Lessons in the Pecs

Lessons Learned in the Pécs
BySteve Bederka-Toth, Freelance Writer

August 2007

Riding the train from our home base in Budapest, the landscape ne This eleventh century cathedral is squared in by four 200 foot towers. ar Pécs (paitch) resembled the Puszta, over which the fierce Hungarian tribes thundered into Europe on their small sturdy horses in the ninth century. They fired arrows with deadly accuracy riding at full gallop as they pillaged much of Europe. I recalled my Hungarian Grandpa Toth’s wedding picture, which always gave me the willies. He was a big man with black penetrating eyes beneath thick black eyebrows and unsmiling lips under an oversized black mustache. I remembered only that he was a butcher, but Grandma, herself a tough lady, said she threw him out because he was as mean as he looked.

My wife, our daughter, and I came here to explore this 2000-year-old city’s historic buildings, Zsolnay porcelain, a Turkish mosque and to interact with Hungarians.

Quaint cobblestone streets weaved medieval, Turkish, baroque, and 20th century sections together. Tall palm trees and grand sun-bleached plazas reminded me that Pécs enjoyed a near-Mediterranean climate.

Open markets proudly presented brightly colored fresh fruits, vegetables, and long braids of deep red Hungarian paprika. Nearby restaurants teased my appetite with mouth-watering aromas of goulash, chicken paprikás, and veal cutlets, seasoned with paprika, onions, and garlic.

The main square, Szécheny Tér, was once a medieval market place. The Vilmos Zsolnay memorial fountain anchors one edge of the square. This glazed drinking water fountain contains four ceramic ox headed gargoyles, each bubbling water, resting on top of a six-foot tower studded with designs of ninth century Hungarian gold vessels.

The Gazi Kassim Pasha Mosque dominates the center of this square. Its green dome rests on an octagonal structure on top of a square base. This largest remaining Turkish building in Hungary was built on the site of the Romanesque church of St. Bartholomew. A large equestrian statue of János Hunyadi, conqueror of the Turks in the Battle of Belgrade, stands near the mosque.

The cobblestone street brought us to the Zsolnay Ceramics Exhibition, housed in one of many adjacent medieval buildings. The iridescent objects show many bright colors that change with movement like exotic butterfly wings, especially those having the light green/gold metallic finish common in Hungarian pottery.

The host told us the Zolnay story. “Miklos Zsolnay started the manufacture of porcelain. His son, Vilmos, took over the management and catapulted the technology into a European standard. Vilmos Zsolnay won many prizes at World Exhibitions from 1873 to 1896. The factory still continues his fine traditions.”

“Our distinctive hand-made decoration uses colored unleaded glaze, not porcelain paint. This is what makes the decoration statuesque, colorful and uncommonly bright.”

Leaving the Zsolnay museum, my wife reminded me that we had just one hour to catch the last train to Budapest. Not recognizing anything, I had to admit I was lost.

I asked directions from a leather-jacketed Hungarian, his large brass buckle blinding me from the bright sun’s reflection. He appeared as intimidating as my Grandpa Toth’s wedding picture. Unsmiling, the Hungarian stared at me with his deep eyebrow-shrouded black eyes, as if to demand an explanation for my intrusion.

He growled, “Uut, uut,” accompanied by grunts and impatient gesturing. I recognized “uut” as the word for “there,” and with his gestures, the direction seemed clear. I thanked him and we walked away briskly, happy to escape.

Shadows cast by the Mosque rapidly lengthened as the previously white-hot sun took on a faint yellow caste sinking toward the hazy blue horizon.

Fifteen minutes to catch the last train and there was still no sign of the station. To verify the route, I asked a young man for directions. This tall, well-dressed, light-haired, chap gestured that we were going in the wrong direction. I thanked him and as we changed course, I heard a loud clamor behind us. The leather-jacketed Hungarian had surreptitiously followed us. Now he verbally attacked our new helper. Having routed the light-haired chap, the dark Hungarian came after us, pointing in the original direction. He insisted on walking between us locking his arms with ours.

With five minutes to go, the station suddenly emerged. He pointed it out, with a smile. I thanked him enthusiastically. We warmly embraced and shook hands. Then he bowed, and kissed the hands of my wife and daughter.

On the train back to Budapest, I reflected on how easy it is to misinterpret the intentions of a stranger, especially when language and cultural barriers exist.

**Photo by Steve Berderka-Toth