Schnitzeled in Austria-Hungary

« Return to Austria

Matt and Mike invited me to check out a southern Hungarian town close to the Serbian border called Szeged. I decided that Budapest demanded a solid week, so this would be my only venturing into the Hungarian countryside, as it were. The train took three hours, and we arrived to find a charming town with the typical square and massive cathedral. Szeged was notable because it is famous for its traditional fish stew, served up in a cauldron. Hungarian food, heavy on the paprika, is thick and rich. I followed my stew with traditional goulash because I’m down to the last makeshift hole on my belt. Szeged also houses the most magnificent synagogue I have ever seen, even after having visited the amazing Dohany St Synagogue in Budapest, the second largest in the world (the biggest is in New York). How these temples survived the pogroms, the Nazis and the communists is a miracle in itself. I had to deface an anti-Semitic sticker defacing a pole near the old shul, writing “Nazi Assholes” boldly beneath the swastika symbol. Today, there are only 100 00 Hungarian Jews from a pre-war population of 750 000, many who survived thanks to the heroic efforts of Swedish diplomat Raoul Wallenberg, later tortured and assassinated by the Soviets as a US Spy. Where’s the karma? Driving over my dogma.

Over a few beers in a student bar, we met some local girls who were hosts at the World Junior Kayaking Championships, being held that weekend in Szeged. Over 60 countries were represented, including a sizeable Canadian team, so I went along to check it out. Kayaking is like rowing, but don’t let them hear that. I met the Canadian guy who won a gold medal at last year’s Olympics. He seemed a little miffed that I didn’t know who he was, or anything about competitive kayaking for that matter. My engaging story of kayaking outside the walls of Dubrovnik failed to excite him either. So I snapped a few shots, ate cheese blintzes with the Number One Hungarian fan, basked in the few moments of sun and enjoyed an introduction to yet another dedicated sub-culture I did not know existed. The girls had enormous arms as thick as elephant trunks, but Team Iran seemed a little skinny. When you have kids from over 60 countries participating in one event, it can’t be a bad thing. Pity I was going to miss the post-finals party.

Belching carp (the one fish you don’t want to belch), we caught the train back to Budapest, which promptly stopped a few meters after leaving the platform. Ten minutes later I went to investigate why we weren’t moving and realized we were the only ones on the entire train. Somehow our carriage was disconnected and reconnected to an engine going nowhere fast, so it was another two hour wait for the next train, where we almost made the same mistake again. Matt was right - the Hungarians were not forthcoming with helpful information or advice. One woman told us we were on the right train, found out opposite, and left us stranded without telling us. Not every country can have the human warmth of Albania. See, look how much we’ve learned!

Caving in Budapest is marketed to backpackers because only we would be skinny enough to possibly squeeze through the cracks. I met up with about 24 other travellers, expecting a ho-hum walk through a big, stalactitted cave, albeit a walk in overalls and headlamps. Every time I’ve visited a cave, I’ve always yearned to climb into the holes as opposed to staring at well-lit formations with cute names. I yearn no more. The bus from the central station took just 15 minutes to reach the Matyeshegy Caves, encouragingly not open to the public. The miles and miles of caves were formed from the sea that once lay beneath Budapest and evolved into the wonderful thermal waters of today. We donned mud caked overalls and entered through a thick door, once an entrance to a natural bomb shelter used during World War II. A long, iron ladder down into the depths later, and welcome to Journey to the Center of the Earth. In single file we contorted our way forward, sliding on backs and fronts, angling heads and arms according to precise instruction. Our friendly guide Kata would ask where we thought our next step would be, and then inevitably chose a small crack nobody would think to consider. I pushed forward, deep in the earth, pushed up against the soft, moist clay that still displayed shells from the ancient sea that last flowed 40 million years ago. Turning off our lamps would result in a darkness and silence so thick you could chew it. Zero stimulation, a natural isolation chamber, not for the claustrophobic (or the overweight). Concentrating on the challenge ahead, it was also important to make sure you guided the guys behind you. I was three from the back, doing just this when I looked up and saw nothing. No lights. We clambered up a slippery slope and found an empty chamber. “Hello!” “Anyone there!” There were six possible exits, not including the cracks that Kata usually chose as her corridors of choice. Nothing, dead silence. We couldn’t have been more than thirty seconds behind the last guy, but it was as if we were the last three people on, or rather in, the planet. After a few minutes, I gained full appreciation just how dangerous spelunking can be. We stayed put and eventually saw a light, in the distance. Our group found us, but only after they too had shouted down the tunnel. Nobody heard a thing. Getting lost in a cave, deep under the city of Budapest…a moment of Modern Gonzo ecstasy! After three hours, exhausted, we somehow sandwiched though the final, most difficult challenge (some chose to crawl up a long tube, I chose the crack where my left arm had to thrust me along in full stretch). Walking into the last hour of daylight was more than a welcome breath of fresh air; the colour of the sky and trees were impossibly vivid, as if God had upped the contrast in a graphics program. Spelunking - just one more thrilling hobby to pursue on my return.

Matt’s friends, Simon and Reka, have set me up in a spanking two bedroom apartment in Budapest’s 7th District, which used to be slap bang in the middle of the Jewish Ghetto. Itπs easy to imagine the scene, 60 years ago, where over 10 000 people died on these very streets from starvation and cold. Some blocks haven’t changed at all, others have a new Pricewaterhouse-Cooper building or swank restaurants. The area is rapidly being gentrified, and I’m right next door to an enormous, always busy pub. It’s a break from the traveler vibe, a dose of a normal life in a foreign city. Something about Budapest makes me desperately wish I could stay longer, drink beers late in the night, discussing politics and literature. I already deeply regret that on Saturday I have to catch a flight to Istanbul. OK, not that much.

12 Kazinzci
Budapest

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