'Don Pasquale'

Remember how on "Three's Company," Jack would always fool Mr. Roper, but then get his just deserts in the end? That's kinda how I feel about comic operas. They're pretty much all variations on the same themes: Mistaken identity is a big one. An impending marriage -- gotta have that. Doddering old man railing against the forces of age -- check. Peasants who are wiser than their patron. You get the idea.

But I had a great time at tonight's "Don Pasquale" at the Hungarian State Opera. Zita Varadi was a saucy Norina, and Peter Kalman proved quite a good actor as the blustery, increasingly pitiable Don Pasquale.

I had the oddest experience with an usher. I'm in a box with seven other people, three Japanese ladies and four Hungarians. It's super Old World: There's a gilded mirror for checking yourself out, a fainting couch, coat racks, a foot stool, and eight chairs. Real chairs -- the kind you can scoot about. I stand up for half of the first act because I'm in the second row of chairs and because we're in a real box, with a closed door behind me, I can do so.

During the first intermission, I'm stretching my legs in the hallway and the usher says, "I show you something," and leads me back to the box.

"Sit here, please," she said, patting the fainting couch (you know, like a love seat, but "fainting couch" is funnier). And I'm like, am I in a time out?

She leaves and I sit back in my chair. As the lights dim for the beginning of the second act, she enters the box again and pats the couch again. "Sit here, please." She says it in such a gentle way that I dumbly comply. And then I realize because the couch is elevated, it will give me a better vantage to see the stage. I thanked her later and she beamed with gratification. Just do what you're told, Pete.

Me on my fainting couch.


The view from the box.


It's a spectacular venue, and I'd hate to compare it to anyplace else. It is one of Europe's grandest houses. (Paris' Palais Garnier occupying the top spot. Crap, I just compared it.)


This poster for "Simon Boccanegra" got me psyched.


It is the second-most-perfect Italian opera ever conceived, and I'll be back here in four days, with a much better seat, to take it all in.

(Why, "Othello.")

A quick Baroque fix

A census guy knocked on the door a few minutes ago. At least I think that's what he was. He seemed crestfallen when I told him I couldn't make heads or tails of the forms I was supposed to fill out. His forehead started to sweat a bit, as if to say, "What will I tell my overlords?" And a good day to you, sir.

Took the bike out today, riding north to the end of Andrassy, onto Heroes' Square, which is rife with political meaning for these folks.


The horsemen represent the seven tribes that founded this odd land. When the Soviets took over in 1949, they covered all this stuff up with red fabric in the name of "internationalism" and erected a statue of Marx in their place.


Not sure if this is work-safe. Horses are whipped.


Here's how Heroes' Square looked, from behind, in 1896.


St. Stephen is at left. The guy at right, St. Laszlo I, seems mildly surprised to be considered a hero. Take a bow, man. You rescued a maiden from a Cumanian warrior!


On a whim, I popped in to the Museum of Fine Arts, which has a fine collection of classical antiquities, and 17th- and 18th-century Flemish paintings.




I showed up just in time for a free tour, in English, of Dutch, Spanish and Italian Baroque paintings. The "group" consisted of me and an Israeli girl, and our guide was Sharyn, from Madison, Wis. I felt fortunate. We covered about eight pieces in 90 minutes, which allowed us to discuss the works in depth. Nice job, Share-Bear!


The curtain rises in 90 minutes for Donizetti's "Don Pasquale" at the Hungarian State Opera, so I must get dressed. And a good day to you.

A loser's game

What a great town. Laid-back, safe, lotsa dive bars and bookstores and antique shops and cafes. Temps in the low 70s with some high wispy clouds. I walked eight or nine miles today, just so you don't have to. Be there, or someplace that rhymes with there.

My street, Jokai Utca (OOT-sah), is below. Pest is a neo-classical wonderland. An architecture student could sketch many notebooks-full just wandering around. Jokai Ut. may not look like much from this angle, but there are wine shops, kebab joints, green grocers, corner stores, ATMs and cafes galore all within this frame. And a few bums to keep it real.

A hundred yards to the south is the street's namesake, Mor Jokai.


He was a prolific writer and editor. Lived from 1825 to 1904. Almost got his ass killed during the doomed uprising against the Hapsburg empire. Author of "An Old Man Is Not a Tottery Man," "The Lady With Eyes Like the Sea" and "The Three Marble Heads." The titles alone make me a fan. Hungary's Dickens, if you will.

We take a right onto one of Budapest's most celebrated avenues, Andrassy, where one can do real damage to his billfold. Budapest's public and residential art is astounding. If you don't spend a lot of time looking up, you're missing half the fun.


A few steps away is the opera house, from which, through a side entrance, I could hear rehearsals for tomorrow night's "Don Pasquale."


A film crew was on scene. Maybe it'll show up on Blu-Ray! Hundreds of statues adorn the building inside and out. Mahler was director here for three seasons.

A cool old cobbler's sign on Lazar Utca. I ran into three English-language bookstores today, one on this street.


Outside St. Stephen's Basilica, on busy Bajcsy-Zsilinszky, is the kind of robust bike infrastructure you're looking for, providing you believe bikes and cars should not mix.


Pedestrians are given a clear visual cue to stay out. Budapest is all over the map in this regard. Usually, bike paths are denoted by mere paint. On Andrassy, bikes are invited to ride to the right of parked cars, directly in the passenger-door zone. It's nuts. The messengers ignore all this garbage and ride with traffic, as Jesus intended.

Speaking of St. Stephen's, here it is. Some call it simply the Budapest Cathedral.


Work on the building started in 1851, when Pest was just a village. Stephen is generally thought of as the founder of Hungary, serving as its first king more than a thousand years ago. It's not the cheeriest place, but at the right time of day, sunlight perks things up.


A better overview.


There's a reliquary of St. Stephen here. Meaning, there's a bit of hair or fingernail or a fragment of his skull in a box. Catholics are weird. Outside, an Ionic colonnade holds up the 12 apostles.


Sidewalk chefs dish up steaming bowls of polenta and cottage cheese near the cathedral's entrance.


Veering to the northwest, I run across a statue of an American in Szabadsag Square. He's Harry Hill Bandholtz, and he helped kick out Romanian and Serb occupiers in the early 1900s, all while disarming the Hungarian army. Confusing, I know, and a minor footnote, given all that's transpired since. A statue of Reagan was unveiled earlier this year on the Buda side, FWIW.


The U.S. Embassy adjoins this square. A sign on the fence actually says "No Photography." A row of stanchions protects against truck bombs, and you can't get within 30 yards of the entrance without an appointment. A lot of construction work was going on outside to further harden the place.


It's daylight, granted, but you can't tell me that the Batthyany Eternal Flame is lit. It is supposed to commemorate the execution on this spot of 13 Hungarian generals after the failed insurrection against Hapsburg rule in the mid-1800s. It is all but forgotten now. The flame is out and weeds grow around the memorial's base.


This says something profound about the current state of Hungarian nationalism, but I'm not sure what. My initial impression is that it's a good thing. Sometimes you just need to turn the page.

We're behind the Houses of Parliament now. This is a detail from a statue of Lajos Kossuth, a rabble rouser inspired by the French Revolution. He helped lead the Hungarian Revolution against the Hapsburgs (basically, Austria) in 1848. I like how clutching a hat establishes you as a "peasant." He's looking up at Kossuth.


Here's all you need to know about Hungarians and their military conflicts. They always, always lose. Sure, they came out on top in some skirmishes. But when they go to war, they're 0-100. In the case of the 1848 revolution, they folded the next year. Kossuth died in Turin at 91.

This flame (in the stone's crease at upper left), dedicated to those who died in the 1956 student uprising, won't go out any time soon.


From an American's perspective, it was this spasm of anti-Soviet violence that made us feel like Hungary was an outlier in the Soviet bloc, like a secret pal you knew would do the right thing. Regrettably, we stood by while students got slaughtered on this very square. I'm not sure Eisenhower had many options, however. With so many competing interests in play, the U.S. simply was not going to draw a line in the sand in Magyar-ville.

The back of the Gothic-y Houses of Parliament, which face the Danube.


Parking is restricted to lawmakers only. Hippies and housewives steadily enter and leave the building from a backdoor. They are the MPs. Kind of refreshing!


In keeping with today's statuary theme, I'm going to have some words with Mihaly Karolyi, former prime minister and somewhat of a pacifist at the worst possible time (1918-1919).


I approach the Margaret Bridge (Margit Hid), which will take me to Buda. (Buda is on the west side of the Danube; Pest on the east.)


Once I share this image with my two-wheeled compadres back home, it will go viral. Oh, yes, it will.


My first view of Margaret Island, which lies in the Danube. Must bring the bike here. And no, there is not a serial killer at work here. That's Csepel Island, to the south. (And I named this blog before the first body was unearthed.)


OK, so Buda's not lame for a game, just the Castle District. This is Fo Utca, and it's very Pesty. Found a great antiques store here with lots of 19th-century oils in the $700 range. Not that I'm buying, but recession + Central Europe = savings. Did I mention George Soros is from Budapest? Liberace, too.


At a nasty little roundabout called Clark Adam Ter, trade unionists are holding a rally. In the middle of the afternoon. On a Thursday.


Be careful what you wish for, Hungary. I love Europe and come as often as I'm able, but even my untutored eye tells me the public-service sector is too large everywhere on this continent. On the Margaret Bridge there are men sweeping piles of dirt around. Never scooping them up. Just moving them from place to place, much as the U.S. Treasury does its accounting. As unthreatening as their little blue smocks seem now, they will bring you to woe.

First-day jitters

I picked out a few small identifiable goals on my first full day in Budapest: Make the bike ridable, get a two-week transport pass, find Vorosmarty Square. If I'm not in my immediate neighborhood or retracing my steps, I become lost every 200 yards. I hope others share this steep learning curve in a new city. No, really, I do. Blessedly, there are little "ters" or parks and squares, all over the place where I can sit and re-navigate. Temperatures are in the high 70s; room temp in the shade.

Pumping up these knobby mountain-bike tires with a leaky hand device was an aerobic adventure. My landlord thoughtfully provided a crescent wrench for the seatpost adjustment. The saddle is still a smidge low, but the last thing I want to do is pull the post out of the frame; they can be a bitch to put back in. The bike isn't as cool-looking as my ride in Turin, but it has a little more giddyup and appears to have the insane gear range people demand these days. I don't think they even make 10-speeds any more.

So the bike's ready.

Getting the two-week pass was one of those early-trip boondoggles. There is a major metro stop called Deak Ferenc, where all three lines intersect. I descend into the beast, looking for a cashier but am stopped.

"Where's your ticket?"

"I want to buy a two-week pass."

"Can't get 'em here." (I have saved you, dear reader, the gesticulations and riffling through Hungarian-English dictionaries, and the head-scratching and head-shaking that resulted in the distilled conversation above.)

I find a cashier down another hallway. Nope, she says. Try the Blue Line exit.

She's speaking through glass. "What was that?"

She screams now, pointing over the American devil's shoulder.

"THE BLUE LINE EXIT!"

Now you Magyars correct me if I'm wrong, but it appears you can't enter the subway, ticketless, and find where the red line intersects with the blue line and buy a ticket. You must return to the street, and look around. The red line has a big red "M." The blue line -- nothing. So for the next 45 minutes I'm a prairie dog, popping out of this hole and that until I find the blue line, which, as far as I knew was going to be an underground toilet. Because I don't know how to say "Szeretnek egy kethetes berletet csinaltatni a mal naptol" ("I'd like to have a two-week pass made starting today"), I hold up a piece of paper to the glass, like a Romanian Gypsy trying to figure out the NYC subway. It is a minor indignity.

So the two-week pass is ready.

Task 3 was Vorosmarty Square. Why? Well, just because I need a few small identifiable goals and because it looks like a good jumping-off point for taking several walkabouts. Again, difficult, even though it's on every map ever printed of Pest. I know the ordinary rules of living aren't suspended when you're in a new place, but for the first 72 hours it seems like they are. By Day 3 or 4 you're swimming with the other fishes.

So Vorosmarty Square is ... ready. I think I can find it tomorrow. Here's a picture of it in case you find yourself in my clown shoes.


The principal attraction of the square is the world-famous confectioner's Gerbaud, which I understand still has all its 19th-century furnishings. I ask a girl to take my picture.


I proceed to the nearby Szechenyi Lanchid for a stroll across the Danube.


The Chain Bridge was built between 1842 and 1849. Yes, the Germans did blow up all the city's bridges in January 1945 as the Soviet army approached, but in this case they brought down only the center span, rendering the bridge useless, but making the rebuilding task that much easier. Rather sporting.

I know the lions post-date the bridge's construction, but I'm not sure if they were here in WWII or not. No bullet holes.


Might I suggest once having crossed into Buda, hew to the right and take the Kiraly Iepsco stairs up Castle Hill? Not that taking the funiculaire is gay or anything. (Did you see what I did there?)


I'm lost at the top and stop to consult with Zoltan Kodaly, mentor to Bela Bartok and a fine composer in his own right. I once listened to his concerto for orchestra at the University of Arizona's Centennial Hall, conducted by Ashkenazy. Anyway, he's crying a purple tear. Must be that "patriotic sadness" that all these Central European states have a name for. Or perhaps my hair is so short, he can smell my brains. (Tip o' the hat to Nell Carter from "Gimme a Break!")


From up here you have a good view of Pest. Unfortunately, the Hotel Intercontinental (center-right), built in the early '80s, has done much damage to the skyline. A grade-schooler could tell you it doesn't belong.


I'm not sure what to make of the Turul Bird statue on Castle Hill. It's a strikingly beautiful evocation of Magyar folklore, but for some it's a militaristic, even anti-Semitic, remnant of uglier times. This is way out of my depth. An interesting discussion can be found here.


A detail of a water sculpture outside the National Gallery by Alajos Strobl.


The Nazis made their last stand on this hill during the siege of Budapest. This was all Reds vs. Krauts stuff. Kilroy was definitely not here. Some pretty good artillery gouges remain on this building, possibly the former Ministry of Defense. Corrections welcomed; I'm just a clueless tourist.


By midafternoon, the tour buses are chugging up the hill one after another and my "Toy Town" alarm is going off. Still haven't seen the Fishermen's Bastion or St. Matthias Church or the House of Hungarian Wines or Batthyany Palace or the catacombs. I will return if only to see the 19th-century collection of Hungarian art at the National Gallery. Buda is pretty vast, and people actually live here, but I've funneled myself into a heavily touristed area and it's time to get out.

Back home in Pest, this is where I lay my head.


The door opens to this courtyard of the former Swedish Embassy, where many Jews were hidden during the war.


The building dates from the 1890s. I found a floor tile that said 189 ... and the last number was worn away. My kitchen:


And bedroom:


The crapper you can visualize. After one more day, more likely two, my navigational "light" will go on, and this great European capital will lay at my feet. Nell Carter might have something to say about that, too.