European Dips: a despatch from Budapest

Behold! I have returned from the continent.

Hello!

Hi! As promised (threatened?), here is my first column from The Continent. I’m calling the series European Dips because that’s what I’m aiming to do: dip into a country for a few days, chat to some interesting people, see what’s what, share my findings here.

I’ve obviously done some research and spoken to some people who do know what they’re talking about, but the point isn’t to provide you with The Definitive Take On This Or That Country. Instead, what follows is a snapshot of a moment in time, and of a handful of people I’ve met. Are they representative of the country? Christ no! But I think that’s fine. There should be space out there for pieces that proudly don’t pretend to speak to everyone, and for everyone.

Do let me know what you think! The feature below is quite long but hopefully interesting, and if you’d like something sillier then I’ve also got a lighter sketch to publish in next week’s newsletter. Something for everyone!

Also, if you enjoy this newsletter: why not consider taking out a paid subscription? I financed this whole trip myself, which some may argue was a daft choice, but I’m happy I did it, as I really do think it’s a fun and good project. This despatch is free, because I wanted to give people a taste of what I wanted to do, but future ones will be for paying subscribers only.

A feature

It all began with the end of the First World War. I should have guessed. I'd only been in Budapest for a few hours but, due to a tight schedule, had propelled myself out of the flight, flown out of the airport, run out of the train, thrown my belongings into my room, and legged it to the restaurant. I was meeting a friend of a friend of a friend – Dáni, a genial 50-something who works in tech – and didn't want to keep him waiting. 9pm is quite late to meet a stranger for dinner as it is; the least I could do was to be on time.

I probably shouldn't have worried. There were still people eating on the terrace when I arrived, and the eyeroll I'd expected from the waiters never came. Only a clown or a fool would try to get served at this time on a Wednesday in London but, happily, this wasn't Britain. It wasn't Austria either: this was my first time in Hungary, and I'd wondered, naïvely, with the confidence of someone who only knows part of the story, whether it would remind me of Vienna.

For the avoidance of doubt: I loathe Vienna. I didn't like it the first time I went, but felt I should be fair so I went again, to be sure, and the second time I liked it even less. I found it beautiful but cold; like someone who's wonderful to look at but entirely uninteresting in bed. I also got tutted at by strangers there, as I crossed a completely empty road without waiting for the little man to turn green. It basically ruined my day. It happened several times.

When I left the train station in Budapest, I spotted them immediately; the people crossing the road like savages, without waiting for the right spot or the right light. It made me feel right at home. I tell Dáni about it.

"For me, Vienna is the most western city in the east, and Budapest is the most eastern city in the west", he replies. "Budapest has a lot more Balkan feeling, which makes it more lively and interesting, exciting, unorganised, wild, while Vienna is the Kaiser's city. You don't feel that it's alive, somehow". I nod as vigorously as I can while shovelling hortobágyi palacsinta down my gaping maw.

Dáni had described it as "the final destination of leftovers", as it's a dish traditionally made out of whatever meat or stew happens to be languishing in the fridge, served wrapped inside a crêpe and covered in sauce and/or sour cream. It's immensely satisfying, and not what we've come to talk about at all. Why do Hungarians keep voting for Viktor Orbán, I manage to ask between two mouthfuls?

As it turns out, he isn't really the best person to ask. He was born and bred in Budapest, as were his parents and his grandparents. It's quite a feat, given he's Jewish. "It's only my side of the family", he tells me, that made it. "Every direction you look at, people have left or died". Still, he's here now, eating his asparagus, off-handedly mentioning "Trianon" like I'm meant to know what he's talking about.

I silently wonder why I spent so much of my education daydreaming at the back of the class, and ask him to elaborate. He's happy to. According to him and others, Hungary keeps voting for the populist right because of the Treaty of Trianon, which was signed at the Paris Peace Conference in Versailles in 1920.

On top of formally ending the war between most of the Allies of WWI and the Kingdom of Hungary, the dictate saw the latter shed nearly three-quarters of its territory, and half of its ten biggest cities. Pozsony, now Bratislava, was once the capital of Upper Hungary, and home to 78,223 people in 1910; Temesvár was a tad smaller, with a population of 72,555, and the capital of Banat. It's now called Timișoara, and has become the fifth-largest city in Romania. Bratislava, on the other hand, is the capital of Slovakia.

Would these cities have voted Orbán out at the last election, or the one before that? Maybe; maybe not. There's no way to know for certain. It's also impossible to guess what effect the Holocaust had on Hungary's electoral politics, but Dáni reckons the patterns aren't a coincidence. Over half of the country's Jews were murdered during the war and virtually none of them were left in the countryside, because of the order in which the deportations were conducted, and the point at which they were stopped.

"The whole modernisation of this country has happened with the energy and power of the Jews, because the locals were more attached to the old-fashioned ways", he says. It definitely feels like part of the answer.

When I ask journalist Viktória Serdült the same question two days later, she's a bit more diplomatic, but tells me broadly the same thing. "For historical reasons, aside from Budapest, Hungary doesn't have big cities. Our second-biggest city is Debrecen, which has a population of under 300,000", she tells me as I eat some Turkish eggs, having been defeated by three consecutive meals of classic Magyar fare. "As in many other European countries, the more conservative villages and smaller towns lean towards Fidesz."

That's Fidesz with an "s" at the end, by the way – I'd convinced myself you had to pronounce it Feedesh, and maybe you had too, but that's wrong. An s and a z in Hungarian equals a simple, naked s in English, but a solo s dresses itself as a sh. The deep-fried flatbread beloved by hungover tourists is pronounced lángosh. It's not the most intuitive of languages, and maybe that's part of the explanation, too.

Stuck right in the middle of Europe but handed down a language that's both hard to learn and tough to escape from, Hungarians have had no choice but to gaze at their own navel, and treat everyone else with mistrust and resentment. Well, some of them anyway.

"Theatre life in Budapest is stronger than ever", Dáni tells me. "Tickets are quite expensive, because the government offers no support, but those theatres are mostly full. There are a lot of things happening even though the government is not supporting them. We live in our bubble, and we go see our movies and our plays, and we try to financially support whatever is important for us."

That word – ‘bubble’ – will end up defining my trip. Soon enough, I'll hear it come out of the mouth of Mika, a volunteer at Aurora. "If you're in your bubble then you can really make yourself cosy, and forget about it", he tells me the following day, while sitting in the backyard of Aurora's bar/gig venue/community centre/meeting space/NGOs HQ. There are touchy-feely queer couples here, visibly trans people, and a big Pride flag on the wall. Until I walked through their door, I hadn't seen any of those things since landing in Budapest.

We're having a drink on their terrace, while next door to us "heteronormative dynamics and intimate partner violence in the LGBTQ community" are being discussed by a group, as part of the organisation's Pride programme.

"In a space like this in Budapest you can sometimes forget how shit the country and the political situation are", Mika says, and I believe him. He's half-German, half-Hungarian, and has recently returned from Berlin, where he went to university. He was involved in community spaces there, and felt the need to volunteer back home as well. "Here it's different because everything we do is important", he says, which he would, wouldn't he? But he isn't wrong.

Aurora is, among other things, home to the office of Budapest Pride, which hasn't had an easy year so far. Back in March, the government outlawed not only making content about gender reassignment available to minors but also any "promoting or portraying" of homosexuality, essentially banning all future Pride marches. The capital's liberal mayor has since announced that a version of the event will go ahead, but some activists are still fretting about new legislation allowing authorities to, among other things, use facial recognition software on protesters.

One person who will definitely be there is 27-year-old Bendi. We meet for a drink in one of the city's trendier bars on my second evening, and he opts for a pint of soda water even though I'm buying. It makes me feel quite self-conscious about sinking my glass of wine, but he's a personal trainer and I'm a journalist; sometimes it's nice for everyone to conform to stereotypes.

Bendi was born and bred in Budapest, moving to Amsterdam at 18. He's been back here since November, living with his mother, but hopes to return to the Netherlands at the end of 2025. "I didn't have a bad childhood", he says, but moving abroad made him realise just how restrictive Hungary had been. "I went through this crazy phase after I moved of only wearing pink –for a few years, everything I bought was pink – then I had a phase of make-up and nails and everything. I was able to experience all this, which I wouldn't have been able to here. It wouldn't even have occurred to me to try to discover myself."

His family was relaxed about him coming out as gay as a teenager; the rest of the country was the problem. It still is. "Don't get me wrong, I love Budapest, it's a beautiful city, but there are so many things I didn't think of", he continues. "I have a very active sexual life, and I haven't been able to get tested since I moved back, which I do regularly in Amsterdam".

"I recently reached out to an organisation that helps with this and they told me they're going to have free testing for HIV and syphilis around Pride, so I'll go there, but with my lifestyle I have to get tested for everything". Bendi was also on PrEP in the Netherlands, a drug which reduces the risk of contracting HIV from unprotected sex, but he hasn't found a way to get it easily in Budapest. Some of his friends used to get it imported from abroad, he tells me, but the packages are now getting confiscated at the border.

More broadly, he believes that this is "the worst year so far” in terms of what’s coming from Orbán and Fidesz – “it's always been bad, but everyone feels like this year they're just going for it, probably because there's a big possibility of them losing next year".

He's right on both counts. As Viktória explains to me the following day, "Fidesz is still preparing for victory in 2026, but they are also making plans for the future. For example, they appointed three hardline loyalists to the Constitutional Court, where they will serve for 12 years."

"In the event of a regime change, they could play a key role in vetoing legislation by deeming it unconstitutional. They also appointed a new public prosecutor, as the former became president of the Constitutional Court, which could affect the filing of charges against former government members."

The populists hope to emulate the situation in Poland, where Donald Tusk became Prime Minister again in 2023, finally defeating right-wing Law and Justice after eight years, but found himself relatively impotent as the opposition still held the presidency. Any party hoping to replace Fidesz will also have to contend with the Hungarian parliament's two-thirds rule; as things stand, Orbán can do as he pleases, as his party has a supermajority. It's unclear that anyone else could achieve such a result in 2026.

Still, there is one name on everybody's lips, in Budapest and elsewhere: Péter Magyar. The 44-year-old leads the Tisza Party, which has been ahead of Fidesz in the polls for all of 2025. His looks are quite boyish, his manner quite brash, and every conversation I had about him with a Budapesti went the same way.

In the first act, the person in front of me would say something along the lines of "Oh, oh yes, Magyar Péter! It does actually look like he may win next year!". In the second, their tone would change and they would admit, perhaps while speaking a tad more quietly, that they didn't really care for him. He used to be part of Fidesz; no-one really knows what he stands for; parts of his past are shady; there's no point getting too excited about him. Finally, in the third act, all would be well again, as they would tell me that Christ, of course they'll be voting for him next year.

As Dáni put it, "I would be happier living in Magyar country than Orbanistan". There was no great enthusiasm for Magyar anywhere in the Budapest bubble, but there was a sense that the opposition had to be united, otherwise Fidesz would stay in power forever. Though few thought that things would get actively better, there is sometimes value in merely stemming the bleeding, and making sure things don't keep getting worse.

Just take the press. Now a journalist for independent political weekly HVG, Viktória has had to spend the last decade or so playing professional musical chairs. We meet in one of the busiest and most central areas of the capital, as I need to run off to the airport straight after our lunch, and end up sitting down in what I can only describe as an egg-centric restaurant.

"It has become harder to be an independent journalist in Hungary", she tells me while eating an omelette roughly the size of a mattress. "We have to move from paper to paper because they keep getting bought up or taken over by the government and turned into propaganda outlets. This is why we sometimes jokingly refer to ourselves as 'shipwrecks'."

On top of this, the independent publications often end up struggling financially, as "some companies are reluctant to advertise for fear of retaliation from government actors". Another problem is that, well – people just don't want to hear about the news anymore.

As Mika told me at Aurora, "a lot of people I know are not reading or talking about politics anymore, because for years it was ‘okay this time we have a chance!’, and eventually many people just got tired". They may still take to the streets on occasion, but no longer with any hope that it will meaningfully change anything.

"When Pride was forbidden, there was a demonstration", he explained, "and the sense was that 'we're here because we have to show Europe that we're not happy with this’ but we didn't think that Fidesz was going to give a fuck. There's no point protesting other than to show other countries that not all people are behind Orbán."

Europe is a tough topic here. I first noticed it on my second day, walking around the tourist-heavy area near the opera. I was busy giggling at the twisted cosmopolitanism of Hungary being home to a French tacos restaurant, and was writing myself a reminder to mention it in this piece, while listening to the gentle symphony of suitcases being rolled on the cobblestones.

It actually took me a second to realise what was in front of me, as I was – and am – so used to Ukraine being portrayed in a positive light wherever I go. On the wall opposite me was a poster featuring pictures of Ursula Von Der Leyen looking smug, Volodymyr Zelenskyy looking threatening, and Manfred Weber… existing. You have to be quite accustomed to someone's face to be able to tell if a picture of them is flattering or not, and the MEP and I are yet to be on those terms. In any case, the poster screamed, "they'll admit Ukraine into the EU, but we'll pay the price!". Over a giant drawing of a red cross, it added: "let's vote no!"

"Voks 2025" will be a non-binding referendum, asking people if – you guessed it – Ukraine should join the EU. No-one I spoke to took it seriously. Still, I thought of Viktória’s point about censorship when trying to read about it in the Hungarian press. "Government Seeks Public Opinion on Ukraine's EU Bid, Unlike Brussels", was the headline in Magyar Nemzet. A newspaper "close to the current Hungarian government led by Viktor Orbán" indeed. The pointless vote is only the latest weapon used by Fidesz in its careful, calculated war against the EU.

On the one hand, Orbán benefits from endlessly vilifying Brussels, and blaming it for many of the country's ills. On the other, he knows it cannot go too far, as getting kicked out of the European Union would be politically and economically catastrophic. As a result, the government must walk a fine line.

Most recently, Fidez postponed a vote on legislation which would have banned or heavily curtailed organisations receiving any foreign funding, essentially putting an end to independent media and civil society. The move was a lot of people's "oh shit, this is really bad" moment, according to Mika, but the vote has now been moved to the autumn, for reasons no-one has quite got to the bottom of yet.

Some say that eurocrats' fury at the proposed move succeeded in prompting the delay, but there is probably more to the story. Most eyebrow-raising was the fact that several high-ranking figures in Fidesz seemingly opposed the bill. That doesn't usually happen in Hungary. "Fidesz is a block", Viktória tells me. "We're starting to see some cracks showing, which is very new".

More broadly, "people are beginning to be fed up with increasingly hateful rhetoric and economic problems. There is a general feeling of discontent towards Fidesz and Orbán that I have never really experienced before."

Her point about the economy is an important one. "Orbán was lucky because he could provide a stable economic future for most Hungarians: in smaller towns and villages, people felt that they were a little better off every year, being able to afford a new car or a longer holiday". That is no longer the case. Inflation has bitten into everyone's budgets, with the prices of some staple food items having gone up by over 40% since 2024.

If genius is 99% perspiration, then political success is mostly down to timing and luck; a lot may yet change before the election next April, but Péter Magyar does currently seem to be in the right place at the right time. How much will the country change if he wins? It's hard to tell. As people kept reminding me, his only path to the top job lies in giving Fidesz as little ammunition as possible. What would he be like as Prime Minister? Your guess is as good as mine and, in turn, as good as theirs.

What this means in practice is that people are struggling to get truly exercised about the Tisza Party. I spent my first couple of days in Budapest assuming, acidly, that the dour Hungarian soul was probably to blame for this lack of enthusiasm I kept encountering, but Viktória set me straight before I left. People just don't know enough about Magyar to get their hopes up, and they're too used to having their hopes dashed to really dare to dream.

Dáni has bought a house in Italy with his wife, which they're planning to move to if things get worse, or "Huxit" happens. His son has moved to the Netherlands to study, and may or may not return to Hungary when he's done. I ask Bendi if he would ever consider moving back to Hungary permanently. He barely thinks about it.

"I think that train has long left the station, sadly", he says. "It's worse than I remembered. We are so far gone, so so so so behind, that by the time we can get to where Amsterdam is now, I would be 50, 60 years old – I don't want to wait! There's no life for queer people here."

He hesitates for a moment. "Maybe when I get old…". He doesn't finish the sentence. Instead, he finishes his soda water, and the interview comes to a natural end; he gives me a hug and leaves. I'm one of life's optimists and it's been an odd trip; I wanted to tell Dáni and Mika and Bendi that things were surely, surely going to get better, but what did I know? Sometimes pessimism's the most logical choice. Still, it did feel like there was something in the air in Budapest. You probably wouldn't call it hope, at least not yet, but there was a sense that, perhaps, it could be the beginning of the end of an era no one thought would last this long.

Fidesz can't remain unassailable forever; as Viktória tells me before I go to catch my flight, the government has started making mistakes, and it's increasingly obvious that the Prime Minister, having surrounded himself with yes-men, is losing his grip on what works and what doesn't. "Sure, I live in a bubble", she tells me, "but Orbán lives in a bubble as well". Whose bubble will burst first, though?

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Finally: a hearty thank you to Alastair Meeks and to Garvan, who put me in touch with their friends in Budapest, and to the excellent Stephanie Boland, who volunteered to edit this piece, didn’t groan when I sent her all 3500 words of it, and who made those words a whole lot better than they were. Also thank you to me, for taking these film pictures of Budapest myself. Check me out, jack of at least two trades!