Budapest
Budapest - Day 7
I woke up at 7:30am feeling refreshed and headed to a bakery I’d spotted the night before, only to find it didn’t open until 10am. It was Sunday. Dammit. I had no idea what day it was. Worse, I realized the only place open at this hour was—SPAR!!! Der Der Der!
My cheeks warmed as I crept inside, bracing for Spar Woman to leap out with a pricing gun. Thankfully the place was nearly empty. My confidence grew as I observed sleepy Hungarians place their croissants on a special scale to receive barcoded stickers.
Aha! You Hungarians and your individual barcodes!
Determined to avoid Spargate 2.0, I picked up a small roll, a croissant, and a soft raisin thingy—but my items didn’t appear on the scale. Feeling a terrible sense of deja vu closing in, I thought fast and scanned two pastries of similar price instead.
But Hungarian scales are sensitive. A croissant does not weigh the same as a Kaiser roll and my attempts to pay were rejected. Defeated, I held the croissant aloft and assumed the guise of dumb tourist once more. A new Spar Woman took pity on me, punched in the correct codes, and sent me off. I remembered to scan my receipt at the Gates of Freedom.
I will never step into a Spar again.
Nor can I ever relax in a real spa again—thanks to Spar.
Back home, I stretched to shake off the early tension, made bacon and eggs and had a leisurely cuppa.
Stepping off the tram at Liberty Square, I wandered toward the gothic spires of the Parliament Building but got distracted by reflections at the water feature and a troop of meandering school children who pranced across the square in song.
On my way to the Chain Bridge, an underground exhibition on the 1956 revolution caught my eye so I headed down some narrow stairs to a gallery the shape and size of a car wash.
Projections, black-and-white cine footage of the frenetic uprising and multi-screen installations all looked impressive, but without translation, it confused rather than informed me.
Back in the sun I watched throngs of tourists stroll along the river bank and stopped with them to ponder the meaning of The Shoes on the Danube Promenade. 5 minutes of googling informed me that the 60 pairs of shoes represent murdered Jews who were shot on the banks of the Danube by the Fascist Arrow Cross Militia, installed in Hungary by the Nazis. The men, women and children to be executed were ordered to remove their shoes before being shot. Victims were often tied together to save bullets. They fell shoeless into the Danube, knowing if a bullet didn’t kill them they’d be dragged down by those they were tethered to, or freeze to death.
The shoes on the Danube Promenade
This simple installation moved me more than any Holocaust museum or film I’d seen. I wanted to study the details, to consider the fear of the poor children, to fathom what place of comfort, if any, they could find, knowing their awful fate, except the circus around me—the kneeling influencers, selfie-stick warriors, and pushy tourists scrambling for the perfect shot spoiled the entire experience. After being jostled by a couple of selfie psychos I was tempted to boot them into the Danube, so they could experience the freezing water firsthand.
Moving swiftly on, I hiked across the Chain Bridge and took the funicular up to Buda Castle. The changing perspective of Pest from Buda was cool, but once at the top, déjà vu hit—Was I in Prague again? Another crowded old town, another castle, another sea of tourists. Five minutes after reaching the castle district, I was grumpy and tired. Time to retreat to my hood for food.
I settled on a place called Vietnam 12 or 88—I can’t remember. The sun had disappeared behind some rather ominous grey clouds, so from outside the restaurant, Pho sounded great for a hot cozy lunch. Inside, the space was cold and empty. The lone waitress watched me enter but took 15 minutes to bring me a menu and a glass of warm water. By then, I’d got antsy, inspected the chopsticks, decided they were dirty, and left.
Determined to find something to redeem my frustrating morning, I parked myself on a bench and searched options beyond Spar. Luck was on my side—a tiny Egyptian hole-in-the-wall was a minute away. The spartan takeaway was barely big enough for two people. With no one at the grill, I was about to yell Halloo, when a man with piercing dark eyes and bushy eyebrows appeared from behind the counter, whispering into his phone.
He raised his formidable brows, silently asking what I wanted.
“How long for a shawarma?”
I don’t know why I asked this question. I had nowhere to be. But I have some sense of—the longer it takes, the more I’m inclined to order, because it feels like it’s being made fresh?
He turned and yelled in Arabic toward the grill. A full-on debate ensued with a chef somewhere in the back. After five minutes of shouting, he turned to me.
“Ten, maybe twelve minutes.”
“So much talking for just ten minutes?” I asked, smiling.
He nodded apologetically, explaining the chef was asking about a supply delivery. I ordered, parked myself on a lone chair outside, and reviewed my photos until I heard:
“Yalla!”
Bushy eyebrows man handed me a piping hot, foil-lined bag. I rushed home in time to watch Spurs lose to Crystal Palace on Yalla Shoot—a dodgy Arabic stream with fabulously over-the-top commentary. Spurs losing is always fun, but with Arabic hyperbole and, the real highlight, my shawarma: bright, fresh, brimming with sumac, ginger, garlic, cumin, and wrapped in hot, pillowy lavash, the entire lunch experience was sensational.
Sipping on my post meal cuppa I came to the conclusion that I was over the tourist experience—the rushing, the queuing, the herds moving from one attraction to the next. It drained me. The real joy came from riding trains, people-watching, tasting food, and observing life from a quiet distance. But being packed among the tourist hordes? Exhausting.
That night, I went to an Irish pub called Harat’s to watch Arsenal vs. Liverpool—top-of-the-table clash. No footy fans in sight, just a couple of drunk English lads debating Budapest vs. London. I moved to the other end of the bar out of their earshot and ordered a chocolate stout and the local spirit, which tasted like what I imagined yak piss would—disgustingly sour.
The match was a thrilling 2-2 draw that was a fair result. Back home, I boiled two eggs to add to my leftover curry and considered watching The Bourne Identity, but a quiet restlessness crept in.
Was I a little disappointed with my Budapest experience? The only authentic encounter I’d had was with my own Hungarian pit bull—Spar Woman.
Maybe it was me. I thought of Dad’s insistence on eating Guyanese food after returning from his travels, his deep suspicion of restaurant kitchens, epitomized by one of his favorite lines:
“You don’t know what the rass they put in their food!”
And here I was, a week out of London, recreating my own version of home—Guyanese curry, English eggs and bacon, an Irish bar for English football.
Not a sniff of Goulash.
In bed I rubbed my belly. It was okay. I was still on my mission to find great food. If I made it myself every now and then, that didn’t change anything. Besides, I can’t remember Jason Bourne eating anything that looked like real food though the entire franchise.
