trevi

Magnificent from any angle— creamy marble against a black sky and pale green water— the light and shadows ever-changing from the ripples in the pool beneath. A dream carved in stone, growing out of the facade of the stately building the way clouds take on the shapes of battleships then rabbits.



On the edge of the crowd, we found a spot to sit where I could dip my hand into the cool green water, where light gently reflected from the glittering coins that represented the many hopes of returning to Rome. I tossed a dirham in.

anatomy, art, and religion

Thank you to those Renaissance artists who brought together science and art— dissecting human beings and studying their anatomy, learning how a muscle contracts, how a bone shapes a shadow, how a body can twist and bend... How to turn a flat, emotionless saint into a person wrought with fear, ecstasy, and devotion— so real, you swear you could see a throbbing in their neck...

tragic lions

The Archaeological Museum in María Luisa Park has a lovely collection of prehistoric idols and Roman artifacts from the Iberian peninsula, including these wonderfully tragic lions. Had I more time, I would have liked to sketch every one of the expressive beasts— they look so sad!



I wonder about the artists' intentions...

hello, venus

The auditorium was dark, and the white-headed professor was droning on and on about something my sleep deprived brain struggled to retain. I hung my head back to stare at the ceiling, trying to recall the bizarre dream I started to have last night, when my thought, like the dream, was interrupted. The slide had clicked to reveal a wonderfully rounded form— the very definition of round. A woman, head bowed, with enormous, pendulous breasts resting on a pillow of belly and hip. I was mesmerised.

The Venus of Willendorf.

I was obsessed. I drew her thighs and rolls in the corners of my art history and philosophy papers. I memorised her curves. This 25,000 year old Paleolithic statuette enchanted me. I daydreamed of the moment she was discovered in the earth, of her voluptuous little body being carved by ancient hands and gazed upon by ancient eyes... and I dreamt of tracing the shapes of her shadows with my own eyes.

Fifteen years later, I found myself standing before her, breath stilled in my body.
I pulled out my sketchbook and pen, and drew by the light which bounced off her breasts.



I am so lucky, indeed.

flesh into stone

Muscles, flesh, and ribs, conquering heroes and goddesses...
One imagines their chests expand with inhalations at night.

the last day

For my last full day in Budapest, I wanted to visit the Dohány Street Synagogue— I've never been to a synagogue, and this happens to be the world's second largest. I wasn't sure what to expect, so I was surprised and delighted by the Moorish architectural influences, as I've always been a fan. The building is simply spectacular— the warm light inside, bouncing off pinkish tiles, is out of this world. Once I spied the unusual chandeliers— which for some reason reminded me of some sort of sea creature or sea plant, I was disappointed they weren't illuminated. How those arches would have looked if they were lit!


In the garden behind the synagogue stood a single, beautiful weeping willow of metal, made by Imre Varga. The leaves were inscribed with the names of thousands of Hungarian Jews who were victims of the Holocaust. I was filled with a terrible feeling I cannot describe, a dreadful silence, as every leaf I touched represented someone lost in an unimaginable way.

When I was thirteen and living in Belgium, my history teacher took us on a class field trip to the ruins of a concentration camp called Breendonk. It's not something I enjoy discussing or remembering, but I remember being filled with dread as our school bus approached the austere building. I kept thinking about how that road and that fence, and those darkly stained wooden posts that I saw with my eyes were also seen by thousands of other eyes, wide with fear, questioning, uncertainty hanging overhead like some incredible weight. People unaware or perhaps knowing, that their lives would be lived out in the worst way between those walls.

When we were taken inside the prisoners' rooms, the musty smell of the decaying wooden bunks and the claustrophobic stacking of beds like shelves was overwhelming— who lived here, who died here— they all had names, favourite things, memories, families, loves and losses. I had never before or since, been brought to tears by a building.


Beside the Dohány Street Synagogue, is a small museum of Jewish culture with some lovely pieces of art and beautiful old prayer books— many other things too, but these things in particularly caught my eye. For some reason I didn't photograph any of the books, and I am really wishing I had.

Since Mirco had only a few hours before he had to head to the airport, we decided beers were in order, and since I needed to pick up some last minute souvenirs, we revisited the Great Market Hall, Nagycsarnok. Tempting waves of food smells wafted by us and became too intense to ignore— and what goes better with beer than a juicy, spicy sausage?

As you can see below, I was handed a sausage in its own paper plate with a pool of spicy mustard (which was oh-so delicious), and a slice of white bread on a napkin. Hmm... instinct was telling me to roll the sausage up in the bread, but common sense told me that if it was meant to be eaten that way, it would be in a bun. I watched the old man next to me as he very dignified, cut a bite of sausage with his knife and fork, dipped it in the mustard, chewed it thoughtfully, then tore off a piece of bread and ate it alone. I did the same.


Back at the hostel, I bumped into Nancy and Molly after saying goodbye to Mirco, my dear Associate Adventurist. Nancy had found a new restaurant to try, and we decided to kidnap one of the hostel's staff members, Andras, along with two new guests one of whom, Ben, is an Iron Man competitor! How on earth— and why— a person would put themselves through a 3.86 km swim, followed by a 180.25 km bike race, topped off with a marathon, is beyond me. It's simply amazing. I won't even run to catch a bus.

We set off for M Restaurant, one of the coolest places I have eaten recently— the walls were pasted with brown packing paper with lamps, shelves and curtains drawn on. The food had a delicious home-cooked comfort feel, perfectly matched with a glass of wine and long conversation. It was a wonderful end to an incredible adventure.


On the walk back to the hostel, I passed through the city's many metro stations. I watched people hurrying about to who knows where, and I had that feeling so familiar to travellers, the feeling of not wanting to go home. I love Budapest. The layers of history, the friendliness of its people— the waffleman. Budapest, I'll be back.

shoes on the danube promenade

Budapest is full of sculptures, monuments and statues of all shapes and sizes, but this one in particular moved me so deeply, it needed its own post. Shoes on the Danube Promenade by Gyula Pauer and Can Togay, is a memorial to the Jews who were shot into the Danube at the hands of the Hungarian fascist group, Arrow Cross, during WWII. There are 60 pairs of iron shoes, forming a row of about 40 metres.

I can't think of a more personal item than shoes. They form to your individual shape and are worn down by your experiences. You dance in them, walk miles in them, you run in them. Every pair in this memorial reminds you of the person— she was short and balanced on the balls of her feet to better reach things, he ground down the soles of those boots between work and home every day— those tiniest shoes held feet that just learned to walk.


Watching the silent grey river, I was overwhelmed, knowing how the same spot was stared at with frightened eyes— how the water's coldness would be the last thing that so many people would feel. Grey turned red, eventual silence. I couldn't help but look at my own shoes, and feel thankful for all I have been given in life.

fine pastries and the ghosts of terror

Wednesday arrived with hunger and the anticipation of exploring the variety of pastries and rolls held hostage in glass cases at Jég Büfé. I was thrilled to discover this authentic Hungarian pastry shop was staring at our hostel from right across the street, and not only did they have loads of strüdels and mille feuilles, they had a waffle man! I meandered over to the little wooden cubicle where a burly man poured batter into waffle irons with a frown, and served the warm doughy gaufres to hungry pedestrians though a circular hole in the window. As I approached, he narrowed his eyes and turned his back to me with a grunt. I was intimidated, and opted for a beautiful braided roll stuffed with poppy seed paste and walnuts with a coffee instead. Judging by the interior, I imagine Jég Büfé has been around since the early 50s, but I can't seem to find anything about the history of the place so far. Almost none of the people working there speak English, so you have to bravely do your best to pronounce the names of what you want— but I've found a big, innocent, touristy smile and sign language works just fine.


Our bellies happy and satisfied, we took a tram to Buda to grab the #150 bus to Memento Park. After what seemed like an hour of weaving through rolling hills and pretty suburban streets, we arrived at a lonely bleak stop with electric towers and a large wall across the street. Following the other tourists, we hopped off and found ourselves exactly where we had hoped to be.

Clouds rushed across the sky colouring it blue then grey, then blue again, minute to minute. Huge angry figures speared the sky with flags and fists— relics of communism, scattered across a desolate park. There was an eerie silence that made the experience all the more dramatic.



Memento Park, as I understand it, is still being developed. In the barracks next to the park was a small exhibit detailing the key events that took place during those fifty years, and a theatre showing a film about surveillance and the life of an agent. I expected many more statues, but the wide empty space did give me plenty of room to think about the years of fear, terror and oppression that gripped the country. I cannot imagine what it must have been like— to live without trust, to live afraid of your neighbours, the shopkeeper, your friends.

On Andrássy the day before, we passed the House of Terror, a museum dedicated to the horrors committed by the fascist and communist groups that held Hungary tightly in their fists. The black metal awning on the building has the word TERROR cut out of it, and when the sun hits it just right, the word is projected onto the face of the building. Hundreds of people were tortured and executed in the basement of this building, as it once was the headquarters of the ÁVH, the secret police. To say the building was chilling would be an understatement. Once I saw the faces of the victims of this bloody history in little black oval frames along the outer wall, I couldn't bear to go in.


It just so happened we were visiting Budapest on the anniversary of the 1956 Hungarian Revolution against the country's Stalinist government. The revolt lasted from October 23 until the 10th of November, leaving hundreds dead and thousands imprisoned. About 200,000 people fled the country as refugees. All over the city I saw wreaths, flowers and little Hungarian flags placed at key monuments and spots in remembrance.