Why Tourists Give Budapest, Hungary a Chance

The Danube, I'm sorry to report, is not blue. That head-swinging waltz title no longer rings true. The great river - broad with a brutish current - slugs through the twin cities of Buda and Pest. The city sometimes adds azure dye on state occasions. Most days, however, it's gray-brown, a toad-tone uninspiring to lyricists, photographers and tourists alike.

Szent Istvan's Basilica honors nation's father & 1st Catholic king.

Everyone tries to like Budapest, though. Eastern Europe is trendy - and the recent EU expansion only added cache. Hungary is arguably the most solid and sane of the former Soviet Bloc countries. The capital has eclectic architecture, a glorious history, 123 hot springs, park swathes and girdling forests: all prime ingredients for a magical destination. So why do travelers sour on the Danube's shores?

The common consensus is this: Budapest is a beautiful city, crippled by the people-handling skills of a Communist thug.

Take the spas, for example. These pleasure domes are legendary for their ornate decor, floating chessboards and hedonistic - excuse me, healthful - pools. I ventured into the gilded heart of decadence, the Gellert Hotel Baths, where Saint Elizabeth supposedly cured lepers.

The building's turrets, soaring ceilings and gleaming wood certainly massed muster. Yet at the elegant ticket kiosk, visitors struggled with the bewildering array of options. Bath and steam? Open-air pool? Locker or bathing cabin? How many forints was that exactly?

Confusion is not chic - and the Gellert was rife with it. The attendants seemed actively malicious, confiscating chits needed farther along (each bather is issued a handful of receipts, all handily labeled in Hungarian, a language kin only to Finnish and famed for its difficulty).

I padded through the labyrinth of changing cubicles, exchanging irritated glances with other guests. Support groups formed, sending out the bravest soul in search of the fabled towel depot. A Canadian girl wept, having lost her camera - and weeks of film - in the scrum. Sharp-tongued staff scolded the customers. What next? Another rant because my receipts were damp (big surprise there)? A swirlie from a scowling, barrel-limbed masseuse?

Just as I was ready to flee the spa - and the country - I floundered into the central pool pavilion. The Art Nouveau gallery was exquisite, all stunning skylights and mosaics, a vision from a pasha's harem.

Unfortunately, Budapestian bureaucracy had invaded this sanctuary too. Angry black arrows dictated that swimmers circulate clockwise. The pace was brisk, as stocky, pink-jowled men charged round the circuit. Each wore the mandatory Gellert bathing cap and resembled nothing so much as a very determined walrus with a lumpen grocery bag trailing off his head.

Preferring a convivial soak, I headed for the bustling smaller tank, where stone lions spurted hot water. The experience was not relaxing at all, to say the least. Signs - multi-lingual for once -forbid floating. The guests clung to the benches, but such obedience didn't spare us. Soon two attendants arrived and began bellowing in Hungarian, waving vaguely into the crowd. Bathers shifted around, trying to intuit what the problem might be. Don't sit under the faucet? Avoid blocking the sign? Go away and spend your capitalist-pig earnings elsewhere?

Like me, many gave up and left. The shouts continued to bounce off the marble, echoing into the Tower of Babel dressing room. I couldn't leave quick enough - and almost screamed myself, when the refund system slowed my headlong charge for freedom and fresh air.

Later, insulated by a pint or two of beer, I mellowed. Tomorrow, I decided, would bring a fresh start, a second chance. I drifted along in a romantic, forgiving, and misty mood - and thus missed the last metro across town...at the absurdly early hour of 11pm.

The capital's taxi drivers are notorious for fleecing visitors, so my companion and I set off trekking. Nothing like a six-mile constitutional stroll after a rich dinner. Budapest was not racking up brownie points. Once again, I hated it.

An hour later, my resistance was melting down, however. We'd passed innumerable lively cafes, spilling crowded tables and bright umbrellas onto the sidewalks: scenes straight from Athens or Rome, transplanted to this colder clime. Entwined couples strolled down cobbled streets. Cheerful shouts escaped from open-air clubs, pulsing with music. Granted, they were horrible Kraftwerk-style techno tunes, but overall the atmosphere was light, playful even - a far cry from the spa labyrinth.

We wandered along the mighty Danube, now a broad inky ribbon reflecting the city's thousand points of light. A golden glow illuminated fin de siecle architecture, bulbous onion domes, the rock-hewn Cliff Chapel, craggy Castle Hill and the imposing Parliament. Tiny bulbs traced the famous Chain Bridge, oldest in the area. Night breezes hinted at forested slopes and green meadows just over the horizon. Hungary's capital was fairytale perfect under the pinpoint stars and pale moon.

I relented. Budapest deserved a chance, despite the trains, the bureaucratic blundering and intimidating haunches of meat, smothered in cream sauce and paprika, dominating every menu.

The morning dawned bright and crisp, hinting at autumn. We crossed the river, bound for Vorosmarty Square, one of Budapest's most elite addresses. Gerbeaud, a 145-year-old cafe, lies there. If the legendary decor, coffee and pastries couldn't win me over conclusively, nothing would.

This Budapest institution didn't disappoint. The ambience was fantastically fussy with marble tables, gold wallpaper, shiny brass and velvet drapes, and all the trappings of the Austro-Hungarian glory days. The posh piano was destined for the Titanic, but missed the boat because of construction delays.

The drinks, admittedly, didn't live up to expectations. Hungarians take caffeine very seriously. A proverb even dictates that "coffee should be black like the devil, hot like hell, and sweet like a kiss". Gerbeaud, cranking out cups for the tourists, fell more into the lukewarm and lackluster camp, but the setting and confections more than compensated.

We lounged in wicker chairs outdoors, as pigeons and children wheeled about the famous square. A leafy clump of trees and monumental statues broke up the vast space, fringed with elaborate mansions.

Budapest is pocketed with parks and spectacular Art Nouveau and eclectic architecture.

The city's glamorous commercial district begins here at Vorosmarty. Stalls line the side streets, packed with leather goods, predominantly gem-colored wallets. Bijou boutiques showcase hand-embroidered linens next door to glamorous chain stores along the Vaci utca. 'White-gold' porcelain - favored by Queen Victoria - is sold here, as is the local red vintage, Bull's Blood (Bikaver) and the world-famous Tokaj. This "noble rot" dessert wine, aged in volcanic rock cellars, even merits a few lines in the national anthem.

A tolerant smile stretched across my face, as sunshine glittered on the window displays and bright Hungarian flags cracked in the wind. Now this wasn't so bad: cosmopolitan and elegant, yet alien enough to be interesting.

Budapest, I found, is much like the Danube River it embraces. Muddy waters also run deep - and in the right light - can beguile with the best of them.