Location: Budapest (Hungary)
Twirling the wine in her glass she looked up and asked curiously “If you could give your 18 year old self advice, what would it be?” He took a long gulp of his beer and placed it down tenderly on the table in-front of him. With little thought he responded dryly
“to move away from this place...”
“to move away from this place...”
I was on a train peering curiously out the window, outside houses and buildings blurred past my eyes in a pin wheel of colours. I was surrounded by passengers, some dully reading newspapers, others with bored indifference watching the world pass with glazed eyes.
The old train came to a screeching halt. A handful of men wearing greasy shirts jumped off the train landing on the scorching hot rocks and metal train-lines below. They lit up cigarettes, blowing the smoke into the air with sighs of relief. Toothlessly they laughed, shaking hands and sharing stories - anecdotes I would never understand.
I eventually lost interest watching the men and I diverted my attention to the area we had stopped in. It seemed like an abandoned industrial suburb. Worn buildings with coloured paint peeled from the walls, rusted barbed wire fence lay abandoned on the ground and graffiti covered almost every surface imaginable. A famished cat was nosing around in some garbage searching for a morsel of food. There was no green, just a pallet of brown, grey, black: A desert. USSR buildings stood shrewdly in the distance, the very same buildings which had poisoned this landscape.
Grandma had told me this was a common suburb where people had lived in Hungary. I was reminded once more of my ignorance, and I was surprised to see such a sight in a Western Country. Hungary still wore the open wounds of Communism.
The old train slowly began to move, the men flicked the cigarettes away with their cracked dirty nails and clambered back onto the train. Glowing orange embers eventually faded from sight. The coloured windmill continued, until finally I had arrived in Budapest.
I had to blink several times, the contrast was unbelievable. Budapest was breathtaking. The roads were clean, the buildings splendorous and it was surrounded by a sea of lush hills. It is by far one of the most beautiful cities I have ever had the pleasure of visiting. Yes, even in comparison to Paris.
To begin my journey, I walked through Margaret Island. Tall trees lined the path, young lovers lounged in the long grass under the shade of a sapling, people joyfully rode two seated bicycles and hundreds of people cooled their feet from the harsh sun in an elaborate fountain. Afterwards I explored Buda Castle. Guards marched in their fine uniforms seemingly unconcerned with the searing sun, and tourists flocked to every corner, attempting to juggle both their melting ice-creams and cameras. The ruins of the old castle lay below the statues as reminders of the past. In every direction there was a spectacular sight of rolling hills dotted in quaint coloured buildings.
For lunch I joyfully tucked into moist chicken paprikash accompanied with homemade nokedli, gherkins and freshly baked bread. As I ate I couldn’t help but ponder the vast contrast between the working class suburbs and that of the city.
The old train came to a screeching halt. A handful of men wearing greasy shirts jumped off the train landing on the scorching hot rocks and metal train-lines below. They lit up cigarettes, blowing the smoke into the air with sighs of relief. Toothlessly they laughed, shaking hands and sharing stories - anecdotes I would never understand.
I eventually lost interest watching the men and I diverted my attention to the area we had stopped in. It seemed like an abandoned industrial suburb. Worn buildings with coloured paint peeled from the walls, rusted barbed wire fence lay abandoned on the ground and graffiti covered almost every surface imaginable. A famished cat was nosing around in some garbage searching for a morsel of food. There was no green, just a pallet of brown, grey, black: A desert. USSR buildings stood shrewdly in the distance, the very same buildings which had poisoned this landscape.
Grandma had told me this was a common suburb where people had lived in Hungary. I was reminded once more of my ignorance, and I was surprised to see such a sight in a Western Country. Hungary still wore the open wounds of Communism.
The old train slowly began to move, the men flicked the cigarettes away with their cracked dirty nails and clambered back onto the train. Glowing orange embers eventually faded from sight. The coloured windmill continued, until finally I had arrived in Budapest.
I had to blink several times, the contrast was unbelievable. Budapest was breathtaking. The roads were clean, the buildings splendorous and it was surrounded by a sea of lush hills. It is by far one of the most beautiful cities I have ever had the pleasure of visiting. Yes, even in comparison to Paris.
To begin my journey, I walked through Margaret Island. Tall trees lined the path, young lovers lounged in the long grass under the shade of a sapling, people joyfully rode two seated bicycles and hundreds of people cooled their feet from the harsh sun in an elaborate fountain. Afterwards I explored Buda Castle. Guards marched in their fine uniforms seemingly unconcerned with the searing sun, and tourists flocked to every corner, attempting to juggle both their melting ice-creams and cameras. The ruins of the old castle lay below the statues as reminders of the past. In every direction there was a spectacular sight of rolling hills dotted in quaint coloured buildings.
For lunch I joyfully tucked into moist chicken paprikash accompanied with homemade nokedli, gherkins and freshly baked bread. As I ate I couldn’t help but ponder the vast contrast between the working class suburbs and that of the city.