The pastel promenade of façades stretches to a vanishing point. We are in Buda, and on the opposite side of the river, framed by the arches of three majestic suspension bridges, unfolds a postcard panorama of Pest, the Hungarian capital’s flatter, more urbane side. Soft, sulfurous water from the Gellért Hill behind us-so named after a Christian martyr who was rolled down its steep cliff in a barrel a thousand years ago-is nourishing our bodies with healing minerals.Ī stone’s throw below, past the tram tracks, is the meandering Danube-far from blue, but confidently wide. My fellow bathers-a carefree group of locals and tourists-are oblivious to the city’s workday bustle.
Sunlight has cracked open the leaden skies. It’s a prematurely warm spring afternoon in Budapest and I’m basking in the rooftop hot tub of the Rudas, one of the city’s impressive thermal spas, where people have been bathing for centuries.
