welcome to the hostel
There is no Planet B. And if there is, I hope it has a different name. Namek, Tatooine... something like that. I've never heard anyone call our dear Earth Planet A. Since I can't go to Mars, I'll travel through fertile lands. It'll always be more fun than searching for bits of amino acids in rocks.
I need a title. First off, the title is provisional, and I welcome any suggestions from the reader. Since I haven't decided whether to write mostly in Portuguese or French (though I've felt like writing almost exclusively in Portuguese), I think the title shouldn't be in either language. It could, it's true, be one word from each. Let's see. I thought of Peregrinatio pros Ανατολή (Anatólia). What a poorly academic title, isn't it? It combines two extinct languages but doesn't even leave Europe.
Nah... I don't want to be boring, and I have another idea. By the way, if we call the Asian part of Turkey "Anatólia," it's because, even today, in Greek, Anatólia means east.
Pilgrimage to the east! The title makes perfect sense, true, but in Portuguese or in English, it loses all the mystique. And as for using a Latin and Greek title... honestly, I want to please the maximum number of readers possible.
So, I thought of Peregrinatio Akatsuki.
My adventure begins in Tomar. The eternal Templar city. I'm going like a missionary to Lisbon, the city where I lived from my twenties to thirties. But I make a short stop in Sintra first, since our romantic city is west of Lisbon—why not start the narrative in Sintra?
Sintra is well-known to the Portuguese. It's a small city that by itself justifies the existence of the word "mystery" in our dictionary (though I'd prefer to write mysterio, as it was once spelled in Portuguese). After spending the weekend with friends—blessings to David and Mariana for the company—I drink a coffee on a terrace in the Sintra municipality. I see the palaces surrounding Sintra on the horizon. They seem built with stones of dreams, and those trees on the serra, which the reader surely knows, are more of a presence than mere scenery. The Pena Palace always seemed to me like an exaggerated romantic gesture: a castle useless from a military point of view, but with all the medieval symbolism of courtly love attributed to the troubadours. It could perfectly be a rural refuge for Lisboetas... Lisboetas, those, never go anywhere. Nowadays, Sintra has more tourists than residents; more English is spoken than Portuguese, and I doubt the latter is the second most used language. Otherwise, Sintra has its own climate: very foggy and capricious. If D. Sebastião were alive, he'd surely be in Sintra. And Cabo da Roca, "where the sea begins and the land ends," is right there, on the other side of the serra. So here I begin my journey, where the sea ends and the land begins. And I'll conclude that same journey when I find another ocean. In a country that, in my view, is so eastern it becomes more western than many eastern countries. Just as Portugal is so western it becomes more eastern than many western countries.
I don't intend to be loosely poetic. If I really have that impression of Japan, I'll put it to the test: verify it with my own eyes or refute it.
Lisbon! I watched the sunset from the top of Eduardo VII Park. If the earth is round, I'll find the Sun again if I walk westward. It's already night, and it's Monday: my favorite night to socialize. I don't want to bore the reader with a city they already know. Still, I'll give my updated impressions of our capital, which I love even more than I hate, which I hold in my heart perhaps even more than Paris, and which will certainly never be indifferent to me.
I already know the route I'll follow to reach Japan. For those who hadn't realized, my destination is the land where the Sun rises. Since I don't have the patience to go overland from Lisbon, I catch a flight to Budapest. However, since in such trips it's welcome to have surprises, both for me and for the reader's suspense, I prefer not to reveal anything. It's known, though, that I'm forbidden from taking another plane (after arriving in Budapest) and that I'll reach, one way or another, the land where the sun rises.
As the first stage of my trip, I could perfectly have chosen Vienna, Bucharest, Belgrade... But I wanted to start with a city I already knew—understood: where I've already been.
Here I am finally on the plane! I discover that the flight attendants don't speak Portuguese, and their English has an incomprehensible accent. One of them made up for it with her smile, feminine silhouettes, and Slavic features—so exotic the Slavs... Back to Budapest... Or to the Hungarians features, at least... It's not possible to outline the phenotype of the Hungarian woman (or man). They have no ethnicity. Really no? And the magyar? Ah... the magyar... Yes, that people from the Asian steppes, the same steppes from which Attila and Genghis Khan emerged. Mongols have slanted eyes. Hungarian women? Not so much. What happened to the magyars who settled in the fertile plains of the Danube?
They're the same. Just mixed with other peoples. I wonder if there's any country with such rich, diverse DNA.
However, I almost dare say there's no human more European than the Hungarian man and woman. The explanation is this: Hungary is a plain surrounded by mountains. Rarely could they defend themselves from stronger invaders. The territory has been under Ottoman, Austrian sovereignty... Hungary is a crossroads in central Europe. It's an Asian people who settled in our lands over a thousand years ago and became more European than Europe itself.
And the blood of Hungarians contains a bit of Latin, Slavic, Saxon, Turkish...
May the reader, perhaps not very familiar with this central European people who deserves more attention, not think they have no culture of their own, not think they're a mix of everything mentioned. Nothing could be more wrong. Hungary is Hungary. Its language is almost the only bastion in Europe, along with Finnish, Estonian, and Basque, that are not Aryan / Indo-European languages. When under foreign power occupation, Hungarians always managed to keep their culture alive. Just ask the Austro-Hungarian Empire! Which in truth is just Austrian, or better, from the Habsburg family—for fear the Hungarians would revolt, they added Hungary to the empire's name.
I'm still on the plane... these folks really speak bad English. And my rudimentary knowledge of magyar isn't helping. I don't understand a word of what these folks are saying...
Well, the plane starts to descend: there's fog. I see the plane pass from Buda to Pest. I recognize it by the illuminated bridges over the Danube. There's that island separating the two sides... Hey, pilot! Mind stopping? Budapest's center is left behind... Unfortunately, the airport is twenty-something kilometers from the city. I could see snow-covered forests just before landing.
And now? I clapped on the plane. But... And now? It's 1 a.m. Should I take a transport to the center and sleep a few hours? I'm not sleepy. We write and can see later.
The folks here aren't very lively. I mean those who chose to spend the night at the airport. I talked to the girl who does the cleaning. Good thing the staff is here to liven up this airport. I think despite everything I'll stay here. The temperature outside is -2°C. Budapest's winter is not so easy.
I don't want to dwell on the faces of the people at the airport; I suppose none are from here. But they look like they're in a cemetery! Here's my "friend" who came to sweep the floor under our benches. She at least smiles. Despite working at those hours... I know the Hungarian people relatively well. They're festive, smiling, and hospitable: on the condition of respecting them, seeking to know a bit more about their lives, making an effort to say Jó napot instead of Good morning.
And the city itself? I already know it, dear reader. And I'll describe the beautiful city of Budapest tomorrow, mainly some places that escape most tourists. For now, I think it's time to rest.
I wrote a bit in my personal notebook; I ended up taking more photos than writing. My photos are terrible, the photographer's problem since I found beautiful landscapes. I'm grateful to have seen Budapest covered in snow.
I walked along the Danube bank for dozens miles. The snow required a more careful step, still, I didn't remember winter could be so beautiful. It seemed the banks of Europe's artery had gained white beaches in Budapest. Locals complained the snow isn't practical for walking or driving. I felt no cold at all, rarely do. And the -4°C I witnessed must equal about 0°C in Portugal.
I didn't go to the thermal baths—I'd gone in 2019. I liked it, but I imagine (didn't confirm) it's more common in summer than winter.
Otherwise, I recommend the Hungarian National Museum. The relationship with history is more direct and less ceremonial. The rooms invite attention. The national narrative appears organized, aware of its fractures, without unnecessary dramatizations. It's a space that demands time and some sobriety from the visitor.
Budapest's Parliament is majestic; it's worth at least looking at it up close, sitting on a garden bench. Budapest's market halls were very lively despite the cold. The market gathers smells, voices, and practical energy that contrasts with the solemnity of official buildings. Among simple product stalls and attentive vendors, you feel a city that works. Though, truth be told, the quality of vegetables and fruit leaves something to be desired. Still, the food is good—especially for those who like heavy meals.
Another thing that caught my attention is the strong Chinese presence in restaurants, shops, people, banks, even road signs!
By the way, I like talking about crosswalks and public bathrooms. I think it says a lot about a people's mentality. Urinating in gardens is forbidden in Hungary; meaning, not tolerated, strictly prohibited. Nothing against if there were public bathrooms, however, whether in train stations, malls, or the scarce "public" bathrooms in gardens, you can't enter without paying. Even at McDonald's I had to buy a plastic spoon to use the bathroom. Another thing that confuses me, me being deeply Latin, are the crosswalks. Traffic is too organized; I don't remember hearing anyone honk, no one crosses on foot when the light is red. And when green, no one checks if there's some maniac remnant on the road that could run over pedestrians. It's all very automatic, too robotic for my Latin blood. The word "robotic" comes from Czech and means work. I say it because I intend to talk about it again in some ad hoc chapter.
Contrary to what many think, Hungarians are hospitable and helpful to tourists. Just say a few words in the inimitable Magyar language. I remember, however, a lady at the bar rounding my bill from 920 HUF to 1000 HUF. That's about 25 euro cents. I doubt she'd do it to a local. It's not the norm, but I don't think it happens only once in a hundred.
I'm now on the train, heading directly to Arad in Transylvania. I know Dracula's lands in deep Transylvania relatively well. Arad is more on the border. But I'm missing finishing my description of Budapest.
Oh, the snow suddenly disappeared from my eyes. The train is arriving at Békéscsaba, a small medieval town near Romania. No, I no longer see the white snow covering the winter grasses in Pannonia. Goodbye.
I said earlier Hungarians are helpful. They're certainly among the European peoples who speak the least English, which I personally like; many scratch by in German or even French—they do what they can to help the tourist. They may not seem very communicative but have an easy smile.
I suggest to the reader thinking of visiting Budapest to enjoy a small, welcoming bar with simple decoration: exposed brick walls, aged wood, and matte paint in neutral tones like light beige, white, or soft gray, creating a cozy rustic environment. In many, you have to go down stairs to enter. And I recommend eating a goulash in a rustic spot.
In summary, what marked me most was undoubtedly the snow. I could have skated in Pest's ample gardens.
Once upon a time, Buda and Pest were two. Separated by the Danube, they grew facing each other like distinct mirrors: Buda, older and elevated, kept hills, castles, and medieval memory; Pest, flat and expansive, pulsed with commerce, wide streets, and modern energy. The river wasn't just a physical border but also symbolic—between tradition and progress, seclusion and movement.
Unification in the 19th century didn't erase that duality; rather, it gave it new meaning. Becoming Budapest, the two cities learned to coexist in creative tension. The Danube went from divider to axis, stitching different identities into one city. Still, broadly, Pest is more urban, commercial, cosmopolitan, and festive; while Buda keeps a more magyar air. One might say, playing with words, that Buda was holy and Pest's plains commerce brought wealth to a land that only knew nature's hardships. However, Buda has nothing to do with the Buddhism prophet, nor does Pest refer to corruption. It's a mere coincidence. Curious. But still a mere coincidence, if coincidences exist. Despite main state monuments being built on the west bank, Buda's, I maintain the impression that Pest "corrupted" Buda and the latter "emancipated" Pest to form a European city where sacred and profane live together.
Romania. I don't like leaving Hungary behind. But, Ah! Finally a chaotic breath of the Latin world! It's 3 p.m. local time, January 26, 2025.
