In The City
I leave Keszethly on the 11 o'clock to Budapest. It is pulled by a big, blue electric, nicknamed "Gigant" - giant - by the railwaymen who drive them; their position in the railway front line as the most powerful engine in Hungary has now been taken by "Taurus", an ultra-modern, fast, powerful design that roams all over Europe, identical in every country, and less interesting for that. I am completing my circuit of the lake and moving on, with some regret: it is a pleasant corner of a pleasant country, and the temptation is to linger. The pace of life in Central Europe is less frenetic than in the West, and seems at it's most relaxed around the Hungaria Sea. I will miss walking back from the restaurant near the park, past the cheerful, pale blue Trabant parked under the streetlight at the corner, and watching the moon rise over the lake from my balcony. There is so much more to see, though, so many more places to be discovered; I am eager to be moving again after my rest at Lake Balaton, and feel a familiar sense of anticipation as the train turns out onto the South shore line.
There is a long delay at Balatonszentgyorgy while we wait for an Italian train to clear the single line ahead, and then as we back onto the three coaches it leaves behind. As we depart, a young Italian man runs through the train: he was in the restaurant car we have picked up, and had left his belongings in his compartment. He tries to explain, in English, that his wallet, bag, and tickets have gone; the conductor shakes his head and walks away. There is nothing I can do for him. The south shore of the lake is less attractive, the towns less pretty, uncared for. The stations are barren and covered in grafitti, an unwelcoming arrival, a grateful departure. Even the train, although modern, is less comfortable than the railbuses on the North shore; there is little conversation, and a nasty looking pair of policemen constantly patrol it's length, eyeing the same passengers suspiciously, over and over again.
I arrive at Keleti Palyaudvar 20 minutes late, the train crawling from one passing loop to the next on the single track line to allow endless passenger and freight trains to cross our path. The station is a stunning piece of architecture, every bit as grand as Gustav Eiffel's Nyugati Palyaudvar; the huge, arched, timber trainshed and granite facade have been restored to perfection, and the sense of history is palpable. I find the TourInform booth and book a room without problem. They almost insist I take their free shuttle service: "The room will be held for one hour only", they threaten. I have a cold drink at the Bufe, then take a tram to the hotel. The tram is identical to those in Plzen, Bratislava, St Petersburg, and Magdeburg; it has an alien familiarity I trust far more than the TourInform shuttle offer: nothing is free in Budapest, everything is a sales opportunity.
I leave my bag at the hotel and take the Metro to Nyugati. It is staggeringly hot in the train, the seven stops a test of endurance. Here, too, the echoes of a Socialist past: the underground trains are the same as those under the Streets of Moscow. I walk through the labyrinth of underground shops and foodstalls to the station, marvelling at the sheer bedlam, the chaos that surrounds. It is only a year since I was last here, but there have been changes. The booth at the end of the suburban platforms is still there, but the tables with their parasols have gone. The locals have gone, too: now it is just a place for a quick Coca-Cola before catching the train home, not the social focus point that it was. The platforms have been tidied, cleansed of years of history, and the character of the crumbling signal box replaced by a new, brick and glass block. Where signalmen pulled levers and waved flags out of the box's window, perhaps smoking a cigarette as they wiped grease from their hands, young men now click a mouse, eyes fixed to a screen, the station outside pixelated, graphically represented, and held on a server miles away.
I take the Metro back to Deak Ter and have a drink and an inexpensive meal, slightly sad that progress can lead to such disassociation.
My room is hot, and it is difficult to sleep; I cannot open the window because of mosquitoes. I listen to the sounds of Budapest at night. The lapping water and birdcalls of Keszethly have been replaced by sirens, drunken shouts, and the roar of the ringroad. Welcome to the city.
There is a long delay at Balatonszentgyorgy while we wait for an Italian train to clear the single line ahead, and then as we back onto the three coaches it leaves behind. As we depart, a young Italian man runs through the train: he was in the restaurant car we have picked up, and had left his belongings in his compartment. He tries to explain, in English, that his wallet, bag, and tickets have gone; the conductor shakes his head and walks away. There is nothing I can do for him. The south shore of the lake is less attractive, the towns less pretty, uncared for. The stations are barren and covered in grafitti, an unwelcoming arrival, a grateful departure. Even the train, although modern, is less comfortable than the railbuses on the North shore; there is little conversation, and a nasty looking pair of policemen constantly patrol it's length, eyeing the same passengers suspiciously, over and over again.
I arrive at Keleti Palyaudvar 20 minutes late, the train crawling from one passing loop to the next on the single track line to allow endless passenger and freight trains to cross our path. The station is a stunning piece of architecture, every bit as grand as Gustav Eiffel's Nyugati Palyaudvar; the huge, arched, timber trainshed and granite facade have been restored to perfection, and the sense of history is palpable. I find the TourInform booth and book a room without problem. They almost insist I take their free shuttle service: "The room will be held for one hour only", they threaten. I have a cold drink at the Bufe, then take a tram to the hotel. The tram is identical to those in Plzen, Bratislava, St Petersburg, and Magdeburg; it has an alien familiarity I trust far more than the TourInform shuttle offer: nothing is free in Budapest, everything is a sales opportunity.
I leave my bag at the hotel and take the Metro to Nyugati. It is staggeringly hot in the train, the seven stops a test of endurance. Here, too, the echoes of a Socialist past: the underground trains are the same as those under the Streets of Moscow. I walk through the labyrinth of underground shops and foodstalls to the station, marvelling at the sheer bedlam, the chaos that surrounds. It is only a year since I was last here, but there have been changes. The booth at the end of the suburban platforms is still there, but the tables with their parasols have gone. The locals have gone, too: now it is just a place for a quick Coca-Cola before catching the train home, not the social focus point that it was. The platforms have been tidied, cleansed of years of history, and the character of the crumbling signal box replaced by a new, brick and glass block. Where signalmen pulled levers and waved flags out of the box's window, perhaps smoking a cigarette as they wiped grease from their hands, young men now click a mouse, eyes fixed to a screen, the station outside pixelated, graphically represented, and held on a server miles away.
I take the Metro back to Deak Ter and have a drink and an inexpensive meal, slightly sad that progress can lead to such disassociation.
My room is hot, and it is difficult to sleep; I cannot open the window because of mosquitoes. I listen to the sounds of Budapest at night. The lapping water and birdcalls of Keszethly have been replaced by sirens, drunken shouts, and the roar of the ringroad. Welcome to the city.
posted by Paul O'Halloran at 3:43 AM
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