Apres-Bike

Dali Would Have Loved It

We decided to do the proper tourist thing and went on a half-day city tour. The guide was a tiny old, feisty woman who sat and, in a seamless monologue, rattled off facts, comments, opinions, instructions to the driver, jokes and observations in English and German, switching without warning or pause between the two languages. A tourist attraction in her own right!

The sun finally shone and never left us for the rest of the trip: hot, sunny mornings and warm evenings. Budapest is a romantic city, the buildings are predominantly art nouveau with exuberant carvings of sensuous bodies on their facades. The statues in Heroes’ Hill had fiercely staring eyes, aquiline noses and flaring nostrils. A noble, romantic look. There were many formerly beautiful buildings in a state of disrepair but just as many being renovated or already so. In 5 to 10 years, Budapest will be spectacular. Right now, the sense of a faded glory adds to its romance. Romance that has to peep out from under unending graffiti and is almost, but not quite, erased by the frowning, bad-tempered faces of its inhabitants.

We had coffee in a Gothic-style castle overlooking the Houses of Parliament, the second largest in Europe and imitative of the English one, serenaded again by musicians playing the Hungarian rhapsody. We strolled down Castle Hill. It is supposed to be prime residential property but we could not see any evidence of it yet, although there was much construction and a billboard promising condominiums soon.

We were not going to be deprived of the hot bath experience, despite our disappointment in Gellert's, since this is one of the things Budapest is famous for. The natural hot springs under the city were discovered and tapped by the Turks and for centuries they enjoyed them in baths which they built all over the city. There was a Turkish-style bath but, unfortunately, it was open only to men. So instead we went to Lukacs, which sounded inviting because it had indoor and outdoor pools. The building had the look and feel of a sanatorium but it was much more welcoming than Gellert’s, with a proper entrance pavilion surrounded by gardens. And the people were definitely more friendly. We were disappointed that we could not have a mud bath unless we presented a medical certificate, proving that these spas were of a medicinal nature, not for mere beauty and pampering. Well, once inside, it proved even more hospital-like. There were tiled corridors and white-uniformed, hefty matrons, impersonal and with more of a bureaucratic attitude than the attentive, smiling service we were used to expect. We changed in the utilitarian locker-room and then trooped off – uncomfortably bare-footed – to the baths. The first one, a pleasantly warm one, was full of overweight matrons. Then, through a curved archway to a small round pool with very hot water – I had to ease myself in little by little. Further on was a big pool with pleasantly warm water. Immersed neck-deep in the water were several men. The pool was dotted with their bearded, moustachioed heads sticking out of the water, all staring at me balefully. I felt I was in a Felllini movie or a Dali painting.

Nearby was the sauna room, which I had always been told I should never enter, since I have low blood pressure. Of course not, my doctor companions averred and they declared it safe, with the caution not to stay in for more than a minute or two. I entered, still asking myself why, coming from sweaty Manila, I would want to sweat even more in Hungary. The steam and heat pressed against my nose so that I found it hard to breathe at first but then it was bearable. Once refreshed in the pool with the floating heads, we decided to do what I’d heard crazy Scandinavians do: go from intense heat and plunge into intense cold. Beside the sauna was a small deep pool set at 60 degrees. I had dipped my feet in earlier but couldn’t bring myself to lower myself in. But – such was the surreal effect of that underground wonderland – I endured the steamy heat for a second time and then, with Charo and Myrna, rushed out (so as not to allow hesitation to take over) and jumped into the freezing water. Wow! What a delicious shock to the senses. I didn’t climb out immediately but dunked my head in several times, actually enjoying the cold. And what a wonderful refreshed feeling when I climbed out of that icy water! We repeated the experience several times until the floating heads tired of staring at us.

Ready for the next sensation. We found the outdoor pool. It looked very inviting. On one side, there was an artificial current that swept you around in a wide circle – not too gentle, either, because it turned me head over heels in the water. On the other side was a large waterfall with on one side a wall that “masssaged” you with water that gushed up from the bottom and erupted in lots of foaming bubbles. These “eruptions” were scattered all around the pool but were concentrated on the left wall, where there were little platforms and handles so one could lean back and brace oneself against the pushing water. The platforms were all occupied with frowning Hungarians, surrounded with playful, ticklish, laughing bubbles. The whole pool should have been ringing with giggles and laughter and oooohs and wheeeees but it was very quiet, while everyone looked deadly serious about getting the maximum health benefits. It was a sanatorium, I had to remind myself, and a former Communist, Eastern European one, at that. The attendants were unsmiling and indifferent, and were more like functionaries in a Communist bureaucracy. And despite the hospital-like tile-lined corridors and the white-coated attendants, it was not very clean. Nevertheless, it was a wonderful experience and great fun, made all the more so by the weird characters.

That night, we had dinner in a trendy (according to Lonely Planet) night spot in a pedestrian area near Andrasy Street. Everyone was pleased with their food but I was ecstatic over mine! Goose liver yet again, but this time unadorned with steak or chicken. Three round fat slabs were set before me, about 3 inches in diameter and 1/2-inch thick. The scandalized and disapproving ooooohs from my companions didn’t make a dent on my utter delight. I even took a picture of the plate for posterity! I was very pleased that my polite offer for a taste was flatly refused all around. The recommended accompaniment was a glass of Tokaji but I found it too syrupy sweet and remembered with longing the sparkling sauterne that was served me in the Loire Valley to accompany my foie gras.

We slept well that night, body well-exercised and toned, taste buds satisfied to the utmost – cholesterol be damned!