Budapest.
Every city deserves a second chance.
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They say you only remember the good things in life, but nothing that good seemed to happen when I first came here in October of 2004.

I was on a field trip with my Kent State Geneva Semester crew. It was cold; it was gray; it was rainy -- the entire time. The streets were dirty; the homeless people ubiquitous. As I walked down the sidewalk my first night, I saw a brawl outside of a bar, in which a dude smacked someone else's girlfriend in the face for complaining that he had just smacked her boyfriend in the face. After going inside the bar, I was charged about a thousand forints too much by a bi-otch waitress who knew I couldn't argue with the price she haughtily demanded in Hungarian, the red Astros hat on my head exclaiming to the entire world that yes, I was in fact a tourist. And the team for which I wore the hat as a good-luck charm, our first ever NLCS having just begun, wasn't helping matters -- thanks to another classic Dan Miceli performance, my last memory of Budapest was reading on espn.com about how we had blown an 8th-inning lead in Game 2 at Busch, putting ourselves in a 2-0 hole heading back to Houston.

As Coop, Will and I bought tickets to Prague at the Nyugati train station in the early hours of that cold, dark, dreary, Communist October morning, my mood was in an even bigger hole.

None of these things helped aid my impression of this place. From the moment I left for the happier skies and more welcoming energy of the Czech Republic, until I returned last week, my judgment of Budapest was unequivocal: It sucked.

Everyone to whom I told my opinion could not believe it. They had heard, or had experienced, nothing but good things in Budapest. But why, Bayless, why?

"I don't know ... it was just a vibe. You could just feel the Communist legacy there. It was so depressing."

Besides the Turkish bath I visited and the hat made of mushrooms I bought for Jamison, the only good thing I brought back with me from Budapest was a Russian matryoshka doll layered with U.S. presidents: Reagan, 41, Clinton, 43 and John Kerry.

"Either way -- Bush for four more or Kerry for a regime change -- this thing is gonna be great to have in my office when I'm older," I told my program director, who seemed to think it was the greatest souvenir he had ever seen in his life.

"Oh, I don't think there's any way the American people could re-elect George Bush, do you?" he asked rhetorically.

"Yeah, seriously, you're right, Dr. Reed. There is no way."

I changed my mind as it got closer to Election Day; JFK's chances seemed to be swiftly boating away. And call me a flip-flopper if you will, but I also changed my opinion on this city since my initial visit and that matryoshka doll.

I voted for staying away from Budapest before I voted against it.

What a difference a little sunshine, some chill bars where they charge you the correct amount for sörök, and a few native friends to teach you about Hungarian history can make.
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Had I not met Mali -- a friend of Breck's cousin Leslie -- while in Voiron, FR a few weeks ago, I never would have come back here.

"So you want to travel to the East?" the 60-something, Wisconsin-bred Parisienne asked me. "I have some friends there about your age. I could put you in contact."

Which is how I met Kata, her twin brother István, Kata's aunt (who I still do not know what to call), her entire family, all her friends, etc. etc.

I've now been here for a week. Every day, I wake up late; I go to the kitchen to find two sandwiches -- usually grilled cheeses to be -- waiting for me on an unplugged Hungarian version of a George Foreman; I eat; I shower; I use Kata's computer to see what's happening in the world; I curse Brad Lidge; and then I go walk around the city, no particular destination in mind when I leave the apartment.

It's a great routine. I could do it for a month. There is so much to see here; so much to learn.

That's because of how rich Hungarian history is. We've been around since 1776. They've been around since 896. That's a big gap.

Take the 1956 Budapest Uprising. The 50th anniversary is coming up -- Oct. 23 will be a very emotional day on the same streets in which Soviet tanks obliterated any semblance of resistance with wanton cruelty. The symbol of "The Revolution" -- as Hungarians have taken to calling it since the change of regime in 1989 -- is the Hungarian flag, minus the Soviet-implemented coat of arms, which was cut out of the center by those fomenting unrest in the days of "Heartbreak Hotel," Mickey Mantle's monster summer and the Suez Crisis.


The Parliament building, situated on the east bank of the Danube, is one of the most magnificent buildings I have seen on my trip -- or ever. Built around the turn of the 20th century, it houses the Crown of St. István, the founder of the Christian Hungarian state. (I haven't played the Devil's Advocate and asked which three miracles he performed, because to blaspheme King István is the equivalent of talking about someone's mother in this country).

The crown, a revered object to Hungarians one and all, was taken by the U.S. for safe-keeping in the waning days of WWII, so as to protect it from the rapidly-advancing Soviet forces. Jimmy Carter returned it in 1978, and the symbol of the crown now makes up the coat of arms plastered across the modern Hungarian national flag.

(I still haven't seen the crown -- I didn't feel like waiting in a line of 40 camera-toting Japanese this morning to get inside and have a look).


"That's Hungary for you."

One of Kata's friends just laughed and shook her head when I informed her that, in the plaza directly across the street from the U.S. Embassy, there was a Soviet-era Red Star monument rising triumphantly into the sky. Thirty meters away, a statue of an American Army officer from WWI -- Harry Hill Bandholtz -- stands a little less triumphantly, tucked away in the corner.


The former Royal Castle of Buda, brilliantly illuminated at night in an almost golden hue, is quite a sight to behold when the sun nestles permanently below the horizon. I doubt the thousands of Jews massacred here during WWII -- Hungarian soldiers pushed them en masse into the Danube, allowing those who were not shot to meet their fate in the rushing water below -- had the same thoughts.



Whatever you do, though, make sure you come to this city when the weather is nice. Cold, gray, windy Communist skies may color your impression, otherwise -- and I wouldn't want for you to have to vote against Budapest before voting for it.