Budapest: Renewal

Budapest is the "most foreign" city to which I've traveled. There were many things that didn't feel familiar, the language, the currency, the food, but most importantly -  the feeling that freedom is not something this country has experienced until recent years. We traveled on September 11th and freedom may have been ever present on my mind as we arrived in the city. It was a bit unsettling that week to travel because of the anniversary of 9/11 and the fighting between Russia and the Ukraine had intensified. Hungary is on the border with Ukraine, though the opposite border from Russia.

When we arrived, we walked around the center of Pest - the east side of the city near our hotel and I observed several things: the new Jewish memorial for the Holocaust victims, the beautiful St. Stephen's Basilica lit at night, and the dark vibrant street of ethnic restaurants close to our hotel.

Many policemen and women were near the Holocaust memorial and a woman came up and gave us some literature asking us to please read. The protesters thought the memorial ignored and glossed over the Hungarian government's participation of the Jewish extermination. Instead of looking at the government memorial, the protesters asked us to consider looking at the makeshift memorial that the Jewish families put at the base of the government statue which contained victims' personal belongings and photos. It was indeed a poignant testament to the lives that were lost in extermination camps during WWII.

Early the next morning - in the rain, Paul and I traveled to Szechenyi Baths, a Turkish style bathhouse with 3 outdoor pools and 18 indoor pools with medicinal natural hot spring waters, complete with steam and massage rooms. These baths were built in 1913 and the buildings surrounding the baths were very ornate. We had an appointment for massages and also wanted to relax in the baths. Our massages allowed us to unwind. Afterward we went outside to the hot spring baths to watch some older gentlemen playing chess on the built-in marble chessboards, probably something they have been doing for decades. We spent an hour or two under the fountains and in the healing warm pools of waters to people watch and enjoy.

On the way home, we went by St. Stephen's Basilica - an active Roman Catholic church completed in 1905 named for the first king of Hungary (year 975) who offered his crown for the good of God and the Catholic church. His right hand is a relic located in the church signifying the importance of performing God's works. We found there would be a concert that night in the church with the pipe organ, a trumpet and a mezzo-soprano vocalist. The concerts enable the many musicians in the city to perform and also allows the church to pay for the preservation of the Basilica.

After dinner at a hummus bar, we arrived at the church to a sparsely lighted sanctuary with magnificent artwork and Carrara marble statues. One painting caught my eye by Benczur - St. Stephen offering his crown to the Virgin Mary with baby Jesus. The lighting surrounding Jesus's head was brilliantly white, even in the darkened church. During the concert, the mezzo-soprano vocalist sang three versions of Ave Maria and many other classical pieces that were performed in my daughter Stephanie's wedding last year. The music was extraordinary. Between the darkened environment of the church, the lighted artwork and the brilliant music, I found myself crying during much of the concert as the music washed over me.


Paul and I went across the Danube river the next morning to Buda - the city that was united with Pest in 1873 to see the older part of the city. On our way over, we saw the memorial of the shoes on the river banks.  It honors the Jews who were killed by fascist militiamen in Budapest during WWII. The people were ordered to take off their shoes, and were shot at the edge of the water so that their bodies fell into the river and were carried away. This memorial represents their shoes left behind on the bank. I could only imagine the tears that fell into the river that day.

Across the river is the Grand Palace, which is now filled with museums and exhibits since there is no monarchy. The President's offices are also on this side of the river. We walked around the cobblestone streets and it started raining. We found shelter at the top of the hill at a cafe which overlooked the valley below. We drank some Hungarian Budweiser (very different than the US kind) while it rained. We booked a river cruise for the evening to see the city at night from the Danube. It stormed during much of the evening, but we stayed sheltered inside the glass roof of the boat to watch the lightening show over the magnificent city. 

On our last morning there, we returned to St. Stephen's Basilica to go to a Hungarian mass. The mass is the same all over the world - except for the homily - whatever language it is spoken in. It was a chance to be inside the Basilica again - a place that felt like home. We left for the airport after mass and it was still raining. It occurred to me that in coming to visit Budapest, I felt renewed. I don't know if it was the water from the spas, being on the banks of the Danube river, crying during the concert, or just getting wet from the rain, but I felt cleansed. Travel - and being renewed -  allows me to open up to new ways of thinking and feeling and it leaves me with a quiet soul. I am glad I have the freedom to travel.

Definition of a Hero

I've known many World War II heroes in my life. But most of them didn't emphasize this often little-known fact about themselves to others. The years they spent in the war never came up in conversation, except sometimes incidentally. My Dad, three of his brothers, and three of my mother's brothers served in WWII and came home with medals. In my Dad's case, he received a Purple Heart, two Oak Leaves (essentially 2 additional Purple Hearts), four  Presidential Unit Citations, the European-African-Middle Eastern Campaign Ribbon, and a Combat Infantry Badge.  He also came home with a piece of shrapnel still behind his ear. He never talked about it.

I don't think my Dad ever knew the profound impact his years of service had on the world. There are two kinds of heroes. Heroes who shine in the face of adversity, who perform an amazing feat in a difficult situation. And heroes who live among us, who do their work unceremoniously, unnoticed, but who make a difference in the lives of others. My dad was a hero in both regards.

Last week, I was able to spend some time in the company of WWII veterans who are also heroes.  They came to the Netherlands to commemorate the 70th Anniversary of the Liberation of the Netherlands. One American veteran named Armando Marquez, 90 years young, was in the 101st Airborne and dropped into the Netherlands in 1944 during Operation Market Garden. He was flown by the Dutch government from El Paso, Texas to the Netherlands with his wife Christina of 66 years and his daughter Martha to attend the week-long ceremonies to commemorate the 70th anniversary of the Liberation. I met with him at a lunch stop in a tank and military vehicle procession and got to know a little bit about him. We bonded as fellow Texans, he said he was glad to know someone from home. This was his first trip back to Europe since the war. In coming back, I think he was starting to know the impact his service made on this world. His regret was that from his company, he was the only still living.

Many attending the procession wanted Armando's autograph, some wanted to ask him questions about the war, and others just wanted to say thank you. During our conversation, we were interrupted many times by others who wanted some of his time. I commented to him that he was like a "rock star", considering the following he had among the attendees. I asked his wife if he told any stories of the war and she mentioned that he wouldn't keep quiet about it. Armando leaned over and said he only told the good stories.

Armando's first jump during combat was in Normandy and his second jump during Operation Market Garden, when he landed in Son. He lost his helmet during the jump and grabbed one from a soldier who unfortunately would not need his after his jump. In Armando's home in El Paso, he has a photo of a German tank in the streets of Eindhoven, newly decorated with American flags after the liberation.

Later, I asked Armando if he realized that these people thought he was a hero. I mentioned to him I talked to a gentleman during the procession who was a 8-year-old boy during the Liberation of Eindhoven 70 years earlier. This man remembered the tanks and military men in the streets that day and in his mind, those men saved his family and his country. Armando smiled and didn't answer for a while. He said that he supposed that perhaps they thought he was. His smile was slow. It is worth celebrating 70 years if for only to let one veteran know that his courageous efforts and service in the World War II really mattered. Armando is an ordinary hero from Texas whose actions 70 years ago defined greatness.