The One that I Love

The first thing any tour guide will tell you about Budapest is that it was originally two settlements, Buda and Pest, one on each side of the Danube. It doesn't take a genius to work out from this that the city is built along the banks of the great river and that, therefore, it has a number of bridges, which allow the two separate parts to become one.

Each afternoon when I am in Budapest, I cross the Danube, walking across the Elizabeth Bridge to reach the bottom of the Gellert Hill, on which since the early 20th century a statue of Saint Gellert, usually referred to in Budapest as the patron saint of commuters, because of his position above a busy junction leading to the city, stands:

I then tramp up the hill, reminding myself how good this is for me and enjoying the views:

 (that's the Chain Bridge, you can see down there)

 (that's the Elizabeth Bridge)

until I reach the monument which stands at its peak:

 I take no notice of this monument, which is usually surrounded by Russian tourists being lectured to by guides who, from the scraps I hear as I pass, are telling a rather sweetened version of the history of Russo-Hungarian relations to their sensitive charges. I head straight down the steps to the slopes on the other side of Gellert Hill,, which are criss-crossed by a network of different pathways and, at this time of year, radiant with 'autumn colour':

 (very artistic, don't you think?)

 (a glimpse of the local wildlife)

Finally, I reach my real goal - my favourite bridge, once called the Franz-Josef and now the Freedom.
It was renovated not too long ago and looks more splendid than ever, both from a distance:

and on close inspection:

I like the fact that a bird has decided it is also a good place to make a nest and raise a family (no not the one at the top, a bit lower down). Actually, I think you'll have to take my word for that as in the pictures, even though I tried hard to capture them, it's impossible to see the twigs that are so clearly visible on the spot:

I think the Freedom Bridge is one of the prettiest bridges in the world.

Almost Extinct

I was very excited to get a rare glimpse of a hairstyle seldom seen since the collapse of the Soviet Union - this may be one of the last opportunities to see it in its full glory in the wild:

Another Dimension

Yesterday afternoon, in the shop downstairs, a customer was yattering away on her telephone. The woman behind the counter glared at the customer and said, 'I don't like people talking on the telephone in here. This is a shop.'

There was no further discussion. The customer went out and finished her conversation on the pavement and then she came back in and bought what she wanted. Meanwhile, I thought I must have slipped through into an alternative reality.

Modern Miracle

Either this man has an invisible friend, or it's Matthew from Downton Abbey all over again:

I Never Thought I'd Say This

After watching the men who are reroofing the building across the road from me, I'm beginning to come round to the idea of health and safety legislation. It's an old building and there was nothing on it but a layer of terracotta tiles like fish scales, resting on a wooden frame, which is now exposed, looking faintly like a fish skeleton. The men are applying sheets of chipboard and then some kind of flashing they roll out and hammer in place. I hope they will put new tiles over the top eventually.

They are doing the whole thing without safety equipment of any kind, nipping up and down the slope without a moment's hesitation, springing over to grab a tool and then dashing back to where it's needed, stopping frequently for fags and chats in which they act out their conversational anecdotes ("So he was over here, and I had to leap round the corner to get out of the way, like this", "No, it was this big, I promise you and I hardly managed to reel it in before it flipped over quick as a flash - here, I'll show you the way it was"), with broad gestures and large movements. The drop to the street is a good three storeys.

I can't look out the window most of the time, even though I know this is normal here - a group of men turned up to fix my wooden blinds last time I was over and one of them got sick of waiting for the other to finish with the ladder, so he just hoisted himself up into the open window space and swung out, holding onto the rope that operates the blinds to steady himself - four storeys up, no helmet, no harness. They laughed when I gasped and left the room. 'Women - such timid creatures', they guffawed among themselves (or was it, 'Soft Westerners'?).

I suppose though that they are taking responsibility for themselves, rather than expecting legislators to take care of them. Also they live in a country where slabs of salted fat appear to be an accepted part of the national diet. Perhaps that alters your perspective slightly. Maybe you aren't that bothered by whether you're going to fall off a roof or not, if, as Synge would say, you're busy 'shaking the fat of [your] heart' :

Still Obsessing

I was telling a friend who lives in the country about seeing the map pins that Jobbik were selling on the anniversary of the 1956 uprising, and she in turn told me that in the village next to hers there is a restaurant where every Thursday is Big Hungary Day.

If you go for dinner there on Big Hungary Day, they serve you a schnitzel on a wooden plate that is carved in the shape of the old map of Hungary, before the Treaty of Trianon sliced chunks off it. The schnitzel you get comes in two pieces - one is in the shape of the current Hungary and the other, extra, encircling piece is in the shape of what was cut off - of which the major part was Transylvania.

When my friend asked if she could buy one of the wooden plates to take home with her, the restaurant owner explained that they didn't have many, as they were handmade and sent from Transylvania. He didn't tell her whether the manufacturers were Hungarian Romanians or Romanian Romanians. I suppose he didn't really need to.

I Think I Get It

A rather precious tutor who taught me and my husband about Russian literature at university used to refer sometimes to 'a clash of registers'. Today, when I saw this, I think I at last understood what he meant: