Autumn above the City: Normafa

There’s a certain pattern to autumning in Budapest if you’re into catching the best lights and colours as they spread slowly over the city. Phase one, occurring as September turns into October is mostly a lull, when nothing seems to be happening, the temperature decreases but the trees seem adamant to keep their zesty summer shades.  But then suddenly yellow creeps on them as October progresses and there comes the next stage, late in the month and somewhat flowing over into November when all is aflame with the most varied hues of gold, rust and crimson. Then the end comes just as suddenly- at one point in November you just realize that everything is barren, it’s foggy and cold and you might have wandered into a very moody Gothic novel.

The bit in the middle is obviously the most exciting but also the most demanding- by the grace of the powers that be you need to have some sunny days, ideally during the weekend, so you can explore the city’s tree-proner areas. On the first such weekend this year we decided to venture on perhaps the most classic Budapest urban trek: Normafa.

Normafa is close enough to be vanquished with minimal effort, yet the trip can be peppered with various small pleasures: the cog-wheel train (though beware of old and partially deaf gentlemen loudly discussing their ailments, dead acquaintances and, naturally, romantic conquests), the children’s railway, the famous Normafa rétes, the Erzsébet lookout (which is technically on Jánoshegy already, but you can reach it by leisurely walking through the forest) and the chairlift (also at Jánoshegy, but see above.)

Having been there plenty of times it’s perhaps odd that I never really gave the name a thought- Normafa was always Normafa, because, well, I had no idea, but it looked like the most Normafa-est place on earth and that was good enough for me. This Winnie-the-Pooh-ish peace with the world was brutally interrupted by my almost falling over a wooden sign which, as it turned out, had been erected to commemorate the original Normafa, an impressive beech tree which had once towered over the area before being struck by lightning on June 19, 1927.

This was indeed a rather operatic exit for a tree which was rumoured to once have given shade to King Matthias himself, and somehow suitable, since it got its name from a soprano bursting into an aria from Bellini’s Norma under its shade. You might think it oddly fortuitous that a soprano would just happen to be there and even feel inclined to sing, but the place was a beloved hang out of National Theatre’s actors and Rozalia Klein had just received a gift from her enamoured public, hence the delighted outburst.

I then thought of what could make me attack an aria from Norma and I realized absolutely nothing at all ever in the history of time, but then I thought Liverpool winning the title would perhaps inspire me to offer my own rendition of You’ll Never Walk Alone, and that’s not going to be good for anyone. In case people reading this might jump to the conclusion that it’s best if Liverpool don’t win the title, you are much mistaken, I will just promise that should the title be won, I will retreat to Normafa and merrily keep very very very quiet- most likely only until a very very very small and very very very angry dog in a ridiculous coat will decide biting my ankle is just the thing to do on a lovely Normafa day. 

The Land of Caves and Dragons- Postojna and Ljubljana

Since I’ve been blessed with the dubious gift of easily memorizing random and often useless data, I never had any trouble ingratiating myself with my geography teachers, who would let out the occasional satisfied sigh as I soldiered through the copper mines of central Romania, the capitals of lesser known states of Oceania or the many many headwaters of the Amazon river.  In the long run, the only actual benefit that I am aware of is that I used to score extremely highly at all sorts of obscure geography quizzes which proliferated on Facebook a few years ago.

And, perhaps, a fascination with the karstic landscape. The karst was a big favourite with our elementary school geography teacher, who would spend endless, and to most of my colleagues, excruciatingly boring hours delving into the many manifestations of the karst. I was however smitten- in the arid world of altitudes and longitudes, the karst was a fairy tale with magic spells such as polje, dolina or ponor. (That might also be the beginning of my love for Slavic languages, but that is another story altogether.)

I was therefore somewhat comforted to find that the karst is very much real, and not very distant- the name of these formations comes from the Karst limestone plateau sprawling over the border of Slovenia and Italy. However, the internationally used denomination is the German one (the plateau is known as Carso in Italian and Kras in Slovenian) due either to the fact that when the karst started to be studied the territory belonged to the Habsburg Empire or just because science is simply more authoritative in German.

While a lot of karstic formations might not be overly inspiring to the uninitiated, the superstars of the landscape are the caves, with the Postojna cave system, measuring 24,120 metres, taking the palm. These days the cave functions as a clockwork perfect system of touristic entertainment: after a rather severe looking cashier hands you the ticket, you are ushered through a complex system of restaurants and souvenir shops to the entry of the caves, where tours start sharp on the hour. Once released from the dark underbelly of the earth, you may indulge in the pleasures of a decidedly canteen-ish restaurant- but strictly between 12 and 3, those lacking in discipline are left to chewing nuts and biscuits amongst the stalactites.

The efficiency is hardly surprising- the caves were a touristic attraction from the 19^th century, with rails being laid in 1872, electricity being introduced in 1884 and several VIPs of the era, among them Emperor Francis I and Archduke Ferdinand, being given the grand tour of the premises. Today the tour lasts an hour and a half, with about 1.5 kilometres done on foot, and another 3.5 by train. Guides speaking several languages are provided for each group, lest some inquisitive visitor potter away into the eternal darkness. Besides admiring the eerie landscape, one can also get acquainted with the so called human fish, though they are actually salamanders whose official name is olm or proteus. The human fish moniker was given to them due to their white skin, similar to that of Caucasian humans, a result of their prolongued inhabitation of lightless places.

The village of Postojna is only a short drive away from Slovenia’s capital, Ljubljana, which is a pretty understated affair compared to other European capitals and also suffers from the proximity of so many tantalizing attractions- it’s therefore safe to say that most people visiting the country will add the city to their tour as a side note. Which is a pity, because in Ljubljana be dragons- not particularly large or fierce ones, but dragons nevertheless.

How the city got its dragons is a slightly contentious subject: one pretty convoluted legend has it that Jason and the Argonauts slayed a mythical creature in the marshes around present day Ljubljana during their quest for the Golden Fleece, while more down to earth versions connect the dragon to Saint George, the patron of the citadel’s chapel. Be it as it may, the city centre now sports a dragon bridge arching over the waters of the Ljubljanica, which, alongside a handful of other notable buildings and churches forms the scenic core of Slovenia’s capital. Prešeren Square sports a pleasantly candy pink cathedral and the Art Nouveau building of Galerija Emporium, where you can satisfy your possible high end retail therapy needs, though I personally prefer simply staring at the entrance, because it’s a thing of beauty and costs considerably less than some designer bag in which you can hardly squeeze a lipstick and half your phone.

Secession fiends have their needs catered to by Miklošičeva street, which sets off straight from the Emporium building, while roaming around the banks of the Ljubljanica you will often meet the works of the country’s most famous architect, Jože Plečnik, such as the Fish Market or the Cobblers’ and the Triple bridges. The river side is also dotted with cafés, which had a decidedly outdoorsy Mediterranean vibe even on a rainy October evening while Stari Trg, connecting the centre to the castle, has several exciting shops of which we will naturally highlight the beer store, Za popen't, where one can purchase a varied array of local craft beers- on a touching note, they qualify as local everything coming from the space of the former Yugoslavia.

Most travelers have probably encountered castles far more exciting than the one in Ljubljana, but yet again one has to be impressed by the marketing flair of Slovenians: every bit of the building is nicely touched up and used for some purpose, even if it’s an odd exhibition or a Puppet Museum- though, frankly, the Puppet Museum is far more interesting than initially thought and I would warmly recommend it to anyone- bar perhaps some of the scarier dolls. According to our informative booklet (Slovenians also love those and have them ready in several languages at most touristic attractions), on a clear day you can see about a third of Slovenia from the castle’s tower. However, our day happened to be a rainy and foggy one, which was only half a pity, because there’s an unexpected charm in mist rolling over the yellow and crimson hills embracing autumnal Ljubljana and that’s somehow befitting the entire city as well- you start liking it when you least expect it.