Simple Living with Wanda Urbanska

Wanda's Diary Entries

Tuesday, February 23, 2010

When I left the States for Poland last fall, I vowed to see as much of my father’s native land as possible, to spend quality time with family and friends and to learn as much Polish as my middle-aged brain could retain. But I also decided to take advantage of my time in Central Europe to treat my son and me to at least one side trip to a neighboring country.

It’s been a delicious prospect these last few months pondering where to go. The only requirement I set was that the country be new to me (and Henry) and that it be relatively close. I did consider the Baltic republics of Latvia and Lithuania (we’d already done Estonia), which are kindred spirits to Poland. I was curious about Ukraine, also a close neighbor and blood relative to the land of the White Eagle. I’d visited Prague but never set foot in Vienna. While Vienna seemed the logical choice, somehow it seemed too tame and … Western.

Istanbul captivated my fancy for a while but when a travel agent suggested Budapest, I made a snap decision. It fit all my requirements: I’d never been to Hungary; it was relatively close but due south of Poland. During Henry’s mid-term break from school, we might enjoy at least a small respite from the bruising winter.

Budapest. I like the way it sounds. Our friendship with Tamas and Judit Balogh and their three children, native Hungarians, now pillars of the community in Mount Airy, North Carolina, somehow factored in. Before I knew it, I was on line snapping up two round-trip tickets to Budapest and taking advantage of off-season rates to book a hotel room at the Danubius Gellert Hotel.

What a glorious city Budapest is, even submerged in gritty, late February patches of snow, grey skies and drizzly weather. After a day there, I took to calling it Beauti-pest, a grand lady with great bones, antique touches and dignity with age. All the fog added to the effect, creating some mystery, softening the lines.

Our hotel, like the city itself, is an aged beauty, with elegant flourishes fading in places. Every morning from 7 a.m. to 10 a.m., guests enjoy an ample breakfast spread — complete with fresh pastries, juices, eggs, European cold cuts, cheeses, yogurts, fresh and canned fruit. Endless cups of coffee, hot chocolate, tea from silver pots. Each white table was decked out with a fresh cut flower, a white table cloth and a miniature silver trash can. (Culturally, we Americans are used to hiding our trash, and I’d never before seen a tabletop trash receptacle. No doubt, a practical idea, but still, it would take some getting used to.)

On our first morning, we took a table at the windows overlooking the Danube. As luck would have it, Americans were sitting at the next table. (Actually, these may have been the last Americans we saw during our stay; most hotel guests were Scandinavians, Germans, Italians and French.) A delightful woman named Mary was reading out loud from Fodor’s Prague and Budapest guidebook. We struck up a conversation. Mary and her husband, Harry, lived in San Diego and were leaving the next day with their friends, another American couple. They had been on an opera tour to Vienna, Prague and Budapest. Mary recommended a few restaurants and handed me her guidebook. “We don’t need this anymore,” she said.

Published in 2001, this Fodor’s had some age on it, but the basics, like the location of buildings, monuments and museums and the city’s history, still stood. Mary was my kind of person, I thought, squeezing one last use out of an old book like that, then passing it along.

Henry and I got around the city via foot, tram and metro — a metro that sings out operatic notes when it comes to a stop. Laptops and internet communication were strictly verboten. We spent time in the Gellert’s famed thermal baths. We nibbled on apples and pretzels and swam every day with a motley, international group of swimmers, around the cool-watered, colonnaded pool. We read books, watched the Olympics (okay, there was a TV in the room) and, when we ran out of things to do, we played cards.

On Sunday, our last day in Hungary, the skies finally opened and the sun emerged. We took the metro to Heroes Square and enjoyed a remarkable exhibit of classic paintings on loan from the Pushkin Museum in Russia at the Museum of Fine Arts. The show featured Renoir’s “Under the Trees in the Moulin de la Galette,” Degas’ “Dancer posing for a Photographer,” and Picasso’s “Queen Isabeau.” Even Henry, initially reluctant to spend his last afternoon in Budapest in an art museum, was transfixed by the masters.

Budapest was wonderful on so many counts. An escape. A new adventure. Bonding time with my son. It also made me realize how much Polish I knew (which, okay, it’s not much but at least I can read menus and ask directions). When we touched down in Warsaw, our landlady Malgosia was waiting for us. Home again, Henry said. I mean home away from home, he quickly corrected.