Venezia, 19 & 20 August

According to my Lonely Planet guide, "Little matches the beauty, and teeth-grinding frustration, of stunning Venice..." and there cannot be a more apt description.

The idea of Venice has tugged on my Wanderlust for a long time, astounding facts such as her network of 117 islands, some 150 canals and 400 bridges -- not to mention her complete lack of cars -- piquing my interest. Hemingway really did me in, though, with his descriptions of the city's breathtaking beauty, and romantic gondola rides, and the seductive flavor of ruby-red Valpolicella...

So, Venice. La Serenissima...



From the moment of arrival at Santa Lucia train station, she enchanted with her vividness and vitality. For some reason, I had been prepared for a city of cool, polished marble, but Venice is a kaleidoscope of earthy brick and soft pastel pinks, oranges and yellows, all offest by the curious chalkboardy blue-green of her canals. The hordes of tourists and the multitude of souvenir stands peddling innuendo-rich articles of clothing alongside culinary delights like squid-ink pasta and baubles of glittering Venetian glass only add to the bustling liveliness of the city.

While seeing Venice by boat seems the obvious choice, it turns out a gondola ride is ridiculously wallet-breaking, and the city is best discovered on foot. Follow her winding alleys and you will most certainly discover achingly beautiful nooks and crannies, hidden plazas, crumbling walls and statuary, ornate wrought-iron railings on canal bridges, and the inevitable dead-end.







Wandering our way to the famous Piazza San Marco, we stumbled upon a wedding party winding their way through the streets, the radiant bride and groom, hand-in-hand, surrounded by elegantly clad, laughing family and friends. As they passed, onlookers joined the contagious festivities, applauding and cheering the beaming new couple. At the tail-end of the party, an enthusiastic older middle-aged gentleman sang boisterously in a lovely Italian tenor, gesticulating broadly with his tuxedo-clad arms. His tune was occasionally joined by his fellows, and even other passers-by, and we could only assume he was the proud father of the bride, pouring out his joy at the occasion.

The narrow streets opened out to the extraordinary expanse of the Piazza San Marco, lined with long galleries of fantastic Venetian architecture and crowned with the San Marco Basilica. The most astonishing sight, however, was the fact that the piazza itself was covered not only by tourists, but by pigeons. To say there were millions of them would not be an exaggeration. It was pure Hitchcockian nightmare. Apparently one of the trademark activities at the piazza is to buy pigeon food for a euro a bag. People of all ages and walks of life were engaged in the activity, some appearing to be soulfully spiritual as they held out their arms for the greedy, disease-riddled vermin to perch upon.


The wedding party also made its way onto the piazza, and the newlyweds partook of the pigeon-feeding ritual, too. Perhaps it brings good luck? This idea did not make me any more inclined to invest my hard-earned money in increasing the pigeon population of Venice.


Two days flew by remarkably quickly, and we saturated ourselves with the city, the magnificent sights, the constant cacaphony of voices, chattering and singing, laughing, in a mixed whirl of languages. The tastes: the smoothness of Valpolicella, the cold, refreshing sweetness of Limoncello... and of course an obscene amount of delicious, creamy gelato. Two days was enough to feel the pulse of the city, to get an impression... and to leave before frustration reared its ugly head.

Evening in Pécs, 25 July

Rough, time-worn and sun-warmed timbers and gray weathered stone form the bastion that protected the city for centuries and now hosts an incongruously festive atmosphere of various vendors of spirits and snacks.



The raised bridge leading to the bastion's portal overlooks an open-air stage in what was once likely a moat, where a band of indeterminate nationality warms up for a show, blending flute, viollin, guitar, drums, bass, keyboard and vocalists singing strains of perfectly ethereal Irish folk before breaking back into their own incomprehensible tongue (Hungarian? And... French?) to comment on levels. A nondescript middle-aged guy in nondescript T-shirt and shorts tests out his Irish step-dancing shoes, tapping and kicking sporadically in time with the warm-up music.

I lean against the low wall of the bridge, shifting my weight against the rough stone that digs into my palms, waiting for the show to begin. Washed-out blue sky harbours picturesque fluffy white clouds as the sun casts its final glowing rays on red-tiled roofs, bathing everything in that perfect golden light of dusk as it sinks its way behind the green hills of Pécs.



Those hills invite further investigation. We enjoy the decidedly non-spectacular but pleasant performance of the Hungarian Irish folk band as they play and step dance their way through a set of Irish folk standards interspersed with pop and The Cranberries. The juxtaposition of their between-number monologues in Hungarian with their perfect imitation of Irish folk accents while singing is beguilingly puzzling.

And then the hills beckon and we set off in the direction of a distant TV tower high above the city. Rounding the corner, the spires of the cathedral come into view, lit spectacularly in the fading sunlight. I snap impatient photos, eager to climb and reach a vista that will offer a complete sunset panorama.



The narrow street is lined with the type of houses common to hillsides with views, modern and impressive. And selfishly blocking strolling pedestrians from enjoying the view they pay premium prices to closet away in their backyards.





A sign indicates the elusive TV tower can be reached via an even narrower, steeper street cobbled with large, uneven stones, and we continue on in the atmosphere of calming, falling dusk. Snatches of uncomplicated local life add interest to the journey, families unloading groceries, or having murmured conversations on porches. Then we spot a tree laden with deep purple plums, situated invitingly on the street side of a fence surrounding a steep property flanking a house at some disance above it. The plums are sweet and juicy and irresistable and we revert to our anthropoid nature, foraging happily.

A family group makes their way slowly up the hill in our direction, merrily pantomiming the strain of the steep climb and chattering happily with each other. They turn in at the house above our plum tree, obviously the residents here, but just smile and lob a few phrases of Hungarian I don't recognize in our direction as they hike up to their house, clearly unperturbed at our scavenging of their tree. I try to convey my gratitude and enjoyment of their plums, though no appropriate Hungarian phrases enter my brain and I have to resort to grinning broadly.

A fluffy gray cat slinks like a wisp of smoke in our direction, followed by the smiling young matriarch of the family. She seems to be attempting to recover the cat and return it to the house, so I momentarily abandon my plum harvest and join in on heading off the cat so she is able to scoop it up into her arms. She strikes up a very one-sided conversation with me, as I shrug my helpless lack of knowledge of her language. She grins and laughs, shrugging her own lack of English, so we content ourselves with stroking the velvety soft, thick fur of the somewhat perturbed cat while Arlo sagely impresses with his knowledge of the Hungarian word for cat. (cica = tseetsa) Our friendly hostess wanders her way back up to the house as we return to our own steep upward climb.

A paved sidewalk jags off to the right into a tree-filled area that seems more appealing than the continuing suburbia-lined cobbled street, and we climb in this park-like area, still hoping it will open out to present the much-awaited vista of Pécs. But alas, it is not to be -- any possible view is blocked by houses. The hilly forest holds its own charms and beckons further exploration, but the sun has disappeared and the darkness is wrapping its tendrils ever more thickly around the landscape. I consider awaiting the advent of the moon and stars from the vantage point of some inviting star-gazing rocks on the hillside, but the inadvisability of navigating strange streets in a strange city by moon and starlight sinks in and we decide to make our way back down the hill before complete darkness sets in. Our meandering route takes us down a dirt and gravel road through construction sites and into the backyard of an apparently unoccupied house, where we finally get a decent panorama of the city below, though too dark for opportune photos.

Winding our way back into the city, we return to the bastion where the festival is continuing even more full-swing. A Colombian band has the crowd in its rhythmic sway, and I recognize the charismatically cute lead singer and the dark-haired enchantress who sings back-up and mesmerizes with her amazing full-bodied gyrations from the tail-end of their show we had caught two nights(?) previously on the chain bridge in Budapest.

And I am back full circle on the same rough-hewn bridge wall over the ancient moat, enthralled in the sensual pleasures of the intensely rhythmic music provided by a three-man percussion section, and an incredibly amazing funky bass player who would give Flea and Les Claypool a run for their money. And the lovely Claudia, bewitching the audience with her voluptuous vivacity, and the lead singer with his eager, face-splitting grin and soulful voice... losing myself to the beauty and energy and foreignness of the night.

Budapest, 22-24 July

There's something vaguely enigmatic about Budapest, a city claiming over a thousand years of distinctly Hungarian civilization, yet having fallen time and again under the opressive thumbs of various other dynasties: the Ottomans, the Austrians, the Soviets.

Perhaps the best way to understand Budapest is to follow the Danube as it churns muddily on its meandering route, linking the two great capitals of the faded Austro-Hungarian empire.

Vienna flaunts her status as the favoured sister, the one who was always lavished with attention and pretty baubles. Vienna glitters as the prized jewel of culture and marbled grandeur, reflecting the pomposity of the imperial Hapsburg past. Today her monuments gleam with a pristine, brilliance, and she is also awash in the sleek trappings of upper class modernity, shining pedestrian malls of chrome and glass, showcasing expensive designer tastes. Her charming gardens are perfectly manicured and painstakingly well-coiffed.

The train from Vienna to Budapest more or less tracks the lazy route of the Danube, winding east through well-apportioned suburbs and then ridiculously charming Austrian villages and countryside of quaint farms and fields and lustrous green forests, all lining the gently swelling, rolling hills.

By the time thepassport checkers board the train, their evidence of border crossing seems incidental, because the actual border is palpable. The landscape becomes flatter, and gives off a general aura of negligence. Things seem unkempt, dusty. The villages seem a vaguely distored refection of their counterparts over the border, harboring the occasional crumbling wreck in their midst.

The Danube chugs along, now paralleling the train, now a few bends away beyond the scrubby trees, casting its swathe of liquid light in the bleak dustiness. Then the sort of desolate industrial outbuildings that signal the outer limits of a big city, and suddenly Budapest rises up, shrouded in her veil of bleak mystery.

That she always stood in shadow of her favoured sister is evident. She was never quite as sophistcated or naturally gorgeous, perhaps she was even considered a bit homely, a wall flower at the ball, though there is also the impression she cleans up surprisingly well and could be a beauty in her own right.

Perhaps sensing this, the Hapsburgs built the great Buda palace to ornament one of the great hills on the western bank of the Danube and, of course, to showcase their own glory. Ornamental gates with the powerful Hapsburg eagle cast a forbidding shadow down on the river below. Yet the Austrian imperials never pulled themselves away from the spell of Vienna, and never occupied their palace in Buda save for the occasional state visit.


Yet for all of the neglect she suffered at the hands of her Austrian rulers, Budapest was always adored by her own. They remain fiercely loyal, proud and only too happy to boast of the many attractions of their city. They evidence their pride with great monuments such as the Heroes' Square, where likenesses of great kings and leaders of the past gaze scornfully down at visitors ignorant of their roles in the history of their beloved folk.


In the 1890s the people of Budapest built their own showcase palace in a park in the eastern side of the city to commemorate 1000 years of Hungarian culture, and they built the iconic Fisherman's Bastion to share the Buda Castle hill, a beautiful structure of white stone arches and turrets resting on remnants of the original city wall.


The Bastion complements the gorgeous neo-Gothic Matthias Church, which mirrors elements of Vienna's own Stephansdom, such as the mosaic-tiled roof.

But whereas Stephansdom is nestled in the heart of Vienna, hidden away in a ring of other structures, the Matthias Church rises up over the Danube in magnificent spires of glory.

Observing the way the Danube so fetchingly bisects Budapest, one imagines that the spirit of the river resides here, rather than in the more stately and formal capital to the west. The Danube seems to flow more freely in Budapest and flit about more willingly, capturing and reflecting the Budapest skyline by day and adding her twinkiling lights to those of the stars at night.



Budapest may have been second rate for those who preferred to dictate from afar, but those who took the time to get to know her sensed her hidden magic. It's still there today, just below the surface, beyond the guide book packaged sights and multi-lingual bus tours, waiting to be recognized by the traveler willing to look deeper, willing to wander her streets and gaze down at her from her hilly heights, willing to meet her gaze, reflected in the sweep of the mighty, loving Danube.