Martyed Bishops and Thermal Spas: A Day in Budapest

If you were to cut me open, my veins would follow the shape of Budapest, my blood would flow like the Danube. Many cities have the same qualities: fast-paced, anonymous, grand historic buildings and run-down pockets, aggressive traffic, cosmopolitan mixtures of people, pollution, green spaces and a river flowing throughout. Yet each city has a character and Budapest is distinctive by its reaction to the influences of east and west, its history of fascism and communism and its melancholic air. There is something of the noble about Buda and something of the street about Pest and the two contrasts in one city make an alluring mix. Budapest is cut in two by the River Danube, with Buda to the west, characterised by beautiful green hills and a formal, patrician feel, and Pest across the river with its younger, slovenly, more hip vibe. The city is accessible on foot (aided by the simple and efficient Metro) small enough to enable visitors to wander about and stumble across sights without getting too lost. The city is divided into districts, shown by Roman numerals and historic names, which appear confusing at first, yet are really quite simple with both parts of the city easy to navigate to. It’s entirely possible to visit a lot of the main sights in a few days although it would not be a mistake to dedicate one day or more to the thermal spas, which are rather like churches with their attention to beautifully crafted decor (stained glass windows, classical figures, mosaic tiles) and the focus on ritual, as people carefully plunge scour and steam.

I arrive in Budapest after a three day trip from Greece, through Bulgaria and Romania and I have been looking forward to my stay in the capital of Hungary. As soon as I take the Metro from Keleti train station to the centre of the city, I start to experience a strange sensation. On assessment it is akin to falling in love, with a tingling sensation in my stomach, a giddy feeling in my head, and a bittersweet excitement that makes me want to laugh and cry and dance all at once. I feel as though I have inhaled some kind of euphoric drug, as though I've gone slightly mad. My hostel (The Red Bus) is housed within a faded beauty of a building. Imposing windows and black steel staircases all with an air of proud and disdainful dilapidation. It reminds me of Rome and Venice and the dirtily glamorous fall-down buildings, all sinking into noble disrepair. I feel like I should respond in kind to this building, show some glamour, perhaps strut languidly with a cigarette in its holder, wearing a 1940s get-up. The building must find it tiresome to home straggle-haired and combat-trussed travellers who hang off of the balconies swearing and kissing, flinging fag butts down spiralling staircases and dropping food wrappers in their wake. The dorms are spacious and basic, the manager professionally friendly. Like most Hungarians, thankfully, he speaks fluent English. Hungarian is renowned to be impossible to learn. The language seems to be strung together with impossible to pronounce combinations of letters mostly featuring 'szv's. You literally bite your tongue off trying to get around all the consonants. I always try to learn the basics of a language when I travel and yet Hungarian defeats me very quickly. The inner workings of my mouth and throat just aren’t made to voice these strange sounds. I have to fall back on English and German, the latter being as well-used as English.

After a brief shower and relieved dropping of rucksack weight at the hostel, I let my feet lead me and head for the river. I stop at a cafe and purchase a little pizza and tea for two pounds and then I find myself on Erzsebet bridge (although I am sure it has more 'v's and 's's in it than that). Ambling across the Danube from the noisy Pest into the lushly green and quiet hills of Buda is a wonder. In front of me is Gellert-hegy (Gellert Hill). It is gloriously green and it rises high into the sky from a busy knot of roads, into a three-tiered refuge with stone steps disappearing into thick trees and a waterfall. Here I confront my first colossal statue, the first of many. It sits on the second tier of the hill, and represents a proud, bearded and robed man holding a cross, with another man crouching at his feet. I venture up into this oasis, the pent-up fury of the traffic receding into a tranquillity of bird song and trickling water. Again I think of Rome and the Palatine hill above the Forum where the bustle of the city becomes harmonious peace. Gellert Hill is charming. Winding paths twist and turn to the top, filled with lush trees and a cool breeze and look-out points across the whole city. I reach the statue of the two men.

My first thought is that the crouching man is in this posture out of deference but that shows how wrong first impressions can be. It would seem that the crouching man has a more sinister objective. The cross-wielding man depicts Bishop Gellert (or Gerhard), who was acting under King Stephen’s instructions to convert the pagan Magyars to Christianity. Unfortunately for Bishop Gellert, once King Stephen died, the Magyars revealed the extent of their displeasure by sealing him in a barrel (or onto a barrow, the facts are unclear) and throwing him down the hill to martyrdom. Yet, the Bishop got his way in a sense, as here he stands holding his cross over the city, and the hill bears his name. Perhaps more tellingly, the 2001 census revealed that 45% of the population declared themselves to be Roman Catholic. At the very top of Gellert Hill stands the Citadella, and even if it serves no real purpose anymore, it still stands proud, it far above the city and oblivious to all those miniature cars beeping at one another. The Liberation Monument stands here, a testament to when Communism freed Budapest from the Fascists, though the fact that only a few remaining Communist statues remain here (the rest got trucked off to a park outside the city to exist as a tourist attraction) speaks volumes about the tumultuous history of the city. It is such a beautiful and tranquil place, it is hard to imagine the horrors of two repressive states on the psychology of the city.

Next stop: a thermal spa. After travelling across Europe on trains for nearly two weeks, the thought of relaxing in a heated pool is more than I can bear. Gellert Baths are of Roman influence and can be identified by toga clad and bare-chested Romans winding around the frontage of the building, situated at the bottom of Gellert Hill. It is like entering an upmarket hotel and I experience a moment of discomfort until I realise I am in the right place. The foyer is complete with stained glass windows, classical models and mosaic tiles. It feels like entering a religious building and I realise very suddenly how serious the taking of the waters is. Through a warren of rooms I find where I should change; a stocky square woman frowningly efficient shows me to a curtained room where I can lock my things and change. I think there must be a mistake - I have paid the basic rate yet this is the height of luxury - a private changing area, a polished wood locker, stained glass above my head… yet I retreat behind the misunderstanding of a tourist innocent and enjoy it. The pools are beyond anything I imagined and so overwhelm my senses that an article springs to my mind of sharks when they have sensory overload (they apparently float over on their backs and roll their eyes up into the back of their heads). I feel like one of these sharks as I float about in 36 and 38 degree pools. It is like the dream sequence, one minute I am wandering happily through a city free and happy, the next minute I find myself floating in heated pools, surrounded by Art Nouveau and classical decor.

Finally, all desire sated, I glide home to my hostel, crossing the Danube, watching a glorious red sunset, wondering to myself if this is all part of a strange dream. Do people really live like this all the time here? I can’t imagine how wonderfully enriched life would be to have such spas at your disposal, and how less stressful life would be. A bad day in the office? A few hours in a spa would wash away any residue irritations. I round up my day with some goulash and I conclude that I am going to like Budapest.