One evening this week a succession of trams disgorged their passengers at Corvin Negyed, the drivers giving very clear reasons for the disruption in fluent Hungarian (to be expected).
My plan was to take the 4 or 6 tram to Blaha and then a bus to Keleti (the lazy joy of owning a monthly travel pass) but the trams weren’t going anywhere and I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why.
The new intercoms were alive with messages but none was slow enough or clear enough for me to understand. I wasn’t alone in my confusion. Other foreigners (tourists by the looks of their camera bags and backpacks) were equally bemused. And as we hung around in ones and twos and threes in vague anticipation of the next tram actually continuing to its appointed destination, no one seemed to notice our cluelessness.
I had a fleeting thought as to how nice it would be if some English-Hungarian-speaking commuter took the time to explain what was going on. But at least I knew how to get to where I was going.
I decided to walk to Rákóczi tér to catch the M4 metro, along with hundreds of others, as the replacement buses that usually appear on such occasions hadn’t yet materialised and I wasn’t quite sure whether they ever would. More camera-toting tourists peered out of coffee-shop windows along the Nagykörút, curious to know what was going on.
I wondered how this locust-like two-directional odyssey would be portrayed on their travel blogs, what impression they would take home of the city? It must have looked very strange indeed: one minute relatively empty streets, the next two crowds moving quickly en masse in either direction.
I finally found my way above ground at Keleti. It took a while. Although familiar with the surface streets surrounding the train station, try as I might I couldn’t superimpose that mental image onto the maze of corridors beneath the ground. It took me a while to figure out which way was up.
I walked around to the side-entrance to the station where I had arranged to meet a friend. A train (or three) had just arrived and hordes of wheelies cases were leading their owners to buses and taxis and waiting cars. A dozen or more policemen in full uniform stood curbside, watching or chatting on their phones as more of their colleagues searched a group of what might well have been an extended Roma family: an elderly couple, a middle-aged couple and about four young people of varying ages.
Each in turn held open their coats and jackets as they were patted down, showing none of the concern or nervousness I would have shown were I in their place. They offered, when asked, what looked like ID cards. And they answered whatever questions were put to them with what sounded very much like resignation.
Again, I didn’t understand.
I could, of course, have written my own script, one that would have been largely shaped by political commentary and social observations. But what if I were a first-time visitor, a tourist just off the train from Prague or Bucharest? What would I have thought had I come across the scene, knowing little, if anything, about Budapest other than that it is billed as being the must-see Paris of the East (a descriptive liberally applied also to Baku (Azerbaijan) and Beirut (Lebanon))?
How would I have written it up on my travel blog? Would I have been shocked, horrified, enraged? Or have such things become so commonplace that we no longer even register them?
Mary Murphy is a freelance writer and public speaker who is often victim of her own reality. Read more at www.stolenchild66.wordpress.com