Boiling Budapest - Hungary

The sunflowers and wind farms saw us safely over another border crossing into Budapest. There is field upon field of turbines here surrounded by their gloriously sunny neighbours who don't seem to mind their drafty environment, nor are they found complaining about the after hours noise. Patrick is internally at war with the Australian Liberal Party and it's lack of love for renewable energy. Already, on seeing the many smart travel options available in Europe, he has penned his thoughts to our local Mayor regarding improvements for Vincent. So I will be interested to see how he tackles this next hurdle.

Daniel meanwhile, content with his last two purchases at his side (Salzberg offered him a cork shooting cross bow), was able leave the cares of the world to his brother and drift off and let the hours of the journey slip away. 

Budapest is full of beautiful architecture. Thousands of years of history in one little spot. However, when travelling with two energetic, action seeking sons who haven't seen an oval, let alone a ball for weeks, it's time for some fun. Sometimes this needs to be cultivated for when your family is your only company, fun isn't always top of the priority list. So with the heat wave in full swing now, we decided had to be wet!

Brothers - chewing the fat...aka gelato

Elizabeth Island sits between the banks of the Danube and was a 15minute walk from our apartment in the hip and happening Pest area of the city. It is a pedestrian only island where the locals and tourists alike come to engage in Tai-Chi, cycling or the driving of funny little electric cars (for a fee!). There is a great fountain that 'goes off' on the hour and is not dissimilar to a fireworks evening. I found myself half expecting to hear the tiresome Australia Day fireworks soundtrack of the last decade and so was relieved to hear the more culturally appropriate numbers. The synchronicity was impressive and we happily cooled our feet and let ourselves be absorbed by the scene.

We were unsure if today's adventure was quite what our family was after, but seeing as it was wet and local, we were determined to make it FUN also. After following our fellow sojourners to what we thought was a public pool, we were excited to see not only that, a wave pool, a whirl pool but also a fab waterslide area.  

After the boys tried Blue (hopeless unless you are 5), Graeme defied gravity in Orange (and came away with G-Force face-ache), we all decided Yellow was good but over pretty FAST. Purple was the definite winner when you're seeking F-U-N. It had single and also tandem tubes to share the ride and although the queue was getting a little lengthy by the end our time there, it was certainly what we were after.

There was a purchase of a skim ball (and a soccer ball but for future use) that took Hungarian pool side bathing to another level. Our kids were the only ones in rashies and playing "King of the Pack". I don't think they really got us Australians that day.

King of the Pack Australians vs Canoodling Hungarians

The wave pool wasn't my idea of fun. It was like a big communal bath full of Europeans who may have obviously never been in the surf as we know it. It's popularity was clear when at certain times of the hour, a bell was heard echoing across the waters, calling those who wanted to hang 10...minus the board of course. It was a frenzy of activity and we became the 'mean parents' who set limits on our charges. Earlier in the day, Daniel had already found himself half submerged, pinned between a pool wall and three big ladies attempting to exit the Whirlpool. Not fabulous so we were on guard.

With the day had cooled and our energy levels depleted it was time to leave the party and head home. There seemed to be a change in the air and we noted an ominous sky heading our way. What was moments earlier the best day ever for our Patrick, was quickly becoming a catastrophe. Although not admitting it at the time, he later revealed he felt we might all die! To be fair, the winds did seem cyclonic in strength and the people huddled in shops and doorways to escape the unfolding drama. Daniel, however, seemed to find great pleasure in the crisis. These innate responses reminded me of when I spun us in the caravan back in 2010

Making for home

Fallen branches and street chaos were not just a figment of his vivid imagination. Why don't we listen to you my boy?

Architecture, as I mentioned, wasn't highly prioritised by our band of merry men. Mathias Church on the high side of the Danube, charged to get in, so we didn't. Perhaps Sunday services are not so well attended? Or perhaps parishioners 'give' at the door, rather than on the plate during the service? Either way, the only architecture we did take some time to get to know was the bronze miniature of the Castle district, including Mathias. Obviously much loved due to the missing patina, it was wonderful to enjoy the tactile nature of sculpture, and there was even a section of braille for the sight deprived.

Another bronze we visited was a tribute to Czech victims of Nazi concentration camps. Daniel asked "Why shoes". Was it to show the very place they were removed from the shore they loved? Shoes are, at their most basic, very personal items. Perhaps it was a representation of everything they lost during their imprisonment, not only freedom and possessions but identity.

House of Parliament-impressive though not visited

Views from the Fisherman's Bastian

Another Budapest bronze

Our last evening in Budapest was a treat at 'Hungarikum Bistro'. Always fully booked the traditional home cooking style restaurant was a winner from it's waitstaff to it's food and back to it's live Cimbalom playing musician! A 'cimbalom' is a Hungarian instrument that looks like the inside of a piano, sounds like a harp and plays like a xylophone. When maestro began pumping out some more recognisable tunes, a few family members were a touch embarrassed when their mum decided to first hum and then sing along! But as it seemed to put a twinkle in this old man's eye, I paid no heed and believe I may have made his evening. I eventually received his, and the crowd';s, applause, so that made my night!

Interesting presentation - Patrick's platted pork

Playing one night only to a full house

London, Loss and Laments

There are things that I miss about home- my friends, my dog, my community, my Nespresso, but mostly we are complete with our family and our basic necessities such as money, food, clothes and somewhere new to sleep every few days. However, the problem with travel is that if one of these necessities is removed, one's world tends to crumble.

It is true that I have been chasing our tail with this blog, trying to catch up with ourselves on this whirlwind trip, but the truth is, there just isn’t enough time. We are heading home in a few days.  I will continue to write and finish off what I have begun but I won’t be spoon-feeding anyone on Facebook with my dribble. But you can punish yourselves and keep reading along if you wish.

After our wet and mediocre time in London, we were to catch a train into London City Airport (not Heathrow thankfully) to fly EasyJet to Florence. It sounds easy enough? Not when it’s raining solidly on 5 bag-lugging Australian’s who are heading to a station on a Sunday, the only day of the week the station isn’t serviced. There was the issue of insufficient funds, an ATM that wouldn’t work and no large taxis available to carry our large family. So, Bromley residents would have ‘had a laugh’ as they watched us rushing, for over 45 mins in disposable ponchos (!!!), to the other side of town to find a train. Drenched, stressed and physically exhausted, we were glad to reach the airport with enough time to spare for a lengthy check-in process and a snack to use up all those excess UK pounds we’d just had to extract for train fare.

On our tiny aircraft, we dreamed of sunny Italy and all that it was going to offer us poor damp creatures. On arrival though, as the carousel continued to turn, it became clear that we had a small problem on our hands. My bag was a no-show.  Not only that, but the boarding passes (which had the bag tags attached) were sitting somewhere on the plane and so there was no code to register. Agghhhhh! So, we were processed and tried to see the up side; we could now fit in a single taxi! So began our Italian adventure.

Our Florence apartment was in an historic building perched upon the southern bank of River Arno. We were five stories high, which made for excellent views but also many stone steps, inconveniently slanted by the use of generations. We were just up from the Ponte Vecchio and could see the upper half of the much loved dome of the main square’s Duomo. Dream position, cobbled streets, great local pizza and one less suitcase to lug up the 71 steps.

After the compulsory climb of the bell tower the following morning, Annabelle and I set to work to buy some of those 'essentials' missing from my life, namely a change of clothes, bathers and a toothbrush. Not so difficult one would imagine? Perhaps even a bit of fun? Well, after hours of price checking and mental calculations (the airline wasn’t overly generous) change rooms and decision making (not my strong point), we arrived home exhausted and a little emotionally flat. Instead of seeing Florence on our only full day here, we saw the inside of a department store…I didn’t even think Florence would have one! No leather boot buying, no handbag haggling, just Myer equivalent undies shopping.

After an enjoyable afternoon in the Duomo and an evening eating local fare, feeling happy to have lost my bag (of which nobody could seem to locate) and not one of my family members, I set them all up for a photo in the ancient  entrance of our apartment. A thoughtful Pom passing  by read my mind and paused to take a photo, mum included for once. He was animated in stopping the other pedestrians who thought about getting between he and his photographic subjects. It was all quite funny until…well, he was a little too animated and managed to drop my iPhone and smash my newly purchased camera case, a decision I had labored long over in London. No biggie? Well, he was suitably apologetic and walked away embarrassed but in one piece. However, it was enough to tip me over into ‘poor me’ mode and I sat at my little balcony with my perfect view (apart from the water rat that Daniel had pointed out to me only hours before…I HATE rodents) and felt suitably sorry for myself.

But, you say, 'It’s just a phone case. It’s just a suitcase'. And, you are right of course. By the morning I had come to terms with the little blips and was beyond ready to take my precious family to visit Michelangelo’s David at Il Academia. This was always going to be a quick visit as we were headed to the Cinque Terre coast via Pisa for a visit later that morning…and a photo or 15.

Pisa was really interesting. Unbeknownst to the town planners of the day, Pisa’s bell-tower was built upon an ancient and evaporated inland sea. Not a great place for a tall, heavy, narrow based structure.  Even during the initial building phase subsidence took place. They thought they had it covered and so continued, changing the design to minimize the ‘appearance’ of the tilt. Over the years it has caused the people of Pisa so much trouble and money I am surprised no one pulled it down and started over. However, if they had a tower which did behave, they wouldn’t have the tourism, so perhaps these ancient folk were a people ahead of their time?

Piazza Della Duomo in Pisa also offers a cathedral, a baptistery and a museum. You pay for everything except entrance to the cathedral (and just being in the square for your 'click and tick' but for some reason you still need a physical ticket to get in. There was a 3 hour wait to climb the Tower which was unfortunate but didn’t really matter because all our photos actually included the funny looking tower itself. So with our pictures set up in humorous poses, we walked the market stalls for a time then made our way back to the station.

Had Graeme been anything other than utterly reliable when it comes to departures, timeliness and organisation I may have had pause for concern with the amount of time we were permitted before our return to the station (with a designated one hour to spare included). Perhaps he loves me so much that he doesn’t want to run the risk of me ever living my reoccurring nightmare of unforeseen train travel trauma. On collecting the luggage from the storage area, however, it became apparent that there had been a gross miscalculation.  Our one hour train journey was arriving in Cinque Terre at 1530hrs not departing here…and It was now 1527!hrs!!

That tornado of mere minutes hit me very hard. The running, negotiating flights of stairs with kids and luggage, finding the correct platform, hoping we would make the final train to Cinque Terre but not even aware if it had already left us. As it turned out, Italian trains seem to run to Italian temperament…lazy, so relief and apology was quickly written all over Graeme’s face as he realised we actually had minutes to spare and he knew I had just lived through my reoccurring nightmare. Yet this reprieve was very short lived. 

In the madness, confusion, panic and running, my camera was nowhere to be found. It was either taken or fell from my backpack. My family and close friends will testify to my overuse and appreciation of my DSLR and new compact digital. They allow me to think and be creative.  As the Memory Keeper it is my tool. As the artist it is my brush.  As the author it is my muse. For it to be gone, in such a chaotic and final way, after the events of the last 48 hours, I was completely devastated and furious. Nobody could tell me where my luggage was and now my camera was lost too.

Tears streamed down my face most of the way to our new home in Manarola. The kids were really shaken up at seeing their emotional-but-mostly-together-mum crumble, swear and be non communicative. As the train rattled on they, one by one, came to me, hugged me and consoled me each in their own way. Patrick reminded me of the book of Job and how even when everything is stripped away from us, God is still in control; Annabelle didn’t have to say anything and just hugged me again and Daniel, wet faced, reached into his pocket and offered me his 20 euros that was burning a hole in his pocket.

As I recalled all the shots I had lovingly set up and taken, I lamented my loss. All the memories I had recorded, most backed up thankfully, but some not. I was so very angry at what I had had to endure these past days. The why me? Yet, even as it attempted to take hold, I knew my fury did not belong in my heart.

Along with asking for my camera to be returned to me, I asked the LORD for the ability to let go of my pain. The World doesn’t owe me anything. Possession are just things. Memories are just that. I called upon the prayers of some of my friends (via text) and immediately felt the relief that comes with knowing what I already know and what I had just been reminded of. God is in control of my life. Camera or no camera, clothes or no clothes.

 Jesus says, “Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable then they?”

I also thought of some of my dear friends who are currently experiencing very difficult chapters of their lives. What is my small drama compared to these life impacting, soul destroying events? My life is but a moment in time. If I dont have every single one of these moments captured, what does it really change?

My luggage has finally been found, and although not in my care, is being shipped back to Australia without me. Hopefully it will be there to welcome me home and the London-damp, possibly mold riddled clothes, won't cause me any more heart ache.