A Mini Adventure.

Tribute to Jewish war hero, Hanna Szenes.

Budapest, Hungary – My train leaves in three hours.

As ever, I’m ready painfully early.

There's no point pacing around a hotel room, so I've set out to find some of the more than 30 mini statues artist Mykhailo Kolodko has scattered across the city.

For the most part, they're unsanctioned guerrilla art, but when you find one, you want to find others. Like Pokémon: gotta catch 'em all. 

Some teach history; others make a political point – sometimes pointedly. Seeing one of a Russian hat protesting the country's influence in Hungary, a far-right politician destroyed it with an axe.

Kodolko replaced it with a mini statue of an axe.

Today, someone has tied a pink knit scarf around the neck of a bronze aviatrix soaring from a rock in a park. A small plant has been tucked into a diver's hand outside New York Café. 

The other holds a symbolic key to the landmark institution.

Farther along, a roadster rounds a planter. An orange Garfield has replaced a dog on an old chipped fence. Winnie the Pooh hangs from a honey pot. Noah's Ark is set with different colours of glass, shedding rainbows. It pays to look up. And to look down.

I partly wish I had known about these statues sooner.

But surprises like these are a part of the fun and whimsy of travel.

Agog.

Out from the darkness.

Budapest, Hungary – I'm welcomed by Jewish wedding music. 

Joyous. Upbeat.

It's soon replaced by marching boots.

A single heartbeat.

Hallways alternate between light and shadow as old reels unfurl with stories that fall softly from downcast eyes. By numbers, one in 10 Holocaust victims was Hungarian.

Silence.

Faintly, another wedding. You leave with a whisper of hope.

Budapest's Holocaust Memorial Center does a fantastic job of storytelling through sound.

And it opens into the most beautiful synagogue I've seen.

Bathed in Glory.

We can be heroes.

Budapest, Hungary – Having covered nearly 60 kilometres on foot the past two days, I figured I’d take it easy. Maybe soak in one of the city’s popular thermal baths?

No. You will walk.

I hadn’t yet seen Heroes’ Square, 3.5 kilometres away. It’s big. It’s daunting. It’s colonnades and bronze statues: men and horses turned bluish-green with age. It's impressive.

In short, it’s Europe.

Behind it, a castle that hadn’t made my itinerary. After all, there are so many.

Unlike most, however, Vajdahunyad Castle is a hodgepodge of buildings from across the country and across architectural styles: chess pieces from various sets clustered at the centre of a board. Set on a still pond, it's beautiful in its confusion.

An oxidized statue of Anonymous sits hooded in the garden, his pen rubbed back to its original bronze. Overhead, birds chirp like old tin toys. It's a fun find in the middle of City Park as the sun finally breaks through.

Only later do I realize I've been standing beside the famed Széchenyi thermal baths all along.

A Hard Cell.

A building with its own headline.

Budapest, Hungary – For decades, 60 Andrássy Avenue was the last place you’d want to find yourself.

Now, it’s a popular tourist attraction.

The House of Terror Museum is set in the former headquarters of both the pro-Nazi Arrow Cross and the communist secret police. It’s a symbolic address in the minds of generations of Hungarians.

The museum, though, is almost cinematic.

A Russian tank crouches in the lobby, metaphorically leaking oil as abrasive rock riffs fill the courtyard. The soundscape whisks you through a series of sets and period pieces. An eerie standup bass gives way to light strings.

Then, a black car appears, suddenly lit behind a curtain – as you imagine it would have in the middle of the night.

As a monument to those punished by two of the country’s recent totalitarian regimes, I find it almost too glossy, too much of a modern art piece. That feeling only ends, temporarily, after I slowly descend into the basement.

It’s where political opponents would vanish into cold stone cells, knuckled under fists of fury. There, in the shallow air, my imagination can finally sketch out their horrors.

If you ended up in there, you may have ended there.

Rebirth in Ruins.

Wonderland.

Budapest, Hungary – Last night is painted onto people’s faces.

The Jewish Quarter has become party central.

As they stumble along, I wonder how many revellers think of what happened on these streets 80 years ago. They’ll have passed various memorials and the Dohány Street Synagogue, which is the largest outside Israel. More than 2,000 victims of the Arrow Cross are buried in the courtyard.

It’s sobering.

And yet, I’ve come to visit Szimpla Kert, a former stove factory now brimming with greenery. It’s the last of the original ‘ruin bars’ and a distinctly Budapestian experience. Twenty-five years ago, people began reclaiming buildings abandoned since the war, giving them – and the community around them – new life. 

They were filled with mismatched furniture and cheap beer. And, as importantly, with people. 

Bathed in disco light.

Today, a flea market fills the entrance and sun streams through colour-blocked sheets flapping gently over the courtyard. Pink flamingos and gnomes wink behind plants sprouting from disco balls. It's wild.

In one room, a cracked tub serves as a bench, set beside haphazardly strewn stools, mottled with spray paint.

Each space is its own tattooed warren covered in scribbles that tell the stories of years of wild nights. Of loves longed-for. And of anarchy, which seems to align with the feeling of the place. 

But lighter.

Ruin bars have breathed new life into forgotten spaces, making the area one of the trendiest in Budapest. The sands of time are stacked on top of each other.

Still, as I leave, I step across one of 32 bronze strips embedded into the pavement – and back into history. 

They mark the locations of the old ghetto walls.

Poor Marketing.

Stop and stair.

Budapest, Hungary – Although it’s Saturday morning, the Central Market Hall is hushed. It opens at six.

Two hours later, most stalls remain shuttered.

The emptiness is filled with aromas of spice and baked breads. Sausages hang like the church bells echoing through the mostly empty hall. 

Cases of meat are laid out in symmetries, gradients of red. Bouquets of paprika clutch to steel gates. Fruits, nuts, wines and lavender soaps await the day’s rush.

In the meantime, I admire the silence and the sun streaming in at sharp angles.

But I would have loved to have found some breakfast.

Looking Down.

Buda Castle, from Pest.

Budapest, Hungary – If you can look down, you’re in Buda. 

Pest is flat.

Now one city, Budapest is divided by the Danube, which once marked the edge of the Roman Empire. I’ve crossed Széchenyi Chain Bridge to Fisherman’s Bastion and Buda Castle, which stand proudly over the river.

These are no doubt two of the city’s most magnificent and popular attractions.

Fisherman’s Bastion twists and curves like a stone sandcastle, offering stunning views for miles. Tourists jostle for the best photos.

The only moment without people.

Behind it stands Matthias Church, where the final two Hungarian kings were coronated. A gold crown is set into the base of a cross atop the colourfully tiled roof. Perched nearby, a black stone raven represents the 'Raven King,' Matthias Corvinus, considered the country's greatest monarch.

Approximately 80 per cent of the Castle District was destroyed during the Second World War. The subsequent Communist regime simplified many structures during its rebuild.

Damage from the Russian siege is still visible today. As I round a corner, pockmarks scar the face of the national archives, providing a very tangible reminder of some of the area's less regal history. 

The sound of guns has been replaced by jackhammers. 

Now a UNESCO World Heritage Site, the complex is being rebuilt to its original designs. Ornate facings are held up by steel beams as historic landmarks, including the Royal Palace, are brought back to their previous splendour.

Today has felt like every destination is 2.5 kilometres away, which I now need to reverse if I want to check in to my hotel. 

I pass an oxidized bronze statue of Baron Eotvos Jozsef, which stands imposingly outside a brown, early 1980s-era Intercontinental Hotel. It's a bit of an anachronism.

As in so many cities, parts of Budapest have begun being glassed over.

But for now at least, its history hasn't been glossed over.

And the walk back is flat.

Soles, Departed.

Budapest, Hungary – Sixty pairs of iron shoes of all sizes line a stretch of the Danube.

Several are filled with red flowers.

Others bear ribbons or have the remains of burnt-out candles interspersed between them. Stickers about the ongoing crisis in Gaza have been affixed to a low wall. 

It’s a sombre memorial commemorating thousands of Jews killed by the fascist Arrow Cross during the final years of the Second World War. 

Their shoes held value, so they were told to take them off before being shot, falling into the river.

Naturally, tourists crouch, posing for beauty shots amidst the footwear. Anything for the ‘gram.’ 

I’m starting to wonder if social media is ruining travel. Or, maybe, just respect in general.

No Words.

Tram along the Danube.