Hungary's Heart(land)

On the trail to Fuzer castle.

Every country has a landscape that shapes its mythology. The beating heart of the nation. For Canada, it's the North. The Americans have the West. Hungarians have Hortobagy, our first stop on a road trip with Kata's parents into Hungary's east.

Poets have waxed, well, poetic, about it. It's vast and bare, hot and dry. There are few places to hide from the sun. Wildfires flare up in the summer heat. Sandor Petofi called it the Burning Fields.

Driving into the Hortobagy is like driving into a time capsule. The barns have thatched roofs, with carefully grounded lightning rods to avoid fire. Water is brought up from wells with wooden levers, visible from far off. And some even wear traditional costume.

Driving through it, you notice the landscape itself. The shades of brown that stretch almost as far as the eye can see until the plains turn into hills in the hazy distance. The sunflowers weighed down by the seeds, and the fields of swaying wheat. If you're counting horses through the heat shimmer, you lose count.

But we were only passing through the Burning Fields. We stopped briefly in the town of Hortobagy – long enough to buy a handmade straw hat at the old farmers' market and see the famous Nine Hole Bridge. Then onto the road we went...

The Nine Hole Bridge of Hortobagy. 

Debrecen

For my entire stint in Hungary, the only thing I knew about Debrecen was that they made delicious, spicy sausages there. It wasn't until this trip that I learned its other big export is Resistance.

For some reason, the Reformation ideas resonated with the people of Debrecen, and the city wholeheartedly latched onto the Calvinism in the 1500s. Its university produced Calvinist scholars who traveled all over Europe, spreading the good word of the Reformation and giving the city its nickname: 'The Geneva of Hungary."

Calvinism was huge in Switzerland, but the rest of its followers were scattered in small pockets all over Europe. Debrecen was on the edge of the Roman Catholic/Protestant world – to the south was the Muslim Ottoman Empire and further east was Orthodox Russia. For Calvinism to take hold and become its springboard in the region says something about its people's dedication.

Debrecen University's pretty library.

We visited the Debrecen's university. Aside from a nice museum about medieval life and a beautiful library with artifacts from the university's most famous graduates, they have an old lecture hall. This is no ordinary lecture hall. It was here, in 1848, the Hungarian National Assembly declared independence. Kossuth Lajos would later read the proclamation from the steps of the nearby Great Reformed Church to a cheering crowd.

The lecture hall has a new coat of paint, but mostly it is as it was then. Assembly members would have sat in the same wooden pews. There was a raised pulpit up front, where Kossuth would have read the declaration.

To reach the library and the lecture hall, you climb a flight of ancient, thick wooden stairs. They're worn smooth, but still sturdy enough that they don't give way or groan under someone's weight – quality oak from the forests we'd be hiking the next day. As we climbed the stairs, Kata said, "These are original! Can you believe that Petofi Sandor and Kossuth Lajos walked on these same stairs?" We were walking in the footsteps of Hungary's heroes.

The Great Reformed Church in Debrecen.

Füzer

Our final destination was a hunting lodge in Füzer, a region of sloping, forested mountains close to the Slovak border.

After a good night's sleep – the lodge's bar closed early – we struck out on the planned 23km hike. The route would take us up several mountains, through scenic woodland, past the great castle of Füzer.

Hungarian castles are not Cinderella castles. Most have seen action. Many were built to resist another Mongol invasion after the nearly apocalyptic first Mongol invasion in 1241. The Mongols defeated the Hungarian army and destroyed the capital, pillaged the countryside, ravaged the population, and destroyed every city or town that wasn't protected by a stone fortress.

Anticipating a second invasion, the Hungarians set to work building stone castles that couldn't be breached by a horde of Mongol horsemen. They might pillage and burn the countryside, but they couldn't stay long with a garrison of troops in a castle that could attack them from the rear.

The strategy worked against the second Mongol invasion. With all the food stored in the vaults of the impregnable castles, the Mongols starved. Facing guerrilla attacks from the castle's garrisons, they fled in disarray.

Most those Hungarian castles couldn't resist the gigantic siege cannons the Ottoman Turks dragged with them through the Balkans. One after another, castle after castle fell to the Turks as they marched into Hungary, driving towards Vienna.

Füzer held out against the Turks, along with a handful of others like Eger, and have passed into national myth. But it was the Austrians who destroyed it. Getting tired of putting down Hungarian revolutions, they planted explosives in every castle, demolishing them to leave no stronghold behind for Hungarian rebels.

It is a not-so heroic end for castles that stood against so much, so I understand the government's recent desire to rebuild the castles. I also understand the romantic desire to leave the ruins behind as a more somber reminder of the past. But I have to say, there is something raw and awe-inspiring about visiting a castle ruin in Hungary.

Fuzer castle has been carefully restored,
 right down to the toilets.

Füzer was one of the rebuilt castles chosen, and they've done a lovely job of it. The chapel, living quarters, a disconcertingly large amount of toilets, four storage vaults – for wine, beer,  bacon, and then everything else – among other rooms are carefully restored.

Füzer was a short stop at the hike. Much of the day was spent humping mountains and going off the beaten path in the forests beyond Füzer.

The trail skirted the border between Hungary and Slovakia, a silly border that is just shy of a hundred years old – very young in mountain and forest years. As we hiked along the path, we flitted from Hungary to Slovakia and back again as lumberjacks and hunters must have done for centuries before the Allies plopped a border there in 1920.

We also stopped at the Hungarian Language Museum.
I looked at the pictures there.

Tokaj

After an evening of sleep and recovery from the hike – despite staying up later, since we ordered extra beer before the hotel bar closed – we stopped at Tokaj, one of Hungary's top-notch wine growing regions.

The Romantic English poets, like Byron, loved this region's wine. Louis XIV declared it, "the King of Wines and the Wine of Kings." For centuries, it was one of Europe's favourite wines. Today, after being held behind an Iron Curtain for two generations, wine from Tokaj is rightfully getting its reputation back.

And yet, despite a great visit to a wine cellar, where we sampled three varying grades wine from dry to semi-sweet to sweet, and then a final a dry, furmint version, the only photo I took was of this public toilet. A toilet Kata designed as a young industrial design student.

Still, I recommend visiting Tokaj for the fine wine, and the finely designed public toilets.

The proud designer and her public toilet.

Guide to German Politics

The Reichstag in Berlin.

The German federal election is this Sunday, so for all those readers abroad who wonder how the German government works – don't lie, you know you've thought about it – here is a quick guide to Germany's political system.

On the surface it might be tempting to compare the German political system to the Canadian system. They're both federal systems with power devolved to provinces or states, but in Canada it's that way because of size. 

In Germany, this system comes from history. Before there was a Germany, there was a bunch of small countries and kingdoms and dukedoms of German-speakers. Bavaria was a kingdom. Hamburg was an independent city-state for centuries. Hesse was a country whose chief exports were cuckoo clocks and mercenaries.

If they weren't completely independent, they enjoyed a certain level sovereignty within the Holy Roman Empire and, later, the German Confederation. Even when Prussia (another German-speaking country) absorbed them all into the German Empire, they were granted a great deal of autonomy.

How today's federal government functions is dictated in Basic Law, Germany's constitution. Rules around institutions can be changed, but not easily. Sections around individual and human rights can never be changed because some assholes in the 1930s did exactly that.

It's worth mentioning that Basic Law's articles were written based on the hard lessons learned from the National Socialist dictatorship and the political deadlock of the Weimar Republic that lead to it.

Bundesrat

This is Germany's upper house, like Canada's Senate. Unlike Canada's Senators, who are appointed by the prime minister, members of the Bundesrat are sent to Berlin by Germany's 16 states.

They're chosen based on the party composition of their state's assembly, or Landtag, which itself is partly based on proportional representation. States get a base number of delegates, which rises based on population – more people, more votes.

In Canada, the Senate was once considered the sober second thought, above the partisan House of Commons. Germany's Bundesrat is more of a check on federal power. It offers a state perspective on issues and acts as a brake on the federal government's powers over the states.

The Bundesrat doesn't usually propose legislation but it must pass all legislation before is becomes law and has the power to veto bills from the Bundestag.

If the Bundesrat vetoes a bill, and the Bundestag doesn't agree, then it goes to a compromise committee formed of members from both houses, which makes, you guessed it, a compromise. When a compromise is reached, neither Bundesrat or Bundestag can change it.

You can bet there was some hard lessons led to that idea.

Chancellor

Chancellor Angela Merkel is Germany's prime minister. She, along with the cabinet she selects, is the executive branch of the German government. Yes, there is a German president, but he is mostly a ceremonial head of state who signs laws, waves to crowds from balconies, and cuts ribbons.

The Chancellor is the head of the largest party of the Bundestag, or the largest coalition of partners. She and the cabinet proposes legislation. They are the initiators in the law-making process. Ultimately, they hold the real power.

Interesting aside: Chancellors cannot call snap elections and cannot be removed with a No Confidence vote unless a successor has already been chosen. Germany learned the hard way in the Weimar days that a hamstrung parliament just begs for a dictator 'to get things done.'

Bundestag

This is the lower house and will be elected directly by the people this Sunday. They represent the people of their districts and act as a check on the executive – holding question periods, scrutinizing legislation, broaching constituent concerns. In Canada, that's usually the mandate for the Opposition, but in Germany there is no Official Opposition – it's everyone's job.

Voting is a mixed-member proportional system. I can sense your eyes are starting to glaze over, so hold on.

Half of the Bundestag (299 members) are elected directly by their constituencies in a first-past-the-post race. They become the representatives of their specific districts, like an MP in Canada representing their riding.

Now for the proportional representation vote. Hey, don't open another tab! Stay with me!

On the other half of a voter's ballot is a box to tick for a political party. Voters choose their party of choice, which is counted as a popular vote. A percentage of seats are then allocated based on that vote, which is tallied nationwide. This sends a total of almost 600 members to the Bundestag.

This election, Germans get to vote twice: for the person they want to represent their district and for the party that aligns with their political desires.

Political parties must earn at least five percent of that popular vote or win three districts to get earn popular representation seats – again a leftover from the lessons of the Weimar Republic to keep the crazy political fringes from hijacking the Bundestag.

Some words about this election...

Currently, four parties hold seats in the Bundestag – Anglea Merkel's ruling Christian Democratic Party and its Bavarian sister party, Christian Social Union (CDU/CSU), the Social Democrats (SPD), the Left Party, and the Greens.

The right-wing CDU and the left-wing SPD have been in a ruling coalition together and, in compromising with each other, have both drifted to the centre. Many of their traditional supporters look likely to vote for more extreme parties on the left and right. 

The Alternative for Germany (AfD) and the Freedom Party (FDP) have put their immigration and economic policies, respectively, to the right of the traditionally right-wing CDU. Their polling numbers hover at around 10 percent a piece. 

The coalition was more costly for SPD. Despite an energized beginning to the campaign with a new leader, polls now suggest they're in for a big loss. The Left, the Greens have benefitted from the SPD's listless campaign, and are both sitting at around 10% of the popular vote. They might also be losing vote to the AfD too. 

You might not like what they have to say, but parties were sent to the Bundestag by the people who voted for them. That's the beauty of the proportional party vote, it opens up the Bundestag to more parties and more views. Plus, that five percent threshold keeps the crazies out, like the Pirate Party (sounds funny, I know), or the NPD (the not so funny neo-fascists).

This also makes it difficult to predict how the next government will look because the winning party needs to form a coalition with other parties no matter what. The CDU looks likely to win, but with no majority will it seek support from the SPD again? Or will it lean to its right, towards the Freedom Party? Or with the Greens, who are open to a coalition with the CDU?

For those of you who made it to the end of this post, I think we can agree: This is exciting stuff!

What's Between Points A and B

The windmills of Kinderdijk.

Living in Dusseldorf has its ups and downs. Among the ups is the Dorf's proximity to so many cool places – like The Hague, which Kata surprised me with a trip to for my birthday.  

And since I'm the one with the driver's license, she dropped a few not-so-subtle hints that I should rent a car for a destination unbeknownst to me until we punched the destination into the GPS. 

The 3-hour drive from Dusseldorf to The Hague was uneventful. It wasn't boring, there's just not much on the drive there. The land flattened out and widened as we drove northwest. The countryside's features changed as we neared the sea and dipped below sea level. 

This is where driving is different than flying. When you fly, you're whisked from one place to another. Other than the time spent in the plane and watching the land crawl by below you, you have no sense of the distance covered.  

To drive is to get a sense of where you are and where you're going. You watch the trees thicken as you leave civilization behind. You feel the air cool as you drive into the mountains. Details between point A and B form in your mind. The journey on the road builds a mental map of a place. 

The Hague was great. It's the Netherland's seat of government (not its capital, which is Amsterdam, which, I know, doesn't seem to make sense), so there are lovely old buildings and museums and squares, which turn the Dutch habit of drinking and snacking into an outdoor activity.

Some Mondrian on The Hague's city hall.

A few more things about The Hague. It's artsy. Piet Mondrian is hometown hero. He's the guy who painted the rectangles with the colours. M.C. Escher also lived in The Hague. We went to the museum, which used to be a royal palace. It's a lovely building with a great collection of Escher's hits. Also, there are North Sea beaches a bus ride away in The Hague.

Parking isn't so simple, or inexpensive, and you have to keep your head on a swivel to watch for cyclists wheezing past you on either side of your car. But that's the price you pay for driving in a bicycle country.

After two nights of beer, snacks, art, and history, we jumped into the car and began the journey back. But we had planned a few stops between The Hague and home. 

Delft was our first destination. It's now a suburb of The Hague, so aside from one instance where I mistook a streetcar-only way as an entrance to a parking garage, the drive went smoothly. 

Amsterdam is the prime destination in the Netherlands, but if you ever have the opportunity, I recommend a side trip to Delft. It's smaller than Amsterdam, more compact, yet also less touristic and tawdry.  

Welcome to Delft. Home of the tough-ass Delft Blue pottery..

There was a flea market in the main square, and as we browsed we got the sense we were surrounded by locals out for a Sunday stroll downtown. At one point the sky opened up suddenly and it began pouring rain. Everyone hid under the awnings and tents of the flea market's vendors. They knew this would be a quick rain shower. Within ten minutes, the rain stopped and everyone was back to browsing again.

This being Holland, canals cut through the city's centre and there were plenty of cafes to sit out and enjoy a frosty chalice of Belgian beer. The town is known for its Delft Blue pottery, which is the white ceramics painted with blue designs. We bought some handmade specimens and got back onto the road. 

There is no simple way to reach Kinderdijk. It's at a confluence of rivers, so we had the choice of taking a ferry or going out of our way to cross a bridge. We crossed the bridge, and drove down a winding narrow road, past narrow high-roofed Duch houses, shipyards, and dikes.  

There is no train line here. I didn't see any buses. To get there you just drive, winding your way to Kinderdijk, which is a field with seventeen 300-year-old windmills standing idle on the reclaimed marshland where the two rivers meet. 

The beautiful cliches of Kinderdijk

There's a postcard quality to this place: marsh reeds blowing in the wind with rows of windmills receding into the background.  

But there's something stunning underlying that. You come to Europe and look at cathedrals and palaces, which, by their very nature, are decorative and not completely necessary.  

Kinderdijk isn't decorative, but functional. These windmills are monuments to land reclamation, farming, engineering – not a ruler's vanity or a religion's glory. That's not to knock on cathedrals and palaces, they're incredible too and offer a window into history. But Kinderdijk is different in its scale, its purpose, and its dominance over the landscape and the environment itself. 

Our last stop on the road to the Dorf was for dinner in Nijmegem. It was brief. We had dinner at a restaurant called Nibbles, where you order shareable plates of delicious food. It was the only place we could find that was open, but we highly recommend it. 

The old town was closed, so we walked through its deserted pedestrian streets to find Nibbles. We passed far too many clothing stores with creepily realistic-looking mannequins. I was thinking about taking a photo or two to share, but then I decided that I didn't want a The Ring situation – creepy store mannequins crawling through the screen and killing me – so you'll have to use your imagination. 

We will return for Nibbles, but will avoid eye contact with Nijmegen's unnecessarily eerie mannequins. 

Even on a grey day, the North Sea is quite a thing.

Oh... hi, Delft!