If you were in Budapest during the week of June 20, 2023, you will have observed, first and foremost, how very European is this capital city. The buildings are, by American standards, short (no skyscrapers); and, also by American standards, interesting.
We were walking along, talking about something else, when Denise waived an arm. “Each one of these buildings,” she said, “in any other city, would be considered a crown jewel.” I agreed. But it’s not just quality that impresses. It also is the variety. They are a hodgepodge of Neoclassical, Romanesque, Gothic, Renaissance, and Baroque Revival styles.
Don’t be impressed by that last statement. If last week you referenced a Baroque house I may have offered to get my tools and help you fix it. But Budapest inspired me to learn more about architecture. That’s when I discovered that reading about architecture is very, very, boring. Just copying and pasting that Wikipedia list of styles nearly put me to sleep.
Fortunately, you do not need to know anything about architecture to enjoy looking at fancy buildings. Do I have pictures of Budapest’s storied streets? Sure I do. The problem is, photographs will never do justice to the feeling you get when you are there, surrounded by so many works of art. You are made small by whatever history allowed their creation.
That said, I will allow a few pictures of the Széchenyi Thermal Baths. The spa was created over one hundred years ago when wells were dug over a half mile deep. This particular business has a variety of pools, both indoor and outdoor, which range in temperature from tepid to about as hot as you would want your jacuzzi.
If during the week of June 20 you were on a sidewalk admiring the ornate shops, hotels, etc., you will have observed that the city is very LOUD. Budapest’s volume rivals Barcelona‘s. And that was before the Harley Davidson convention roared into town.
That’s right. We were lucky enough to arrive during a week-long Harley Davidson rally. It featured a music festival and a parade of over 6,000 Harley Davidson motorcycles, which was just a fraction of all the bikers who came for the festivities. Everywhere you looked you saw old White dudes wearing vests, some denim and some leather, bearing patches. From the patches you learned that this group was from Slovenia, this from Lithuania, this from France, Serbia, Croatia, or Germany. Old graying bikers from all over Europe.
Of course not all of them were graying. Many were fully gray, or bald. What they all had in common, other than being Boomers, and being White, and wearing essentially the same uniform, was their possession of a very loud motorcycle. Some were louder than others. Some of the loudest had stereos with amps that could have powered a Led Zeppelin concert.
Don’t get me wrong. I have owned and ridden motorcycles most of my life. I love bikers. I love Harley Davidson. I know that Harley Davidson is the greatest motorcycle ever constructed by human hands. That is what I learned while touring with my dear friend Greg Thomas, who was on a brand new Harley.
We were traveling across the United States and frequently had to drop by a Harley dealership so Greg could get this or that bolt tightened, or a certain part reattached. The Harley mechanics all were very nice. They patiently explained to me the advantages of a Harley, chief of which appeared to be the abundance of dealerships where one could get warranty work done on a brand new bike. They made only the friendliest jokes about my inferior machine, which was not a Harley.
My ten-year-old motorcycle never needed repair work, and that is a good thing. If Greg and I had ridden into a BMW dealership Greg’s Harley probably would have reminded the mechanics and sales people of poor career choices made years earlier. Why rub it in?
Of course I am ribbing my fellow bikers. I love them all. But, while there is no group of guys I would rather share a beer with, I don’t necessarily want them roaring past me all day, and all night.
Our hotel room was set back, away from a major thoroughfare. We were insulated from traffic noise, until the Harleys came to town. Then, even with the windows closed, it sounded like a thunderstorm outside. A thunderstorm that lasted all night long. Every night.
It was not nearly as off-putting as I just made it sound. I do not mind thunderstorms. Denise and I just hummed Riders on the Storm until we fell asleep. An otherwise disruptive sound can be soothing if you get in the right mood. Besides, I enjoyed seeing bikers from all over Europe proudly displaying their love for an iconic American brand. It really was quite cool.
There is more to do in Budapest than look at buildings and Harley Davidson motorcycles. We did many of those things. I could tell you all about the awesome Vivaldi recital we attended, sitting not ten feet from the musicians, and I could tell you about Vasarely museum, or maybe the Amazing Metal Art Gallery. But I know you. You might peruse a few pictures, but you don’t want to read about all that touristy stuff. You want to read something exciting, like my witnessing an actual knife fight between rival European biker gangs in a Ruin Bar. I’ll get to that after the pictures.
Looking back at what I wrote, just before showing you the pictures, I now see that you might have gotten the impression that we witnessed a deadly altercation between biker gangs. That’s crazy. These men might have had a spirited discussion about the best prostate medication, or the advantages of Cialis over Viagra, but they were all nice guys belonging to the same fraternal order, the Sons of Arthritis. The Harley rally was a love fest.
Ruin Bars are, however, a real thing. It seems that about twenty years ago a man named Szimpla (pronounced, “Szimpla”) Kert wanted to open a bar, but he didn’t have a lot of money. He found a decrepit building in the Jewish District. Rather than rehabilitate the structure he just added a lot of quirky furniture and furnishings he found at thrift stores and junk yards. His “ruin bar” was a huge success. Pretty soon other entrepreneurs copied his business model.
Budapest now is famous for its Ruin Bars. The one we went to is open 24/7. Half the bar doesn’t have a roof, and the other half has some tin serving that purpose. During the day vendors set up tables and sell crafts and used books or records, the kind of stuff you see at a flea market. You can browse while sipping a cocktail, wine or beer. At night they clear the tables and bring in musicians.
Did you ever see the movie, Silverado? Kevin Kline plays a cowboy who loves saloons. Kline would walk into a tavern, take in the disagreeable noise and smoke, and smile from ear to ear. I thought of Kline as I walked into the Ruin Bar and found that same kind of smile on my own face.
That’s it my friends. If you want to learn more about Budapest I suggest checking out a Rick Steves video. I will say this, however. If you can visit the country with a math savant, do so.
If your savings are in dollars and a price is in euros, the difference will be about 10%. Not quite, but that’s an easy mental calculation that will get you in the ballpark. The Polish zloty is worth about a quarter, and the English pound is worth about 25% more than a dollar. For all these currencies, mental conversions are relatively easy.
The basic currency of Hungary, the forint, is worth 1/139th of a dollar. So, if you see something you want to buy you have to divide the price, which may be in the tens of thousands, by 139. I often wished we had Rainman with us, even if that meant hearing about Judge Wapner and K-Mart.
We are in Poland today. I will later write more about Poland, but I need to tell you, right now and as emphatically as possible, that the Polish people are generous, kind, and smart. All those old jokes were both cruel and entirely undeserved. From now on when I tell a “dumb guy” joke I will replace “Pole” with a member of some American political party. There is no reason that should not work just as well, or even better. So that you know how to do it, I offer this example:
Did you hear about the (Woke Democrat/MAGA Republican) who became convinced that his wife was going to poison him? She came home with a bottle of polish remover! Ha Ha Ha!