Like no place else

Temperatures in the high 40s and a sky straight out of a Dutch seascape. The previous night I began to notice these enormous piles of junk blocking the sidewalk at regular intervals. Not potato-peel-variety garbage, but architectural materials, 1960s televisions, framed pictures of Lenin. Some good picking, if you’re so inclined.


By daylight, the piles are still there. Both sides of the river are awash in scrap metal and other oddments.


I’m biking today in the hills of Buda, where most streets will funnel you eventually into Moscow Square, an enormous transit center populated by lost people, day laborers looking for work, and the occasional gangster and Gypsy. This is just a tiny slice of the square's northern edge.


Violent crime is almost unheard of in Budapest, but petty theft happens, as everywhere, in crowded trams, train stations and fast-food restaurants. The most menacing spots I’ve encountered have been the neighborhoods east of the Millennium City Center and around the Keleti Palyaudvar, or East Train Station. The dead-end kids here drink a bright yellow beverage out of big plastic containers. I guess it’s wine, but it’s the color of piss, and after several swigs they can get a little unpredictable.

As in most big cities (Budapest is the size of Phoenix or Philadelphia), homelessness and beggary are also big problems here. Asking for money and pawing through trash cans is now outlawed in the Eighth District. Aside from being unenforceable and appearing to have a racial component, this seems like bad policy. Do you really want to fan these flames? The political rhetoric coming from the right-wing Hungary-first crowd is hot enough.

This time I attack Castle Hill from the northwest. Well, actually, I push my bike up Ostrum Utca, which seems like a 40-degree climb. First thing I see is the Magdalena Tower, which is all that’s left of a 13th-century Franciscan church destroyed in World War II.


Not sure if Allied bombing or the battle for Buda knocked her down. When the Turks ruled here in the 16th century, this was the only place Christians were permitted to worship. At the bottom of the photo, a garbage truck solves the sidewalk-trash mystery. It’s brush-and-bulky day!

Next door is the Military History Museum, a former army barracks constructed in the 1830s. Visitors are invited to handle a lot of the weapons. I now know that a Tokarev pistol is too small for my hands. The “light” machine guns must weigh 50 pounds.


The cockpit of a MiG-21 Soviet fighter.


The museum has some outstanding propaganda posters. This fist appears to crash through the roof of a newspaper office. The caption reads “Bastards! Is this what you wanted?” The context escapes me. I wish the gift shop carried some of these.


The street-by-street tank battles in Budapest were some of the fiercest of the war. Nearly 40,000 civilians died in a seven-week span. Pity, because the Germans were in nearly full retreat and the whole European conflict was practically over. Only 11 years later, the city would be wrecked again. Budapest is a sad, sad place.


Pages from a Life magazine in 1956.


Time magazine’s 1956 Man of the Year.


The Matthias Church anchors Szentharomsag Square. Doesn’t do much for me. Parts of it date to the 1200s, but it’s been heavily worked on since. Unfortunately, it was closed for a wedding.


The Fishermen’s Bastion (1900 or so) looks cool, but doesn’t appear to have much utility or historical value, nor does it have any obvious link to fishermen. In medieval times, the fish market was nearby. A fun place for kids to clamber about.


I always wondered what a “hussar” was, and this statue of Andras Hadak fills me in. It’s a Hungarian cavalryman. At exam time, college students climb the statue to touch the horse’s testicles for good luck.


Because Castle Hill so resembles a movie set, it’s arresting to realize people actually live here.


A palinka (fruit brandy)-and-sausage festival is taking place, but the whole thing seems … too organized. The festival workers are all wearing the same green windbreakers and admission is $10. Ten dollars for the privilege of spending more once you’re inside. Mrs. Sibley didn’t raise a fool. But I’m not done climbin’.

First I coast down Attila Utca at a million miles an hour. Wait. What’s Haydn doing here?


Turns out he lived in Hungary for 20 years. (Cue Johnny Carson voice) I did not know that.

A bit to the southeast I now ascend Gellert Hill, intent on reaching the highest spot in Budapest, where the Nazis were able to significantly slow the Russian advance. Holy shit. A panorama I will never forget.


I zoom in on my Pest neighborhood.


When I say my goodbyes to this idiosyncratic city, as I must in a couple of days, I shall have to return here and do it properly.