Széchenyi Fürdő: A Hungarian Bath Experience, Part 1

 

Thermal baths.

I looked up from the Budapest thermal baths’ website and rolled the idea around in my mind, already filled with horrible images of clothing-optional areas and the foot fungus I’d potentially contract from sharing the wet, bacteria-breeding bath floors, not to mention the fact that this required me to wear a bathing suit in public.

“Nope,” I quickly decided. “Not for me. Maybe I’ll just get a massage or something…” I immediately retracted my statement when I found out that my American modesty was no match for the Hungarians’ lack thereof on the massage table.

Still, it seemed like I was being urged left and right to go. “Oh, you’re going to Budapest? You must visit the baths and the ruin bars. So cool.” I smiled weakly, still imagining the anti-fungal creams I’d be soon purchasing at the pharmacy. Soon it became a non-question. My trepidations stood against the enthusiasm of the others, a David vs. Goliath where Goliath won. Like it or not, we were going, foot fungus and all.

A few days later I begrudgingly packed my bag for the baths, slumping around and dropping each item, flip-flops, sunblock, towel, bathing suit, in slow motion into the bag. I was not especially looking forward to the changing rooms, after reading a particularly harrowing experience involving old women and the lack of a private changing room. I played out all the worst case scenarios in my head as I ticked away stop after stop on the subway, whose somber, industrial screechings stood in as the soundtrack to my impending doom. (Was I being too dramatic? Let’s not answer that…)

The train jerked to a halt and spewed garbled Hungarian, indicating the stop. Listening for something that resembled “Széchenyi Fürdő” (the Széchenyi baths), I was unsatisfied with what sounded like “shechosngoidgiu-do” and looked out into the station. Yes, this was it. I took a breath and stepped off the train, bravely, walking my plank.

For 3,550 florints (or the equivalent of 10 euro…or the equivalent of $15 USD), I was handed a clothes hanger and a plastic watch-like apparatus that resembled one I may have gotten as a child. I marched into the changing rooms, prepared for the worst, but when I saw separate, private changing rooms, the waters of my fear receded a bit. Whew.

I placed my things in a locker and used the watch to lock it, by pressing it on and into a button on the locker. “Fancy,” I thought to myself. Things were already looking up.

I rejoined my friend, and we set off to find our other friends, located somewhere in the labyrinth of the baths.

…to be continued

The Belgian Gaufre

 

The sky was grey and threatening, smothering smiles and casting a haze over the landscape. It was our first day in Brussels. I adjusted the straps on my purse, aware of the pressure cutting into my shoulder. “Wanna get a waffle or something?”

We had been walking all through Brussels on an empty stomach, since our arrival hours before. Our hollow stomachs, coupled with the overcast skies, contributed to our listless trudging and general annoyance with the world. Getting waffles seemed like the appropriate thing to do, as we were in desperate need of a pick-me-up.

We located a vendor packed with locals and took our place in line. (At this point I was regretting not taking French in high school, as everyone around us chatted comfortably in French.) I reached the counter and, determined to use what rudimentary French knowledge I had, I stammered, “Un gaufre vanille,” not sure if that was even remotely correct. It seemed to be close enough, as the woman behind the counter demanded two euro in payment. I took the receipt she gave me and headed around the corner to the counter around which the mass of people were huddling, vying to hand their receipts to the workers, like traders on the floor.

I stood in the mass timidly, observing the locals before I embarrassed myself, and when I was ready, I confidently handed the woman my receipt, nodded when she said, “Vanille?” and held out my hands to receive the steaming waffle, fresh from “oven” and wrapped in a sturdy triangle of paper.

 

 

Though I’d been warned it was hot, I took a nibble from the corner anyway. I found it rich, yeasty, and filled with pockets of sweet sugar. I didn’t want it to end.

It was unlike any waffle I’d had before, a far cry from the two Ego waffles I used to pop in the toaster every morning before grade school. The smell was thick and syrupy as it swirled up from the waffle in the crisp air.

And bite after savored bite, it was gone.

Guess I’ll just have to return.

What’s the Same? Amsterdam vs. Brussels

 

You know those pictures, where they print the original picture next to a doctored one and you must count the number of ways the doctored picture has been changed? (Please say yes.)

Yes? Great. Then let’s play a little game, with a twist.

 

What’s the same between these four photos?

 

Exhibit 1a

 

 

Exhibit 1b.

 

Exhibit 1c.

 

Exhibit 1d.

 

If you said, “iamsterdam,” then you’ve probably been told you’re “Captain Obvious” multiple times.

 

Let’s try one more before the answer.

 

What’s the same between these three photos (this one’s slightly easier)?

 

Exhibit 2a.

 

Exhibit 2b.

 

Exhibit 2c.

 

Did you catch it?

Take a look at the answers:

 

Answer 1

 

Answer 2

 

The pictures in both Amsterdam and Brussels were taken in the timespan of 20 minutes, yet the same people are in the picture. Granted, both art pieces are rather touristy, but I just wanted a picture with out any obstructions (or photobombs, depending on how you look at it, haha).

Let’s delve a bit deeper into the stories behind the pictures:

Amsterdam, 11:32 am

“Hey, there are the ‘iamsterdam’ letters! Let’s take a quick picture while no one’s there.” I looked around. Peace and quiet. Perfect. We scuttled over to the sculpture, and just as I was casually posing near the “i,” I heard a low rumble. As the rumbling grew louder and changed into the eager excitement of tourists, I squinted in the sun and saw a massive crowd heading towards the sign, like a tsunami wave. I tried to wave on my friend to take the picture, but the wave was just too powerful, quickly overtaking the sculpture.

I jumped away from the sculpture just in time, as the masses were crawling over every imaginable part of it. “Oh well, I’ll just try to get a picture of the whole word,” I said dejectedly. So I waited. And waited. And waited. Just when I thought someone was done taking a picture, they would run back to the camera, check it to make sure they looked good, and run back to do the whole photoshoot over again. Like the moles in Whack-a-Mole game, people were popping in and out of the holes of the letters.

So I gave up and embraced the random strangers in my photographs. Readers, meet Mr. Backpack and Sunglasses (let’s call him “Randy”), found in exhibits 1a and 1d. Favorite activities include sunbathing and sitting cross-legged on large art-sculptures. Not to be missed is Miss Timid (let’s go with “Sandy,” for congruity purposes), found in exhibits 1b and 1c. Favorite activities include, well, actually, she just tries to blend in.

 

Brussels, 12:10 pm

“Woah, cool, letters just like in Amsterdam!” I was secretly pleased because “welcome” contains a “c” (the first letter in “Claire”), making the perfect photo opportunity (is that hypocritical?). This time I was determined to get a clean photo, i.e. no random people. I stood back, camera at the ready, waiting to snap a picture just as the last person was out of view. Unfortunately, my earnest efforts were thwarted by the even more earnest efforts of Miss Red Backpack, whose mission it was to deeply document each letter.

But the good of all of this?

She wasn’t interested in the letter “c” for long:

 

 

 

Has something similar ever happened to you?

 

 

 

A Strudel to Remember

 

Czech Strudel

 

Sprawled out on the floor, school uniform still on, eyes captivated by the television. Scenes from Rick Steves, Samantha Brown, or nearly any program on The Travel Channel burned in my memory. A typical after-school routine in grade school that laid memories, all nestled up and waiting for the opportune moment to emerge.

Fast forward 15ish years. A small comment left somewhere on the Internet. One of those memories, yawns, stretches out, and stumbles out of its nest, jostling a few other memories in the process. The light bulb goes off in my head, making the connection between the episode I had watched so long ago and my current trip planning, as my little memory stands impatiently tapping its foot, annoyed with the relatively laborious process it took for me to realize this.

“Of course, I have seen this episode before,” I thought, as a vivid picture came into my head. It was shot from the right hand side, the host smiling and handing money through a tiny window with iron bars guarding the top. A few moments later, a very long, steaming hot strudel emerged. The host smiled, showed the strudel to the camera, and took a bite, leaving the viewer eager to see his reaction. Eyes closed, head nodding, the host confirms the deliciousness.

My memory had failed in keeping close the vital information of where that strudel window was located, but the rogue Internet comment filled the last piece of the puzzle. Of course. In Prague.

*****

“Are you sure about this?”

I had dragged my friends through two trams switches, deep into the suburbs of Prague. It was obvious that we were no longer in the touristy section: stern and unsmiling Czechs stood rigidly, waiting for the tram. I noticed they all seemed to be looking with disapproval at my shoes. I looked down at nude-colored flats I was wearing, adorned with a bow, and without hesitation, decided they were fine. The Czechs would just have to deal with it.

We walked up the quiet and sad street, the grey and worn walls reflecting the precipitating sky above. There was no sign of a strudel shop, only many-storied residences with the wash hung out to dry.

I gave a little laugh, nervously. “Of course, guys, it’ll be just up here on the left.” I tried to sound more confident than I felt; my fingers were crossed.

We crossed the street and suddenly, there it was. If there were ever a hole-in-the-wall strudel shop, this was it. The image in front of me matched the image in my brain perfectly, like tracing paper over an image. The bars over the window, the tiny hole for your money, the scent of sweet and yeasty perfume permeating the air.

 

The menu (N.B. this was not my knight in shining armor, haha)

 

“So, I’m buying. What kind do you want?” I motioned the others to the menu, handwritten with white chalk on a blackboard. I knew they offered three varieties: poppyseed, quark (cheese), and apple. But the question was, which was which?

 

“jablečný”  ”tvarohový”   “makový”

 

I decided “makový” was “poppyseed”, as it bore similarity to “mohne” the German word for poppyseed. As for the other two, I couldn’t deduce anything other than “jablečný” kind of looked like “apple.” And by the process of elimination, “tvarohový” became “quark.” I decided to take a gamble, as I would have enjoyed any of the flavors.

“What are you having?” I turned to the others inquisitively.

“Apple, please, but I don’t know if I can eat the whole thing.” Hastily, we assured her we’d gladly finish her portion for her.

“I guess I’ll take apple as well.”

Having already decided on poppyseed, I stalled a bit on ordering, as I had no idea how to pronounce them. My very limited Czech consisted of prosím (please), děkuji (thank you), promiňte (excuse me), and není zač (you’re welcome), none of which were helpful at the moment.

My knight in shining armor arrived not a moment too soon, to rescue me from certain embarrassment. He was close to my age, and had been waiting behind us, most likely  shaking his head at the ensuing production. I gave a little wave of my hand to let him know he could go ahead, secretly smiling on the inside for my good fortune. I watched him order and saw the relatively simple process. I’d just have to bite the bullet.

I walked up to the window and rested my hands on the ledge. “Ahem, um, one makový and two jablečný.” I held up my fingers to indicate the number, burning with embarrassment at the fact that I could not say the numbers in Czech. The man behind the window said nothing, but reached  for the strudel resting on sheet pans.

The inside of the shop was barley wide enough for the man to turn around in, between the counters that flanked either side of the shop. It was spotless inside, save for the dusting of flour and powdered sugar.

He pulled one strudel off the tray, and, with a quick flick of the wrist, spattered the top of the strudel like a Jason Pollock painting. A few origami folds and two deft twists of the brown wrapping paper later, he handed it to me with a gruff, “makový.” He repeated the process with the two remaining strudel and grunted what I could only imagine to be the price. I handed him 200 koruna, took the change, and attempted a děkuji (thank you).

 

The skillfully wrapped strudel

 

Still hot, the wrapped strudel was as long as my forearm. We each took the strudel in our hands, cradling it like a child. My knight in shining armor, with a bite in his strudel, turned to us and said with a wink, “Of course you can eat a whole one!” He smiled and went on his way, leaving us with our own prizes. I laughed a bit in my head. “He knew English,” I thought. “We must have given him a good laugh, then.”

But the strudel was waiting.

“Ready?”

 

 

We eagerly unwrapped the packages, revealing the crispy yet tender pastry. The first bite revealed an inside plump with poppyseed paste, and a slight taste of sweet almonds. I had guessed right. I looked to the others, hoping that I had struck gold twice. They shifted the ends of their strudels towards me: apple. I smiled, revealing poppyseeds that had wedged their way in between my teeth.

“Was this worth it or what?”

 

Brussels on Parade

Brussels – 1:33 pm, February 2011, undisclosed city location*

 

City Planner 1: “Boys, we need some kind of catchy program for Brussels next season. I’m pretty sure when people think of Brussels, only the sprouts come to mind.”

City Planner 2: “Yeah, true. I mean, I don’t even like Brussels sprouts, so I can totally see how people would turn up their noses.”

City Planner 1: “Maybe we should promote the gourmet side of Brussels…you know, all those fancy restaurants we have.”

City Planner 3: “Hmmm…yeah, totally man. I could see this going somewhere. We’ll get the restaurants to organize special menus and stuff.”

City Planner 2: “We should do some cool cultural events, too.”

City Planner 1: “Yeah. Francois, why don’t you get on that and report back tomorrow.”

City Planner 2: “Okay, boss. Tomorrow, same place, same time?”

City Planner 1: “Great, now go get busy.”

City Planner 3: “Peace out, guys.”

 

*****

Brussels – The next day, same time, same place

 

City Planner 1: “So, Francois, what did you come up with?”

City Planner 2: “Thrilling idea. May I direct your attention to this photo?”

 

(source)

 

City Planner 1: “This appears to be a large, painted bovine. I see exactly how this fits in with Brussels! Not.”

City Planner 2: “Oh, but just take a look a few more pictures, sir.”

 

(source)

 

(source)

 

(source)

 

City Planner 1: “Francois, these are simply atrocious. A cow wearing heart boxers? A green two-headed cow? A personified cow wearing sunglasses, a  Tommy Bahama shirt, and a  rucksack? Please tell me your grand plan for all of this.”

City Planner 3: “Yeah man, these are a little weird.”

City Planner 2: “The concept was born in Zurich with lion statues, but took off in Chicago with cows. It was such a hit with locals and tourists alike that other cities adopted it.”

City Planner 3: “So there were like, random cow statues all over the place? Weird, man.”

City Planner 2: “Well, sort of. Local artists painted the cows, which was a boost for the local economy. I was thinking we could do the same thing.”

City Planner 1: “Cows have absolutely nothing to do with Brussels.”

City Planner 2: “Right. I was thinking we could do…food.”

City Planner 1: “Food?”

City Planner 2 : “Yeah. Statues of food.”

City Planner 3: “Hey man, I kind of like that. Food, yeah…yeah.”

City Planner 2: “Right. So, what do you say to fries, mussels, and chocolate?”

City Planner 3: “And don’t forget the Brussels sprouts.”

City Planner 2: “We can spread them throughout the city as a scavenger hunt!”

City Planner 1: “Francois, you’re a good man. I knew you were on to something. Agreed! Now get to work.”

 

*****

Brussels – One year later, fruits of his labor realized

 

Frites, anyone?

 

Shoes!

 

"Lighthouse" Brussels Sprout

 

 

 

Belgian Chocolate

 

"Newspaper" Brussels Sprout

 

Close up and personal

 

Mussel

 

She's a beauty queen, ain't she?

 

I love chocolate

 

Pop, soda, milkshake...take your pick.

 

*Apologies to the real city planners of Brussels. I’m 100% positive this is not the exact way it went down. Close, maybe…

Have you experienced any of these “cultural phenomenon” around the world?