Eric Clapton’s lyrics, “If I saw you in heaven”, and Barbra’s woman in love are leading, harmonizing together melodies of Cafe Buddah’s nostalgia inducing covers. Careless Whispers’ saxophones are sultry and delivering; I seem to have found my vessel.
As I sit here in a fresco of the Adriatic sea, at Bistro Tóc slowly delighting over seafood risotto, I begin my symphonic journey into the pass few weeks, into Prague and Budapest.
Beyond the misadventures and foolhardy fun are moments, encounters and conversations that are tattooing; permanent impressions for a sentimental mind.
I arrived in the outskirts of Prague on an overnight train. The morning bus ride to the inner city was a wander, silent passing through a post-communist town. Here the buildings are cement boxes with thick-dark windows, something like a hiding from prying eyes. An altogether unnerving feeling for someone whose family have sought refuge from such horror.
After check-in and sometime spent exploring, we seem to have discovered Prague for what it really is, a wonder and testament to time. Prague, a city favoured by Hitler, remains an un-moved city, undeterred by war. The buildings are mountainous while the walls are hiding, giving the city a sense of emptiness. However, it is far from vacant. Behind every walls are warmed bellies and emptied beer glasses. The food is excellent and the beer, cheap.
The old quarters adorn cathedrals and castles, towering and spiring to the sky. The floors are cobbled by tourists and performance artists. Like an excited gambler, the heart of the city is fluttering while its entirety is still, bold and silent. Here in these streets I encountered my alternate universe, or maybe my counter part, but definitely not my opposition. Through the slight hand of fate, I’ve wandered into the Czech Republic, a place where many North Vietnamese - sons and daughters of Marx have come to call home after the collapse of Communism in central Europe. A “second generation of the enemy?” — not at all, just another group of people born into circumstance like many before them. However, despite all my better judgement, I can’t help but feel infinitely different to the people who I bare so much physical resemblance to. I left Prague with wonderful admiration for its people, architecture, cuisine and overall freedom of mind. The time spent here was “absolutely unique and ridiculous”. However, I’m still left a little perplexed with the man I am when it comes to sentiments for my people.
Alive and living is Buda and Pest; forgiving and letting go are its virtue, an impression of character to the observant traveller. I left Budapest, enriched.
On a gili island on the coast of Bali, a year prior, I had made sentiments of yearning for Budapest to a fellow traveller, a Hungarian. Although, I’ve yearned for Budapest, I have little knowledge of its heartbreaking past. Thus, my arrival on a late April afternoon was filled with shock and bewilderment.
Not unlike Prague, Buda and Pest are two lands divorced by a river and unified only by bridges. Yet, where the bridges in Prague are glorifying of the city’s history, Buda and Pest’s are unsympathetic and a resistance to its past and the crimes committed upon it.
A visit to the Museum of Terror can remind us of man’s treacherous ways. The Hungarian soils although celebratory of freedom and human warmth in its current state have seen millions slaughter by Nazis and millions more persecuted by Communist. My residence in the old Jewish quarters have offered sight to ubiquitous gold plaques on buildings, memorials to the heroes of hope during a time of dread. Yet, a generation dictated by fear and terror seem to have forgave and taught forgiveness. Life in Budapest now is a celebration. It is with accordance and vindication that I have celebrated my life here in Budapest as well.
Here, I’ve found and incredible fondness for living, culture and people. I’ve partied with igniting personalities from all over, careless and free.
I cherish an evening with Jen, at the Hungarian Bath house behind Hero Square. In the sea of people, we found in each other, kindred outlook and sentiments through conversation. I adore the beautiful Finnish girls who made time for Julien and I, Lisa, Mani and Easy-going (Easy-going and her constantly dimpling cheek). I won’t forget that one drunk and sentimental American, Nick Mcnaughton. Finally, I will have with me the time spent with my partner in crime discovering goose thighs, deer legs and Hungarian-German opera.
In Budapest, I’ve found a little bit of Saigon, a piece of home.
