One of his stories

In the same way that America holds democracy, Hungary holds history.  Awareness of where one has been illuminates the possible places one can go.  This central truth is expressed in Hungary’s cultural identity.  I want to truly integrate myself into the places I find myself, so I will expose myself to real cultural experiences.  The first opportunity to take on this challenge came when we enjoyed a night at the opera.  The Hungarian State Opera House was built to honor Hungary’s millennial anniversary as a nation and so justly reflects certain decadence.  I think this is one of the finest buildings in Budapest, and it’s undoubtedly one of the most fun to tour because of the many recognizable statues and art pieces found decorating the space.  The main entry is guarded by statues of Franz Liszt, Hungary’s most famous composer, and Ferenc Erkel, the composer of Hungary’s national anthem and the opera we came to see: Bánk bán.  The auditorium is not the biggest, but it is said to possess the third best acoustics in Europe (after La Scala in Milan and the Palais Garnier in Paris – I will have to pay these places a visit and decide for myself…).  I can attest to the quality of sound conduction here because our seats were in the balcony, but we could hear perfectly.  We chose this particular show because it is unofficially the national opera of Hungary.  The rationale behind this designation escapes me, for the story itself is awfully depressing and rife with angst.  In short, the viceroy of a 13^th century Hungarian king tries to defend his wife’s honor while combating poverty, but ends up committing regicide and facing the unrelated homicide/suicide of his son and wife.  Still, the music is emotional and the libretto quite moving, even if I couldn’t really understand a word.  The native audience was certainly appreciative of the performance; they called for several repeat curtain calls.  I was quite fascinated with the way the crowd applauded – the collective clapping quickly evolved into a synchronized slow clap which seemed out of place compared with the class of patrons and the elegant environment.  This behavior aside, I felt honored to sit in this historic building among true Hungarians to witness a piece of their identity enacted.

My cultural education continued the following day when, after class, I went to Heroes’ Square with a few of my fellows.  This public space was created around the same time as the Opera House and it has a lot of historical significance.  There are statues here in honor of the seven tribes that came together to form the Hungarian state and more to lionize the individuals most formative in the nation’s history.  There is also a general memorial here dedicated “To the memory of the heroes who gave their lives for the freedom of our people and our national independence”.  History is a big deal.  Heroes’ Square is not only a testament to history – it is also a stage for meaningful events.  It was here that most of the statues were toppled by Soviet leaders and replaced by Marxist iconography early in the 20^th century.  It was here that one of the leaders of the 1956 rebellion sought sanctuary.  The square leads into a beautiful city park, Városliget, which plays host to a number of museums, restaurants, and sights including a thermal bath, a zoo, an amusement park, a flea market, a botanical garden, and even a circus.  All of the content was far too overwhelming for our afternoon visit, but we took in these vistas and resolved to return in time.  The park is quite large and far enough away from the hustle of the business sector, that it was restfully quiet and restorative to sit beneath the willow trees at length.  Lounging in the shade as we were, I started to feel in tune with the history unfolding around me.

Let the games begin

Amid all the fun and games, let’s not forget that I came to this faraway land of carburetors and vitamin c to learn.  The first class of the term, rather fittingly, was entitled Introduction to Cognitive Science.  Through lecture and discussion, we established the interdisciplinary parameters of the field and sought to recognize the essential questions posed by theory and discovery.  These initial lessons were chock full of information along a wide continuum of topics.  Having diverse opinions of what constitutes cognitive science and noting the number of different relatable fields reinvigorates my intrigue in this field of study.  My program is made up of students of mathematics, philosophy, psychology, and design in addition to the cognitive science majors like myself.  Thus, not only is the field heterogeneous, but our little class stands as a reasonable cross-section of the greater composition.  Everyone had something unique to contribute to our consideration of informatics, logic, and neural networks.

We had our first class in Hungarian culture this week, also.  Our instructor, Maria, is dedicated to using “didactic, but effective” anecdotes and experiences to expose us to her native culture.  She is going to teach us about food, history, music, and politics.  The homework for her class is often simply to go somewhere or see something.  Truth: I’ve never been instructed to eat pastries as a mandatory assignment before.  Truth: I am willing to oblige such orders.  It has become clear that while our weekly appointments are established for our edification, Maria is terribly curious about our perspectives as Americans, as tourists, and as “young people”, which means that we, like all good students, do our fair share of teaching too.  Maria is terribly self-deprecating and painfully honest in her responses to our questions, which is refreshing and off-putting.  Additionally, she is prone to biting quips which, when combined with the Hungarian lack of sarcastic inflection change, lends itself to unpredictable class time. 



One of the many colorful characters I saw from the tram



Training continues outside of the classroom as I am becoming evermore acquainted with this city of inventions and conventions.  Like every good labyrinthine metropolis, the Magyars have their Thesean ball of string: the BKV public transit system. My monthly pass gets me onto crowded trains, buses, subways, and trams, but alas it does not whisper which of the many routes will carry me to my destination.  For this, I have made friends with a map and begun the process of trial and error.  Such a technique is without fault, for even the wrong answers provide scenic experiences and open new doors.  This also supplies ample interaction with Budapest’s best, with which to listen to the language and see as the locals do.  Once and again, a fellow rider will mistake me, and ask me some likely casual question that far exceeds my Magyar knowledge.  A simple “Nem beszélek magyarul.  Beszélsz angolul??” is sometimes sufficient, but more often, I am reduced to mime artistry to express that while we do not speak the same language, I do know the time.  In these ways, my life of late is somewhat of a large-scale game of hide and seek, mixed with charades, Trivial Pursuit, and Mousetrap…

Climbs and Climes

A bounty of exploration is available to a patron of Budapest, but as per the title of this here blog, my chronicle would not be complete without description of life beyond the city limits.  The River Duna snakes away to the north and south, a serpentine latitudinous divider of destiny.  Along this wet, wet, watery road we departed; the program rented out a small private bus to courier us along on our first organized excursion.  I was admittedly tired after the Hungarian Language crash course the day before, but I tried my best to remain awake and watch the real life moving picture out my window.  The Hungarian countryside is not unlike the Midwest, with textured cornfields and desiduous greenery.  Our first destination was Skanzen, an open-air museum that has collected and reconstructed villages as they would have appeared 500 years ago.  In the style of Ms Frizzle, our little bus served as a time machine.  We walked among relics: straw homes, barns, a mill, a farm, and churches half a millennia old, all in working order.  After we perused artisanal products for sale from the canadle maker, blacksmith and carpenter (actually, some really exquisite stuff) we continued on to our next stop, a riverside town called Szentendre.  This settlement also has the appearance of several centuries yore, but not for the sake of historical preservation.  While quaint, the town has been discovered by tourists and the local merchants have responded in kind; the streets are lined with stalls vending wares from Rubik’s Cubes to paprika, authentic clothing to laser inscribed glass paperweights.  There were some pretty nifty looking chess sets and hand carved boxes with secret compartments.  In the spirit of authenticity, about ½ a dozen cognitive scientists went in pursuit of the most Hungarian restaurant we could find for the midday meal.  In the town square, just across from a medieval statue, we encountered a little outdoor café that seemed just old-world enough to fit the bill.  We were not let down! The goulash was served in a pot and the chicken paprika was richer than rich.  Nothing was terribly expensive, yet everyone was quite satisfied.  From our position on the square, we spied on the other tourists, trying to guess the countries of origin. 

View from the top of the basillica

As comfortable as it was to lounge about on the cobbled streets, the time to voyage on soon arrived and we returned to our cheery little tour bus.  The tertiary stop for the day was another tiny little town known as Esztergom further upriver.  While insubstantial in some proportions, this location hosts the largest Catholic Church in Hungary.  Making the most of the behemoth place of worship, we climbed several thousand steps, winding up turrets and crossing belfries, to the very top of the dome.  (Dear Mom, stop reading briefly) A thin wooden ledge on the outer part of the pinnacle overlooks everything; we could see all the surrounding towns and all the way to the Slovakia border.  The countryside and river terrain looked surreal, an artform or model on which you could race matchbox cars and toy sailboats.  Despite the devastating heights, everyone safely returned to the ground.  There were plenty of other secrets to unfold in the style of The Da Vinci Code (or National Treasure?).  We descended into the crypts and walked among the tombs and then we made our way to the treasury to admire the garments of popes past among relics of gold and God.  The building was bursting with history, but I think our group was nearing our capacity for knowledge of the past.  We adjourned to the main sanctuary and discovered a wedding in progress.  We gleefully joined the congregation and bade the happy couple our congratulations.  Everyone loves a good wedding and this one appeared not to spare any expense.  Not only was the ceremony held in this elegant location, but also we witnessed organ fanfare, the release of 10 doves, and an old-fashioned limousine (with driver to match).  I wonder if they do Bar Mitzvahs? 

 

As the sun began to go home for supper, we retreated to our bus one last time and travelled into the woods to the campsite where we would be spending the night.  The group had two lovely two-story bungalows reserved for our use.  Akin to Goldilocks, we found that the places were quite furnished and neither too big nor too small.  The best part of the evening, though, came later when we gathered around a bonfire (Headmaster Gabor is quite a woodsman) and relaxed together.  Call us cliché, but we told stories and sang songs, and took the opportunity to become truly acquainted.  As the embers glowed a toothy grin, we jokingly asked our leader Luca to pass the marshmallows.  Completely straight-faced, she reached into her bag and pulled out a package.  Not marshmallows, she said, but the Hungarian equivalent.  What could this be, you may wonder.  Slabs of bacon fat, of course.  It is traditional to roast thick slices of fat over the fire when in the hungarian wild, and this is exactly what she proposed we do.  This was as unappetizing as it sounds, but it proved a truly culturally enlightening experience.  

The following morning, we hiked up to a nearby castle.  The hike itself was rugged, and we climbed a significant height for the second time in two days.  Though in ruins, the fortress is majestic and rife with history.  At one time, this was the seat of Hungary, with a brilliant view to boot.  Béla IV built the citadel in the 13^th century to keep out the Mongols.  The curators had installed an exhibit to portray the history, which consisted of hauntingly realistic wax sculptures of past sovereigns.  Slightly firghtened and saturated with views from on high, we began the trek down.  Both precarious and scenic, I was torn between admiration and fear.  The mountain pass lets out in the town of Viségrad, also situated along the river.  There we lounged at a lower altitude, enjoying refreshment and cool breezes on the shoreline.  Lacking our cute little bus to transport us back to the city, we boarded a river ferry and slowly sailed homeward.  The ferry was slow paced, allowing us to take in all the sights and sounds.  The currents whispered sweet innuendo beneath the guise of timelessness.  When we returned to the fine city of Palaces and Pálinkas, night had arrived, and all the buildings along the riverfront were lit up. We crossed under the first bridge and found ourselves surrounded by elegant postcard vistas.  As we parked in the glowing shadow of a gilded constellation, we agreed it had been another successful adventure.



The Parliament dressed up for the night

such great heights

Roofs have clear purpose; they offer shelter against the atmospheric elements.  This much we know, so when unusual residents are revealed topside, they are noteworthy.  Ornaments are common to those partaking of certain architectural styles.  Here in Budapest, there are a good number of buildings flashing colorful tiled peaks in the Moorish influence.  Still others favor gargoyles typical of the Gothic style.  So imagine my enjoyment to be among these decorative elements.  My opportunity to see the evening world from above came when I went to a prestigious rooftop nightclub.

My friend Patrick led the way to the unassuming block of street on the Pest side.  It was beyond the area where most of the nightlife was concentrated, but he was confident of the address.  It was neither terribly early, nor overly late at night, and the nightcrawlers and Florence Nightingales of the world had yet to emerge.  Most of the businesses had long ago closed their doors, swept away the day’s crumbs, and taken out a bedtime story.  We took this closedness as an omen of misinformation and prepared to accept that we were lost in a foreign city.  Thus, we were inordinately glad when we noticed two street vendors burning the midnight grease.  The savory perfumes effervesced with tobacco and false hopes like a landing strip guiding a bumblebee to a florist’s clearance sale.  Two doors down, the presence of a security detail outside an apparently innocuous threshold announced our arrival.  Heavy doors opened on a winding staircase tagged by the multitudes that had previously made the ascent.  The copious signatures practically hid the banal paint beneath.  Moving higher, the volume became increasingly audible and palpable.  Half a baker’s dozen stories up, the flight opened on a dance floor.  One more climb, and we found ourselves outlooking over the sleeping city from the rooftop bar.  As we had approached, I had been unable to see any figures on top of the building, so I knew those who walked the streets below me were unable to perceive my vantage point. 

As I admired the starry zenith blanketing everything, the group assembled empty chairs and empty tables.  We certainly lucked out with weather; the evening was cool without being cold or trendy and dry without being desiccating or monotonous.  We toasted our good luck and the joy of being alive.  Patrick thrives on the dance floor, so he soon insisted we adjourn to the floor below.  The night appeared to be off to a slow start, but our group changed that by injecting the smoky room with energy and our killer steps.  This may not be completely honest, but there is no denying that within a few minutes of our arrival, the room became significantly more congested with reveling of all types.  Correlation or causation, I leave the decision up to you, kindly reader.  The DJ was a reggae enthusiast fellow with something of a Jamaican accent.  This was rather out of place among the Magyar patrons, but we were glad to encounter another English speaker.  Much of the music was Hungarian funk - I kid you not.  Still, some American top 40’s from the late nineties snuck into the setlist.  It felt good to cut loose and I found it amusingly interesting to observe a new cross section of Hungarian anthropology usually not seen by the casual tourist.  When we finally left, I brought the smoky fragrance and a new collection of roofside memories along with me.  Until next time, keep your eyes up, dear friend.

my kingdom for a horse

I could be royalty, I think.  Of course, I’d have to put up with the hassle of castle-living and the dilemmas of luxury and privilege, but I am willing to put my qualms aside if Hungary decides to revert from a democracy back to a monarchy and appoint me to the throne.  I am the obvious choice, of course, given my vast knowledge of the Hungarian language, history, and culture.  My heritage is so purely Hungarian, that the powers that be would be hard pressed to find a better candidate.  Furthermore, I daresay the Magyar peoples would readily embrace my charismatic charms.  This and my humility of course.

My latest brainstorm (it is small, a brainshower) is the product of a day of sightseeing.  I have seen the accommodations that await my post-coronation life, and I eagerly await the day.  The quest began modestly, with a tram ride to the center of Pest.  Starting from the Octagon – a square – we traipsed through the theatre district admiring in turn the National Opera House (my future personal entertainment), St. Stephen’s Basilica (my private study) and the National Art Gallery (my collection).  What most impressed me, though, was an open outdoor park with an underwater café.  We rejuvenated ourselves beneath the welcome shade and committed the location to memory for later. 

From thence, we continued the tour of my future life station, bussing back to Buda and up to the Royal Palace.  My home-to-be is a charlatanous mansion overlooking the city and the rolling hills below.  For whatever reason, multitudes of other tourists had also come to view my manor.  They and we milled about through souvenir stands and cobblestone avenues.  Fountains and falconers punctuate the boulevard and Gypsy musicians paint the air with classical harmony.  When I am at my Royal Height, I will curb one unfortunate capitalist trend: the best views can be only reached by climbing onto the courtyard turrets of the Palace, but one must pay a toll to stroll along the battlement.  In a word, the establishment is here taking ownership over the intangible – a view, a feeling, an outlook.

Boycotting this enigma, we travelled on.  My kingdom is vast, but we found a quiet corner that may go occasionally overlooked in the shadows of my grander provinces.  A humble outdoor jazz concert venue stands adjacent to a children’s science museum and a small theatre.  All of the modern architecture around the open-air sanctuary lends the space a comforting sense of peace.  In the center stand two koi ponds, but the remarkable thing is that there are little trees growing in planters in the middle of the ponds.  The planters are just tall enough to keep the water out, but no taller; the trees seem to float in holes in the water’s surface.  I created my own divots in the water’s surface by skipping rocks until a burly figure audibly persuaded me of the merits of other occupations.  As alluded, we are intended for higher callings.  Until next time, call me your once and future king?

                                                                                                                                                  

a tale told

As every narratologist knows, a good story has a beginning, middle, and end.  In the most engaging of examples, the transition between these elements occurs without notice.  If it hadn’t already, I can safely say my story or at least the present chapter has begun.  Today marked the beginning of the beginning in the form of the first day of orientation, our first week.  The setting of this epic was the university campus; we became acquainted with the location of our classes and the means of arriving there.  Our transportation, namely, is the tram – which is ironically disorienting as it scoops you up in one part of the city and deposits you elsewhere like a biblical fish, intergalactic wormhole, or any quality library book.  In addition to where, we became friendly with whom: those students who will participate in our program without staying in the dorms and some of the faculty. 

Professor Peter Érdi, who will be tackling introduction to Cognitive Science next week, is a jovial fellow.  He takes his work very seriously and he can likely be deemed a genius without any reservations, though he won’t be the one to broach the subject.  Rather, he will confuse you with his immutable logic while cracking jokes and having a grand old time.  In addition to his participation through teaching, Professor Érdi helped found the program and so he is quite concerned with its continued success.    

Dr. Gábor Kutrovátz serves as the headmaster of the program, and he does so with myriad enthusiasm.  I had received a few emails of welcome and introduction from Dr. Kutrovátz before I arrived, but with no obvious alternative, I assigned him a mental personage akin to Dumbledore, wizened and wrinkled by years of cognitive science burdens and toils.  I would still like to meet such an individual, even if they do not possess a silver beard or half-moon glasses, but Gabor does not quite fit the profile.  No, he is quite young and lively; on the weekends, he rock climbs. 

With the addition of characters and settings, we declare enough exposition and ask for plot! While aware of certain hidden gens in the Budapesti rough, I had yet to discover them.  I set out on a fact-finding mission, reconnaissance if you will, toward Pest.  After crossing the Green Bridge – itself a gem of design, I came to my first destination, the Great Market Hall.  This is akin to a Farmer’s Market that grew up, had children and invited those offspring to come and live at home after they too had grown.  Stall after stall offers fresh produce, cheeses, and meats.  There is an incredible abundance of colors, smells and motion; I was pretty overwhelmed and sought refuge on the second floor.  Just as large as the first, this area hosts native artisanal crafts, cafés, and souvenirs.  Amazingly, the same bustle and sensory overload can be found here – a product of the artists’ hands.  I saw Rubik’s Cubes (invented here!) and 3-way chess sets (how now?) paintings, traditional clothing, glass, ceramics, and a plethora more.  Seeing simultaneously everything and nothing I realized it was time to move on.  I swiftly pulled out my map and charted course for the Jewish quarter.  The plot now in motion, I searched for the necessary street signs and landmarks, in time spotting the Moorish architecture of the Dohany Synagogue.  The first week in September marks the Jewish festival of Budapest.  I missed Idan Raichel by a day, but supported a local klezmer group exuberantly.  As I reveled in clarinet and accordion, I realized how the addition of a (heroic?) quest can certainly spice up a story.  Signing off, I am yours in the telling.  

adventurous palate

Hello kind reader.  Welcome Back.  When last we spoke, I had arrived in a foreign land in a sleep-deprived state unsure of exactly where I was and who I would become.  Luckily, the tide has turned in my favor as the other members of my program joined me in our historic dormitory and we collectively ventured out in ever expanding concentric circles to see and be seen.  There is a nearby shopping mall containing within it boutiques, a convenience store, and a food court among other life sustaining necessities.  We found groceries for amazingly little, praised the American economy, and trekked back with more confidence in our strides. 

Our next adventure took us north, into the hills.  My new friends and I were not fleeing an unseen foe, but rather we were pursuing the ideal vantage point from which to view the expansive metropolis.  Starting from the river Danube (cue Strauss’ waltz), we climbed Gellért Hill to the Citadella.  This area has been used for military advantage several times throughout history because of its height and fortification.  We, too, fell prey to the difficulty of surmounting the acclivity, but were richly rewarded with the panoramic view and ice cream found thereof.  It is no wonder the 19^th century stone fortress was useful as the Kingdom of Hungary fought for sovereignty form the Austrian Empire; from the top, one can oversee both sides of the city and down the river in both directions.  The journey down was easier than the ascent, but by then everyone was ready for a mid-afternoon fortification of his or her own.

Our final adventure of this particular day challenged us to find a suitable, exciting, yet economical evening meal.  In my guidebook reading, I stumbled upon the description of a Communist pizzeria.  Needless to say, my interest was piqued.  I knew not what such an establishment consisted of, though I predicted Cold War Era memorabilia and equal servings of savory pie for all.  I carefully mapped the location of this restaurant and pitched the idea to my comrades, but misunderestimated the distance.  After an hour on foot, it was clearly time for a plan revision.  More a democrat than a dictator, I asked for the collective consensus and the decision reached was to look for a workable alternative.  We climbed the second hill of the day (but this time by staircase) to a well-lit area overlooking the Royal Palace.  There, we came upon a small outdoor café specializing in none other than pizza.  Italian dinner in Hungary was delicious, but we agreed we would have to check out the Communist Restaurant bloc in the near future.  As we ambled toward home, we encountered a festival with Jazz music.  The spirit was contagious and we stayed to soak in the cosmopolitan scene.  I am pleased with how resilient and flexible my fellows were with this day of unpredictable adventure.  On the whole, the day stands as a harbinger of excitement to come.  Until my next adventure, fond reader!

Appetizers

Despite its gastronomically inspired name, this is not a foodie blog. Apologies upfront if I have led you astray; kindly cut your losses and investigate elsewhere (joythebaker).  Rather, in these pages I hope to illustrate, record, and comment on my experiences learning and exploring in Europe.  More specifically, this is a vehicle to accumuate whims about the program in which I am enrolled: Budapest Semester in Cognitive Science (or BSCS for short).  So if you are willing to bite the metaphysical bullet instead of a tasty and possibly chocolate drizzled morsel, read on.

For those curious or unfamiliar, BSCS is an English-speaking program put on through collaboration between several institutions.  Both American and European students take part in weeklong seminars to “broaden and deepen understanding of Cognitive Science from an interdisciplinary perspective” (more info!).  The program is affiliated with and held on the campus of Eötvös University in Budapest (I discovered it is pronounced oat-vosh).  In addition to learning about the mind, this program also offers the opportunity to gain insight into Hungarian culture, history, and (yelp) language.

Through the program, I will have the chance to travel Hungary and Central Europe.  Note, though, after the culmination of my studies, I plan to continue travelling before I return to safe harbors.  My travel itinerary is in no way finalized, so do relay yours thoughts or suggestions.

Köszönöm, hogy elolvastad! Thanks for reading!