From the lush green floor of the valley I gazed toward the encircling dusky blue mountains. Puffy white clouds drifted lazily across the sky, allowing the sun to peek through just enough to make the afternoon comfortably warm. A week earlier the village of Breb, Romania, had been sweltering in a heat wave that caused wells to run dry. But my arrival was timed perfectly – temperatures had moderated to the mid-70’s, perfect walking weather.
With only one paved road, I relied on footpaths that wandered through gardens overflowing with colossal heads of cabbage and fat ears of golden-tasseled corn. Ruby-red tomatoes were bursting their skins and green-black zucchini hung heavy on their vines. Stealthily, I opened a wire metal gate and crept through a farm yard, passing just a few feet from the front door of an old wooden cabin constructed from wide wooden planks, dovetailed together without the aid of nails. I felt like a sneak-thief but the owners of the hostel where I was staying, Babou Maramures, insisted that walking through private property was perfectly acceptable; everyone uses the footpaths, including cows, chickens, and pigs.
In years past, almost every home in Maramures County had an ornate wooden gateway (poarta maramuresana) at its entrance. During my walks around Breb I spied several of these hand-carved portals, which featured astrological symbols, flowers, animals, people, and in one case even a complete tree of life. Unfortunately, as older gates weather and deteriorate they are not being replaced; these days only wealthier families can bear the cost of such an elaborate portal. However every yard still holds at least one tall wooden tub with a heavy wooden lid. In late summer, apples from the area’s abundant orchards are tossed in and left to ferment. The resultant mash is distilled into Tuica, a fruit brandy that has greater than 50% alcohol content, much the same as the Palinka produced from plums just over the border in Szatmár, Hungary. Read More
Had I only stayed one day in Szabolcs-Szatmár-Bereg county, as planned, I would have left believing that the meandering rivers, lush orchards, and bucolic villages were pretty, but otherwise uninteresting. Fortunately, one day turned into five and this region, rife with legends that have been handed down from father to son and grandparents to grandchildren for generations, revealed its secrets to me like a flower blossoming from a tight bud.
My adventure began in Mátészalka, the second largest city in the county and home to the Szatmari Museum. After a leisurely walk around the grounds to view the museum’s impressive collection of traditional wooden carriages, coaches, and sleds, my hostess Zsuzsa Méhész whisked me off to lunch so that I could recover from the five-hour sweltering ride on the rickety old train that had carried me from Debrecen.
An hour later, full of Hungarian pickles and vegetable soup, I was more than ready for round two, The Route of Medieval Churches. The Great Hungarian Plain, situated on the eastern frontier of Western Christianity, was once littered with churches. Though most were destroyed by the Mongol invasions of the 15th century, those that remain are concentrated in the Szatmár region, which was largely spared because mounted armies could not easily navigate marshlands created by rivers that regularly flooded the area.
The late Romanesque style church in Csaroda is the star of this collection. Between the end of the 13th and the beginning of the 14th centuries the Csarnavodai family, which owned the village at that time, built the church as their private place of worship. The Read More
Turning my back on the tiny settlement, I walked into brittle yellow grasslands that swept to the horizon. An occasional cluster of trees broke the otherwise unrelieved flatness of the endless Puszta, the Great Hungarian Plain. The sound of vendors hawking fur hats and cracking leather whips faded, replaced by burbling water rushing beneath the historic Nine-Arched Bridge and a symphony from some of the 340 species of birds that inhabit Hortobágy National Park.
Nora Erdei, my host at the Debrecen Tourism had suggested this side trip as part of my visit to the intriguing town of Debrecen. Perhaps I was a bit too enthusiastic, for just prior to boarding the bus she remarked, “I hope you don’t expect too much. It’s just a huge plain.”
She couldn’t have realized that too many big cities, filled with too many tourists, had left me exhausted. I closed my eyes, breathed in the sweet fragrance of dank earth mingled with manure and wildflowers. I spread my arms wide to embrace it, trying to burn the feeling of infinite space and serenity into my memory. Read More
Unprepared for the purposely darkened exhibit room, I groped my way down the gentle ramp and settled into a chair to view the Christ Trilogy, three floor-to-ceiling oil paintings by Mihály Munkácsy. Initially impressed by their sheer size, my reaction turned to awe as the spotlit canvases gradually emerged from the surrounding blackness. Christ Before Pilate, Ecce Homo, and Golgotha are the artist’s interpretation of the Passion of Christ from the 18th chapter of the Bible in the Gospel according to John. Painted in rich, almost lurid colors, the works are nothing less than mesmerizing.
It took Munkácsy nearly two decades to complete the series, as he conducted extensive research and made dozens of preparatory sketches for each painting prior to beginning work on the final canvases. He read the Bible several times, studied the clothing worn in the time of Christ, and took photographs of Jewish immigrants in traditional garb. Munkácsy even photographed himself bound with rope and hanging in order to accurately illustrate the musculature of a crucified body.
I made a slow circuit of the room, examining minute details of each painting. Expressions of love conflicted with pure hatred. Grief with joy. Dispassionate scholars debated points of law as Mother Mary collapsed into the arms of St. John. The guilty shrank before watchful soldiers and mothers held their children up to witness the judgment. The techniques utilized by Munkácsy: juxtaposition of dark and light, attention to dramatic facial expressions, and amplification of body language; exposed the spectrum of naked human emotions. I have never felt anything so powerful in the realm of religious art. Read More
The lake appeared outside the window of my rickety old train much sooner than I had expected. We chugged to a slow stop with brakes protesting and my anxiety rose when I spotted a sign for Balatonalmádi. I was on my way to Lake Balaton in western Hungary but it was just 2.5 hours into the four-hour trip; surely this could not be my stop already. Frantically, I questioned fellow passengers, looking for someone who spoke English. “Is this Lake Balaton?” I asked, time and again. Heads nodded. Yes, yes, and yes. Just as I was about to jump off the train a young man stopped me. “This is Lake Balaton, but what town are you going to?” I suddenly remembered that I had booked passage to the town of Révfülöp, though the name of the lake is what had stuck in my head. Relieved, I returned to my seat and, lacking announcements in the carriage, watched for town names each time we squealed into another station. We rattled slowly down the northern shore past Alsóörs, Csopak, Balatonarács, Balatonfüred, Tihany, Balatonudvari, Balatonakali, and several unidentified stops. An hour and a half after I had first spotted the lake, a conductor appeared to alert me that Révfülöp was the next stop. The entire time, the seafoam green lake had rippled peacefully just beyond the tracks.
I later learned that Lake Balaton, 48 miles in length and nearly nine miles wide in places, is the largest lake in Central Europe, however I was more astounded by its color than its size. Balaton shimmers a soft seafoam green at its edges, morphs to an exquisite turquoise a short distance offshore, and stretches toward the horizon in bands of aqua, jade, and ultramarine. The lake we know today as Balaton was formed when the large inland sea that once covered this area of western Hungary receded, leaving an arid plain that was eroded by strong northern winds. Subsequent faulting caused the land to subside even more and by the Pleistocene era the Zala River had flooded the shallow depression, creating a fresh water lake that averages less than 20 feet deep. The color of the water, and the silky feel of it on the skin, is due to this shallow depth and the thick layer of calcium and magnesium rich sediments that lies at its bottom. Read More