I don’t believe in signs, but if I did, I’d believe today’s journey was a bad sign.
My credit card didn’t work in the ticket machine, so I missed my train into Madrid. I waited for the next one that got me to Madrid’s Chamartín station just moments before the airport train was due to leave. I sprinted (walked quickly) to the platform only to see that train slowly pulling away from the platform. Trains are regular enough that none of this really mattered, but on a sign level, it mattered a lot … I hadn’t even got to the airport, and yet I’d already had three bad signs.
That said, things happen in threes, so perhaps that would be the end of it, and things would pick up from here.
They didn’t.
The queue to check-in was very long and very slow, although again, it didn’t actually matter in the end either.
But even so, we’re up to four bad signs … and I’m getting a cold!
This was my last trip in a long and difficult year. A year that has seen organizational restructures, job losses, a vast increase in workload all while I had caring responsibilities that transformed into bereavement in the first half of the year.
Thank goodness Leeds United got promoted or I’d have had nothing to cheer this year.
My hope for 2025 was a better work-life balance, yet I don’t think I’ve ever felt so overloaded … I know I attach too much of my identity to my work, and that leaves precious little me to go around elsewhere, so I accept I’m complicit in my balance being out of whack, but not everything is in my circle of control, not everything is my fault.
They say your children are the only one who will notice if you work late. This may be true, but it is also true that your children will notice if you fail to provide for them … there is a balance; being present and living a simpler life may be preferable to absence plus abundance, but trying to keep a job is no walk in the park either …
… anyway, I have a window seat – better than a middle seat, but not great, especially when the row is fully occupied. There are spaces all over the cabin, but my neighbours don’t move and I spend the flight squashed firmly against the fuselage – another bad sign? …
… I guess I could have moved – and should have moved – but I dithered and as food was being served it would have been awkward and I decided to leave it, then spent the flight wishing they’d notice how uncomfortable I was and take the appropriate action.
Them moving to give me space was not in my circle of control, me moving was, yet I passively waited for them to act instead of acting myself … I guess I was unnerved from all those bad omens earlier in the trip.
I huff and puff and shuffle around, but they don’t notice; my passive-aggressive sighing not making the tiniest of ripples in their world. They watch stuff on their phones, then she complains about someone unfollowing her on Instagram and he explains it might because of something someone said to someone … I forget the details … and she’s not happy and says so, and he says “Don’t have a go at me!” in a way that suggests he’s not in the empathy business. As far as I can tell, she’s not having a go at anyone, she’s expressing her frustration generally at a situation she thinks is unfair.
“Don’t have a go at me!” he repeats, “I’m only telling you what I heard”
“I know, I’m just saying …”
“Don’t have a go at me!”
Now, I don’t know the ins and outs of this relationship, I don’t know what history there is of her “having a go” at him, but based solely on this overheard snippet, I’d say he’s not the best example of boyfriend material I’ve ever seen. I’m a pretty lousy boyfriend too, I spend too much time in my own head, and I admit this guy is taller and better-looking than I am, so if that’s your thing, then yes, okay, I guess he wins, but I am nicer and less-controlling, so in my opinion, I win.
Not that it’s a competition.
I have never been to Budapest, but have always wanted to. I have a fascination with rivers, and in Europe there is none better than the Danube. It’s Europe’s second-longest at nearly 3000kms (the Volga is 500kms longer), flowing through ten countries and four capital cities, it also – via a canal – connects to the Rhine, meaning it’s possible to navigate from the North Sea to the Black Sea, something I would love to do one day – indeed, this adventure sits high on my probably-never-going-to-happen bucket list.
Budapest is the city that most represents this mighty river. It is beautiful and historic and sits at the heart of Eastern Europe, with the broad river cutting right down the middle – the hilly Prague-like Buda on one side with its castle and funicular, and the majestic Vienna-like Pest on the other with its stunning parliament building perched on the river’s edge.
This is my first time in Budapest, but not my first time on the Danube. I have been to Vienna, but don’t remember seeing the river there, it’s off to the side, not slap bang in the centre like in Budapest. I also went to Ingolstadt in Germany many years ago and remember walking down from my hotel, through the old town, and standing on the bridge above a much younger and narrower Danube, staring down at fast-moving water, thinking of the long journey ahead of it.
At least that’s my hazy memory of the experience, although most memories of that trip were crowded out by the journey home. I was on the tarmac at Munich Airport aboard my flight for about an hour, time ticking slowly beyond the 8pm scheduled take-off time, when we were told to get off due to a technical fault. I think that’s the better thing to do if there is even the slightest concern that the plane might crash, but I also think trying to deal with 300 disgruntled passengers with one member of staff is a poor do.
It was 9pm by the time I retrieved my luggage and joined the queue to find out what alternative flight I’d be put on. It was 6am when I got to the front of that queue.
I spent those hours chatting and laughing with others in the queue, our laughter increasingly hysterical as exhaustion kicked in as the night wore on. I regret to this day that I didn’t ask for compensation from the airline. It was the first time I’d experienced such stark disruption, and I assumed the airline would proactively offer their standard package of nice stuff by way of an apology, but I was wrong.
Passively expecting others to do the right thing isn’t a great strategy in life, and in the context of getting compensation from an airline, the best solution is to ask for it.
There is a life lesson in here somewhere, and as I wearily sit in the back of my Uber, watching the wintry suburbs of Budapest whizz by, I wonder if I need to be more active in asking for I want in life. My attempts to be a stoic humanist wax and wane as I forget what it is supposed to mean, and then get tired and overwhelmed with life … in some ways, I am rocking middle-age, in others, I am falling into all the usual traps that life sets us … as the car chugs along through the evening traffic I think to myself about how 2026 will be the year I correct course. My mind wanders, and I wonder how I will cope with another very busy week, only days since I returned from Istanbul (see here for the blog post on that), and with that trace of a cold brewing ominously in my sinuses (another sign?). It’s dark and cold, I’m feeling tired and achy, and at that moment am struggling to think of anything beyond getting to my room, closing the door, and wallowing in solitude.
I spend the next three days busy at work during the day, feigning good health and energy, slinking back to my room each evening, my cold sitting heavily on my head, making me feel fuzzy and slow. I phone room service every night, eat the same thing, and leave the tray outside my door. It’s still there each morning. I know I’m supposed to ring down to reception to tell them to come to collect it, but more human interaction is not high on my list of priorities, and if this hotel wants to change the age-old process of dumping empty room service trays in the corridor, they’re going to have to do better than a little note on my tray that I can pretend I don’t see.
On the last day I have a couple of hours to spare, and walk across the Danube from Buda to Pest. They were lucky the names of the two cities go together so neatly, so invisibly, a sign it was meant to be perhaps? I doubt it. I am always skeptical of “meant to be” claims because they depend on the future being known and all planned out, which I think unlikely because I have tried to plan things, and then tried to stick to the plan, and I know how hard that is.
Budapest was formed in 1873 when the two merged (along with Óbuda) to form one city, and I – and I suspect many others (or at least I hope many others, so I’m not on my own in my ignorance) – didn’t even notice the compound name, I just thought Budapest was the name of the city and that was that. Perhaps if cities like my hometown of Leeds and its near neighbour Bradford had names that so nearly slotted together, they too might have merged, but any attempt to squish those names into one simply doesn’t work: Leedsford? Breeds? Bleofordis?
I walk through the Christmas Market nestling around St Stephen’s Basilica and buy some shockingly expensive chocolate that brought out my inner Yorkshireman (“‘Ow much?!”). I was also buying a fridge magnet, and accidentally broke one when I was whirling the carousel around. I owned up, and the shop assistant asked if I wanted to pay for it, which I thought was an odd question because it seemed obvious to me that, given the choice, I would prefer not to pay for it.
“No, not really,” I said.
Thinking about it now, perhaps he charged me anyway because chocolate really shouldn’t be that expensive.
I find a bookshop with a good selection of Hungarian writers in English and browse my options. I had thought about Tibor Fischer’s The Hungarian Tiger but it seemed to be a defence of Victor Orbán rather than a fictional tale of Hunagarian life, so I left it on the shelf. Tibor Fischer started strongly with the excellent Under the Frog, and followed up with the enjoyable The Thought Gang and my favourite of the three The Collector Collector, but since then he seems to have got a little lost. I know Hungary has a rich literary history though, so I’m not too worried, and in the end I pick a two novellas by István Örkény.
I read the first while I’m there (The Flower Show) a prescient tale of how far people will go to be on TV. The story centres around a documentary about death, following the final weeks of three different people and their families, one of whom is a famous writer who – impatient with the slow pace of his own demise and desperate to feature on the show – takes a load of sleeping pills in order to make the editorial deadline. That’s dedication to the job, yes, but one might argue his work-life balance was a bit out of whack.
I read The Toth Family a few weeks later. It’s about a rural Hungarian family living in the mountains during World War 2, hosting their son’s commanding officer during a two-week break away from the front, the mountain air famous for its restorative qualities. They, desperate to make a good impression to give their son every possible favour, submit to his insomniac demands that they spend the nights productively making boxes for the war effort. In the end, unable to take any more, the Major is chopped into four equal pieces by an exhausted Mr Toth.
I liked The Flower Show, but adored The Toth Family – sometimes you get the choice right and then I feel so glad I made the effort to find books and music I wouldn’t otherwise know about.
I walk on to Wave Records, and have a long conversation with the person working there. His English is impeccable, and we chat for a while, discussing the remarkable talent of the band Geese and their frontman Cameron Winter. He (the guy in the record shop, not Cameron Winter) recommends a few different things, and in the end I go for Dolgom Volt (I Had Work to Do) and Mindig Kések, de Hozza´d Jókor Indultam (I’m Always Late, But I Left on Time) by Barkóczi Noémi – a kind of modern-day pop-folk with hints of the brilliant Swedish popsters Komeda at times, and some nice Hungarian folk influences here and there – that’s what I look for, something that reflects the unique mix of influences each person has soaked up from whatever time and place they’re in. AI can make music, it’s not particularly hard if you know the rules, but I want to hear a real person expressing something in a way that moves me.
I notice (not for the first time) how solo artists dominate and wonder if bands will ever make a comeback. A pity, I always prefered bands, but by definition they’re a more unstable entity and require more effort to stay together than working solo. I think creativity is best found in dynamics not individuals, and anyway art isn’t just about the final product, it’s about the story, and bands usually have more interesting stories.
It’s getting dark and cold, and I wander back over the Danube into Buda, thinking I might take the funicular up to the castle and wander around up there, but I am running low on time and having got my book, music, chocolate and fridge magnet, I latch on to the awkwardness of the ticket purchasing process (and the price! “‘Ow much?!”) and use this as an excuse to head back to my hotel for a short siesta before I am forced into being sociable this evening – I have got away with hiding in my room for three nights in a row, but I am not going to get away with it again.
I meet up with colleagues and with my cold ebbing a little, I am feeling little brighter. We go back into Pest for pizza, but the restaurant we had chosen is closed. This doesn’t matter because cities are renowned for having lots of places to eat, no matter how sophisticated society becomes, it still revolves around satisfying our biological needs, especially our need to eat and drink. I don’t really want pizza anyway, and am happy wandering randomly down streets, following our noses in directions that look more likely to have food. We soon find somewhere and I have something with rice and drink alcohol-free beer, my experiment in sobriety thankfully nearing its end after six long months on the wagon – a choice that was initially liberating, freeing me from the drag that alcohol has on the body, but over time has become boring. Life without red wine and craft ale just isn’t the same.
We stroll back to the river and up the left bank, enjoying the relatively balmy evening and the lights of this beautiful city. We cross back on the Széchenyi Chain Bridge before meandering our way back to the hotel. I have an early flight the next day, and The Flower Show to finish, so resist any attempts to drag me into the hotel bar and head back to my room.
But then, as I ride up to my floor in the lift, I’m wondering if I’ve taken full advantage of being in this lovely city. I have done zero touristy things, the only local food I’ve had is some chocolate which was very expensive (not sure if I mentioned it?). Am I really a traveller if all I do is sit in my room eating risotto and reading novellas? Or am I perhaps a tired middle-aged man who’s working too hard?
Is that what all these signs have been trying to tell me?
MrJohn 