Buda-Lovin’-Pest: In which I am the princess.
Budapest in spring wakes you a like a lover, one finger of sunlight dragged down a sleep warmed cheek, a sigh of lilac breath in your ear, and the rush of joy at waking full of excitement for what is new; and yet, deeply at home.
The Danube, everywhere I have encountered her, has danced; the Viennese waltz gives way to a Hungarian Csardas in the capital city. An elaborate labyrinth of interwoven shapes and moods. Boot heels making time while wooden flutes weave the melody between crinolined skirts whirling the air that ruffles the downy feathers on black felt hats shading the echoes of history. The water, rushing around the thick ankles of the stone bridge that connects Margaret Island to both Buda and Pest, swirls and dances to the music remembered from an unbroken past.
The city was reduced to rubble at the end of the last great war as recompense for her unholy and eager alliance with the dark power of Nazi Germany; like an impoverished young woman compromising her principles for promise of wealth and power. Budapest paid the price in her body, but ultimately in her soul. Nonetheless, her daughters have risen from their mother’s ashes reflecting her lost beauty and the echo of her pain around every corner. The city’s breathtaking Baroque past smiles like a doting grandmother on the languorous avenues and sycamore shaded parks, fairytale castles and green spaces painted with tulips and pansies, as if by the hand of Karoly Lotz himself, hope incarnate.
Budapest surprised me.
From the sunset atop Gellet Hill, enjoyed with my eyes but conscious of the sting in my feet, bleeding blisters seeping into my socks from over thirty miles walked in just two short days, to the heart soothing soak in thermal baths. Built in the early 1900s they no doubt warmed the weary souls and aching bodies of the generations that weathered the seemingly endless conflict, destruction, and reconstruction that characterized the first half of the last century in Hungary. Whipping around the fast moving merry-go-round of water in one of the outdoor pools what echoes between the optimistic yellow walls is laughter, joy, and delight in the present moment. The ghosts sit, grey, in the gallery above, watching with wry smiles. Remembering. Past. Present. Future. Budapest.
Easter morning the bells woke me. Before my eyes opened the hymn of Easters past, an anthem of the egg and chocolate laden mornings of my youth boomed through my head in the hearty baritone of Cliff Van Volkingburg, who sat (and sang) behind me in church every Sunday morning of my young life:
“Up from the grave he arose! (HE AROSE!) With a mighty triumph he arose (HE AROSE!) He arose a victor from the dark domain, and he lives forever with His saints to reign!…”
Smiling, my fingers found the moonstone around my neck, which reminds me of Selene, goddess of the moon in Greek mythology, and then Ishtar, the daughter of the god of the moon in Mesopotamian mythology, for whom we celebrate Easter, and from whom the name is derived.
Ishtar:
Goddess of war and sexual love, dates, wool, meat and grain. Goddess of rain and thunderstorms. Impulsive, beautiful, the goddess of fertility, but so much more complex than that, as she came to also embody death, disaster, fire, rejoicing and tears together. Later she became known as “Queen of the Universe,” which is what the Catholics call Mary, the mother of Jesus. And so the sacred feminine continues to assert her power and weaves herself seamlessly into even the religious structures built by the patriarchy to bind her tightly.
It was with joy that I followed the bells to Saint Stephen’s Basilica to stand in the cloud of incense; prayers of the faithful lifted to a risen Lord. To thank the Mother for life, health, strength, beauty, and the gift of rebirth, imprinted on my soul as well as the skin of my inner wrist. The Hallelujah chorus followed us back into the sunlight and Ishtar was, indeed, celebrated in all of her daffodil yellow glory as my new, hand painted, silk Easter skirt floated down over stones heavy with the footprints of countless pilgrims who lived lives I can barely imagine but work to remember. Stones laid just for me, just for today, because:
I am the Princess.
Walking in the sunshine (with cotton candy twists bigger than our torsos) along the wide avenues and sun dappled greenways of Margaret island, past the singing fountain and the men playing Japanese metal drums, weaving through the throng of children and cyclists, cradled between the grey green arms of the Danube, I told Taylor the story of the priest who changed my world. Or at least my worldview. He was the priest who buried my grandmother.
The day before we interred my Mim, we sat in the priest’s office and got beyond the formalities of her life and the service as he unfolded the story of his escape from Poland during the Russian occupation. A midnight swim across a freezing river, his walk to freedom, a subsequent refugee journey to the United States, and his journey of faith towards freedom, physically and spiritually. I’ll never forget what he said, and I’ll never forget the lilt of his accented English as he said it:
“I am so grateful for everything. It is true that I am the prince. I am a prince in this world. We are all princes. Everything I enjoy was built by others, people who care, people who serve me, so that I might enjoy this day. The roads I drove on this morning. This building that I serve in. These lovely chairs in my office. All were made by others with careful consideration of my experience and my life. They made these things for me so that I might enjoy and celebrate this one day. I am grateful to them, and I am happy to serve and give generously to my fellow man, because that is what a good Prince does. He serves, selflessly, for the benefit of others, for his people, for his country, for his world.”
And that was the first moment that I realized that I, too, am a Princess among people.
I’ve always battled with the concept of being a princess.
It’s a fairytale that damages a lot of women, renders us petty and useless. A concept that binds more of my sisters than it frees. In the one instance that I’ve agreed to be a princess, it’s with the caveat that I shall never wear pink or ruffles, and I shall be a warrior princess, fierce and fiery, battling for the good of my world and my people. More Queen Anu or the goddess Diana, less Cinderella or Sleeping Beauty.
And yet…
Walking through Budapest with my bubbly friend, we realized, deeply, the truth of that insightful priest’s words and we spoke, aloud, our gratitude to the city, to the people who built and maintained it, to those who organized the Easter markets, to the folks who curated the coffee shops and cafes, the owners of businesses who maintained our rental bikes, the owners of the antique shops that we dipped in and out of like paint brushes across this water colour city. Dinner at “our bistro,” complete with a dapper bartender who called Taylor away from our table on the second evening, specifically to tell her that she is beautiful, (and whom I tried to order for her dessert, “Would you like him with chocolate and whipped cream?” our exceptionally suave waiter asked, without missing a beat… “Why, yes, of course,” I replied with enthusiasm and laughter as Taylor turned every shade of Budapest-cherry-beer-red! The bar tender retreated with embarrassment when the whispered titter reached his ears.) Budapest treated us like royal guests, gifted with only the best, in weather, food, hospitality, comfort, generosity, flirtatious joy, and honoring us with exceptional kindness. Truly, the royal treatment.
And so we, the gypsy daughters of the Queen of the World, kissed Budapest goodbye with cinnamon breath at a train station full of memories pressed like leaves between the parchment pages of the biographical history of Hungary that I’m reading. Faded flowers of lives long passed, journeys to and from. Love stories and tragedies. Reunions and heart-rendings. Out into the countryside of a country that has captured our hearts. Onward. Ever onward. Life echoes history and becomes it. Budapest. I’ll be back.
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This was originally written for my Monday Love Letter… it’s a free email that I send out each week to growth oriented people. I’m not selling stuff. We’re just thinking forward together, it’s an invitation to growth oriented interaction.
