The Széchenyi bath is a yellow wedding cake on a hot day. I’m sitting up to my neck in 38-degree water, steam curling off the surface, and the sun is brutal. It’s the kind of heat that makes you forget what cold feels like. Around me, a dozen chess players—old men with leather skin—are arguing over a marble board, half-submerged. That’s the Széchenyi. A thermal bath where the water is the same temperature as the air, and the whole thing feels like a spa designed by a mad emperor. I’ve been in Budapest for exactly one day, and I’m already getting used to this.
This is the Hungary Travel Podcast, day two. I’m Bence Kovács, and I’m not a tourist here—I’m settling in. I landed at Ferenc Liszt yesterday with two suitcases and a plan to stay. Since then I’ve done the bureaucratic dance: I registered my address, which is a huge deal here because you get a lakcímkártya—that’s a card that proves you live somewhere, and without it, you can’t do anything, not open a bank account, not buy a SIM card. I got a SIM at Yettel, a little shop near Deák tér, and I paid about 3,500 forints for a prepaid plan, which is maybe ten bucks. I opened an account at Erste Bank, which was surprisingly easy once I had the address card and my rental contract. And I bought a monthly transit pass, which costs 8,950 forints—that’s around twenty-four dollars—and it covers every bus, tram, metro, and even a few boats on the Danube. I felt like a local the moment I flashed that pass at the metro gate.
So today is about the city itself. The weather forecast said 29 to 38 degrees, and I can confirm that the city is shimmering. It’s one of those August days where the pavement radiates heat back at you, and the only sane move is to follow the water. That’s how I ended up at the Széchenyi bath. It’s in the Városliget, the City Park, right next to Heroes’ Square and Vajdahunyad Castle. The bath is this massive neo-Baroque palace in butter yellow, with turrets and columns, and the baths are outside, in a courtyard with three main pools, one of which is swimming laps, another is for lounging, and the third is the hot tub that’s so hot it’s practically a soup. The water is mineral-rich, smelling faintly of sulfur, and it’s supposed to cure everything from arthritis to existential dread.
I’m sitting here, and I’m thinking about the history. This bath was built in 1913, and the locals have been coming here for over a hundred years. There’s a whole culture of chess in the water, and the old-timers bring their own boards and pieces; they don’t care if they get wet. It’s a beautiful, absurd image. And after an hour of soaking, I’m pruny and relaxed, and the heat doesn’t bother me for a while. I pay about 5,000 forints for entry—around thirteen dollars—and it’s worth every fillér, as they say. I read somewhere that the steam rising from the pools creates a lot of humidity, and the whole place echoes with splashes and the low murmur of conversation. It’s the most civilised way I’ve ever dealt with a heatwave.
From the baths, I walk through the park. The zoo is on one side, and the Museum of Fine Arts is on the other, with the biggest collection of old masters in Hungary. I pass Vajdahunyad Castle, which is a fairy-tale replica of a Transylvanian castle, with a drawbridge and a moat, and in winter they turn the lake into the biggest skating rink in Europe. In summer, it’s full of people on paddle boats, looking happy despite the heat. I grab a cold drink from a street cart—a lemonade for about 800 forints—and sit on a bench under a maple tree, watching the families and the couples. The park smells of mown grass and sunscreen, and there’s a breeze that every now and then actually cools you down. This is the Budapest I came for.
But I can’t spend the whole day being a tourist. I have to get my flat sorted. I found an apartment in District XIII, which is the pocket of Pest right north of the centre, on the river. It’s called Újlipótváros, and it’s this calm, leafy neighbourhood with wide boulevards and a park called St. Stephen’s Park, named after the first king of Hungary. My street, Pozsonyi út, is lined with cafés and bakeries, and it’s the kind of place where families gather on Sunday mornings for coffee and cake. My rent is 190,000 forints a month, about five hundred and fifty dollars, which is on the low side because it’s a one-bedroom out of the immediate centre. But it has high ceilings, a balcony facing a courtyard, and a washing machine. I’m thrilled. I’m moving my two suitcases in, and the old landlord hands me the keys with a big smile. She says ‘jó napot,’ and that’s the first time I’ve been greeted with a smile like that since I landed.
I’m unpacking, but I’m distracted. There’s a whole city out there, and I have a list. I need to scout the neighbourhoods for the long stay, and I’ve heard the ruin bars are a must. So I take a tram to District VII, Erzsébetváros, the old Jewish Quarter. This is the birthplace of the ruin bar vibe, and the original one is Szimpla Kert, which opened in 2002 in a derelict factory building. Now you walk in and it’s like a psychedelic junkyard: a collection of mismatched furniture, old bicycles hanging from the ceiling, a Trabant car turned into a seating pod, and plants everywhere that look like they’re taking over. It’s a place that’s beautifully chaotic, and the afternoon crowd is a mix of backpackers and hipsters and families, because in the daytime, it’s actually quite calm. I order a craft beer, about 1,200 forints, and sit on a sofa that’s older than me.
But wait, I have to be careful. The party district can be a trap. It’s loud, the drinks are overpriced, and at night, it’s wall to wall with tourists. The locals, they go further out or to the pubs in District VI, around the Oktogon, which is the calmer cousin of the Jewish Quarter. I cross the tracks and find a place called Madal Cafe, which is a specialty coffee shop that roasts its own beans. I order a cortado, 900 forints, about two and a half dollars, and sit at a window seat watching the trams rattle by. The barista is a kid with a handlebar moustache, and he asks me where my accent is from. I tell him I’m American, but I’m moving here, and he laughs. He says, ‘You chose August? Bold.’ I tell him I’m going to explore the country, and he gives me a list of towns to check out: Eger for the wine, Szeged for the paprika, Pécs for the university vibe. I write it down on a napkin.
I wander back toward the Danube. The river, the Duna, is this massive silver ribbon that splits the city into Buda and Pest, and it’s always moving. I cross the Chain Bridge, which is the oldest permanent bridge across the river, and it’s packed with tourists taking photos, but honestly, the view is worth it. To the north, the Parliament building, Országház, is an explosion of neo-Gothic spikes and spires, so detailed it looks like a lace doily. To the south, the Buda Castle is on a hill, glowing in the late afternoon light. I climb up to the Fisherman’s Bastion, which is a wedding-cake terrace with turrets and archways, and the view over the river is the postcard. The buses unload hordes of tourists, but if you walk a bit further, you can find a quiet corner and just watch the boats. I’m sweaty and tired, but I’m happy.
I take the funicular down, which costs about 1,200 forints one way, but I feel like I should save the money, so I walk down the hill instead. My knees complain. I cross back over the bridge and end up at the Great Market Hall, the Nagy Vásárcsarnok, in District IX. It’s a giant iron-and-glass structure from 1897, and the smell is intoxicating: paprika, fresh bread, sausage, and the sweet, sweet scent of a thousand pickles. On the ground floor, there are stalls piled with paprika, both sweet and hot, in little cloth sacks, and hung salami, and strings of dried plums. I stop at a stall and buy a tube of paprika paste, 600 forints, and the lady throws in a small bag of soaked peppers to taste. Upstairs, there are the food stalls, and I see the tourists are all eating langos, which is a deep-fried flat dough with sour cream and cheese. I’m hungry, but I want something more substantial.
There’s a place in the market hall called ‘Old Mama - Goulash & Langosh Bar,’ and it’s exactly what I need. I order a goulash, which is a soup, not a stew, and it’s the real deal: beef, potatoes, carrots, and a good dose of paprika, served in a bread bowl. The price is about 2,800 forints—eight dollars—and it’s the most satisfying thing I’ve eaten all week. The bread is chewy, the broth is rich, and the paprika is warm without being spicy. I eat at one of the metal tables, and the market hums around me: people bargaining, spoons clinking, the occasional shout from a butcher. A group of jazz musicians is playing in a corner, but I can’t taste the notes over the din of the hall. This is what I’m here for: not the fancy restaurants, but the real, everyday food that feeds the city.
As the evening falls, I walk back to my flat along the Danube. The river promenade is busy with joggers and couples, and the sky is turning orange. I pass the Shoes on the Danube memorial—rows of empty iron shoes scattered on the pavement, a memorial to the Jews who were shot here in 1944. It’s a haunting sight, especially in the golden light, and it’s a reminder that this city has a deep, dark history. I stop for a moment, and I feel the weight of it. Then I move on, and I think about how Budapest is a city of layers: the Roman ruins, the Ottoman baths, the Habsburg palaces, the Soviet scars, and now the fresh idea of a new life. It’s all there, if you look.
I get back to District XIII, and my street is quiet. I stop at a small bakery and buy a loaf of bread for 600 forints, intending to save it for breakfast. But I’m still a bit hungry, so I sit on my balcony and eat the langos I bought from the market—it’s cold and greasy, but it’s perfect. The courtyard below me is filled with the sound of a family cooking, the clatter of pots, the smell of onions. I think about what’s next. In a couple of weeks, Sziget Festival is going to take over Óbuda Island, and I’ve heard the line-up is massive, with Florence and the Machine and Twenty One Pilots, but it’s probably not my thing. And on August 20, the State Foundation Day, the whole city will celebrate with fireworks and street festivals. I want to be there, but I also want to escape the city, maybe up to the Danube Bend, to Visegrád and Szentendre, which are supposed to be lovely. I have a plan.
But for tonight, I’m just here, listening to the city hum. The trams clang, the cicadas buzz, and the air is thick and warm. I’m a long way from home, but I’m not a tourist anymore. I have a key, I have a bed, and I have a backpack full of stories to chase. This is the start of something.
Thanks for listening, and if you’re thinking about visiting Hungary, or moving here, hit me up. I’ll be here. Jó napot, and see you next time.