Pécs

“Max, you are a bridge,” said Tibor, as we stood in a small country road, Mike taking pictures of the fields that sprawled out towards the lowering sun.  “I am very glad to know you.”  He meant that I was a connection— a bridge between families, across borders, and even generations.  I had never met him before yesterday–indeed, had barely heard of him.  Now, Mike and I were staying with my uncle and his family in their house on the hill above the town where my grandfather was born.

That afternoon, Tibor had taken us out to the countryside to see the farmhouse he and his family had been building for over ten years.  It was quite incredible— to see the wooden bones of the house, hewn from trees Tibor himself had found and chopped down and sanded, and the walls made of mud bricks that the entire family had made by hand, and laid themselves.  Tibor had pointed out where everything would be— where the kitchen and the washrooms stood yet as ghosts amidst the raw timber and emptiness, where the bedrooms would be, and who would sleep where; there was even going to be a loft for baling hay, for there would be horses, too.

As we had stood there, in the half-finished home that had taken ten years to build, and would, he told us, take at least another ten years to complete, Tibor motioned to everything around us and said, “This is my dream.”  It was hard not to get a little swept up by it; a rustic retreat built together by a family— something they could say was truly theirs, down to the very bricks.  I imagined the summer months they had sweated away here, saw the homemade crucifix of twigs latched together over a humble makeshift table where they must have taken their supper.

I looked out the back, where the open-air portico surveyed a wide hill of endless golden grass.  Tibor had explained that he could have taken what money they have and divided it seven ways (!) amongst all the kids, but that it would not have been enough to even buy a flat.  Putting that money into building the farmhouse, however— this was a team-building exercise.  A family-building exercise.  Something that all the children could enjoy long after it was completed.  Something solid, to be held with the hands.

As we drove back to Pécs, I couldn’t help but reflect on what this man had accomplished, and my own childish obsession with immortality.  What did any of that really mean, next to building something with your hands, and having a great, adoring family, and being a good man?

Tibor told us he thought the “modern world” was unstable, and that in a couple generations it will be gone, and that is why we must learn practical things, such as how to work with our hands.  While I’m not sure I agree with his socio-cultural forecast, I was still greatly awed by what he and his family had built, and I think there is an undeniable immortal value to being able to work with your hands.  And, after all, wasn’t the pride he had from building that house and seeing his family bond while doing it just as great, if not greater, than the pride one would get from releasing a best-selling album or novel?  And wasn’t the product more tangible and long-lasting?  More meaningful?

It made me a little sad, though, to realize that, whatever the merits of this epiphany, it would not change my mind.  That I would never build a house.

Urban Crime Fighting in Budapest

Branches whipped past my face as I ran, the utter darkness of the thick underbrush illuminated only by my cell phone's flashlight, which caught Barnus' legs running ahead of me as we chased the thief.  For a moment, I thought, "Is this dangerous?"  Then, "Nah, what am I saying? There are three of us.  We could beat the shit out of him!"

We had walked up Hero’s hill to see the Liberty Monument, andtake in the views of the city at night. The walk had been very pleasant, getting to know my second cousinsAnna, Orsi, and Kristof, and their friends Peter and Barnus, who, as the bestEnglish speaker, was our de facto tour guide for the evening.

Kristof and Peter

Barnus historizes

Budapest was spectacular by night, allilluminated building fronts of ornate stonework and lights and bridges over thewater.  The view fromthe hill was beautiful, the lights glimmering and wavering in the distance,playing on the waters of the Danube. Black and gold.  We sat on a benchthat overlooked the city and drank Soproni, which Barnus proudly informed us was brewed in his hometown of Sopron.

We had begun towalk down the hill back home, Barnus revelling in regaling us with the history of the city, when suddenly, Mike pointed outthat Kristof no longer had his camera.  His super expensive camera.  Kristof turned white and stopped dead, then turned and bolted at asprint back up the hill.

We sat in tensesilence for several minutes.  “Well,” Ithought, “this will be a superawkward way to start our stay in Budapest...”

I hardly noticedthe man walk past us on the path.  Barnus, however, noticed he was carryinga camera bag, and called out to him.  “Excuse me, is that your camera?  Our friend just lost his and it was in a bagjust like that.”  But the man paid him nomind and continued walking, looking straight ahead.  Barnus called out again.  “Hey!” At this point, I looked over and it was clear something was wrong.  Barnus tried again, but the man remainedsilent, and continued briskly along.

“Hey!” Barnus called to us in English, “call the police!”  By now, Barnus was trying to keep up withthe man, and Mike and I had begun to walk after them.  The girls scrabbled for their phones, and suddenly, the man broke off into a run,darting off the walking path and into the brush.

Instinctively,we sprinted after him.  We could barely see where we were going in the blackness as we chased him through the trees.  It felt like The Blair Witch Project, but with less snot.  We choused himout of the bush and back onto the trail, where we were lucky to happen uponsome guys drinking beneath the path light.  We had him cornered.

He was pissed.

At length, he begrudgingly handed us the camera to inspect, at which point he quite casually strolledoff into the darkness of a wind in the trail.  Kristofarrived, and saw that everything was intact, and we all heaved a collectivesigh of relief.  “It’s at times like thisthat I cannot accept that God doesn’t exist!” Barnus exclaimed.

I certainlycould not deny the providence of our nimble thief’s timing in coming down thehill with the camera, or Barnus’ incredibly sharp eye in noticing the bag.  “There are over twenty ways down the hill,”Barnus explained.  “And for him to havechosen this path?  No comment!” he smiled.  At this point, the girls cancelled their police call, only to realize they had accidentally requested the fire department instead.

Budapest is a city with a fractious relationship to the past.  On the one hand, there are the elegant Old World stone buildings; on the other, there are many numerous bullet-riddled and decrepit buildings from WorldWar II, and the communist-era subways, which looking like ye olde steel lunch pails and which skitter loudly and unconvincingly to a stop in the fallout-bunker subway stations; it's a city full of university students, yet many of them are dressed as if they’ve just awoken from a coma that began in the1940’s.

Appropriate, then, that this was the place where I came to face my own somewhat fractious relationship with my own past.  Getting to know relatives I had never met, or even heard about before.  They were possibly the nicest people I've ever met, and it was a humbling experience to receive such kind-hearted generosity.  It was another experience that reinforced the idea of the inherent good of people.  You know, besides the camera thief.

One night, as we walked through the park, a homeless man grumbled something to us.  "What did he say?" I asked Orsi.
"Oh, he said, 'Welcome,'" she explained.  "Which makes sense," she said, motioning to the park, "since we are in his home."  Yeah.  We're definitely related.

And I was about to get more family education, since my cousins' father Tibor was insistent that Mike and I visit the family home in the small town of Pécs, a couple hours south of Budapest...