How
can you ring someone up at seven o'clock on a Sunday morning, even if she is
your own daughter, and all of 24?"That was my father," said Erzsi. "He needs to know what I'm doing, what our programme is for the day." I mentally translated this as the German 'Programm', it felt better. "I told you, now that he's not so happy in his job, he wants to look after his family even more. It's the control thing. His ambition is to grow enough food to feed all the family, all the cousins, everyone. That's how we managed to buy this flat. He's been buying fields gradually, and selling them too. He's done quite well. But my sister and I have had to put some money into it as well."
Erzsi had exams to take that week, so we'd agreed she wouldn't look after me, and I was pleased because I really wanted to learn to find my own way around, follow my nose, and not be worried about finding the 'best' sights. But I also wanted to have an aim and achieve it, without just giving up, as I sometimes do, because I don't want to have to ask - what I call my southern English blight. Of course, this difficulty in asking for the unknown may also be due to being brought up in the orchards of East Kent, where we knew the time of day from the tractors coming into the farmyard below the back drive.
We
ascended Szent Istvan's basilica, and did the best sort of city survey from
the rooftop, all 360 degrees, with photos. By 10.30 I really was on my own,
standing in Deak ter's subway hall, trying to remember which line was orange,
and which number I needed. I was obviously on my first day out, and as warned
by Erzsi, suddenly had two officials in navy-blue either side of me wanting
to see my ticket. No problem, but an interesting security system with no barriers,
just a couple of people in an official colour, but hardly an official uniform,
ready to question anyone they choose. I wonder who they go for, apart from tourists
in shorts, with a map and plastic bag. 
Moskva
Ter was where it should be, on the Buda side of the Duna and to the east of
the Var, or Castle Hill. I was tempted to walk, but it was getting hot, and
the shuttle bus was easy to find with one question and a big gesture. The 'hill'
is a steep escarpment rising straight from the river. Once up there and through
the 'buses only' barrier, the tarmac turned to cobbles, and the sunlight was
broken by the shade of tall trees. I sat on a bench and drank some water. It
was a day for taking the sight-seeing thing gently, and I wasn't sure that I
wanted to get into churches and museums, more to just stroll and get a feel
of it. It was one large tourist haven, from curious little shops and restaurants,
to money making art galleries and the grand scale of the castle.
As
usual, when I first put my foot on the ground, I felt hopelessly disoriented.
It should have been easy to find what part of Buda or Pest I was looking at
from the cliff, but the sun was high and glaring, and I couldn't see the river.
So I wandered the ramparts and strolled the edge, until it was ridiculous. Outside
the Music Museum I firmly took out my map, and regained my sense of direction
and purpose. I needed a cool seat and drink. The new Hilton, with plastic construction
wrapping, diverted me down the cliff gardens, and then I was definitely at the
Fisherman's Bastion, an almost fairy-tale edifice with turrets and winding staircases,
not the old tars' tavern you might imagine. At street level there was a colonnade
with views over the river, suddenly quite close below. The waiters, tables and
multiple visitors all spelt 'tourist trap', but there was cool shade under the
stone roof, and the long curve of metal tables was well spaced. I felt my surprisingly
English urge for a cup of tea, with lemon. My continental urge for a slice of
cake was less well satisfied - well if you go for the view, you can't moan at
shaving cream.
With
determination, I stepped out for the Matthias Church across the square, but
there was a service going on. I was lured in front of the town hall by stalls
of house and garden plants, and began to think of Erzsi's flat. A little greenery
was what was missing, but I couldn't lug one of the tall oleanders around all
day. Inside the building, was an exhibition of children's paintings from all
over the world. These satisfied the art gallery requirement well. Down towards
the palaces proper I met the first musicians: a tall grey-haired man in his
fifties, wearing a white Hungarian shirt, who looked as if he might have had
another career before he ended up with his zither like instrument on the kerb
of the castle road. Two dark-haired men, in brightly embroidered shirts (were
they gypsies?) were playing a lively dance tune (what stereotype encouraged
me to give something to them, and not the one before?), and then, through the
walkway of the centre of the building came the beautiful notes of an oboe, and
a young girl playing in front of a curious fountain. The only other thing that
appealed to me was to search for the entrance to the underground cellars. But
it was either that, or my planned attempt to walk in the Buda hills, so I returned
to Moskva Ter, and a search for the right tram.The first problem was my two sets of instructions, one from Erzsi and the tourist board, the other from the Rough Guide. They were similar but didn't quite tally. And the other one was the names that were so long and such dense combinations of consonants that I didn't know a sound for, that it was very easy to confuse them. Cog wheel railway, and Children's railway - so simple and obvious, but which was which in Hungarian? And the name of the terminal station was there on Erzsi's piece of paper. So I travelled to the end - a bit like travelling out through the suburbs of Wien when we were looking for the wine growing area and restaurants - pleasant houses, leafy suburbs, a valley. At the end there was nothing but a steep grassy slope with a footpath winding up.
It
was too hot to climb it without some good reason. The path looked deliberate,
as if there might be something up there, so I asked two women with a child in
the pushchair. I showed the names on the paper; between us we got one or two
words of English and tried some smiles, and then they gestured me back onto
the tram. So the long name I had passed just two or three stops from Moskva
ter had been more than similar to the one on my paper. I felt foolish travelling
up and down the same tram line, but almost back at Moskva ter the Cogwheel railway
was where it should be. Inside the waiting coach, the red plastic seats were
soon filled up by young lads with helmets and mountain-bikes. There seemed to
be some restriction about which end of the carriage they were allowed to stack
them, so the last in the door resorted to suspending theirs from the ceiling
bar. At least the bikes were a sure sign that the thing was going to go up hill.At the top it was pretty scruffy - dusty grass, signed tracks that let me hope I might be able to walk, trees, picknicking families with cool boxes, and the hoot of the steam train. At the kiosk I asked for a map with the help of a couple of customers, male, in their fifties, who looked as if they might be doing a Sunday hike themselves. Of course, the old rule, 'the closer you are to the walking area, the fewer maps of it you can find', held. So I asked instead how far it was to the highest hill, Janos hegy. Two or three hours didn't sound good, perhaps they were underestimating this female tourist. How many kilometres? Between five and seven...well, with some up and down, but without a map who knows. So I struck out boldly along the sign-posted way, and lost it rapidly. Perhaps a stroll along the railway line would do. The Rough Guide recommended apple strudel at the first railway halt. I crossed the track and road, and decided that the rapid rate of change since 1989 meant the café bar had probably been through several hands since then. Feeling that my aim-achievement rate was falling a little low I set out again more modestly and followed the main path down away from the railway line. I was walking along the end of gardens, allotments, not houses, but it was again family guard dog country. Another turn to the right and I was back at the railway and at the next station. Oh well, I'd walked a bit.
The
railway really was all run by children, anything between about 10 and 14. Some
seemed dead keen on wearing their caps as well as blue uniform and neckerchief,
others hmm, well, just like 13 year olds anywhere. Was this was part of a by-gone
era, just surviving in the world of individual enterprise? But they sold me
postcards, and a ticket. I thought of getting off at the halt for Janos- hegy,
but how about getting back? I'd managed to half understand a lonely timetable
that indicated 16.30 as the last trip. It really had been quite far around the
beechwood hillside, cutting across several small valleys and ridges. As it was
getting on for 4 o'clock it would be most sensible to try and check the times."English? Deutsch?"
"Sprechen
Sie Deutsch?" The children made it clear they needed to fetch someone.
Would there be someone a little older, with a definite answer? But Stefan, or
whoever he was, was only about twelve, and utterly at a loss at being put in
the position of German speaker. I looked anxiously at the train that was arriving.I tried again, "Der letzter Zug, wann fahrt er?" I pointed at my watch and the train. "Ist dieser der letzter Zug?" Was it kindness to him or to myself that I gave up, and stepped on? And once on, I hadn't the change for a ticket back. Did I need one? I showed the boy what I'd got. I had the feeling news had travelled rapidly between station kids and train kids, as they left me be.
At least Erzsi was encouraging, and told me that I'd managed to do what I'd set out to do, the Var, the Cog railway, and the Children's railway. "I'm very impressed. It's not easy when you don't know the language and can't even read the names properly. You got there - I wasn't sure you would." But it did feel rather like my lunch time croissant, bought at a sandwich bar - egg salad, when I'm sure I asked for cheese.
