Going with the flow
A scattered diary from the disappearing banks of the Danube
One motivation to make this trip was to find out what I am like in a different country, alone, for as long as possible.
A friend told me that it’s okay if we like to do the same things we like doing at home when we travel. It can be meaningful to do these same things in a different place. I needed to hear that. I can be so hungry for reinvention and personal growth that discovering new things about myself or trying out different ways to be can become this weird self-fulfilling side quest that derails my experience of simply being me, doing things I like and love, in the place that I am.
Before recapping what’s new, I want to touch on what I talked about in my last post. I shared about the heaviness and discomfort, physically, emotionally, and spiritually, I was dwelling with. (Literally, I walked a half mile with a small child on my back in the form of groceries and like, let me say this to parents of toddlers who carry them while hiking: you are made of different stardust than me.)
And I say “dwelling with” intentionally. I felt that I was living with another living thing. Over the years of dealing with mental health that was both ramshackle and hot rod (precarious but impulsive), I learned to see emotions as not just information (which they are) but also something with a life cycle. And all life cycles include death. All feelings end.
This mindset has helped me live with hard, intense, disquieting emotions that can show up because of a range of triggers. I could not do this trip if I had not done that work. This trip is not doing that work for me. The work of learning to cope is unsexy, daily, and at least as expensive as a trip to Europe. None of you are allowed to take away from anything that I say that “travel will fix your [emotional, mental, spiritual] problems!” It is just one more environment in which to practice.
Quick aside: I met someone who said that if everyone traveled the world, racism would end. I said, maybe that would help reduce interpersonal racism but like, I don’t think South African apartheid would have ended if everyone got to go on a trip. He acknowledged the privilege of his statement and agreed with me. Sorry I don’t have a picture with the famous tourist attraction: Man Sincerely Accepting Revisions In Real Time On Ridiculous Thing He Said
Enough about that, here’s what living has looked like.
I read a book about Hungary in the (unceasing) era of Viktor Orban, and then I met the author! By total chance! I mean, by a lot of chance. I bought the book at one of my favorite bookshop/cafes the first week I was here. Then, when I was at the shop last week, I recognized the author in line. I said, at an American decibel-level that thankfully didn’t ruin his impression of me, “Hey! I read your book!”
He sat down with me later and we had an hour-long conversation about the book, Hungary, authoritarian right-wingism (can we call the Yes Men to dictators like Orban and Putin, Right Wing Men?) propaganda, and crafting books about fluid places in a fluid world.
I’ve attended two hora dance classes at the Jewish Community Center that is—get this—4 doors down from me. The JCC wasn’t on my radar at all, and I don't think I would have thought to seek it out as a person who was raised with no Jewish community around me, let alone consider it would have dance classes. I found it because I was walking by, looked in, and saw people having a blast dancing in such a way that I thought, “I bet I wouldn’t completely defile that.”
If you’re wondering what hora is—I’m not your guy. Before I went, I only knew of the wedding hora (ya know, put em on a chair, lift them up, rah rah, every movie ever with a Jewish wedding). I still don’t really know what I’m doing but my experience with country and soul line dance has prepared me as well as I could be. Mostly, people let me flounder without pointing out I’m floundering. I am very happy with this arrangement.
Last weekend I danced on an airfield at the chillest, best little music festival I’ve ever attended. Perfect weather. Plentiful bathrooms. Kind people. Easy transport. I brought flowers and gave them away when I didn’t want to hold them anymore. I felt like a kid.
The next morning, I went for a run. I literally ran into a half-marathon so I jumped into it and ran twice as much as I usually do because running with other people is a steroid. I felt like I was getting a free, much cooler do-over from my 5k race in March when I strained a muscle and limped through three out of five kilometers.
I watched the finish line for almost an hour, just absolutely basking in other people’s success. It felt good to serve a purpose as a loud American cheering people on because everyone else was quite demure.
I decided one day to just get on the metro and ride to the end of line 1, get off, look around, get back on, and then do it again at the next stop. At one spot, I realized I was across from the institute of art so I went in and spent hours perusing and laughing at portraits that look like they would be on 15th century Tinder. I sat outside in a beautiful breeze, eating oranges and considering enormous things. I feel able to invite thoughts that are overwhelming in my packed, familiar schedule at home. In my cramped brain, these are moments of mental luxury.
I talked for three hours with a 93-year-old architect and professor of structural design who survived the Holocaust in Budapest. He told me his story, graciously, thoroughly. He tried to answer my questions about my grandparents’ experience. But he mostly wanted to talk about bridges and buildings. This makes sense to me because he’s a 93-year-old architect and professor of structural design who’s lived a life fascists didn’t want him to. The first building he designed was the one that replaced his family’s apartment building that had been destroyed by bombs. He talked about what was, and he described in great detail what is. I left with more questions than answers.
Weekly, I spend a good chunk of time completing class work for my Masters program and writing and doing research for personal projects(!) Those projects include this substack, but it’s mostly other things which is very, very exciting and scary.
I’ve been going to cafes, and I got my Budapest public library card to work from their gorgeous facilities. Yesterday, I started to learn Braille! I really, really enjoyed my first lesson. I have been reminded that I am a quick processor but a slow learner. If you understand what that means please tell me because I’m still figuring it out.
I bought a bike on FB marketplace because the city bike system hates specifically me. I had to meet the man I bought it from twice because of miscommunication. Each time, he looked me in the eyes and shook my hand with sincere warmth. He told me to tell him how I like the bike after I ride it for a while. I rode it to Margit Island last week, but it was pretty crowded and I ran into rush hour traffic. We’ve had four days of rain since then so I stuck to walking and the metro.
Last night I took my bike to the grocery store and hooked my little Bluetooth speaker to my backpack. Biking around playing my music at night is one of my favorite things to do at home.
So, after I unloaded groceries and did some homework, I put on my backpack and got on my bike again. I rode on the street that is essentially an emergency flood control for the Danube. Today they actually closed the street because the river is peaking tomorrow and will likely flood the road.
Much of the river bank is manmade; it’s about 15 shallow stone steps so it’s easy to tell just how much the river is swelling. As I pumped the pedals on my aqua blue Kiwi Country bike, I noticed that only a few stairs were still exposed. The current jostled debris collecting on the edge. Whole trees and huge branches cruised by faster than me. I felt a bit nauseous witnessing its violent will. I cannot separate the Danube from the history it holds, the bodies it buried. I don’t need to deny that truth to be okay, I need to hold it, to voice it. This river is why there’s any life here, too.
I continued biking back to my flat. And as I rode down the middle of the empty Széchenyi bridge, chilled midnight breeze collected on my Gold’s Gym muscle tank. I had slipped it over my hoodie because toddlers are my fashion icons, which is to say, I did not care what I looked like and I thought I looked cool.
Last night, that’s what living here looked like. That’s what I, alive, here, felt like.
You probably would’ve recognized me. I did.