Grey's Journal:
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After a moment of impressed silence, my father gave his opinion: ``Those tribesmen look like the nazgûl.'' He was right -- cover these statues in black, swirling robes, and I would not enter the square if I was carrying a ring. I don't expect statues of dead rulers to be warm and cuddly (the Victoria Monument certainly isn't) but these Hungarian tribesmen are actively hostile. Physically imposing, they ride on horses armored with bones and with crazed, thirsty look in their eyes. Had the statues in Hero's Square been the only ones of their kind in the city, I would have regarded them as flukes. But, outside the Hungarian National Gallery is a statue of a king with a huge, dead stag splayed next to him, its head hanging over the edge at an unnatural angle. Not far from this is a statue of a figure on horse back looming over a naked man, whose are hands tied behind his back and is getting kicked off the statue's base. These statues, along with our tour guide's remark that the National Gallery is filled with paintings of people waiting to be executed and that the Hungarians are proud of their `patriotic sorrow', made the national character seem grim. My father was in Budapest because, in addition to being a tax attorney, he is also the director of adult education at my former high school. Part of his responsibility is arranging group trips for members of the community. Trips outside the USA are, it seems, regarded by default as educational for Americans, as though the rest of the world is a large history museum. Generally, it's the older members of the town who go, leaving my father, now in his fifties, as the young guy in the group. Arranging trips with older people, my father discovered, has some unique problems. Group members dying just days before the trip or having heart attacks during the trip are to be expected. Also, some seniors are set in their ways. One older gentleman wore a suite and tie every day of a trip around the Western United States -- even when river rafting down the Colorado River in the Grand Canyon. In the past my father never went on these trips himself but has now changed his mind since entering into a new phase of his life: the post-mid-life crisis. He realized he has only ten years where he can expect to be healthy and energetic enough to travel. My mother avoids thoughts like these because she finds them depressing and morbid, but to my father they are neutral facts from which to decide future actions. Besides, he seems to enjoy counting things down. A few years ago he estimated that, at his current pace, he could only read 240 more books in his lifetime. Dad wants me to keep recommending good books to him but, how do you recommend a book to a man who only has 240 left? And that was three years ago. Now it's less than 200. His new traveling motivation lead him to cross the Atlantic for a tour of Eastern European cities. As he had come so far, the least I could do was take the relatively short hop to continental Europe. I booked a flight to see him on the weekend, leaving London Friday and returning Sunday morning. When I arrived at his hotel just past midnight in Budapest, we hugged each other and then, within fifteen minutes, we were both asleep. My father and I are men who value a full nights sleep above all else -- much to the annoyance of the women in our lives. There would be plenty of time to catch up in the morning. Now it was time to catch some ZZZs. *
* *
After living in Europe for so long and hearing what Europeans think of American tourists, to find myself actually being one in Budapest was uncomfortable in the extreme. My father, though I love him dearly, didn't help. He is the kind of man who, when trying to find the Rio Grande in Mexico, asks of a gas station attendant in the typical, slow American-speaking-to-a-foreigner style: ``OH-LA SAIN-YOUR! Can you tell me which way to the REE-OOO-GRAN-DAY? The REEEEEE-OOOOOOO, GRAAAAAN-DAY?'' All the while stretching his arms wide to indicate bigness and waiving his hand to indicate wetness. My father wanted to go to a Turkish style bathhouse after our morning tour of the city and the guide recommend two, one popular with the Americans and one popular with the locals. If it had been my decision, I would have gone to the American bathhouse, mostly because I wouldn't want to annoy the Hungarians. Plus, the American bath house would be designed to deal with Americans: large printed signs in English on every surface directing us where to go and what to do and warning us of every possible danger. In the bathhouse designed for them, the Americans would think they were experiencing a real Turkish Bath (never knowing better) and the locals wouldn't have to deal with Americans. Everybody wins. But, my father chose the local bathhouse where I cringed because I knew what was to come when he bought our tickets. Through various hand gestures and loud, slow words he secured our entrance, then communicated our need for towels by patting his face with a handkerchief. He also wanted me to get a massage, something that would make me tremendously uncomfortable but, fortunately, communication difficulties prevented him from buying that ticket. He gave up before waiving me over to pantomime `massage' for the ticker seller as I feared he might. After we got inside the bathhouse, it was a matter of watching other people and trying to figure out what to do. Where were we supposed to change? Were we supposed to wear t-shirts? How about sandals? Sandals in the pool or just for walking around? Were we supposed to go in the different baths in any particular order? Was this room for women only? All of this provoked a great deal of staring from the Hungarians. We were quite a sight: two pale guys in brightly colored trunks, both wearing glasses in the water and looking lost. I in particular drew a lot of attention with my skin. The last time I can remember going to a pool I was probably sixteen or so. I avoid pools, not only because they are dangerous, dangerous places but also because I am as pale as is possible to be without the assistance of a genetic disease. Zornitsa once described me this way: ``Grey, you know how some blacks are so black they are ebony? You are just the same -- so white you are ivory.'' Though I was uncomfortable in the bathhouse I have to admit that the alternating hot and cold baths were enjoyable. I found out later that Zornitsa had been to the same bathhouse four months earlier on her own trip to Budapest. And I'm sure she strutted around and attracted the gazes of all who saw her. It's easy when you are a princess. After the bathhouse, my father and I, went to the Terror Museum a building both the Nazis and the Soviets used for their secret police. The entrance to the museum stopped my heart due to the two authoritarian symbols at the top of a dramatically lit staircase and a low rumbling sound filling the hallway. And at the end of the narrow entrance corridor was the most impressive part of the Terror Museum: the ticket girl. Sexy, efficient, precise and without a trace of human compassion or empathy. She could process our credit cards just as easily as our execution orders and not care about the difference. If not for her young age, I would have assumed she worked for both of the regimes: the Nurse Ratchet of secret police. I can only assume she was the best part of the museum because I don't speak Hungarian. Now, I know that several paragraphs ago I complained about being an American tourist, but for the moment I'm going to act like one. Why aren't there any English labels or signs in this museum? Not on anything? If I was in say, France, I wouldn't expect English labels. Partly because the French are like that and partly because French was once a serious contender for the international language. Lots of people around the world speak it so the French can justify sticking to their own language. But Hungarian? Only 14.5 million people speak the language. That's 0.0022% of the world population. If I could speak Hungarian, I'd volunteer to do the translations for the visually impressive, but incomprehensible museum. The only concession for the rest of the world are information sheets which are scattered seemingly at random throughout the building and which contain an enormous amount of tiny text about the history of Hungary, but precious little related to the museum galleries they are in. The poor Americans gathered armfuls of these papers (not reading any of them) which they carried through the museum and then carefully and quietly deposited in the garbage can outside. No one dared complain to the ticket girl about it. *
* *
In Budapest, my father proved again that he is a man who likes to keep information to himself. This past summer, we were anticipating the death of our dog of 15 years, Scarlet. My mother had already selected the burial site in the yard. But, my father with his pragmatic streak, didn't like the possibility of going to bury Scarlet when it was time only to discover that a boulder blocked the intended site and thus force my mother, at the height of her grief, to select a new location. So he planned ahead. Much of the local economy where my parents live is wine production. It is an industry carried on the backs of a thousand illegal immigrants. My father hired two of these men to dig the grave well in advance of needing it. He didn't tell them they were digging a grave for his dog, oh no, he just asked, `please dig a deep, wide hole here'. When the hole was dug, he checked their work and then, without giving any clarifying information said, ``Thank you. Would you please fill it back up now?'' My mother is driven to madness when my father does things like this. When she asked why he didn't feel the need to tell the Mexicans why they had spent their afternoon digging a hole and then filling it up, he responded, ``I like to keep them guessing.'' This is also the manner in which he handled my presence in Budapest. When I appeared in the morning, joining my father's group for the tour around the city he didn't say, as most people would feel compelled to do, `everyone, I would like you to meet my son'. No, I was not introduced or referred to, though it was clear people were curious. I also didn't introduce myself, partly because I am like my father in this way, but mostly because I could see he got a kick out of walking around with his new, unexplained guest. Only the few brave souls who broke the social norms and asked my father directly for an introduction got an answer regarding my identity. But, to most of the tour group I was a mysterious man in a long black coat shadowing the organizer as we walked around Budapest's grey streets, there one day and gone the next. |
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Copyright © 2004 Wellington Grey  This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.5 License. |
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