Falling for Budapest

Hello fellow Debriefers,

I made my way towards passport control, ready to begin my new life. And then I came face-to-face with a sworn enemy of mine, as someone visually impaired: a maze of queue barriers. Budapest was going to test me before I’d even left the airport.

My go-to method is to find a fellow traveller and follow them discreetly. But it was late at night and the few passengers glided through the winding path, deft as ice-skaters.

I was flooded with adrenaline. My eyes scanned around trying to build up a picture, perspiration kicked in. I took a deep breath and hoped for the best. Within seconds, I'd tangled myself between the retractable belt that connected two barriers.

One post toppled over. As I bent to fix it, the second one went down too. A wave of embarrassment started rising inside me, my mind awash with frantic thoughts. I was trying to escape, while at the same time trying to avoid drawing any attention to my tangled self.

In that mess of posts and belts, it dawned on me what I’d done. I’d left the safe and familiar behind – my family, friends, the streets of London I could navigate with confidence.

But sometimes the biggest risk is staying where you are. I was taking a gamble in the other direction, hoping I could build a new life in a city in which everything would be unknown and challenging.

About this edition

We commission original stories told by disabled people, thanks to support from readers. Thanks to Mummy Fremlin for a generous new contribution.

Mario Georgiou is a writer and disability advocate from London, currently living in Budapest. 

Kinanty Andini is an illustrator and digital artist from Indonesia.    

Confronting my reality

At the confusing age of 16, I was diagnosed with Usher Syndrome, a progressive disease causing vision and hearing loss. I'd already been fitted with hearing aids aged 6, so I was somewhat accustomed to being a little different.

But I found sight loss a whole different thing. I became a hermit: fearful of the future and completely risk averse — avoiding anything that would require me to acknowledge my disability. I opted to spend most of my time in the safety of my bedroom with my guitar, books and a couple of disinterested cats.

Through the next decade, I flitted between long periods of solitude and short bursts of extroversion. I was unable to figure out who I was meant to be in this world.

But as I neared 30, something shifted. I became interested in philosophy. It wasn’t exactly the specific content of the books that I read which changed me, but the assumption that underlies all philosophy: whatever reality is, it can be questioned, challenged and even torn apart. Nothing is set in stone.

In the midst of this exploring I began to find acceptance and peace. I realised that it was vital for me to think about the very things I felt most uncomfortable thinking about. Thinking about going blind is painful, but trying to avoid thinking about going blind is far more painful.

I started to understand that the greatest risk wasn't that something could go wrong, it was that I could spend my whole life playing it safe. Usher Syndrome started to feel like permission to tear up the blueprint, to do things differently.

Wanting more from life

And I wanted more from life. I wanted to feel alive, to have adventures, to challenge myself. To take risks.

Having a disability raises the stakes. When mobility and navigation require extra caution there’s more that could go wrong. I had to relearn that risks aren’t inherently bad, that they can also lead to great things.

It was easier to make a big life decision because my circumstances were no longer fulfilling. Alongside working various jobs, I was also a gigging musician. But I was exhausted — exhausted by the grind of performing, the crushing expense of living in London, and the feeling that I was just treading water.

I tested myself with a trip to Vietnam, in part to see if I could handle being in a place worlds apart from my own, and partly to continue my exploration of different cultures. The sidewalks are obstacle courses of food stalls, broken pavements, and parked scooters. I spent my days getting lost, mingling with locals, and I loved every minute of it.

Those 3 weeks were some of the happiest of my life. The experience gave me the courage and desire to move abroad. I wanted a complete change of scenery.

Leaving the tribe

I have a big, close-knit, loving family: the kind where everyone knows everyone else's business. No one has ever left the tribe, no one ever really dared to go against tradition, and the fact that I was planning to do so caused upset. 

Everyone worried about my decision, probably more so given my condition. My adoring grandparents couldn't fathom why I wanted to leave. My mum, who desperately wanted to keep me wrapped in a cocoon of safety, really struggled, and I think my younger brother, Ross, was worried he’d feel lost without me.

I struggled with guilt and sometimes second-guessed my decision. But ultimately the fire had been lit and it wasn't going out.

New pavements and new people

I’d visited Budapest many times, and fallen in love with it through the years. I was aware of Hungary’s authoritarian-leaning politics, but with its vibrant expat community, it was still a place where foreigners could build a life.

I couldn’t think of a better place to try to make a new home. It was cheaper. The weather was better. The pavements were nice and wide. And the people — oh, the people.

Hungarians are often stereotyped as being an unhappy bunch, and given their history of oppression, this is understandable. But they are people I have grown to love and admire, and some of them have become my closest friends.

But visiting a city is unlike living there, and I was in for a bumpy journey.

An inner tug-of-war

After disentangling myself from the airport, I spent the first few days walking around and familiarising myself. My new neighbourhood was the 13th District, right by the Danube.

Budapest is a gorgeous city, but one that cares little for health and safety. On my way to a record shop I marvelled at the tourists, trams, and the general hustle and bustle. And I almost fell down into a sinkhole, left there in the open by some builders. My toes teetered over the edge, and I found myself extremely grateful to whatever had stopped me.

Moments like these would induce an inner tug-of-war. One part of me wanted to run back to my apartment, and the other wanted to keep going. The latter almost always won; I hadn’t come all this way just to go backwards.

Taking a seat

For longer distances, I would use taxi-hailing apps. The first trip I made was late at night. I set my pickup location and ordered a car. I watched the little taxi icon driving through the streets on my phone, which is always set to night mode to avoid being blinded by the glare. One minute away, it said.

I positioned myself perfectly by the curb, leaving the driver plenty of room to stop beside me and giving myself a predictable path to the door. The yellow taxi pulled up, I opened the door and sat down. Both the driver and I let out shrieks of terror.

We were screaming for very different reasons. Time stopped for a moment and I had an entire inner-monologue about the experience before being pulled back to reality. I’d forgotten that the driver is on the left-hand side here, and had sat down on his lap. My eyes widened, my body tensed, I swore a hundred times in my head and desperately tried to think of something to say.

But before I could find the words, the driver pushed me out and the cab was a speeding speck of yellow in the distance. I stood back on the curb feeling silly, abandoned, and a little bit sorry for myself. A few moments later, I was laughing. The city is full of "lads" on stag-dos who often lack respect for the locals, and so the driver probably thought I was one of them.

Now I always double-check that I’m on the right side.

“Just to let you know…”

I wasn’t alone in those early days. Tom, a Hungarian friend who I knew from England, had returned to Budapest shortly before I moved. I’m not sure I could have done it without him, and I’ll be forever grateful for the patience and support he continues to give me.

Tom introduced me to new people. I went to parties and started to make new friends and plans. But it wasn’t always easy, given my disability isn’t apparent. At one such party, someone introduced themselves to me. I sat there oblivious, sipping on my beer. Apparently I offended them, and I sometimes wonder how many times this has happened in my life without me knowing.

These moments sting, but they’re also a reminder I can’t expect people to be mind-readers. I’ve since become a lot more forthright in explaining to people about my lack of sight. I used to think a whole explanation was necessary, coming across almost apologetically. But it turns out that a simple: “just to let you know, I can’t see very well”, is more than enough.

Safety in familiarity

Going to new places was a daunting struggle, whether it was someone's home, a restaurant, or even a supermarket. It takes forever for my eyes to adjust from the light outside, leaving me standing in the entrance, unable to see anything in the sudden darkness.

Self-conscious of stares, I would enter and do my best impersonation of a person casually exploring. I would end up stampeding like a bull, sometimes knocking things over or bumping into people. My strategy invited the stares that I wanted to avoid.

To avoid the ordeal, I’d stick to going to places I was familiar with. A small, safe circuit of known locations with layouts I knew by heart. I can navigate my own building with my eyes closed—it’s 96 steps from bottom to top—because I’ve counted and memorised every one.

Opening new doors

I explained my hesitation to another close friend, Jon. He’s a 40-something-year-old Australian musician and actor, and nothing seems to faze him. Jon set me a challenge that changed my life: to go inside as many different places as possible and just stand in the entrance.

This felt awkward, terrifying, silly. What would people think?

“Who cares?” he said.

“What if I make a fool of myself?”

Again: "Who cares?"

I tried it at a restaurant. A waiter approached and asked if I needed a table, I told him I was just looking, and he disappeared into the non-existent parts of my vision. I had been so caught up worrying what other people think of me that I failed to realise that I was just someone flitting through their lines of sight.

The challenge opened up the city. I wasn't just getting by in Budapest, I was exploring it. I started wandering into cafes, bookshops, and bars I'd never dared enter before. Each doorway was a small risk that often paid enormous dividends. The world was bigger than my fears.

Building a picture piece by piece

And what a gorgeous city Budapest is to explore. I'm grateful that I still have some sight left to see its beauty. My way of absorbing a scene requires me to scan over whatever I am looking at, building a complete picture piece by piece. It means I capture small details, like the gargoyles perched at the top of the city’s stunning architecture.

I love letting my eyes scan over the intricately-designed bridges crossing over the Danube connecting Buda and Pest, or the Buda Hills, which lack scale until I completely trace the curvature of their peaks.

And my personal favourite is the courtyards. Each one is unique, bursting with character, history, and residents enjoying a little quiet time on their respective balconies.

A friend in need

The fact that each courtyard is unique means that each has a new layout to learn. 

Once, late at night, I had to deliver some medication to a feverish friend. I knew it would be dangerous as I hadn’t been to his place before. But, armed with my growing confidence, I decided to go anyway.

I entered his building and stood in the dark, sleepy courtyard. Using my phone’s flashlight, I found a small staircase and hoped it would lead me closer to his flat. I began climbing, slowly, and eventually came to a landing.

I inched forward, using my toes and hands to feel for obstacles, as I always do in poorly lit conditions. But suddenly I felt the ground disappear from beneath me and realised I was falling. I landed on a gathering of chained-up bicycles.

It turned out I’d fallen from a ledge about ten feet off the ground. There were no railings on this particular landing.

As I lay on the floor, clutching my ribs, my immediate concern was that I'd woken the residents, and that I'd have to explain, with my limited Hungarian, what the hell had just happened. I felt hurt pride before actual pain. Perhaps it’s a panic that stems from childhood, from being scolded for clumsiness after accidents.

As luck would have it, no one emerged. I stumbled to a wall, struggling to catch my breath in the disorientating darkness, and realised I’d found the elevator. With the meds still in my pocket, my mission was somehow complete.

In hindsight I shouldn’t have gone there. Yes, my friend was in need, but I cannot see anything at night. I’ve since learned to speak up for myself when it comes to my limitations, even if it means disappointing people. In the same way that it takes courage to do something risky, it takes courage for me to accept what I can’t do.

Changing identities

When you are losing your sight, or dealing with any progressive disability, it can feel like your identity goes through several deaths and rebirths. I’ve been a fully sighted person, a visually-impaired person, and now I am a severely-sight impaired person.

I don’t yet use a cane. It’s a mental hurdle, and if I’m honest, I still attach a certain stigma to me needing to use it. Learning to use one is going to be tough. I am probably going to cry, resist and fight against it.

I know I’ll have to learn eventually, but I’m not sure that I have it in me right now. At the moment my adventures are in a different direction. 

Around the next corner…

I've now lived in Budapest for over three years. I’ve been to and from the airport countless times. I still bump into people. I still trip over suitcases. I still follow people who look like they know where they're going.

This city gave me back my sense of adventure, and taught me a willingness to fail and laugh about it later. I still have bad days and I still sometimes struggle with finding courage when faced with unfamiliar things. I've got many more challenges ahead of me. 

But these feelings are no longer so caused or exacerbated by fear or dread. When I already know that there’s a maze of queue barriers around the corner, I’m not so surprised. I’m ready, and can hear their welcome. 

With gratitude,

Mario

Outro

For more disabled travel writing, see Tanzila Khan's piece on Finding my Fairy Tale.

For more on the political situation in Hungary, see Gabor Petri's “This should not be happening”.

And to find Mario online, see his website where he offers mindfulness sessions with a focus on living with disability or health issues.

Help us do more. The Debrief is free thanks to reader support.

Acknowledgements

Peter, for pushing me to get the best out of my writing and instilling me with the confidence to do so.

Thanks to Kinanty Andini for the skilful illustration and attention to detail.

To all Debrief readers and organisations who continue to support this wonderful and essential newsletter.

To all Debrief writers for giving me something to look forward to every Wednesday.

To Roos, for encouraging me to pursue writing beyond just a hobby.