Week 26. Half-way through the year. It’s hotter than hades here in Budapest and I’m finding very little to be grateful for this week. The blasted heat. Yes, I know Ireland is cold and wet but what I wouldn’t swap for some of that coldness and wetness. Forty-two degrees yesterday. It is any wonder that I’m slowly losing my will to live.
I was in Szombathely last weekend and who did I run into but the bould Mr Joyce. I’d heard tell that there was a town/city in Budapest that translated into ‘bloom’ and was home to some severe Joycean celebrations each June. But, not for the first time, I got the story a little addled and it turns out that it was Leopold Bloom’s fictional father (him being fictional himself) that supposedly hailed from Hungary – Szombathely – and it’s his name – Virag that translates in to flower or bloom. In his novel, Ulysses, Joyce gives Leopold Bloom’s ancestry as Bloom, only born male transubstantial heir of Rudolf Virag (subsequently Rudolph Bloom) of Szombathely . . .
Bridget Hourican writes in the Irish Times that:
Virag means flower in Hungarian, hence Bloom, but it’s a conceit of Joyce’s that Leopold’s father began life as Rudolf Virag. There were Jews in Szombathely called Blum, but never Virag. Laszlo Najmanyi, writer, musician and organiser of the Hungarian Bloomsday, says: “The Blums were big textile traders in Szombathely and members of the family were posted in Trieste. It’s likely that Joyce met them there.” Trieste was part of the Austro-Hungarian empire and Joyce certainly met Hungarians, including Teodoro Mayer, owner of Irredentist newspapers, and one of the models for Bloom. A motif in Ulysses is Arthur Griffith’s Resurrection of Hungary – the history of the struggle for independence from Austria, presented as a model for the Irish. The United Irishman serialised the book from January to June 1904, so of course characters in Ulysses are busy reading it.
Someone took the time to trace the Blum’s old house and erect a plaque over the door that further confuses the Blum/Virág/Bloom issue. I have to keep reminding myself that Leopold Bloom was a figment of Joyce’s imagination and neither he, nor his creator, is likely to be turning in his grave at the apparent inconsistencies. I have no one with whom to share my pain.
This week, as the barometers soar and the heat makes irrationality normal, I am grateful for being Irish. I am grateful that our reach is broad and our influence wide. I am grateful that we have left, and continue to leave, our mark on the world. As the lovely Colin Farrell supposedly said: Being Irish is very much a part of who I am. I take it everywhere with me.
PS – a nice gesture from the Mayor of Poznan after the Irish fans’ performance during Euro2012.
Posted in Grateful 52, Hungary, Random thoughts
Tagged Bloomsday, Blum, Colin Farrell, Hungary, Irish, James Joyce, Joycean celebrations, Szombathely, Virag
It’s been a long week and so many things happened to be grateful for. The success of the Gift of the Gab and the money that was raised for the orphanage. The wonderful rendition of Marie Jones Stones in his pockets by the boys from Madhouse. The fantastic turnout for the St Patrick’s Day parade, a day that culminated in the Gala Dinner. It all wrapped up with the Irish Film Festival’s showing of the Irish SciFi 100 mornings. I had two friends in for the week and saw many’s the sunrise over the course of those few days, staying up till the wee hours sitting around my kitchen table putting the world to rights over a pot of tea and a few cosmopolitans. And for all the friendship and the craic, I am grateful indeed.
But what struck me most over the past week, a week where the Irish were out en masse and the masses were on form, is the sheer versatility of the English language – when it’s in our hands!
The English language brings out the best in the Irish. They court it like a beautiful woman. They make it bray with donkey laughter. They hurl it at the sky like a paint pot full of rainbows, and then make it chant a dirge for man’s fate and man’s follies that is as mournful as misty spring rain crying over the fallow earth. ~ T E Kalem – On Brendan Behan’s 1958 play Borstal Boy, quoted in a Time advertisement, NY Times 17 Mar 1979
There were some classics:
On nervousness: It’s not as if we’re putting hearts in babies – or taking them out! On preaching: You’re not on your high horse now; you’re just on a tall donkey! On Lent: I can’t have sex – it’s lent. Okay so. Let me know when you get it back. On death: He’d gotten very small but he looked very well in the coffin.
On fashion: Sure their skirts are higher than their handbags.
On drink: The weakness in me is very strong.
On meanness: He’d mind mice at a crossroads.
On inquistiveness: She asked it all – breed, creed, and generation.
On beauty: She had calves only a cow could love.
On nerve: He’s not at all backward in coming forward.
On weight: She’s the full of his arms of Irish love.
Note to self: start carrying a notebook.
I don’t do fancy dress…not since I went to a party in Dublin cleverly dressed as a tube of toothpaste and everyone thought I was a table lamp. I never once entertained thoughts of dressing up as a leprechaun for St Patrick’s Day, even if it meant getting my name in the Guinness Book of Records. I have zero interest in it all. Last year, in Budapest, on this very day, I confessed to being a parade pooper but I was converted to the joys of it all. This year, I took a major step forward in my therapy and went out, in public, wearing a headband with green bopping shamrocks. One step at a time. Perhaps in 20 years time, I’ll be the one in the orange pigtails.
As we walked over to Szabadság tér, all three of us in our boppers, watching people’s reactions was priceless. Some laughed out loud. Some tried to hide their smiles. Some stared at us as if we were mad. For the most part, we were like three little rays of light bopping our way through Budapest. Turning onto Szabadság tér and seeing the sea of green, white, and orange, was amazing. The sun was out, the sky was blue, and everyone was in great form. Lots of people dressed up – went the whole hog. Whole families were togged out in the gear and everyone looked like they were having a ball. The Irish wolfhounds competed for attention with the Jameson girls and everyone milling around was in great form.
By my reckoning (verified by two others ad hoc counters) there were about 980 people in the parade at one stage. Let’s say 1000 people took part. That’s 1000 people wearin’ the green, tramping through the streets of Budapest led by a pipe band and a pack of hounds. The reception from the man in the street was nothing short of brilliant – cheers, shouts of encouragement, laughter – and that from those who hadn’t a clue what it was they were witnessing. In a week that saw parades of political nature on the streets of the city, this one was refreshingly simple, uncomplicated, and happy. A bunch of Irish and Hungarians celebrating what it means to be Irish.
The party ended up back in Deak tér with dancers, musicians, and plenty of leprechauns. The festivities were still in full swing when we left and no doubt will continue well into the night. The brainchild of the Irish Hungarian Business Circle, the parade is part of a four-day festival celebrating the Irishness in Budapest. This is its second year and it’s going from strength to strength. It’s no mean feat organising such an event – hats off to the Parade Committee and all those involved. There’s nothing quite like seeing grown-ups enjoying themselves like children. We need to do this more often and remember what it’s like to have simple, uncomplicated fun.
Beannachtaí na Féile Padraig daoibh go léir