Nary a Straw-Berry

Hungarian festivals are my favorite. Sausagefest (Kolbasznapok) in Bekescsaba. Paprikafest (Paprikanapok) in Kalocsa. Harvestfest in Hernadnemeti. Ribbonfest (Szalavagatagatagato) at school, bested only by Studentfest (Diaknapok). I’m sure next weekend it will be a Cucumberfest…

These festivals are remarkable in my mind mostly for their amazing ability to make the ordinary extraordinary and the extraordinary ordinary. Only Hungary would find reason to celebrate the pepper or a sausage for an entire weekend, they’re not as glamorous as the walleye, after all. And the monumental festivals in each part of the land, celebrating their own unique-ity wind up being exactly the same. The same booths of traveling peddlers pushing souvenirs, candies or other merriments. The same kettles of goulash, whether with or without intestines. The same singing and dancing, the same traditions. The same Big-Hungary pride.

This weekend? Eperfesztival. Strawberryfest 2007.

Julia and I had plans to visit Esztergom or Visegrad, but we were having hard times deciding which one. (Do you happen to have an expert preference?) So when we heard that Szentendre was hosting Strawberryfest, we scrapped our previous plans and agree to meet up with the other law interns here in Budapest and take the HEV to the quintessential touristy Hungarian village. We all agreed not to wear white, as we envisioned stuffing our mouths with strawberries until our chins ran red like savages.

Saturday morning, we met up with Vanessa (a French gal turned Canadian law student who will be working with fellow Badger Melanie Black at the European Roma Rights Centre) and Kate (an Austrialian turned New York law student working at a place called PILI). But when we got to Szentendre after 30 minutes on the commuter rail, we were shocked to find, block after block, nary a strawberry.

We relied on Noemi to find out why, as we strolled the crowded cobblestone streets linking shop after shop under the bright sun. The first woman she asked knew nothing about strawberries and festivals. The concept sounded familiar to the second woman. The third, and other clues like signs, broke the unfortunate truth. The festival wasn’t in Szentendre, but 15 km away in a little village, Tahitotitotoititfalu.

Undaunted, and thirsty for the sweet nectar of that little red triangle of goodness, we caught a bus to the village after a one-sided debate with a nice old lady about the validity of International Student ID cards for a discount on the bus. (Nem.) Breast-feeding, cranky bus-drivers, unique smells and uncertain destinations are all part of the fun in the adventure of getting to Hungarian festivals.

True to form, a carnival of sorts opened after a bend in the road, and we hopped out. Still no strawberries. The temperature and uncertainty were beginning to take a toll on the faint-of-heart. I put my nose to the ground to find what I’d come for. The berry of straw. Which seems, in retrospect, to be a rather silly name for a berry.

After a hundred meters of searching, I found them, tucked under an umbrella in front of a wrinkly old woman. For 400 forint, a half kilo was mine. I gulped them down as I made a hasty escape, the woman was trying to entice me into a black auto. Or something devious that entailed her chanting “fekete auto” at me even as I walked away.

Unfortunately, though, those were the only strawberries to be found, minus the four or five Hungarian schoolchildren parading around the grounds inside strawberry costumes. In fact, there were almost as many camels (2, disgusting), archery competitors (a handful), country-western bands playing “Country Roads” (1) and Lauras-in-tank-tops (also 1) then strawberries at the damn festival given in their honor.

By the time Kat, Noemi and I took to dipping our toes in the Danube, the law ladies had decided they’d had enough of provincial Hungary and were taking the bus back to Szentendre and then a boat down the Duna back to Budapest. Traveling in big groups is so annoying that I was almost relieved, but I was glad they’d made it out of the cosmos of Pest.

Come evening time after nap time, I made my first trip to Szimpla, long built up by Janos and Matt as their favorite evening destination in Budapest. With only a vague idea of how to get there, I led the three law ladies, two cute Spaniards and a Canadian guy to the courtyard club.

(Cultural Question Distraction: Did you know that 2 million people live in the Canary Islands? That’s 5% of the entire Spanish population!)

Towing the three first-time-foreigners-in-Budapest and the three law ladies, it seemed like I knew half the bar when we found Noemi, her friend and later Matt. And we hadn’t even met Clay yet, who dropped by during cso-cso matches. It was hard to recognize him without the facebook-familiar fur hat. But it seems like he, and his girlfriend Inna, will be a great addition to the slew of interns abroad in Budapest this summer. After all, he wrote the darn guidebook! (When he was on the staff of Let’s Go Eastern Europe back in the day.)

As for Szimpla itself? Two big thumbs up. ☺