At 5oclock in the morning, which is terribly early when you have been not sleeping on a bus all night and it is very cold and you are in an unfamiliar city where they speak a harsh and gutteral foreign tongue, we arrived in Budapest. It was cold, very cold, and we had no idea where we were, or how to get to our hostel, or whether we would be able to get in at this hour. We were tired from a long, bumpy ride, and our bags weighed heavily on our shoulders, and it seemed hard to feel the spark of adventure burning within our frozen bodies. So we curled up on a bench in the bus station and waited, reading, shuddering whenever the door opened to admit a gust of freezing Hungarian air. We were not wallowing in self-pity, as you might imagine, simply waiting for light. And sure enough, within an hour the sky grew lighter, and we rose, with the vivacity and strength that a new dawn can give you, re-energized by stories of greater suffering (which we found within the pages of our various books), and set off. Of course the journey, along a clattering metro (the second-oldest in Europe, it really shows) and then through cold windswept empty streets, was not all that difficult, but we were releived when we pushed open the heavy wooden door of our new hostel, and crawled up the wide stone staircase of an impressive old building, and stumbled gratefully into the front-room of the hostel. We were welcomed by a bleary eyed night-shift concierge and were grateful for warmth and a place to set down our bags. Within a couple hours the place was alive with activity, as people woke up and helped themselves to complimentary bowls of chocolatey cereal (nothing live it to revive you). We settled into our new room and threw ourselves out into the streets.

Our first day in Budapest we spent simply getting the lay of the land. The city is divided into two halves (Buda, and Pest) and we lived on the Pest side. We crossed a bridge and wandered to the top of a mighty cliff that overlooks the city. It was a good place to start. First we saw the citadel (a relic of WWII militarization) and the various memorials (including a glorious statue of an angel holding aloft a golden garland) and statues of angels locked in combat with demons. But then we looked out, from the peak of the hill with snowy paths and trees winding below us, over the city. Though not as picturesque, colorful, and copper-clad as Prague, it is a city with a mighty sense of presence and a serious history. It has identity. The history includes Roman conquest, Mongol invasion, Turkish colonization, Islamic religious domination, and Christian re-domination. Then of course there is the combination of the two cities, forming a vast metropolis that is very bright and awe-inspiring and not at all a relic of an archaic past (save for the beautiful statues that litter the streets with character). So, looking out, we have at once a sense of place. We walk down the hill, past a mighty copper statue of Matthais, a past king of unknown story but palpable glory, the subject of dozens of paintings, sculptures, and memorials. Then we set out to Buda Castle, a dominating palace set overlooking the whole city. We explore some of the outskirts, including an abandoned courtyard and quiet, wintry walkways. Then we go down to the front of castle, promising to return at a later day, and cross the Chain Bridge. It is an older, smaller, more artistic Brooklyn Bridge, with mighty towers and flowing arcs of suspension. It is covered everywhere with lions, mouths agape. It is the famous first bridge that crossed the Danube river, which is itself a mighty flowing beast utterly unlike the docile Seine or the impervious Thames. The Danube is a real force, a wide, powerful channel that cleaves the city masterfully in two. On the far side of the river we are greeted by bright lights and glittering buildings with heaps of gold leaf. We pose next to statues (of a fat policeman, or a little nymph) and wander through the streets, struggling to get a sense of place. We go to St. Stephens Basilica, the huge and glorious centerpiece of the city. It is bedecked with gold in an attempt to out-do any cathedral we have yet scene, and it certainly does the job of inspiring awe. We see the disgusting shriveled hand of a saint, a rather disgusting, and yet beloved religious relic. And as we are leaving the cathedral we hear clear crystaline voices billow through the air, and fly among the high-vaulted pillars. It is a small choir, singing informally and apparently for their own pleasure and sense of reverence. They sing Ave Maria, Adeste Fideles, and a beautiful Amen. It simply adds to the glory of this awe-inspiring cathedral. From St. Stephens we hike up the main street, Andrassy Avenue, which is lined with important buildings, the Opera House, and various expensive shops. As we get farther up, the buildings fade away and the wide avenue is lined with bare-branched trees. Snow falls in delicate flurries as march onward, arriving at Heroes Square, another beautifully memorialized spot, with Grecian columns and heroic statues. It is all vivid and awe-inspiring, though much of the meaning is lost on us, ignorant as we are of history. We walk through the City Park as the weather clears, past another castle (this one finer and less grand, with beautifully opulent curls of stone and color). We arrive at a statues famously carved by Anonymous and depicting Anonymous. A massive cloaked figure lies across a vast thrown, gazing darkly from under a hooded brow. He holds a pen loosely in the fingers of his left hand. He is haunting and mysterious and, we find later, an inspiration for various writers and poets. We walk out of the park, arriving at the Museum of Fine Arts. We enter, thrilled to be able to explore it's vast collection for only two euros, and walk in awe through endless empty halls. The highlights are two pieces by Rodin, one in bronze called The Brazen Age, and another called Eternal Spring, a piece that makes your heart want to overflow. It is carved roughly from grainy white marble, and is left largely unfinished. It shows two lovers locked in fierce embrace, passionately kept within an eternal twilight of romance. Their bodies are indistinct, and the incomplete carving does not seperate them from one another, their bodies are left blending into one another. The rest of the exhibition is variously entrancing, and we leave with the intense satisfaction of knowing that every city in the world has a museum worth going to, all perhaps for different reasons and in different styles, but each paying essential homage to art.

Later, we go out for a beer and find a great little pub that is clearly a local place. Though it is full of light and laughter, they fall silent when we enter. They are apparently unused to strangers. But, the shock gone, they pour two generous pints in vast flagons and we sit upstairs listening to laughter drifting up and relaxing happily. We wander back to the hostel and cook ourselves a vast dinner of improvised Goulash/Chili/Soup in a bread bowl. It is delicious, but there is too much bread. We make friends with the girl who works the desk at the hostel. Drained of energy by a long day exploring in the fierce cold, we fall asleep early.