Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Pecs was my next stop after Szeged. Statistically, Pecs and Szeged are very similar. Both are university towns with about the same size population, percentage of students, and geographical area. While Szeged sits in the middle of the vast Hungarian Great Plain, Pecs sits on the side of a beautiful hill in the Transdanubia region. Both were in fierce competition to be named European Cultural Capital for 2010. Despite the similarities, however, my experience in Pecs (pronounced p-a-y-zj) was the opposite of that in Szeged.
The winds rolled in the night before I left Szeged and carried away some of the heat. This alone was enough to secure Pecs a higher place in my heart. Rudi, my host, met me at the train station. He is one of those amazing hosts – the ones like Slawek in New York, Kevin in France, Hans in Transylvania, and Vince in Switzerland – who have an open door CS policy and whose places swarm with couchsurfers and hospitality club members. Rudi’s place was a tornado-strewn mess but still managed to keep a welcome feeling amidst the piles of papers and clothes and dust. Rudi is a few years younger than me but still living his college years, in spirit if not in actuality. He was endearing in his boy-like charm and college-guy ease. He walked in that not-a-care-in-the-world way and chattered in an easy English, though it seemed he was always about half there and half not – probably playing World of Warcraft somewhere in his mind I would imagine.
I settled in a bit, checked emails, did my CS references, and took a shower before heading out for the evening. It was International Culture Week in Pecs and the streets were filled with young people from different countries talking heavily accented English. We made our way to the make shift open air theater – a stretch of green grass that lies between old Roman walls of the city to watch Mitsoura in concert. She was a tiny wisp of a thing, with a haunting, wailing voice pouring forth a mix of Hungarian and gypsy songs. At one point a fire dancer appeared before her wildly spinning two ropes that ended in huge balls of fire. I was entranced. Now my to-do list in life is one item longer – I want to learn how to fire dance!
Rudi went to pick up the CS couple arriving from Germany, leaving me in the care of his sweet friend Csaba to eat my Hungarian sausage and pickles and some inedibly hot white vegetable. Csaba was tall, thin like a willow-wisp with innocent, kind eyes and the sweetest disposition. He is just learning English and so conversation was slow as we sifted our way through words and their meanings.
We were sitting at the fair-like picnic tables amongst the little wood huts selling local wines and beer and the most amazing smelling sausage, when a homeless man approached us. He was obviously drunk, probably a tad off his rocker, but he had those child-like eyes of some lost souls – wise and curious, full of wonder and depth, yet focused in some other land rather than here. He asked us for money, not really looking at either us, but at some spot in the table. We politely refused.
He had just started to turn and walk away when he looked up and caught my eyes. He turned back to the table and began talking Hungarian intently to me. I looked at Csaba for a translation. “He said you are very beautiful.” I blushed under the intensity of the expression that had accompanied the words and said Köszönöm, thank you… The man kept chattering. Csaba translated, “Your eyes are beautiful, your face, your smile, your spirit. Very beautiful you are.” I smiled and thanked him again.
Then the man’s face got very somber – “Can I tell you something?” Csaba translated. I nodded. Then the old, wise, childlike homeless man took my hand in his and with heart-wrenching empathy stared deep into my soul and declared, “Beautiful women are always alone.”
Having just said good-bye to the only man in twelve years I’ve met who I really believed I could love forever, they weren’t very comforting words. Csaba and I laughed about it and I told the story laughing many times through the night, but the depth of sympathy in his eyes for a loneliness deep inside my soul together with words of eternity haunted my dreams through the night.
Rudi returned with our new German friends. Jakob and Sara were from Frankfurt and had come to look for an apartment for Sara who would be starting medical university in the fall. We walked about the city a bit, stopped at a pub for a beer where we chatted about Pecs, and Sara’s upcoming studies, and, of course, couchsurfing. It was actually Jakob and Sara’s first time couchsurfing so I was excited, as I always am, to tell them all I could about the community. It was an easy night of music and beer, enjoying the now-cool Hungarian wind, and new connections.
I set out early Monday for a stroll through the town. The Roman walls still separate the old town from the newer parts of the city, creating a predominately car free historic center. Under Roman rule the town was known as Sopiane. Parts of the Roman aqueduct are still visible and the tombs that lie below the city were recently named a Unesco World Heritage Site.
Walking through a small square, I spotted the bohemian-like wrap around pants I had been eyeing with envy at the concert the night before hanging in the doorway to a shop. I decided to splurge on a little shopping spree. New clothes are always a delight for a woman, but new clothes when you’ve been wearing the same four outfits for two months are manna from heaven. An hour later I had my new little bohemian pants with a t-shirt to match, a halter top that matched the little brown skirt I bought in Bourgas, a new little sundress, and much needed sandals The special walking sandals I spent $100 on and a month searching for in New York rubbed blisters in my feet. In Bulgaria, when my feet were openly bleeding, I bought a pair of flip-flops for $4 at a street market. They had served me well but had worn through to the ground two countries ago. I happily left the flip-flops for future couchsurfers at Rudi’s and trashed an outfit that was just as worn out to make room for the new ones. Only $50 to feel like a new woman! Shopping of course brings on hunger so I settled in at a little café near Szechenyi Square for lunch. It was just going to be a decadent day.
I love the point and smile method of ordering. You never know what you are going to get. Sometimes it is good, sometimes bad, sometimes just unexpected, but always a surprise. Trendo was the name of the restaurant according to the chalk-drawn marquis out front advertising one of those fixed-course meals. Settling into the umbrella covered table on the corner, I pulled out my tourist brochures to learn a bit about the town. A tall, heavy-set, teddy bear looking guy got up from another table where he was talking to a friend and came to take my order. We began the non-verbal communication of smiles and nods that gets you through ordering in a foreign country. He could speak little English but looked at me with kind, curious eyes that made me feel very welcome.
When I pointed at the marquis, he began trying, unsuccessfully, to explain what the foods were. I told him it was okay, it didn’t matter, just as he was saying something about cherry soup. Of course he had made a mistake in his English. There was no such thing as cherry soup, right? Wrong. There is and it is amazingly good. He set the bowl down proudly below me. A dollop of whip cream floated above a light pink cool concoction of tart cherries and exotic spices, cardamom perhaps, and I don’t know what else. I slurped every last drop watching the tourists eating at the McDonalds across the walkway wondering if they had any idea what they were missing. After soup, came a light salad and a paprika-laced piece of chicken. For dessert arrived a to-die-for sweet cheese stuffed crepe. All this for about $5. I would barely set my fork down before my Hungarian friend would jump up and whisk the plate off, bringing whatever was next. It was one of the best meals on my travels (though I admittedly don’t splurge often on restaurant meals). I learned his name was Pete and he owned this restaurant, apparently a franchise with locations in Kecskemet and Debrecen. I gave him my card, thanked him for the great service, and told him I’d mention the place on my website, which I’ve now done. I don’t know if I’ll make it back to Pecs, but if I do, I’ll definitely make it back to Trendo for more cherry soup!!
Content from shopping and eating, it was time for more serious touristing. I made my way up to Calvary Hill, with its great tombs and lovely view of the town below ad hills beyond. Winding my way down through the more deserted side streets, I circled back around and came in on the back side of the mosque that crowns this little town. During the Ottoman rule in the 16th century, the Gázi Kászim Mosque was built. It sits high and proud above Szechenyi square, the main square of the old town. Interestingly, the Mosque was converted to a Catholic church where Turkish design and Christian icons blend seamlessly one into the other. I lit a candle and said my prayers to whichever god was still there listening.
A long cobble-stoned street on the way from the mosque to St. Peter’s Cathedral led me past the several stands adorned with padlocks. Yes, padlocks. Some decades ago, sweethearts began to affix padlocks to a wrought-iron fence in the narrow street as a symbol of their commitment to one another. The custom caught on and after a while the fence was completely covered and no more padlocks could be added. Despite efforts, town officials could not stop couples, both locals and tourists, from attaching them to fences and statues throughout the town centre. They finally gave in to the tradition and created small stands along the street expressly for the locks. Thousands of locks in all shapes and sizes with names etched into them or even engraved fill the stands, intertwining like a roughly wound ball of thick yarn. Some are rusted with time, others shiny and new, all proclaiming the love of two people who have walked this cobble-stone street.
At the end the street opens up into Dom square. The basilica on Dom Square is one of the most valuable medieval structures in Hungary. The crypt with five naves is from the 11th century. The statues and the frescos painted by noted Hungarian masters that are breathtakingly beautiful with their gold gilded edges to compliment the gilded designs throughout the church. The twelve apostles stand watching out over the land from the roof-line above. White marble carved statues several feet high, they reminded me of the Roman statutes that always adorned amphitheatres. I’d never seen a cathedral lined with statutes like that, like guardsman standing in wait. As it turned out they would be the culprits of trouble rather than protectorates.…. With full sacks and tired feet, I made my way back to Rudi’s to write for awhile as the day settled into evening.
The evening started out tamely enough. Jakob, Sara, Rudi, and I headed to the concert, a Hungarian rock group this time. They were not nearly as entrancing, for me at least, as the gypsy singer the night before but the young folk were hooting and hollering and even head banging and whatever you call that jumping-(dance) in the center near the stage. After the concert, we met up with several of Rudi’s friends on the lawn beside one of the town monuments outside the festival area. There were fifteen or so of us gathered in little groups chatting; German, Hungarian, and English words dancing in the air. We drank Hungarian beer beneath the star-filled sky passing around a hookah with raspberry flavored tobacco.
I never pass up a cultural experience, so when somebody asked if I would like to try Palinka, a fruit-flavored Hungarian liquor, I of course accepted. Two of the guys returned carrying the little plastic cups half-filled with the clear liquor. The girls all declined, so I stood with the men in a circle, meeting each one in the eye as we tapped cups and declared kedves egeszsegere, ‘to your health’ in Hungarian. The liquor was smooth and sweet, strong but much more pleasant than a shot of Jack or Jim Beam to the back of the throat. One shot was shortly followed by another and another and…
Earlier in the night, Rudi had told me a story of the time he got drunk with his friends and “the apostles.” The town was doing repair work on the cathedral, he told me, and he and his friends decided in their drunkenness to climb the scaffolding and hang out with the statues of the apostles on the roof of the church. I could see them as he recounted the story – sitting on the edge of the building, legs hanging over the side, raising a beer in toast to the statues rising above them.
Somewhere between palinka shots I began teasing Rudi that I wanted to go drink with the apostles. “Oh no, we can’t, there is no scaffolding, no way to get up there.” Still I teased, “Oh come on, let’s go drink with the apostles!” Somewhere between more palinka shots Rudi responded, “Well, we can’t drink with the apostles but we could go climb the horse….” The equestrian statue of Janos Hunyadi stands tall and proud on the edge of the main square. The base of the statue is well over twelve feet high and the horse and rider are that tall again and then some. When Rudi was in his twenties, climbing the horse secured him a photo on the front page of the newspaper and a minor arrest record. This became the drunken joke of the night – that we would go climb the horse. Well, after a couple bars, more beer, and more palinka shots, climbing the horse became an idea rather than a joke.
There were only five of us left standing as we made our way from the last bar toward the square. I looked up at the horse towering above me. “Rudi, there is no way I can climb that!” “Oh no, it is easy, I’ll show you!” He responded. He got the other two guys to lift him as he reached for the edge of the base to pull himself. You can guess what happened next. The old Humpty Dumpty nursery rhyme went through my palinka-dazed mind as Rudi came tumbling down. He was fine though, we thought. His hand was bleeding but seemed okay, just cut. Or maybe we were just too drunk to perform an accurate medical diagnosis.
The next day we learned differently. Rudi’s wrist was broken and needed an operation. I felt so badly. I actually put my host in the hospital! Rudi would have none of my apologies though. “It is better to have funny moments than to just go to bed early every night!” He declared with his endearing smile. Even hospitals and broken wrists couldn’t deter his easy way and kind manner. “Watch out for the wild horses,” I warned him as I kissed him on the forehead goodbye.
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