country lanes were choked – not with traffic – but with wild flowers, where the only ‘noise’ was provided by the breeze, the sheep and the larks; a stark contrast indeed to the urban living of Budapest.

Our late-evening return flight from London was delayed, meaning we were sitting in the homeward-bound taxi at 2a.m. No gradual transition back to Hungarian reality for us: the outside thermometer showed an unequivocal 27c, even at this hour: as the pilot had said, “We are now descending into the furnace…,” while our driver careered from one lane to the other, simultaneously answering his hand-held mobile phone, and shooting through two red lights. To complete the Hungarian experience in style, he asked for 5,500 forints in place of the fixed price of 5,200 – a small increase, but nevertheless, a sharp reminder that one can never relax one’s guard. And then finally, the flat, which must have been ten degrees hotter than it was outside…

The following morning I found an email from a friend who, after many years, decided to return to his native America. In the decade I had known him in Budapest, the overriding tenor of his conversations was one of complaint and disbelief at many aspects of life which he found unacceptable and intolerable (too many to enumerate here). On countless occasions over the years he had emailed me, having decided to abandon Hungary, and suggested a farewell meeting – only to return again! Now, it seemed, he had finally carried out his long-stated intention; his message was brief: How are you? I am miserable in New Jersey…

This phenomenon is far from unique. An English musician friend who spent five years in Budapest, but then left entirely from choice, admitted he could not come and visit us, as he was not sure he would be able to leave the city once he again set foot in it… Meanwhile, ten years ago, I had an Irish colleague who, similarly, could find little to compensate for the many irritations she had with the practicalities of her everyday existence here. These, together with an untenable work situation, prompted her to leave after just four months, gleefully and without a second thought. Imagine then my surprise when some months later, I bumped into her in a Budapest café!
“What are you doing here?” I asked in astonishment.
“Well, you know, after I left I realised just how much I really liked this city…”

Our visit to Ireland was, in fact, to another musician friend who shared some of our Communist years here in the 80s. It was a topic of conversation among us even then, how one could miss a place with all the frustrations and shortcomings it undoubtedly had – especially at that time. His conclusion was that like drinking or coffee, life in Budapest was quite simply ‘habit-forming’ – something one cannot expunge from one’s soul.

Just two days ago, another American friend also returned home after the best part of twenty years in Hungary. These years caused a similar amount of agonising about her decision – which involved five years spent back in the USA, only for her to return to Hungary for a further ten years.

With her flat denuded of all her possessions, some shipped, others given away, she left for an early morning flight to New York, ready for her new life back home. From the taxi I received the shortest of text messages from her as she headed for the airport - :-((
Maybe there really is no escape…..

Theatre of the Absurd

It was with great joy that I happened to notice the forthcoming performance of a play (Macskajáték) last month, by one of my favourite Hungarian writers, Őrkény, to be staged in the Thália theatre.

Having waited a long time to see my other favourite of his plays (Tóthék), and being familiar with the phenomenon of performances being sold out the very day tickets become available – even in the days before the internet – I rushed home to book tickets online. I was in luck – some still remained and my card payment went through without a hitch. However, when I opened my email account there was no confirmation of the purchase and no tickets waiting to be printed. It was a Saturday evening, and I decided to wait until Monday in the event that the procedure was only slow and not faulty. By Tuesday – the first day I had time to make a personal visit to the theatre – I had still to receive any form of communication regarding my tickets.

I approached the box office in the beautiful foyer of the theatre and waited my turn. I then explained I had paid for two tickets but had not received the promised email nor the e-tickets.
“Are you sure you’ve checked your emails carefully?”
“Yes.”
“And your Spam box?”
“Yes.”
The woman then enlightened me that it was not the theatre itself which managed the internet ticket site, and therefore she could not help me. She suggested I go to my bank and ask for a print-out of a statement showing that payment had gone through, and then return to her with it. It was already past bank closing hours, and I had no intention of queuing for an hour after work on another day in order to acquire the document, and then return to queue again at the box office. I asked what the situation would be if I lived in another part of the country and could not come to the capital – after all, purchasing goods online is intended to facilitate matters, not involve hours of queuing and travelling. No answer.

In desperation, she pointed to a glass door opposite bearing the inscription Management, and told me to try there. The door was locked, though three young women were clearly visible on the other side, chatting. I knocked and was buzzed to enter. Here I explained the situation once again, and was again informed that it had nothing to do with the theatre. Their suggestion was that I contact the company managing online ticket sales, and they scribbled their telephone number on a scrap of paper.
“How about you ringing them now while I’m here?” I asked.
This brought a look of shock to their faces, but having no ready reason why they could not do so, the woman dialled without any acknowledgement of my request. She handed the receiver to me, whereupon I told the story for now the third time.

The new woman told me that the purchase could be seen – not only on her screen, but on the theatre’s network – whereupon I asked her to repeat this to her ‘colleague’ in the office where I stood. Szia Éva….persze, persze….(Hi Éva…of course, of course.)
“The email was sent to you,” she elucidated, unsmilingly, “But it has now been re-sent.” And with that she turned to one of the other women and resumed the conversation I had no doubt interrupted. Then, as I emerged from the glass doors, the woman in the box office called to me:
“Did you manage to get it sorted out?”
“Yes, thank you. They’re re-sending the email – but I never did get one.”
“Yes – several people have been in to complain about that…”

The evening itself provided a fitting postscript to the purchase of the tickets: swathes of elegantly dressed theatre-goers who had arrived in good time for the performance, were kept waiting in a tightly-packed crowd outside the theatre doors, unable to access the bar, toilets or their seats until three minutes before curtain up.
The play itself was wonderful – small wonder that such a master of the Absurd should have sprung from this country.

Ignorance is Bliss

Returning home from work on one of the warmer afternoons last week, I saw a woman sweating her way towards me on the otherwise deserted path. She was still some distance off, but I could make out that she was carrying several bulging bags as well as the jacket she had divested, as she trudged heavily in my direction. When she came within a few metres of me, I realised she belonged to that category of people impossible to age: their youth prematurely truncated by an excess of food, drink and Life in Hungary; now careworn, obese and unkempt. Looking towards her again, my attention was caught by the English words emblazoned on her tightly stretched t-shirt. They read: Go on, admit it – you’ve got the hots for me. Little could have been more incongruous, and I felt certain she could have not the slightest inkling of the message she was broadcasting, on a garment she had most likely found in one of the numerous second-hand clothes shops that have sprung up in recent years.

Before 1989, anything which could be identified as having originated from kint, (abroad, and not socialist) was a status symbol, whether it was a pair of Levi jeans or merely a carrier bag bearing the name of a foreign shop. This was true to the extent that a friend persuaded me to part with two old Indian skirts in exchange for a fridge, and it also resulted in daily requests for me to sell a PVC shopping bag with the Cinzano label printed on it, when I made my shopping trips to the market on Garay tēr where we lived. Unconvincing imitations of foreign goods were also manufactured inside the country’s borders – unidentifiable from the genuine article to all but a small handful of people with a smattering of a foreign language – a real rarity – or those who had managed to travel abroad. Thus it was that one of the alcoholics who was as permanent a feature of the market as the flower-sellers, owned a sweatshirt purportedly from ‘Oxsford University.’

Yet this phenomenon was perpetuated into the 90s. Our elderly neighbours at that time had a son who had defected to America, and who every now and then would send a parcel for his elderly parents. Maybe he considered it of no consequence in a country where few knew English (including his parents) but the sweatshirt he sent his 70-year-old mother, and which she proudly wore for our weekly shopping trip to the local market, bore the sizeable inscription: Fuck You! It was as uncomfortable as it was unavoidable that I impart to her the meaning of the words on her new garment.

Today, it is more ambiguous as to the intention with which such clothes are worn. The attractive young woman selling hot dogs at the Palatinus swimming pool on the Margaret Island, may well have known the meaning on her t-shirt: Can you maintain me? Though whether the white-haired porter working at a small hospital for the elderly where I go regularly, knew the meaning of his, I doubt. As he wandered the corridors, pushing octo- and nonagenarians in their wheelchairs, and politely greeting their visiting relatives (for the most part, also elderly), he appeared sublimely ignorant of the message on display on the front of his t-shirt: Born 2 FXXK.
Ignorance is bliss….