The following day we set off in relentless pursuit of the essence of Budapest . Our whirlwind tour of the city's dramatic past took us back and forth across the curving, yes blue, Danube, between Buda and Pest. We snapped photos of each receding river bank in turn and faithfully hit the guidebook highlights. The Hungarian Parliament awed, a hillside funicular to a Castle District lost in time uplifted, and an evening cruise on the Danube Legend complete with narration and a free cocktail charmed. But it was pondering the grandiose conundrum of the Royal Palace, pounded to smithereens during World War II and faithfully restored to its previous glory despite the post-war political control of the communist party, that stirred a deep curiosity for this country of such persistent tragedy. That the socialist government restored the quintessential symbol of imperialist power convinced me that I had a long way to go to know Budapest.

The National Gallery, housed magnificently in the former Royal Palace, offered an excellent opportunity to survey Hungary's collective self-perception through its treasures. It was also conveniently another stop on the SWT (Standard Whirlwind Tour). Prince Eugene of Savoy, a leader of the crusade to remove the Ottoman occupiers, dominates both the courtyard of the museum and the whole city over which his horse rears trampling defeated Turks beneath its hooves. The numerous invasions and occupations of Budapest by the Turks and victorious return of the Hungarians is a theme repeated throughout the museum.

Striking by its absence is evidence of the Hungarians' tragic 20th century, in which they were caught repeatedly on the wrong side of history. A feckless foreign policy and really bad geography produced a disastrous existence during World War II. Budapest was bombed by the Allies while aligned with Nazi Germany at the outset of the war, sacked by the Germans on their return from the Soviet Union by which time Hungary had declared its neutrality, and razed and occupied by the Soviets as they chased the Germans back to Bavaria. Evidence of the city's tumultuous past is apparent in the bullet-pocked façades that cower on obscure corners and in the extremely disinterested service at the local watering holes, relics of the years of de facto Soviet rule over its Warsaw Pact ally. In Prague, by contrast, we had found the Czechs, from tour guides to bartenders, eager to express their contempt for their former Soviet allies and bemoan the years before the democratic revolutions of 1989.

We came to our last day in Budapest footsore and grimy with but one item left on our itinerary -- the mineral baths. It was these same rich waters that inspired the original tourists, the Romans, to establish Aquincum, an outpost in Buda that by the 2nd century had become the provincial capital. Throughout the ebb and flow of empires that followed, the residents of Budapest bathed. The Turks added domes over the springs, the Hungarians instituted massage and the communists declared the health benefits to the proletariat. We just hoped to loosen a little of the travel grime collected in our quest for the Magyar spirit.

As per the SWT, we beelined to the Gellert Hotel, nestled in a crook of the Danube on the northern edge of Buda at the foot of Gellert Hill. First opened in 1918, the hotel was named after the early Venetian missionary Bishop Gellert, whom the local pagans unceremoniously executed by rolling down the steep hill in a barrel. The Gellert brags a beautiful art nouveau interior replete with warm, honey-colored wood arches and glowing stained glass, which reflects its origins as a playground for the elite. The collapse of that society and the slamming down of the iron curtain added shabbily dressed attendants, bus terminal-like turnstiles and a presentation completely devoid of marketing. The lack of spa justification standard at American beauty meccas was striking. No siren song implored you to relax; no-one insisted that you deserved to feel good. Rather, the Gellert spa had the brisk attitude of an impossibly gorgeous city pool.

We queued to select our treatments from an incomprehensible price list. In line with us were a number of other tourists but I also spied a strong local contingent, characterized by the absence of hastily folded maps and camera straps. I haltingly produced the appropriate words for mineral baths from my guidebook, while the cashier eyed me with studied disinterest from her window. She had the air of someone who had worked at the Gellert all her life and who felt determined to maintain the traditions of service anchored in the hopelessness of communism. Her expression suggested that this was not the time for a pleasant chat.

The baths are separated into facilities for men and women so we parted at our respective doors with a shrug of the shoulders. The locker room looked fairly standard, attired mainly with cheap curtains and old wire baskets. A middle-aged female attendant assigned changing rooms at the front of the line. I accepted a key and as I turned toward the room, the attendant pushed an, oh-so-dainty apron my way. I raised a puzzled glance and the attendant mimicked that I was to wear it. I held up my swimsuit in response. She shook her head and pronounced, "No bathing costumes in the baths." No communication problems there.

She showed me to a small dressing room where I was left alone with my apron – the smallness of which was accentuated by its constitution of elderly, white cotton that had been bleached within an inch of its life. A few attempts to work with the placemat-sized piece of fabric confirmed that one size fits none. The effect was worthy of a Howard Hughes barbecue.

I considered my options. At worst, I would startle my Magyar hosts by completely misunderstanding apron protocol and bare all in a most flagrant display of miscommunication. I listened intently for sounds of similar distress floating above the cubicles. At last, I detected my mother tongue! A trio of mortified English women -- thank god for the special relationship -- debated the correct application of the apron. I called out to them hopefully and, stressing numerical advantage, negotiated a simultaneous exit from our stalls.

A chorus of sliding metal curtain rings heralded our debut. I attempted to accessorize my apron with a look of dignity, which was quickly undermined by the onset of ridiculous giggling and irrational darting about so as not to be first or last in line. Gaining composure, we decided it was best to mimic the stalwart locals in their preparations for a dip. This consisted of a freezing cold shower before entering the common pool which, while reassuringly hygienic, did absolutely nothing for the coverage qualities of the apron.

All apprehension, and most of the embarrassment, was forgotten once we passed through the arch into the mineral baths. Glorious vaulted ceilings trickled down to fields of lovely tile in soothing blues and yellows. My English friends and I were soon lounging comfortably in the mineral baths, taking in the magnificent structure and groups of women gossiping or reclining with their eyes closed. I traded sightseeing experiences with my new companions and compared notes on restaurants and watering holes. With condescension, I noted a number of 'bathing costumes' amongst the bare butts -- clearly tourists.

As the warm water stilled my tongue, my mind wandered back decades and centuries to previous bathers. From the communists, who undoubtedly mandated relaxation, to the good time experts of the 1920s, and the Romans mapping conquest of the tribes beyond to the east. This same piece of ground must have seen such poles of decadence and despair. It is that range of influences and influencers that I think makes the Magyar experience so hard to know -- particularly in three days. The Hungarians are so vast in their history and we Americans so brief. We are startled by the lack of costumes, they have been invited to too many masquerades. With my Americanism temporarily stripped away I felt some of Hungary soaking in at last. Cotton is, after all, very absorbent.

Feedback:
"Great article! I laughed out loud! I would love to visit Budapest now, or should I say re-visit, because I feel I have been there. I would like to see more of Ms. Beeks' work on this site." Traci Maddox

"The detail in this article is expertly woven between humor and historical facts. I thoroughly enjoyed reading this piece and am inspired to go try those mineral baths for myself! Bianca Beeks is a wonderful writer!" Kerry Cassetta