One of my smartest students had somehow found herself an American boyfriend living in Budapest; and this guy had, through her, invited me to use his apartment while he was out of town. I had never met him, and still have not. Though I’d love to fix that one of these days.

Armed with little more than an antique set of skeleton keys and an address written hastily on an envelope, Pavla and I boarded a train headed for another East Bloc nation.

Hungarians have at least a few things in common with Czechs. Of course both of them prepared during the Cold War to fight the “imperialist” forces based in neighboring Austria. But they both also bristled under Communist domination. And the Hungarians, like the Czechs, also had a serious go at throwing off the Red yoke. They actually beat the Czechs to that distinction by more than a decade, rising up in 1956 with whatever weapons they could get their hands on. And, like the Czechs would twelve years later, they discovered the constancy of Russian resolution and the frustrating futility of banging pieces of wood against tanks.

Though it ended in defeat of course, that famous ’56 uprising is one of the finest chapters in modern Hungarian history. One of very few fine chapters really. Because unfortunately the Hungarians have even more in common with the Slovaks. Like the Slovaks, the Hungarians also allied themselves with Germany during World War Two, and almost out-Hitlered Hitler. They took full advantage of this brief window of opportunity to rid Hungary once and for all of the root of all its problems … the half-million Jews who once called this land home.

Truth be told, I don’t like Hungary much … nor Hungarians. I would very much like to encourage people to go there though – to take some of the pressure off of places I like better.

A few years ago I read a quasi-autobiographical novel written by a Harvard-educated kid from Minnesota, of about my age, who taught English in Budapest and fornicated with his students while I was doing the same in Brno. The book is primarily about Budapest and the obnoxious ex-pat community there of which the author was evidently a part. A community which I avoided studiously wherever I went.

The book is, of course, entitled Prague. Huh? Well, two points: First, nobody would buy a book called Budapest, would they? Second, one of the weaker themes in the novel is a wistful melancholy which consumes the American ex-pats in Budapest when they realize that they should have settled in Prague instead. Of course they just would have hung out with drunk and obnoxiously self-important brats there, too, so what difference would it have made? That point aside, these brats were of course right. Prague is Prague and Budapest is … well, Budapest. But personally I’m glad at least some of these shallow ex-pats staggered around the no-mans-land of Buda-Pest. By the summer of ‘91 the best parts of Prague were already infested with them.

It was not until I’d been wandering around Budapest for several hours that I first learned that Budapest is in fact two cites: Buda, and Pest. If you didn’t know that already, don’t feel bad. And if you did know that, don’t pat yourself on the back too hard. It’s not really all that important; and we are not playing Jeopardy right now.

When Pavla and I finally figured out how to read Hungarian street signs and found our way to the apartment, we were both exhausted. We struggled up a narrow ill-painted hallway past a suspicious stare or two, found on a well-worn door something which vaguely resembled the numeral on my envelope, and I gave the old key a try.

We were in! I collapsed on the bed beside Pavla and thought about nothing at all for a blessed ten minutes or so. I then got up to get my new bearings, and studied the jam-packed white bookshelves. A bit of history, a bit of philosophy, a ton of literature, and a framed color picture of some little red-headed kid (whom I assumed to be a nephew or something) decked out proudly in his Cub Scout uniform.

I liked my student’s faceless American boyfriend — a lot. And I feel quite confident that apartment I slept in was not inhabited the author of Prague.

But Arthur, if it that was your place, I’m really sorry about your cooktop. I didn’t know that I was supposed to remove the cover before turning it on. Actually, I didn’t realize that was the cover. And I’m sorry I just dissed your book. I’ll give it another try before I die — I promise. If you’ll forgive me for disfiguring your stove I’ll forgive you for duping me with that title. It’s OK, I probably would have done the same thing if I’d been in your shoes. Bummer you can’t rewind and play it differently, huh? I know the feeling.