Hungry Hungary History
After almost twelve weeks travelling across twenty seven locations in ten different countries, Budapest was the first place I was revisiting. The city was the third stop in our family’s four month world trip in 2005. Despite my desire to travel solo as a seven year-old, my family had been with me the entire time I visited. So this trip in 2023 was my first time exploring the city on my own. I was interested in revisiting places significant in my family history, unearthing a better understanding of the city’s mediaeval past and observing how the nightlife had changed in the eighteen years (dad had only let me go to three nightclubs when I was seven).
On the Sunday morning after I arrived I ventured straight to the market hall, filled with glee at the prospect of some traditional Hungarian fare at reasonable prices. It was a Sunday. I forgot to think or even check if the market was open on a Sunday. Markets aren’t usually open on Sundays. This market wasn’t open on Sundays. So on Monday I walked back to the market, reeling from the setback of the day before but excited by the potential of the day. It was a public holiday on Monday. The market was closed again. No nokedli for me.
By Tuesday I was sure that the market had to be open but was suppressing the building expectation - I did not want to be disappointed again. Thankfully it was open. The market looked pretty much the same as it did eighteen years prior. I remembered that food stalls were located on the top floor so I took the stairs straight up after entering. The chicken paprikash had definitely gone up in price in eighteen years but I had waited this long so I wasn’t holding out. My order was fished out of the bain-marie and onto a paper plate, microwaved on high for two minutes and then consumed sitting on the steps of the market (it was too busy to get a table). Stuffed, I headed downstairs after the meal for some cherry strudel.
Sure, I enjoyed the food, but my familial relationship to the city is what will linger long after the strudel is digested. I used to think that history was a story of something that happened to someone else. But it feels different when you know how a story will end before your tour guide has started telling it. On one tour in the city, the guide explained how Jewish merchants used to work in the street we were standing in, two doors down from where my great-grandparents had had their manufacturing company. We approached the Dohany Street synagogue known for being the biggest synagogue in Europe, but less known as the place where my great-grandparents were married.
Whilst my ancestors have history in the city I was surprised by how well I recognised the locations that had only been seen by my seven year-old self. Sure, things were bigger, some streets were cleaner, trees were taller and some buildings were no longer. But I could still pinpoint my grandmother’s apartment without the need for a map. I could still remember where the Shakespeare statue was down by the river. And I was still confused as to why the biggest synagogue in Europe looked like a mosque on the outside and a church on the inside. Despite my cynicism about the Budapest of 2023, I enjoyed reflecting on the history of the area. I made new memories and revisited some old ones.
