If we include the shell of the nut, the nutcracker and the rest of Tchaikovsky's output, however, there's a bit more of this adventure to go. Not least with the morning's news that we will have at least half a day more in the city of Budapest. I pack my precious bottles in the centre of my bag and attempt to pack clothes round them in the most protective fashion I can conceive. Having made a quick check of the room (historically I always leave something behind in hotels) I then struggle with two bags and the cello in a patently unsuitable lift and ensure both are carefully stowed on the bus. It hardly needs to be added that we didn't leave the hotel on time due to every other member of the orchestra having to endure a similar effort taking their things from the top of the building to the bottom. This is, of course, forgivable. Then we left Békesmégyer for the last time, back along the leafy highway and the green toy trains of the HEV, the riverside and Germanic church, and into the long car park next to Heroes' Square. Cue a textbook reverse park of our mega-length bus under the trees. And now three hours of freedom.
 |
| Ferenciak tere and the Erszebet Bridge |
The vast majority of our party had at least some inkling that they would need to purchase two tickets as, like on our own metro system, one can only buy singles. However the aforementioned vast majority also did not possess a vast quantity of literature on the Magyar language and so did that classic Brits-abroad thing of shuffling a little nervously up to the window and asking in a very syllabic tone 'Could - I - have - two -tick-ets - please...?' or better still 'um..what the guy in front said'. In a priceless demonstration of the value of doing one's homework properly I patiently awaited my turn and then politely asked 'Jo reggelt. Szeretnék kettő vonaljegyek kérem'. Doubtless this would have been more impressive if I'd not been looking up the word for a single ticket on the tariff list a few moments earlier, and remembered that kettő (two) can be abbreviated to ket in this instance, but the icing on the cake was not only that this was understood but that I could add 'tessek' as I handed over 640 forints and 'Kus' as I took the change. Frankly, I don't think this kind of bragging is unjustified, as what I have just described was accomplished with nothing more than a phrasebook and a short period of study, and is certainly not beyond the range of anyone else with a moderate level of education and nouse. (I subsequently had to jump in and explain to several people the importance of actually validating the purchased tickets before boarding a train).
After letting four trains go by due to the length of time it takes to get everybody a ticket and going the right way (yes, there were people who had to be dissuaded from crossing to the opposite platform and ending up at Mexikói út...) everyone piles onto the boxy yellow carriages and rumble down the line. We finally extract ourselves from the Földalatti at Deák tér, and form a shape-shifting mass as we stroll - in fact, slower than that - through the streets. I don't like following in large groups for several reasons: the pace tends to be literally pedestrian; inevitably people get distracted by shiny things and we have to wait whilst they somehow re-attach themselves to the group; I can't stop to take pictures for not wanting to commit the above offence; and we're also a massively obvious target for pickpockets. The underground market is on Váci utca, the main shopping street in Pest. I have an idea I have been near here on my last trip, as in a memorable bout of YouTubery a more hyperactive member of the strings then urged on with gusto a busker who was playing his favourite Metallica song. Ah well, we were all about sixteen back then.
The underground market is plainly a tourist trap, evidenced by the escalator down to it. There are no Hungarians inside other than the proprietors of the various alcoves that serve as trading outlets. All kinds of slightly needless wares are piled high; in no particular order: fridge magnets snow globes football scarves stickers folk costumes postcards laser glass engraved things painted ceramics pictures beer mats dolls t shirts - little that interested me, in other words. Always alert to the presence of souvenirs with a practical purpose, I purchase a moderately-sized carton of ground paprika which would probably have been half the price in any nearby supermarket but has a gloriously exotic dollop of Hungarian writing on it and does seem to taste quite good. I also get something I try to collect with varying degrees of success from anywhere I visit - the nation's car sticker, which in Budapest is simply 'H', to add to my cello case. This a long and often prolific tradition amongst musicians with larger cases, although it's becoming increasingly difficult since the introduction of Euro-style license plates (the ones with a blue strip and the circle of yellow stars to the left). Older Hungarian and more so, Slovak, cars look much better with the national coat of arms instead of the bland EU insignia that UK vehicles still seem to shun. By the time I've done so, many other people seem to have scattered with the general intention of having lunch in a nearby restaurant. Companion tells me she is going off to explore the vicinity on foot and heads off, so after a little deliberation I decide to do the same in a slightly different direction. I pick the nearest interesting-looking street and discreetly get my camera out.
By pure chance I take a less direct route to the main road, and suddenly happen upon a truly extraordinary structure. It is some form of arcade, huge and dark and, as I begin to see more, lavish in the extreme. There are two other people with cameras looking equally awestruck so I venture in, assuming I'm not about to be apprehended by some terrifying Hungarian guard with a big stick. The only light is via some sort of opening in the roof, but even in the gloom I can see the fantastic level of detail in an Art Nouveau-Moorish style of decoration; stained glass, tiled floor, marble, tracery and pinnacles in shades of black, brown and gold. The place seems largely abandoned - there are certainly few businesses open in here and little but blank glass to the sides of the central passage - but in a good state of repair. I later read that the place was called the Pariszi Udvar (Paris Court). There's one of my beloved 'bubble' panoramas of the place here, in a better light than I had but one that seems to de-mystify it a little. A wizened old woman shuffles around the far end with her stick mumbling things in Hungarian. This might on another day be a major tourist attraction, but here I've had almost it to myself, my private discovery.Returning to the street I cross under the busy Kossuth Lajos utca via the subway entrance to Ferenciak tere (confusingly one stop down the line from Deák Ferenc tér). I've still got the other, unspent, metro ticket in my wallet and see that if I walk (roughly north-east) up the road I can either get a bus across back to the Városliget or else go down and up via the metro, on which I can make a change without having to pay twice. Kossuth Lajos u. is busier than Andrassy u. but features equally memorable buildings. Opposite from the arcade is the Hungarian National Library which has a gold dome (looking like a cross between a mosque and the towers of the 'people's palaces' on Karl Marx Allee in Berlin. There are nice side streets with very little traffic and various academically-occupied addresses dotted about them.
 |
| Astoria crossroads and hotel |
Returning to the main street further up, the next landmark is the Astoria hotel, an unashamedly pink pile that probably ranks amongst the costliest beds in the city. I'm puzzled as to what became of it under Soviet rule, whether it was reserved for visiting foreigners or Party bigwigs, for it must have been active in order to give its name to the adjacent station on Line Two, constructed in the Sixties. There are a scattering of other wonderfully ornate buildings on this long avenue if one has the eyes to spot them, but I missed the central synagogue I'd caught a glimpse of on a bus ride two days ago. Finally, after a forgettable road junction with a flyover, came the magnificent Italianate block of the Keleti pályaudvar - the Eastern Station. A large clock occupied the point where you'd stick compasses in to draw the huge glazed crescent taking up most of the façade, whilst a flight of steps led up to the three large entrances and a steady supply of persons with bags of all descriptions swarmed in and out. In front of the station is a lot of wooden panelling, and through a convenient gap I can see why - the square is mostly a large hole. This is not just any hole, but variously - and largely depending on your political viewpoint - an exciting infrastructure project, a massive waste of public money, a political embarrassment, the biggest cause of corruption in the country or simply a quicker way to work. Remaining neutral, it can be described in a few words: Metro 4, or the Green Line. Except you can't ride on it yet. You should be able to, in fact you were supposed to back in 2005, then 2008, but, erm, it's not ready yet and the city authorities reluctantly admit they're not sure when it will be. Probably 2014 - but maybe 2015. Anyway do take a look at some rather arty pictures of the tunnels pre-track.
 |
| The trainshed of the Eastern Station |
 |
| Vajdahunyad Castle in the Városliget, the city park |
Whilst I'm prepared to bet that the alternator will hold out, and probably the rest of the vehicle's mechanical and electrical components too, I can't say I'm especially relaxed about this journey. I know by the end I will be sleep-deprived, uncomfortable, smelling awful and fed up with travelling. Thanks to our extended stay in Germany on the way out, I now have a very limited supply of Euros compared to what I had originally set aside, meaning I'll have to pay God knows how much to withdraw more from an ATM if I want to eat. And most of all, I'm anxious to get back for a reason I've so far not mentioned: my sister was due to give birth three days ago. I've not had any messages from her or the rest of my family, so am assuming nothing has happened for the time being. We have two guests for the journey back: our fixer and his niece who was at dinner last night. He's over in the UK on business with the Karl Jenkins piece whilst she is simply coming as a tourist - her first visit in fact. At one point or another the (frankly rather good) question of what to eat elicits a long deliberation over responses. 'Fish and chips!' '...oh yes, you must eat that, but also get a curry; we call it Indian food but actually it's totally British' 'make sure you have hot puddings, stuff like spotted dick and custard, crumble, Bakewell tart. But Yorkshire puddings aren't the same, they go with the roast meat...'
I digress. With weary inevitability, the door closes and we pull away into the traffic. I seem to remember a detour down some distinctly unsuitable cobbled streets due to a turning restriction but before long we were out of the city and on to the motorway heading inexorably west. Budapest doesn't stick up from the surrounding roads much like some cities do - you can't see the domes and spires and towers like Oxford or New York - and we are soon long away from everywhere we have been in the pat four days. My last steps on Hungarian soil come at a generic service station outside Győr, where I buy water to use up some of my change in forints. Half an hour later we are over the border back into Austria, which is not very interesting in the far eastern bit shoved to the side of Vienna.
Vienna itself can be seen a little from the ring road in daylight - is that the famous wheel of the Prater in the distance? - but it's mostly the high-rises that stand out and anyway we are soon in several tunnels that skirt the south of the city limits. As we've been on the road for at least four hours and it is getting near the evening we make a stop for dinner at a service area to the west . I have a faint recollection of stopping here on the way out for somebody to be unwell and that the place has a huge green-and yellow petrol station, so the grassy surroundings are more welcome that expected. Inside is a substantial amount of food for purchase and some toilets you have to pay for. Standard drill of hanging around the fluent German speakers is observed. First I need some more money, and locate an ATM in the shop.
I take a deep breath and find that the minimum amount I can withdraw is €50 (actually I probably could have got less by punching buttons and understanding German financial terminology) but as I owe a relative for a borrowed 20 this is not actually a waste. Austrian service station food turns out to be remarkably good if not particularly cheap. For around ten Euros I get a nice spicy beef soup and bread, followed by something involving, essentially, a pile of potato - I'm afraid once again the passing of time has obscured my memory somewhat. As we're still relatively unaffected by travelling, good conversation is possible and a few of us even find ourselves wondering if it would be wise to play in the play area at the back.
Before we leave, there is an essential but spectacular task that must be performed - filling up. I wince at the thought of spending £70-odd (half of which is tax, it should be added - petrol actually costs around 70p per litre) brimming Meg every 500 miles or so, but like most mid-size cars the Renault's tank holds around 12 gallons or 60 litres. A bus is naturally possessed of a much poorer fuel consumption and intended to have much greater endurance, but even the vague acknowledgement of these principles little prepared us for what happened next. In went the nozzle and the pump shuddered into action a moment later. The numbers on the display began to fly round at an astonishing rate. €100 went by in about fifteen seconds, below it the litres were up to triple figures soon afterwards...and it just kept coming. Three hundred euros came and went, a hundred and fifty litres, two hundred, two fifty... In a minute and a half our vehicle had siphoned three hundred and forty-six litres of diesel out of the underground tanks and racked up a bill of €519.45 on the company's fuel card.
Apparently this was only half a tank full.
Next time: It really is over, but there's a few loose ends to tie up yet...
