Adventure Time!

Because father & son time is important

The hype has already begun by Friday. My boy will come home at the same time he always does from nursery, all fired up and excited. He bangs on the door, and sometimes he rings the bell, too. Naturally, I’m working. But that doesn’t stop me from anticipating his arrival, nor does it stop him. He knows as well as I do that adventure time’s approaching, which means it’s time for him to don his cap and repeatedly say:

‘Let’s go, Apa!¹ Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!’

Truthfully, I’m to blame. I egg the little legend on all week. How can I not? I spend most of it sitting in front of my desk writing the narrative for the indie studio I’m employed by; either that, or I’m teaching English. It’s all for the family, but he doesn’t know that. He can’t, for it’s my duty to keep it from him in many ways. Leave him to figure it out one day when my achievements speak for themselves.

This is the kind of thing that slips your attention when you’re not a father; you just don’t consider the fact that you’ll be toiling away for your family day in and day out. Not until it’s real, at least. My father did it and now I’m doing it. That’s just how it goes. And when it’s your turn to bat you don’t whine and moan – nobody wants to hear that. You take it on the chin because that’s what dads are meant to do. At their best, that’s what men are meant to do.

Even if we all fail at being fathers now and then.

But this isn’t a story of failure, it’s a story of triumph. And it all begins with a hat:

The hat even has adventure written on it! And the book? Well, toddlers have a certain fascination for garbage trucks, let me tell you…

Alright, alright, it was a coincidence. It didn’t start that way. That’s how it’s going. I was just blagging you, you see. You know blagging, yes? British word. You know – like how Jip does in Human Traffic². The scene below is from that film, and it’s a perfect example of a legendary blag (yes, it’s also a noun). If you’re into that sort of thing. I was and am, even now. I mean come on, it’s even got a cameo from Carl Cox. You probably still don’t know who that is. So skip ahead or indulge me – your move, reader.

Back to adventures.

Ah yes! It started with his obsession with vehicles. At the time, he was suffering from what is usually referred to as separation anxiety. Unsurprisingly, he was most distraught at being separated from his mum. And who could blame him? She hadn’t stopped breastfeeding yet, and he and I hadn’t quite bonded on the level we would. So I started going out to the playground with him more often alone. At first, he’d cry and scream for mummy. Then, as time went on, he stopped. Thank God he did; I couldn’t have taken it much longer.

Then, an idea: what if he and I were to travel around Budapest as a father and son duo?

“Alright, just make sure you watch him every single second!” she said.

Of course I would. “He’s my boy,” I said with conviction and a slight edge. And so it began: weekly adventures, usually on Saturday and Sunday, the days I had to work the least.

The boy loved it. He couldn’t get enough. We’d go to Margaret Island, we’d try playgrounds in the middle of city blocks I’d never seen before. He sang songs as loudly as possible on public transport. I cheered him on and sang along. Dreary-eyed Hungarians weathered by the slings and arrows of life shot us smiles. Some turned away, irritated, but you can bet I didn’t give two shits. Some were happy to see a child happy. Most others are too lost in their phones.

Stunning women – Hungarian and foreign alike – would approach us or smile at him. I confess that I did not mind.

“Oh he’s so cute!” one would say.

“He gets that from his mum.” I’d respond.

“He’s very… vocal.” another would say.

“A bit too much like his dad, in that regard.” I’d admit.

He ran through the streets of this fine city and bellowed “I’m too fast,” or “Apa, look, it’s a garbage truck!”. We tempered our growing bond through shared experience. Experiences we’d come to draw upon time and time again. Among them – infamous still to this day – is the muddy puddles outing. We would go on to talk about it for months.

But that’s just one example. And believe me, I’ve come prepared. Because despite rife poverty, out-of-control homelessness, and a kind of sanitary glean that only permeates Budapest’s most touristy areas, this city has charm. It’s in the details: the rarefied communist playgrounds with their curiously innovative obstacles, the bus and tram routes seldom traveled, the strangely esoteric statues one finds wandering the streets. Why, just two weeks ago our adventure led us close to Halászbástya, where we saw moustached men of yore. Surely these were Hungarians, but who? There was no plaque to speak of. Needless to say, the boy was intrigued.

Nowhere in my homeland can one be strolling along a street and then have a group of verifiably ancient statues come into view out of nowhere. This city never ceases to amaze.

Wonder, splendor, and adventure can be found in the most unassuming of places. One might stumble upon quaint little restaurants or pubs. One might find oneself traversing breathtakingly beautiful boulevards, bathed in dusk’s fleeting light.

Not far from the Danube, near Varkért Bazaar. The place is full of renovated, 19th-century Neo-Renaissance structures, such as exhibition halls, theaters, gardens, and restaurants.

So we go out every Saturday that he’s here; usually, we go on Sundays, too. While I certainly have the final say on what we’re doing – I am 38 years his senior, after all – it’s really a collaborative effort. Sometimes, we glimpse the most curious of sights:

This strange statue of wood was likely someone’s labour of love. Wherever you are, anon, I appreciate you.

Often, we lay our eyes upon confounding social trends in practice:

So many European couples have substituted kids with pets. Here, my boy scopes them out; he understands that those nurturing instincts could have been put to better use, surely!

And rarely, we dig trenches in the ground beside the ruined implements of our long-lost communist foes. Vanquished, but never forgotten:

I guess we’re preparing for… the Russians?

As I come to the end of this lighthearted post, my mind drifts to our coming adventure. What destinations beckon to us? Who shall we encounter on these mean streets? How many will smile at us on public transport? What stories shall we forge and tell Mum after we arrive home?

The winds and whims of fate shall decide.

1. “Apa” is Hungarian for “Dad”, one of the great joys of raising a kid bilingually is that they’ll often mix words from the two languages. It’s quite a treat, truth be told.

2. Jip, played by John Simm, is both amazing and terrible in this film. Which is, if you’re interested, an absolute classic about rave culture from 1999, featuring the Welsh club scene in Cardiff. It’s a banger – if you’re into this kind of thing, anyway.