We arrived at twilight; the icy black depths of the Danube were glistening under the full moon. A few naked trees stood together in pockets; some lit up along the main shopping routes. We drove through the city making small talk. Row upon row of cold Soviet era prefab concrete; block upon block of voided lives that, we guessed, were now filled with a certain brand of Swedish flat-packed furniture; the standard grid repeating itself indefinitely. Reaching the commercial centre the cubist uniformity gave way to iron and stone arches in crumbling 'belle epoch' facades. Bistro males collected in dimly lit wooden bars: wearing wire spectacles, smoking long thin cigars and sporting large bovarian moustaches. Can diversity and equality grow together like this? As long as we all dream the same dream and slumber on; the dream is good; the dream will keep us warm.
We entered the apartment. I made myself comfortable and switched on the TV. The state channel had an obligatory suit interviewing part-time footballers; video images of hostile pink nostrils flaring between local rivals began to spill onto the screen; a medieval sporting contest erupting across the floodlit terraces. The BBC World Service endlessly repeated its chant: Russian bombs are dropping in Allepo; Russian doping has cheated the Olympics; Russian hacking has corrupted the US presidential election. It seems Vladimir Putin has succeded where 100 years of Marxist-Leninism had failed? The Soviets had a dream that became a nightmare. We know. The truth afforded by victory was the first casualty of war. Whether the first truth was made of love or not, all of its offspring were condemned to die from some variation of abuse and neglect.
We saw a city at a crossroads of many different cultures; battling feelings of isolation and inequality. Shadowy figures crossing; too close to us on this path. We have felt their cold and their warmth, our hearts have been broken too. Standards kept, but conversations witholding truth, throwing only more shadows out into the dark. Behind me. Young aspirants and guilt ridden grandparents; a history of facism and secret police; silent screams from torture chambers beneath the expensive hotel; an uncertain future with no unifying direction of travel. Now we appreciate. Material wealth will only grow from the roots of emotional and spiritual wellbeing.
The old Palace houses the national gallery with nothing but Hungarian artists on display; even though they copy the styles from all the corners of continental Europe, the other artists are all nameless. The exhibition has its own internal language, meant for private Hungarian consumption, but I thought I understood 'a little'. "What did the Nazis think of Hungarian art?" I asked the custodian. "Did they steal or destroy any of the paintings?" A blank face met my gaze and stared back at me, eyes motionless searching my face for clues to meaning. I blinked first: "You know, 1945?". Finding a question he can answer, and my ignorance, he is jolted into action, "ah yes post-1945 is on the next floor". "And the nazis?" I insist. He turns mute again and walks away looking blankly at his freind. "No" he states unequivocally. His freind looks at me and can say nothing. He walks off after him.
Later after we have descended into the streets below the Palace, into the Western shops, where the new money in Budapest, is attracting the young, I look back. There is no nationalism down here. Foreign money is buying up the streets and peddling dreams to those thirsty for a globalised popular culture. Fame and fortune not history nor citizenship is being made and sold here. In the chrome and glass and marbled stone; every size and colour you could wish for; all of your pleasures are catered for. I see the Palace on the hill become a castle. Standing out in the dark, cold and alone, against an imperial capitalism, against an invasion of the infidel, against the enemies of Christendom. Is Putin's brand of Nationalism the new Socialism? The Woodsman turning the arts and crafts movement to pit its wit against the nihilism of mass production. In the epoch of post-industrial austerity; post-truth; post-modernism. Calling to the disenfranchised working class to return to waive a flag from the Palace-on-the-Hill. We know. The Russian eagle has two heads: but the icy black Danube can only flow in one direction.
We entered the apartment. I made myself comfortable and switched on the TV. The state channel had an obligatory suit interviewing part-time footballers; video images of hostile pink nostrils flaring between local rivals began to spill onto the screen; a medieval sporting contest erupting across the floodlit terraces. The BBC World Service endlessly repeated its chant: Russian bombs are dropping in Allepo; Russian doping has cheated the Olympics; Russian hacking has corrupted the US presidential election. It seems Vladimir Putin has succeded where 100 years of Marxist-Leninism had failed? The Soviets had a dream that became a nightmare. We know. The truth afforded by victory was the first casualty of war. Whether the first truth was made of love or not, all of its offspring were condemned to die from some variation of abuse and neglect.
We saw a city at a crossroads of many different cultures; battling feelings of isolation and inequality. Shadowy figures crossing; too close to us on this path. We have felt their cold and their warmth, our hearts have been broken too. Standards kept, but conversations witholding truth, throwing only more shadows out into the dark. Behind me. Young aspirants and guilt ridden grandparents; a history of facism and secret police; silent screams from torture chambers beneath the expensive hotel; an uncertain future with no unifying direction of travel. Now we appreciate. Material wealth will only grow from the roots of emotional and spiritual wellbeing.
The old Palace houses the national gallery with nothing but Hungarian artists on display; even though they copy the styles from all the corners of continental Europe, the other artists are all nameless. The exhibition has its own internal language, meant for private Hungarian consumption, but I thought I understood 'a little'. "What did the Nazis think of Hungarian art?" I asked the custodian. "Did they steal or destroy any of the paintings?" A blank face met my gaze and stared back at me, eyes motionless searching my face for clues to meaning. I blinked first: "You know, 1945?". Finding a question he can answer, and my ignorance, he is jolted into action, "ah yes post-1945 is on the next floor". "And the nazis?" I insist. He turns mute again and walks away looking blankly at his freind. "No" he states unequivocally. His freind looks at me and can say nothing. He walks off after him.
Later after we have descended into the streets below the Palace, into the Western shops, where the new money in Budapest, is attracting the young, I look back. There is no nationalism down here. Foreign money is buying up the streets and peddling dreams to those thirsty for a globalised popular culture. Fame and fortune not history nor citizenship is being made and sold here. In the chrome and glass and marbled stone; every size and colour you could wish for; all of your pleasures are catered for. I see the Palace on the hill become a castle. Standing out in the dark, cold and alone, against an imperial capitalism, against an invasion of the infidel, against the enemies of Christendom. Is Putin's brand of Nationalism the new Socialism? The Woodsman turning the arts and crafts movement to pit its wit against the nihilism of mass production. In the epoch of post-industrial austerity; post-truth; post-modernism. Calling to the disenfranchised working class to return to waive a flag from the Palace-on-the-Hill. We know. The Russian eagle has two heads: but the icy black Danube can only flow in one direction.
