« February 2004 | Main | April 2004 »

Budapest Is Best When It's Balmy

And yet another essay:

Budapest Is Best When It's Balmy

By Peter Vincent

Dave Rimmer and I are in a rickshaw riding along the embankment of the Danube. The full moon paints a white sheen over the surface of the river, wide enough that it's taken us fifteen minutes to walk across the steel bridge to the Buda side of the city.

"Budapest is the only city the Danube cuts in half," he tells me along the way.

It's the third time I've crossed the Danube today.

Pest rises up across the river, modern hotels set against the Parliament buildings, a Neo-Gothic sandcastle distilled from dreams, three blocks long, the old city a backdrop of architectural statuary (angels, heroes, saints) embedded in the facades of the buildings, the buildings themselves designed by a hand with a bent for arabesques, curlicues, pear-like domes, often dotting several corners of the same building, their grilled balconies stacked one above the other, then arrowed spires, long thin spikes, another attempt at ascendancy, and finally the occasional addition of just a shell facade, above the very roof itself, the stepped sides reaching a squared peak, an art nouveau afterthought, as if the architect couldn't stop building beauty.

All this says nothing of the broad boulevards and traffic below, teeming with outdoor cafes and restaurants, a flotilla of umbrellas picking up the slight breeze, where people eat and drink, night and day, some long-lost Paris we all might imagine, still thriving in Budapest.

Hadley, Marjo and Sebe follow the rickshaw on foot, Hadley having secured the rickshaw for Dave and I after a heated argument with a drunk Hungarian woman outside an outdoor club who insisted she was first in line when she wasn't.

Hadley's a slight thing, a natural beauty and charmer, a photographer who's worked with Dave on numerous projects, Dave having edited most of the popular guidebooks in this part of the world, from Berlin to Budapest. Her Mainline origins long forgotten, she lives with a Hungarian DJ and speaks the language perfectly.

Then Hadley turns the argument over to Sebe, a tattoo artist with a ponytail and sleek goatee and the rickshaw's assigned to us.

Hadley, the organizer, insists that Dave and I hop on board while the rest of the gang follows on foot because the second rickshaw is presently having a bad wheel fixed by its young Hungarian driver.

As we all move off to party at West Balkan, the drunken Hungarian woman shouts epithets regarding Hadley's American accent, along with a few choice words for foreigners in general

But on this soft summer night, a stillness shimmers across the surface of the river a hundred feet below, the lights of the long lazy riverboats adding to the cumulative glow, everything adrift in an easy floating way on this soft summer night, as if we might still live in a world where peace presided.

Dave and I are bouncing off the slatted seats as the driver charges forward, both of us laughing about the drunken Hungarian woman.

Dave's a heavy-set guy, at east with himself, a confident man who lived here for five years, now back in London at a steady job. He wears a thin lace skullcap pulled tight across his dome, something he picked up in Marrakech, his strong features sculpted beneath it.

"I've made forty moves in fifteen years," he tells me. "I just wanted to get back to my roots and a proper job for a while."

He's only here for the long weekend, an old friend of Rick Bruner who started Budapest Week, an English language weekly, and I was lucky enough to meet him with the rest of Rick's gang at the Rudas Baths, a genuine Turkish Bath with rich mineral waters pouring in from the limestone foundation, the men in their section, the women in theirs, a simple loincloth concealing all displays, the central hot pool surrounded by four smaller ones in various degrees of hot and cold, beneath a domed ceiling, its pinpoint holes letting rays of sun pour through, the occasion being a weekly meeting of English speakers, among the unusual assortment of oddly overweight Hungarian men who strut proudly from pool to pool, their bellies the size of aspiring Sumo wrestlers.

Later, we all have a long lunch, another weekly ritual, at a Cyprian restaurant, sitting outside over bottles of mineral water and Hungarian wine while endless plates of food are passed.

That evening some of us meet at Castro Bistro, a mix of expats and Hungarians and a trip to West Balkan becomes a must.

While Pest is the heart of the urban pulse, the Buda side of the river is all green hills, thick with trees, the small clusters of red-tiled roofs peeking out from the tops of the hills where the richest people in Hungary live. The awesome Royal Palace is perched on its rocky ridge further up the river.

Then the road fades into a wooded area and the rickshaw takes the bumpy road through a gravel pit site and finally stops outside West Balkan. Giving the driver 500 forints, we head into the outdoor club and Dave goes right to the long open bar while I grave an empty table. The table is one of many strewn across the pebbled patio beneath the overhanging trees, a string of Chinese lanterns leading the way to the dance floor where the DJ spins vinyl rap. While Prague is all slit skirts and six-inch heels, here it's small slinky tops, toreadors and espadrilles.

If Prague is relaxed, Budapest is downright reclining. The rest of the crowd sits in pleasant circles on the grassy section next to the patio, still beneath the hanging trees, twenty yards from the Danube. By the time, Hadley and the others arrive, Dave's all set with beers and we gather around the table to talk and watch the dancers, content to dance in our seats, each of us improvising our own jerky movements.

After a while, Dave and I share a joint by the fence between the grassy area and the river, admiring its bridges, an alternating mix of modern and antique.

"I never get tired of crossing the Danube," he says in a sentimental moment, reflecting on five years on living here.

Seal's "Crazy" starts playing as the buzz comes on and the two of us start moving to the music in our own light reverie.

"You've got to be a little bit crazy sometimes, if you want to live a little."

As the night moves on, and the DJ segues into disco and Detroit, I get the feeling Dave, a former music journalist, knows the opening bars and lyrics to every song ever written.

We continue to drink at the white plastic table, all enthused about our new acquaintance.

"I have the name of a boy," Marjo (mario), the Finnish woman tells us, "and I look like a boy, but I'm a girl," and cute she is, the thick black glasses, the light gray eyes, the dark tousled hair falling over her forehead, the creamy skin. She passes around her travel diary which begins in Berlin so everyone can make a personal entry. By now Sebe has neatly placed his forehead on the table for an extensive break, if only to save himself from death by intoxication.

Then an electric blue-black appears through the trees, the moon still high above them, the Danube blue for a fleeting moment, more an illusion of light than reality.

The crowd has thinned and the rickshaw's are waiting, the bad wheel now fixed on the second, and we get ourselves a deal so the five of us can ride for the price of two, and we're off to the bridge again, bumping butts so hard on the wooden slats that I tuck my fingers between them trying to hold myself down.

"I've got a bony ass," I tell Dave beside me.

"I've got a fat one," he replies. "It doesn't bother me."

As the bridge appears before us, I think of the lines I've written in Marjo's diary:


I saw the moon across the Danube. I saw lanterns across West Balkan. Budapest is best when it's balmy. It's always dawn before you want it to be here. You've got to be a little bit crazy sometimes. The planet's armed for extinction. Live the best of it while you can. The castle still stands.


Hard to believe, but that same afternoon we're all back in the Buda hills for the Castro Bistro picnic, off a meadow in a cluster of trees, two goats turning over wood coals, goulash cooking in a large traditional bucket, three Senegal drummers with a Hungarian lesbian with buzzcut blowing riffs on trumpet, bottles of beer in big ice buckets, men and women going off to the woods, half of us in chatty circles in the high grass, two women taking turns dancing in front of the drummers, feeling the primal beat, then the American woman jumps up and throws off her little leather backpack in the meadow to confront a Brit who apparently has been hassling some women, and she says come on let's go, challenging him to come fuck her out in the field, and the guy is stunned into silence as she continues to challenge him, come on, you fucking pussy, let's go, and all he can do is murmur weak replies and then something lame about her being a veggie, as she throws up her skirt in front and back, comically revealing her long yellow drawers, continuing to insist he accompany her and calling him a pussy again and again, then she starts a comical shadow-boxing, challenging him even further - she's a looker to and me wishing I could act as surrogate, but you don't want to get into the middle of this - it's him she wants - and when it's over Dave goes off to get some goodies in the village because the goulash and goats are taking so long, then some of the men go off to play soccer on a field farther down the meadow, me and Marjo settling for an afternoon flat on our backs in the grass looking up at the clear blue sky, the size of an ocean, until Dave comes back and we all share the treats until the goulash and goats are finally ready at twilight, the final touch on a magical day, the sunset a broad smear of orange and violent and crimson against the dimming blue sky, until we trek through the woods in the dark toward the tram in the village where some still talk of a late night drink at Castro Bistro, but I'm getting off near Kings Hotel, an oasis for Orthodox Jews in the middle of the old Jewish quarter with a kosher dining room and men in black hats, black coats, long beards, everyone glad Sabbath is over, feasting in the dining room when I got in for a cup of coffee and drag myself up to my room for a sleep that lasts fifteen hours.

Sure, Budapest is best on a balmy night, but you've got to be a little bit too.

+ + +

Peter Vincent is a published novelist who lives in San Francisco. He can be reached at vincentpeter65 - at - hotmail - dot - com

Rick E. Bruner | Budapest Nostalgia | Mar 11, 2004 | Comments (1)

The King of Prague

Another essay:

The King of Prague

By Peter Vincent

I sit on the green wooden bench, at the edge of a grassy park along a ridge, overlooking the Vltava River, a thousand feet below. The Vltava flows through the center of Prague, intersected by numerous stone bridges.

Across the river, red-tiled roofs, bleached orange by the sun, sweep across the city, tilting at myriad angles. Church spires punctuate the skyline, their copper domes green like moss from centuries of devotion to the pale blue sky, its few billowing clouds so still today. The domes suggest a world of oriental mosques, although, aside from its foundations in paganism, Prague's only religion has always been a Christian argument. The spires attest to this, supporting small golden globes which, in turn, support thin gold crosses, resplendent in the sun.

Electric trams and lines of small cars drift over the ornate stone bridges, perfectly placed at intervals along the Vltava, their small lanes made more for the carriages of kings on their way to coronation, not this modern onslaught.

Built of sandstone blocks and festooned with the statues of saints, the Charles Bridge feeds into the cobbled streets of the Little Quarter, heading toward The Castle. Hradcany is the first village to spill down the hill below the walls of The Castle, perched on the highest vantage point of the city, the hills below filled with a flowering tree called Golden Rain. Behind the walls of The Castle, I can see the Gothic spires of St. Vitus Cathedral, its towering stained glass windows an alchemy of light, ablaze with the passions of Christ.

Inside the cathedral, on another day, I stood by one of the many side altars, devoted to the crypts of kings, having come upon the stone casket of a young prince, his resemblance recreated on the casket, a knight still in armor, hands resting on his chest, the date of his death being 905 A.D.

That evening I attended a concert of strings directly behind St. Vitus at St. George Basilica, the first church in Prague, a small Romanesque structure built by the Celts who settled in Bohemia along the banks of the Vltava.

The short simple pews faced a wide stone dais which served as an altar at one time for some form of pagan Christian Mass. Only two windows filtered light through opaque glass behind the altar. Beneath the altar, more kings rested in their crypts behind grilled gates, easily preceding the life and death of the young knight at St. Vitus. It was here the violins, cellos, and bass played Vivaldi, Mozart, Handel under simple golden modern lights.

As I watch the river below, quiet except for a few party boats, the stillness of it all, on this late afternoon in April, brings me back to a sense of normality, as I once might have known it.

The lovers on the bench beside me are indifferent to the magnificence of the sights below, so entranced are they in their tender conversation and occasional kisses. Czech teens gather their legs up on the benches behind me, bumping each other in some private code of joy and intimacy, fused with laughter. Women, young and old, stroll through the park arm in arm to be closer to the secret discussions women are so fond of. Mothers and grandmothers huddle over baby carriages as they pass me and, as always, I notice the bright cute hats they love to adorn their children with, the mother's voice a softened lilt inquiring after the god-child, as if she has access to some remote chamber of the mind where self-love resides.

I have never seen a people love their children so much, so far am I from the Cadillac carriages of the Bay Area, attended by foreign women who barely speak the language of the children they care for while their parents sit in cubicles or corner offices 60 hours a week to ensure their children's future.

Devoid of western arrogance, the Czechs are a humble people, pillaged and occupied for hundreds of years by the likes of Attila The Hun, the papacy of Rome, the Hapsburgs and Adolph himself. Hitler was so kind as to let the empty Jewish ghetto remain standing as a future museum to the "Extinguished Race." After the war, the Czechs hoped the ghetto would be filled by those who returned, but there was no one left to return to it.

Russian tanks tried to slaughter the Czech spirit, but the muzzles of their guns were stuffed with spring flowers. Stalin's boys occupied the country for 40 years until 1989.

Czechs are universally thin, having filled the void we all must fill with something besides consumption. Portions are noticeably small, wherever you eat, whatever you buy. The average income is around 8000 crowns a month, less than $300.

The warmth and affection seen in their greetings resembles the closeness I saw in large poor Italian and Irish families I grew up with. This seems such a contrast to the rage and disappointment of the American poor who are constantly bombarded by the media concerning what they don't, and should, have.

Czech women have been raped with abandon during each occupation, bequeathing them a legacy of beauty, as pain so often does, from the various strains that have passed through them.

Beneath the oriental arch of the thin eyebrows, the eyes, like coal, look straight at you. Often called "cat eyes," it's actually the legs of the women that leave such a strong impression. At times, they resemble luscious stilts, these elongated stems, beneath their cute small butts, the rest of her draped in smart fashion. I wonder if the naturally pouty lips are an understanding at some level that the rest of the world is unaware of how much beauty goes unacknowledged in Prague.

She will stare a man straight in the eye, whether she's with a lover or not. Bold is not the word. Perhaps she's searching for the drifting soul of the man who tore at one of her ancestors, so she can extinguish it forever. Or perhaps she just likes men.

After one of these women locks her eyes on mine as she passes my bench, I turn back to witness the glorious city beneath me. There's a softness to its sounds that echoes between the ochre walls and tiled roofs, the way white sound induces trance.

"I'm Czech now," I said to Keith and Barbara as we sat in a restaurant over salmon, fresh from the North Sea. "I don't want to be American anymore."

+ + +

Peter Vincent is a published novelist who lives in San Francisco. He can be reached at vincentpeter65 - at - hotmail - dot - com

Rick E. Bruner | Prague Nostalgia | Mar 11, 2004 | Comments (6)

On Leaving Prague

A dear friend of mine, Peter Vincent, an insatiable writer (published novelist), moved for roughly a year, to Budapest, by way of Prague, on my recommendation. He's now back in San Francisco thinking wistfully of his days in Eastern Europe, dreaming of a way to move back.

He has written a few essays of his time there but is not so comfortable with the TypePad publishing system, so he asked me to post them for him here. Here's the first. To read the complete essay, click on the link below:

On Leaving Prague

By Peter Vincent

Prague is a luscious seductress on first sight. She'll invite you into her bed so easily you'll think you want to spend the rest of your life with her, even die in her arms. Then she'll cast you away in the morning, surprisingly disillusioned, and you'll wonder if it all wasn't just another dream, slipping into the dawn.

But we should always remember love, not by its disappointments, but rather its earliest moments, which drew us together in the first place.

How do we reconcile this gap in experience? How do we reconcile anything, finally?

Perhaps with a last stroll through Old Town Square, that core of the city where her heart resides, gliding over its carpet of cobblestones, overlooked by two cathedrals, their proliferating domes and spires puncturing the sky, a coitus of heaven and earth, perhaps an affirmation of that early Slavic belief that Prague was that place on earth where the visible and invisible came in closest contact.

At the center of the square, we'll stop to admire that enormous monument to Jan Hus, a cluster of Hussite prelates, huddled together in such a mesh of humanity that they seem like a modern abstract, their billowing robes now green and blackened by time, shadows of their former brilliance.

Stopping, we turn in awe at the antiquity of the pastel buildings along the rim of the square, their facades often painted with delicate tableaux, their windows and balconies supported by columns, their rooftops overlooked by towering statues of mothers and children, maidens and satyrs, angels and winged warriors, as well as cardinals, kings, and popes, their heads tilted, their shoulders bent, ambiguous in their intent as to whether they are holding up the sky or simply watching over Prague.

Perhaps we're amazed with the human effort that could have erected such wonders with primitive scaffolds and human hands, but we notice the muscled males at the corner of a building, their backs hunched, their arms extended, their hands supporting the balcony above them.

These were Slavs after all, destined to servitude, whether they were women pulling ploughs, or men digging uranium in the northern mines for Russia. This was also the site of manufacturing during the Austro-Hungarian Empire, these two small provinces known as Bohemia and Moravia, sometimes called the Czech Republic.

Perhaps we've come from Chapeau Rouge, down the street from Marquis de Sade, through the arches and the courtyard and the narrow cobbled streets, where we stood outside smoking hashish bought from the house dealer, rolled in a paper obtained from the bartender who will answer our question, "When do you close?" with the reply, "We don't have a closing time."

Peering through the plate glass window, we marvel at the Victorian red walls, the mirrored balls and slow whirling fans hanging from the ceiling, the royal blue drapes encased in glass above the windows, as if dawn is always breaking, as three twenty-somethings fired on x and amphetamines dance to Trance pumping out of the DJ booth, where a few moments earlier we shared our first shot of absinthe with the little blonde who lured us across the floor, and for the first time we find ourselves sipping this minty myth while this sweet young thing takes hers in one slug, as if she's done it all before.

Then we notice the two policemen at the end of the street, stolid, indifferent to the hashish joint as they stand there looking in our direction.

Everything's allowed in Prague. There are brothels and strip joints all over the city and S&M castles in the countryside, mostly frequented by Germans who need to be submissive for a change. Prostitutes will accost you on the street: "Want good sex? Want good sex?" - perhaps the only English phrase they know. It's too costly to prosecute broken laws here. The police carry antiquated weapons that sometimes won't fire in the midst of a crisis. Prague is beautiful, but she's the daughter of a poor man.

So be careful when that Gypsy girl comes through the arches and asks you for a cigarette and clasps your hand with too much affection when you light it. Watch out when her brothers and sisters come fanning through the arches to see what the outcome will be, but you slip away with a fond farewell.

Gypsy whores will invite you for "a glass of whiskey," if she knows enough English, or "a glass of water" if she doesn't. There'll be drugs in that glass of whiskey and you'll find yourself drifting off to sleep while she empties your pockets and disappears into the night.

Two young Irishmen fell prey to such a plot after leaving a Centrum bar too drunk for their own good. One was found dead of an overdose on the sidewalk in an outlying district and his buddy was in a coma.

Gypsies (Roma) are the blacks of this culture. They suffer 70% unemployment and are given the most menial jobs. Their children are automatically sent to schools for the retarded, because they don't speak Czech. This policy was recently justified by the Minister of Education, a woman.

Every culture has its dark side, a deformity of intelligence, but Prague is not unintelligent. She boasts a 97% literacy rate. If brain development correlates with language complexity, then brains are strong here. A local cafe will carry fifty magazines spread on the counter, along with several literary journals.

But if you happen to live in a Czech neighborhood where you're the only English speaker, you learn a little what it's like for a black man to walk into a white bar. Everyone turns to stare, and sometimes the stares can be hostile, because you're immediately identified as a foreigner, someone unwanted.

It doesn't matter if you try to learn Czech. The people are possessive, like a lover, of their language, the only weapon they've ever had. They've developed sounds and manipulations of the mouth no one else can duplicate to ensure you remain an outsider. They speak at a rate oriental in its rapidity.

Unfortunately, they disdain you with good cause. With privatisation, you're the reason the brass nameplates outside the flats in Centrum bear foreign names instead of the former Czech tenants who can no longer afford them. You're the reason prices are going up while wages are not. You also helped to create the new class of Czech entrepreneurs who have no qualms about exploiting their own people. You're the reason there is a growing divide between the rich and poor.

It's said that much of the psychology here is about the Occupation. Czechs were only allowed to travel to the Black Sea for vacations. Police and secret police were everywhere. It's said that 75% of the population reported to the secret police at one time or another. This only ended 12 years ago.

The sole retreat from this oppression was the home, where family and children became the center of existence, the only world the Czechs still controlled.

On the train back from Budapest, I sat with a father and his six year old son. The father talked to his son the entire seven hours, never showing the slightest sign of irritation, quite to the contrary, he seemed to enjoy every moment. After all, poor people only have love, affection, the body to offer each other.

There are twenty words for fucking in Czech. Couples make out on the Metro, on the trams, in the squares, on the street - there is no shame about expressing your feelings or desires here. Yet, aside from robberies by prostitutes and pickpockets on the tourist streets, there's no street crime in Prague. You can walk through Old Town Square, the only soul there at three in the morning, and not feel the slightest danger.

After all, this is a matriarchal society where women rule, and women are not warlike. Thoroughly atheistic, its roots spring from pagan-based beliefs, which are still symbolically celebrated at the change of seasons. In the spring, bonfires are lit on the hills to burn off the last chill of winter.

But there are those who still miss the old days when everyone could afford to go to the opera and basic goods were priced so that everyone could buy them. It's said that Prague allowed her occupiers to march in with little resistance because they didn't want their beautiful city destroyed.

Perhaps one day as we walked along the river, we thought about the depth of this sacrifice, the price these people paid, the humiliations they suffered, to preserve this beauty called Prague for the rest of the world.

Children don't kill children here. A scrap of paper tossed on the sidewalk will bring immediate reprimand. Old people stay in their community and are offered a seat on the tram. Everyone finishes Gymnazium, the equivalent of two years of college. There are only 400 cases of AIDS reported in the Czech Republic. Perhaps there were some benefits to their isolation, as long as you cooperated and didn't get sent to a work camp.

But now we gaze across the square to the banks of canopies along the periphery, where tourists sit at open-air restaurants, the cafe-sitters enjoying their counterparts crossing the square, along with the young backpackers who sit in small groups on the cobblestones.

Then we notice another group standing at the side of Old Town Hall, gazing up at the concentric circles of the Astronomical Clock, the circles and medieval symbols glistening gold, recalling Prague as a center of spiritual learning during the Middle Ages. The crowd stands fixed waiting for the magical figures to suddenly appear from their cubby holes at the sides of the clock when the hour sounds, the bells in the tower tolling above them.

But now everyone stops to listen to the classical guitarist, perched on a wooden stool, fingering notes with such incandescence that they infuse the evening air with a music rivalling prayer, at the heart of Prague's best promise, this sense of a place where all people meet, from every country on Earth, to stand for one brief moment, free of all enmity, free of all pain, in a city called Prague, which translates as Threshold.

Then, just as he's about to finish, a storm cracks out of the sky, throwing everyone into peals of excitement, as all run for cover beneath the churches and canopies and the terra cotta rooftops, leaving only the horse-drawn carriages alone in the downpour, as sheets of water sweep over the cobblestones, slicing the air with such ferocity that everyone stands still for a moment, awed by the cleansing delight, but much like those passionate moments of lovemaking, it's washed over you before it's begun and the rain suddenly stops, leaving you with the beating desire that it could all start over again.

But you're not Czech, after all, and Prague is not your destiny, merely a threshold to it.

There's a train leaving for Budapest in the morning when, for the third time this summer, you'll slowly move out of the train station, heading south through Bohemia, passing the one-room cottages and well-tended gardens that the Czechs acquired in the old days and still vacate the city for each weekend.

After a while, you begin to see the farms and hills of Moravia, while sitting in a tight compartment with a pair of Czech grandparents taking their granddaughter on her first trip to Budapest, the grandmother speaking with her granddaughter by the window, both enjoying the sights of the tiny villages along the way, church spires at the center of them, the orange tiles of their slanted roofs lit by autumn sunlight, forests in the distance.

As the Czech family begins to share their picnic lunch, the grandfather strikes up a conversation with the Slovakian man returning to Bratislava. Then when the train police slide the compartment door open to check passports, you notice with what reverence the Slovakian man pulls out the passport from the breast pocket of his suit jacket and removes it from the plastic baggie protecting its edges from bending or fraying. Only in that moment, do you fully understand how much freedom, and freedom of travel, can mean to people in this part of the world.

Then, as you enter Slovakia, the Czech Republic's poorer relative, you notice more signs of fall in the fields that beamed so brightly in summer with green corn and yellow sunflowers. Now the harvest is in and the stalks are ready to be cut and tossed in the fires in the distance, their smoke already rising toward the darkening skyline, a blue haze against the dark brown mountains, stacks of hay neatly bundled across the fields, small tractors turning what remains of their roots in the earth, black as dried blood.

Eventually, you pass through Bratislava, a beautiful city that was levelled by the Germans, the price of resistance, and replaced by a Communist eyesore.

After several trips to the dining car, just to make this last trip the most pleasurable, where you sit at a table by the window with your diary, over lunch and cups of coffee, you finally approach the Hungarian border and begin to see the villages and hills again, the hills tiered with grapevines, until you come to that bend in the river, the first glimpse of the Danube, the sun setting over one mountain, the full moon above another, the medieval castle looking out from the mountain between them, while at the foot of all this, the moon illuminates a few fishermen bobbing on the river in rowboats, their lines stretched taught, like something out of a Monet painting, the pink sky aglow above them.

But the river bends away from the train and disappears into the hills and trees and won't be seen again until you reach Budapest and its Art Nouveau train station, a shell of glass and fancy wrought iron, once arrived at by carriages and the Orient Express.

Then you treat yourself to an expensive taxi, so eager are you to arrive at that cosy flat on Victor Hugo utca, just down the street from the Danube, and just around the corner from Balzac utca.

Quickly unpacking, you hurry through the gardens of Szent Istvan Park and make your way along the river bank until you come to Margit hid, one of the most stunning bridges in Budapest, where you walk to the center of the bridge and stand at the railing, the moon still full above you, yellow trams rumbling over the bridge, Margit Island behind you, an island the size of Golden Gate Park, Parliament on the Pest side in front of you, The Citadel and Royal Palace on the Buda side, both sprayed with light that spills over the surface of the river itself, and you recall what you said to yourself on the night of your 57th birthday, as you stood on the oldest bridge in Budapest, another full moon above you, and quietly whispered to the water below: "How can you not give yourself this gift?"

Now, as the party boats throw even more light on the river below, all doubts about leaving Prague are banished and you ask yourself with utter dismay that there was even a moment of hesitation: "You'd rather be in Prague?"

But surely Prague is not forgotten, as love should never be, but we must always weather its aftermath, if we are to be ready for love again.

+ + +

Peter Vincent is a published novelist who lives in San Francisco. He can be reached at vincentpeter65 - at - hotmail - dot - com

Rick E. Bruner | Prague Nostalgia | Mar 11, 2004 | Comments (11)