Posted 14 Nov 2008 — by Sarah Eustance
Category Journeys
In Bucharest, waiting for my connection to Istanbul, I come across a statue to somebody Georgescu. I don’t know where he fits into the country’s history of monarchy, Communism, dictatorship and new democracy. During the monarchy somewhere judging by the date.
I see it and think how nice it would be if there could be a monument for all the people who’ve helped me on this journey. The gentleman raising his hat and giving directions in Vienna, the girl in the cafe who spends ages asking her colleagues for vocabulary to explain something to me in English, and the German fraus and Gergo and Rodika, to my friends at the Syrian embassy who gave me the stamp of approval and delicious cardamon coffee. It would be for everyone who’s given advice and directions and tried to find the words in English and shown patience and good humour.
It’s almost as if being foreign and alone, with limited language skills turns you into an honorary child or relative and everyone is programmed to look after you.
In the garden at Budapest’s Great Synagogue there is a memorial to Raoul Wallenburg, the Swedish Ambassador during the second world war.
He and 21 other ambassadors and diplomats used a system of safe houses and diplomatic papers to offer refuge and immunity to thousands of Jews then in danger under anti-Semitic laws.
Posted 13 Nov 2008 — by Sarah Eustance
Category Journeys
I’m only passing through Bucharest, spending a couple of hours at most, but on the overnight train from Budapest I get to know a small part of Romania.
Rodika is a doctor, in her forties, tiny with dark hair and a pinkish manicure. She grew up in Transylvannia which she assures me is not culturally part of Hungary, despite historic links. ‘There are some people who feel strongly Hungarian,’ she admits in French. I’m pleased to be back with a Romance language.
She’s been in Budapest visiting a childhood friend. They grew up in the same village, ‘She, she is Hungarian. And she lives in Budapest now. But Transylvannia is not Hungarian, no matter what some people say.’
We settle back onto her lower bunk as the train travels through the darkened plains of Europe. I ask her about Romania; is it thriving, do the young people stay there? ‘No,’ she tells me ‘Even my son, he left this morning for Germany. He wants to study architecture but he’s never shown any interest in buildings before. But how can I say no to what he wants?’
‘It was different under Communism. I was never a Communist, but everybody had a place in the world. It’s not like that now, you need to be rich.’
She stops twisting her fingers together and brings out some cakes, baked by her old friend in Budapest. They’ve been laid on a fluted cardboard tray and carefully double-wrapped in paper.
We share them between us and they’re almond and plum and delicious.
Posted 12 Nov 2008 — by Sarah Eustance
Category Journeys
Dohany Street synagogue in Budapest is the largest in Europe.
At the time it was started (1854) around 900,00 Jews lived in Hungary. Enjoying more or less equal rights, they were keen to integrate.
The synagogue they built looks like a Christian church with front-facing wooden pews, an organ and two pulpits. The side windows use a six-point star pattern in yellow and white.
The German architect’s included eight-point, or Moorish, stars as decoration in the floor tiles and the three domed skylights.
Posted 12 Nov 2008 — by Sarah Eustance
Category Journeys
At the Syrian Embassy I ask to see the Ambassador.
‘About what?’
‘A visa. It’s coming from London.’
They tell me I must pay again in Budapest. They explain the thinking behind the charges applied to citizens from different countries.
‘Americans pay around sixty pounds because it’s a rich country.’
‘Maybe not for much longer’ I observe. Things start to go more smoothly. I hand over the money.
‘Visa ready in a moment – a moment and half an hour. It’s a Syrian expression.’
A moment and two hours later I leave, my passport resplendent with a pale blue border pass showing an image of the ruins at Palmyra.
Posted 11 Nov 2008 — by Sarah Eustance
Category Journeys
St Martin is a big deal in Hungary. I go for dinner with the cousin of a friend and the restaurant has a special menu for St Martin’s week. Goose is traditional, so I have goose liver pate.
Talking to Gergo, he mentions the five million or so Hungarians who are living outside the country. Two million are in neighbouring Romania. During the Austro-Hungarian Empire the borders looked quite different.
Fortified with goose fat we go for a drive around Budapest. Gergo and I agree the West Station, designed by Eiffe, must be one of the finest in the world. It’s iron work and glass and lit up from inside on this dark night it looks incredible.
‘The country was quite rich at this time, the nineteenth century. These parts of the city were built to celebrate one-thousand years of Hungary. They’re based on Paris.’ He tells me.
One thought I had about this blog was that it might look at the shifts in culture along the way from Western Europe to the East. Then it seemed a ridiculous idea. Arriving here from the old capital of the Roman Catholic Hapsburg Empire it seems to make more sense.
Gergo tells me the Romanians are palpably different and I’ve done well to stop off in Budapest rather than Bucharest. They jump queues apparently and suffer corruption.
‘Is there an idea that the difference is to do with the split between the old Austro-Hungarian Empire and the Ottoman one?’ I ask him.
Yes, he says.
Posted 11 Nov 2008 — by Sarah Eustance
Category Journeys
I arrive in Budapest woefully unprepared. Euros don’t yet work here. I need forints but the cash machine at Keleti station has run out.
Hungarian isn’t from the same family as most other languages in Europe. It’s Uralic rather than Indo-European. That makes my usual survival tactic of guess work difficult. The word for street ‘Ut’ doesn’t resemble anything I’ve come across before, so it takes a little while to figure out what I’m looking for.
Maybe for this reason I end up at the bus terminus instead of my hotel.