February 2009

Sunday, February 22, 2009

How To Build Floating Arm Trebuchet

Paris-Vienna-Budapest

Nothing

predicted that only a few weeks back, my steps would be surprisingly led to a city that means. A journey which, while having a main destination Budapest, opened the door to the possibility of seeing the city is so close and yet so far, so many letters and many evenings filled even without knowing it. Nothing, absolutely nothing, raising suspicion that Vienna would be a few hours. A city that is today, yesterday and it was morning.

And is that Budapest was to be our only stop. I would have deserved, no doubt. Despite a more than eventful arrival, Budapest announced soon. The trail of streets and squares framed in a city that seemed to have stopped time. The decline of the streets threw a look back, even without nostalgia, remembering the greatness and the poverty of a people marked by the vicissitudes of history. Gray, muted tones of the buildings contrasted with the Soviet red smudged spellings and the color of the Danube, at least during those days was far from being blue.

However, the grandeur of Budapest was still hidden, and only after sunset, when its continuous murmur hushed streets were deserted and under the watchful gaze of the few bystanders who tried to rush the last hours of the day, the city surrendered to us. The somber colors that all day had been accompanying us gave way to an endless row of lamps escorting the proud, now, Imperial River Danube. And a few yards, almost mocking the night, the Buddha stood watching intently, while the light sound of water orchestrating the only disruption of that impassive silence. Budapest, then welcomed us.

The visit to the Hungarian capital, in fact, had earned the trip alone, but not Vienna had not been the same.

Vienna is not Paris. Vienna does not accompany the peaceful wanderings of the river while engrossed hundreds of visitors contemplate the greatness of its corners. Vienna is not hidden by the nobility of its boulevards and distinction of its terraces. Vienna does not confess in each of its squares, in each of their stones. Vienna hurts. Torn. One night swamped by the uncertainty of their streets. The ceaseless muffled cry of silence. The innocence of a quiet candle cries a visit ever made. Vienna is the painful memory of a hundred polka around a table.

Vienna is not Paris. Needless it does.

Pd. Budapest Image courtesy of Alex, who will always be grateful to have been a precursor to this trip.