A Non-Traditional Valentine's Day, Part II: Night One in Budapest
Parliament building, Budapest, Hungary
On Valentine’s Day this year, I left my hostel early to catch a mid-morning flight connecting in Switzerland, and landing in the grandiose city of Budapest (pronounced by Hungarians as “Buda-pesht”). Flying over the Swiss Alps, any fatigue from my restless night’s sleep was completely eradicated by the adrenaline rush I get before visiting a new place I’ve never seen.
A cherished goody to hopping borders, I love meeting new people (a hereditary favor from my grandmother), so it’s always my favorite part of taking trips. Depending on the travel companion of choice, of course, sometimes flying stag makes it easy to meet lots of new friends along the way. So, heeding the recommendation from my Airbnb host, as soon as I settled and showered I trekked over to my first restaurant of choice, Gettó Gulyás (GHE-toe GOOL-yash), to take a bite out of the Hungarian gastro scene.
Night one in one of the best-valued Airbnbs where I’ve stayed. Click here to see the listing.
My Loopy phone case was a lifesaver on my trip, and everywhere else for that matter.
A facile twenty minute jaunt from my Airbnb, it made for a brisk walk in the chilly cold and a chance to practice the fine public transportation system of Budapest. Super easy. This Airbnb is a convenient five-minute walk from the bus and tram stops, which take you anywhere you need to go on either side of the Danube. The tram, to my delight, appeared to be the cute, yellow, vintage-faced cousin to DC’s metro, only above ground, and much slower. Luckily, I befriended a highly knowledgeable tour guide, András, who informed me that when it comes to the public transit here, there was a way to do it right (which is not what I did...)
(Later he showed me how to purchase a daily pass and thus remedy the risk of a hefty fine by freeloading tram rides…whoops!)
Hopping off the tram and began my stroll under the dimly lit streets of the city, trying my disoriented best to make sense of unfamiliar surroundings after it had already gotten dark. Several minutes later I looked up from counting my steps between the sidewalk cracks, and found it: a warmly lit haven of an eatery, wood paneling and accents of greenery punctuating both its exterior and interior, evoking a friendly, dichotomous spirit of aggro-modernism. Having rolled up lackadaisically, sans reservation, I was brought to the bar, where I could still enjoy the delightful aura around me, a combination of vintage-classic (rich wood shelves, wax-drizzled silver candle holders, silver wire bread baskets) with fresh and contemporary (white vases, fresh flowers, various plants, and chalkboard menus). The host seated me directly next to another patron, a young woman who’d just begun her first glass of wine.
I asked her what she had; it was a glass of Morgan, she said - a Hungarian red - and I promptly ordered the same. We sat quietly at first, until the young man to my left first asked if I spoke English, and then if I’d recommend my order once the meal was served (veal, with bacon-wrapped potato patties and gravy. So…yes. No one tell my vegetarian mother.) He offered where he was from (the Bronx), where he studied (Miami U), and his purpose of visiting (studying abroad in Paris and meeting friends in Budapest for the weekend.)
Like a burst of fresh air, at both encountering a fluent English speaker and a fellow francophone enthusiast, I launched into the stories of my own college study abroad program, how much I’d loved spending a summer in Lyon. As we gushed about France, we also admitted our respective struggles with the eternally sexy but ever evasive native tongue (“Swallow your r’s,” my French professor would tell us), and reminisced on what a wonderful country it was. And then, growing reminiscent, what a wonderful country ours was.
Eventually our chattering back and forth expanded to include our third neighbor at the bar: the New York college kid to my left, the Japanese woman to my right, and me, a twentysomething relishing all the sensory stimulation of a nomadic life I’d come to love, brushing here and there through new cities, nesting and re-nesting and visiting and leaving. Reminded again of getting out of the house, the neighborhood, the country, and all the exciting unknowns that follow. All three of us began to weave conversation and time and opinion, the others comparing their nuanced perceptions of New York, and our early impressions of Budapest so far (for me, a mere hour.)
The college student left, bidding us both good luck a fun stay in the city. We waved goodbye and resumed our chat. I asked her name again, missing it through the fuzz of restaurant din, and the wine. How much did I learn from her…that she and her husband were both professional dancers, had met through their traveling troupe, got married, and a year later had their first baby, now two months ago. With her husband at home tending to the baby, she decided to take her first vacation since giving birth. With her partner’s encouragement. I found this marvelous and romantic in its own rite; perhaps because it was more the exception than the rule, I realized for the first time, in my culture back home.
We carried on. About motherhood, relationships, marriage, ambitions for our single years, identity. And faith - turns out she knew and loved God, too, also learning to navigate what that looked like for her, as a woman. As a Japanese woman. As a Japanese Christian woman. Living in Sweden (one of the most irreligious countries in the world.) To my surprise and delight, we shared many similar thoughts, desires, and fears shared by women everywhere, apparently - regardless of cultural background, language, or demographic. Perhaps without knowing it yet, I’d felt I was alone in fearing I’d have to choose between finding lifelong companionship or enjoying solitude. Settle and marry, or wander and explore and live an adventurous life? I hadn’t begun fretting about it, and yet it was a thought I couldn’t see around. It reminded me of someone too tall stepping in front of me and blocking my view at a concert.
Lately, to me, they seemed mutually exclusive, hardly possible to co-associate them in my mind, never allowing any middle ground. But then, surprisingly, so did she. Yes, this woman seated next to me with whom I shared, it seemed, very little in common (not background, upbringing, language, culture, or occupation) except our choice of dinner…or so I thought. She expressed her deep love for her husband (who she met in an international traveling dance troupe, corroborated by her trim, slender figure) and how…what word can depict this, really…grateful? Joyful? Relieved? to have found a man both willing to stay at home with their newborn, and even encouraging her to take time to herself away on a “post-partum-moon,” something simply not done, as far as I’d seen, a luxury one could only dream of. And yet here she was.
As a second-generation Japanese Christian, she admitted the unique challenges of growing up in a highly secular country. Over plates of veal and bread, between second and third glasses of Morgan, we both sighed our gratitude for the gift of families who raised their children and grandchildren to know Christ.
By the end of the night, I felt so warm and fuzzy I could practically fall asleep. Over a wonderful meal, two women bonded over the quirks and dips of a varied life, and everywhere in between where God steps in to be with us. As I mentioned in my previous Valentine’s Day post, this year I wanted to take time to commemorate love and all its unconventional (and under-celebrated) shapes. This Valentine’s Day, for a few short hours, I was given exactly that - that night I made a new friend, overlapping for a few short hours to cherish and celebrate the best of life, love, and faith. I couldn’t have asked for a better night!