NOSFERATU

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THE BOOK OF THE VAMPIRES

“ ...and it was in 1443 that the first Nosferatu was born.

That name rings like the cry of a bird of prey.
Never speak it aloud...

Men do not always recognize the dangers that beasts can sense at certain times.”

— NOSFERATU, 1922.

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DIARY OF ZOE ECCLES

Feb. 2016

Romania is a very different place. This much was clear even as we crossed the border. The roads changed and became a lot more bumpy, slowing our car to a low mumble, and the trees crowded in as the road narrowed, as if they wished to get a good look at us. The mist that had been so prevalent in Hungary thickened, then disappeared completely, revealing a landscape that rolled onwards to unseen mountains. I had a very distinct feeling wash over me when we crossed the border, and it lingered for a few hours afterwards. It was not unlike the after-effects of falling from a great height - when the bottom falls out of one's stomach; but take this and mix it with a blurry head as one feels upon waking from a deep dream, and you have the mysterious feeling I was overcome by. In hindsight, I can only attribute this to strange things; perhaps a shift in realities, as we crossed into a land of collective beliefs and superstitions. 

♱♱♱

I cannot say I was ill prepared for what was to come, as I had already heard so many tales of the place. Surprisingly, though, these tales were not of the folkloric kind, and did not touch on the subject of vampires or witches. No. These were modern day scary stories: of the mafia, and con men, and gypsies and dangerous people. 

When I was quite young, I remember listening to such tales, told at the dinner table by a well-meaning uncle, who had recently visited Romania. My mother, upon hearing such horrors, decided then-and-there that none of her children should ever visit Romania. I, being the rebellious child that I was, decided then-and-there that I must visit Romania.

♱♱♱

Before visiting Romania, I had come across this one profound question, the asking of which changed my life:

“Who are you, without all your fears?”

You see, I had grown up with many fears, and and a tonne of anxiety. Fears of doing the wrong thing, saying the wrong words, picking the wrong career path, not being good enough... Fears of certain foods, of health disorders, of becoming poor... Fears of irrational things, terrorist attacks, being murdered, becoming a victim of some kind...

All these fears knocking around in my head, and who would I be, without them?

It was an interesting question.

I held it in my mind, as we entered into that unknown, supposedly dangerous territory that is Romania.

♱♱♱

It is important to note that I was not without fear when we first began to explore this vast country... In fact, I was positively crippled by my anxiety surrounding the 'bad things that could happen to us.' I remember not wanting to leave our Airbnb one day, because I thought the small, creepy town we were staying in might be dangerous. Luckily, though, a chink of light showed through the dark veil of fear, and I decided to venture out, with Oliver by my side...

... Only to find that everything was quite peachy! Slowly, gradually, throughout our entire journey, my fears were alleviated and replaced with the honest truth of my own experience: that humans in Romania were, in fact, the same as any others. We were shown kindness after kindness! Some of them even became our friends, and joined us in our travels for a while, sharing their homes and food and beer.

Honestly, I should have been more worried about the vampires...

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ROMANIAN VAMPIRES

There was something... odd about the whole place.

Perhaps it was the fact that we had been reading Bram Stoker's Dracula, or perhaps it was the castle hallways - dark, brooding, and candle-lit with red carpets and dusty suits of armor that dated from the time of the first inhabitants. Or maybe it was the way that the local people kept telling us to keep the windows closed. Not just in houses, but in cars too...

Whatever it was, I began to feel like I didn't want the windows open, while we slept.

Intrigued by the subtle overtones of folkloric belief, I began to ask around, only to get a mixed response. Some people did not believe in such things at all, others went quiet. But a few of them spoke up, and began to tell me tales of their grandmother's time, when ghouls and the undead were not simply a thing of fairytales.

One night, driving under a pale milky-faced moon, I saw fires in the fields - little glimmers of light in the darkness.

And again, when we visited the graveyards, the candles were burning, with not a soul around, the snow softly falling.

The whole effect was quite eery, and I had some very strange dreams.

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““I want you to believe...

...To believe in things that you cannot. Let me illustrate. I heard once of an American who so defined faith, `that faculty which enables us to believe things which we know to be untrue.’ For one, I follow that man. He meant that we shall have an open mind, and not let a little bit of truth check the rush of the big truth, like a small rock does a railway truck. We get the small truth first. Good! We keep him, and we value him, but all the same we must not let him think himself all the truth in the universe.””

— VAN HELSING - DRACULA, by BRAM STOKER

LAKE HÉVÍZ

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LAKE HÉVÍZ

The lake was warm,
the waters constantly moving:
flowing from
left  to  right,
rising and falling.

At times there came a great swoop of cold that brushed my legs,

making me gasp,

before the soft sensation of warm silk replaced the prickling iceburn and all was forgotten.

Like Ophelia, happy and singing,
I swam among water lilies,

(unaware of all that lurked in the deeps,
trying not to think about mud creatures
of childhood night terrors.)

A dragonfly alighted in front of my vision
upon one lavender lily
stayed a brief moment
and left again.

The water felt silty, like soft sand
filtered
stardust,

fairy dust,

nymph dust.

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nymph

noun | nimf/

1. a mythological spirit of nature imagined as a beautiful maiden inhabiting rivers, woods, or other locations.

   synonyms: sprite, sylph, spirit

2. an immature form of an insect
   
   e.g., a dragonfly, mayfly, or locust.

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Dragonflies and Waterlilies

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The infant dragonfly, in its larval state, lives in the bottom of murky ponds, lakes and rivers. In this state, the young dragonfly is also known as a nymph - referencing those aquatic deities of ancient legend. The little nymph will remain in the water for many months, or even years...

Till, one day, when the weather is right and the nymph is ready, it crawls up the stem of a water-dwelling plant and sheds its skin, taking to the air to fly for the first time.

A fully grown dragonfly has long been a symbol of change, transcendence, wisdom, self realisation and enlightenment.

The waterlily begins its life in the mud.

As a rhizome, the waterlily's matrix of roots submerge themselves in the mud to absorb nutrients for the plant's survival and growth.

The leaves and flowers float on top of the water, allowing the aquatic plant the ability to pollinate and breath.

Water lilies are also known as nymphaea.

These flowers, like the lotus, are often seen as symbols of enlightenment, transcendence, rebirth, purity and potential.

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Both the dragonfly and the waterlily have long-held associations with the fairy realms.

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THE WITCH OF ATLAS

~ Extracts from a poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley

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This Lady never slept, but lay in trance
All night within the fountain - as in sleep.

Its emerald crags glowed in her beauty's glance:
Through the green splendour of the water deep
She saw the constellations reel and dance
Like fireflies - and withal did ever keep
The tenor of her contemplations calm,
With open eyes, closed feet, and folded palm.

...☆...

Then by strange art she kneaded fire and snow
Together, tempering the repugnant mass
With liquid love--all things together grow
Through which the harmony of love can pass;
And a fair Shape out of her hands did flow--
A living image which did far surpass
In beauty that bright shape of vital stone
Which drew the heart out of Pygmalion.

...

From its smooth shoulders hung two rapid wings
Fit to have borne it to the seventh sphere,
Tipped with the speed of liquid lightenings,
Dyed in the ardours of the atmosphere.

She led her creature to the boiling springs
Where the light boat was moored, and said "Sit here,"
And pointed to the prow, and took her seat
Beside the rudder with opposing feet.

And down the streams which clove those mountains vast,
Around their inland islets, and amid
The panther-peopled forests (whose shade cast
Darkness and odors, and a pleasure hid
In melancholy gloom) the pinnace passed;
By many a star-surrounded pyramid
Of icy crag cleaving the purple sky,
And caverns yawning round unfathomably.

The silver noon into that winding dell,
With slanted gleam athwart the forest-tops,
Tempered like golden evening, feebly fell;
A green and glowing light, like that which drops
From folded lilies in which glow-worms dwell
When Earth over her face Night's mantle wraps;
Between the severed mountains lay on high,
Over the stream, a narrow rift of sky.

...☆...

And where within the surface of the river
The shadows of the massy temples lie,
And never are erased, but tremble ever
Like things which every cloud can doom to die,--
Through lotus-paven canals, and wheresoever
The works of man pierced that serenest sky
With tombs and towers and fanes, - 'twas her delight
To wander in the shadow of the night.

...☆...

She all those human figures breathing there
Beheld as living spirits.
To her eyes
The naked beauty of the soul lay bare,
And often through a rude and worn disguise
She saw the inner form most bright and fair:
And then she had a charm of strange device,
Which, murmured on mute lips with tender tone,
Could make that spirit mingle with her own.

GRAND BUDAPEST

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MAGICAL REALISM

noun | ˈmajək(ə)l - ˈrē(ə)ˌlizəm

1. A genre - referring to literature, painting, film and art.

2. Expressing a primarily realistic view of the real world while also adding or revealing magical elements.

3.  Sometimes called Fabulism, in reference to the conventions of fables, myths, and allegory.

“Magic realism is what happens when a highly detailed, realistic setting is invaded by something too strange to believe.”

— MATTHEW STRETCHER

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When we arrived in Budapest, I knew then that I wanted to talk about Wes Anderson's world.

Watching a Wes Anderson film is like falling down the rabbit hole. Although his tales are set in our world, something seems to be amiss... or, perhaps it would be more correct to say that quite a few somethings were added. 

In Wes's films:

- Children are like miniature adults, with just as many problems.
- Conversations reveal the character's true feelings.
- Electric Jellyfish are a thing.
- Pastel is huge.
- Suitcases are still monogrammed.
- The magic is especially strong in the details: from prison maps, to calling cards, from pastry boxes, to stamps, to antique pornography, to funny shaped birthmarks, it is all quite fabulous.

...

Budapest reminded me a lot of a Wes Anderson film, and not just any film, but his (quite perfectly named) Grand Budapest Hotel.

Although the Grand Budapest Hotel was nowhere near Budapest - being set in the fictitious land of Zubrowka, somewhere in Eastern Europe, and shot mainly in Germany - the entire film was actually uncannily similar to the beauty and old-world charm of Budapest.

To set the scene a little, for those who are lost, here is a shot from the movie:

The camera comes to a stop as it reveals a sprawling nineteenth-century hotel and baths situated on a snowy mountain top. There is a deep, formidable staircase up to a regal entrance. There is a promenade above and a glass-panelled conservatory below. A rickety funicular groans as it slowly climbs its hillside tracks. The grass needs cutting, the roof needs patching, and more or less every surface of the building needs another coat of pink paint.

Now, without further ado, I give you:

My Very Own Experience of Grand Budapest.

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ZOE A. R. ECCLES

Explorer & Writer

⚜

January, 2017

Dear reader,

I have so much to share with you since the last time I wrote.

We arrived in Budapest last week, and although we only have one more week to explore this magnificent city, by the time we leave I am sure we shall feel as if we have lived here for many years. It is at once familiar, and strange, like something from a recurring dream.

Let me explain a little more. Picture, if you will, this resplendent old city...

Split by a river - that same Danube that winds it way through many of my tales - on one side we can see Buda with its hill crowned by the castle and by a church whose roof is of coloured tiles. The hill is steep, wound about with paths that are lit at night by the old black lamps. Cutting through all this are the funicular lines. The funicular itself, like a vision from some long-passed time of noble grandeur, goes up and down, up and down, it's ascent noted by the sound of a shrill bell. On the other side of the river, the Pest side, the land lays flat, going out for miles past the old Synagogue and the Jewish quarter. On the very banks of the river sits a jewel, sparkling at sunset - the Parliament buildings. And there we are, zoom in a bit and you will see two little people, dwarfed by that giant masterpiece of gothic spires, gazing upwards, mouths agape. 

We have rented a small room in the apartments of an elderly gentleman named Tibor.  

Let us now imagine Tibor... A wrinkled face, always smiling, his smile shows greying teeth and brings a sparkle into his blue eyes. He is of no notable stature, neither tall nor short, but holds himself well - a consequence of his habit of running ten kilometres each morning in the company of his grown-up daughter. He knows how to read and speak English, but has yet to learn how to hear it, and thus our conversations are slightly one sided. Each morning he greets us calmly with:

"Good morning, enjoy your meal."

Breakfast at his place is included, and he shows his generosity by providing Oliver with the most meat I have ever seen on a breakfast plate. I, being vegetarian, get yogurt and fruit and eggs, which is more to my preference. Tibor seems to have his own breakfast of cake and tea at the small pastry shop across the road, where he chats with the owner and the other patrons. Tibor lives on the top floor of a large and very square apartment block on the edge of the city center. The city center, as it turns out, is a very large one, as it takes twenty minutes by bus and tram to get to the middle...

Once in the middle, however, the scenery changes. The buildings become more flamboyant, bedecked with tiles and crumbling curls of stone - each one an eccentric in respect to his neighbours. If I had to describe their styling in one phrase it would be "hodge podge" - as the various centuries of occupation and fleeting fashions has left every possible mark on this city, which sprung up when the Romans settled on the hills of Buda and then said "we will go no further." 

Everyday, we don our winter jackets and board the tram. Then, the quaint and rickety little tram brings us into some new part of the city, then we take off on foot, in search of adventures.

And oh! To see the fisherman's bastion, or the old bathhouses! All of it is so beautiful. 

The other day we made a visit to a quaint little railway station, run almost exclusively by children. The children, dressed in uniform, walked about the station preparing the train for it's short journey. Some of them were held up in the lunch room, still working on a cup of tea and a biscuit. Naturally, I found this whole scene quite fascinating! 

However, nothing can compare to the glory that is the bath houses. I must have visited at least five different establishments so far, and each one holds its own unique charm. My favourites are the grand old baths inside the walls of the Gellért Hotel. They are spacious, tiled and filled with pillars leading up to a large, conservatory-style glass ceiling. The way that place echoes! You should hear it. It is such a ruckus in the main room, what with the synchronised swimming, and the gossiping old ladies, who are stripped of all their finery, instead sporting red swimming caps. In a more secluded section there are two greek baths and a smaller ice bath. Oliver discovered that last one, to his great delight. Ever since we visited Iceland he has not stopped talking about the ice baths.

Then there are the many hours spent in libraries - old ones with wooden bookcases reaching to great heights. Oliver is reading Bram Stoker's Dracula with lightning speed, while I write in the borders of my battered copy of Thoreau's Walden. The pages are coming unstuck and fall out every once in a while, but I love the book anyway.

Every afternoon is spent this way: reading in some old, gilt-detailed library, before braving the cold to walk across town to our now-favourite bar. It is only a tiny hole-in-the-wall shop selling craft beers, where the owner pours out our selections, and the patrons sit in squishy leather couches. These evenings always inevitably end with a visit to the best falafel shop on Earth.

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“It is an extremely common mistake. People think the writer’s imagination is always at work, that he’s constantly inventing an endless supply of incidents and episodes; that he simply dreams up his stories out of thin air. In point of fact, the opposite is true. Once the public knows you’re a writer, they bring the characters and events to you. And as long as you maintain your ability to look, and to carefully listen, these stories will continue to seek you out, over your lifetime.”
~ THE AUTHOR”

— GRAND BUDAPEST HOTEL, A WES ANDERSON FILM.

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a final note:

EXPECT MAGIC,

SEEK AND YOU SHALL FIND IT.

Magic and reality need not be entirely separate things.

Just as we have long thought that science and spirituality could not mix, it has been a part of the prevailing paradigm to eschew magic for reality, or vice versa. The two can, in fact, be synonymous.

There is a magic in this world that is so strong, so pervasive, that I have often thought it is sewn into the very fabric of our reality.

Reality itself is a funny thing, with blurry boundaries, extending into those realms we often call 'not-reality.'

For example, when I first thought of visiting Budapest, and Europe in general, it was only an idea, an imagining, something so flimsy it could have been swept away in an instant. Ideas are fleeting like this, just as dreams are, and thus we have often relegated them to the realms of the 'unreal,' as opposed to the more solid, less changeable realm of waking life.

And yet, the dream I once dreamed, of visiting Budapest... it leaped from the corners of my mind into my physical world. 

Moreover, when I did finally visit Budapest in the physical, it seemed even more absurd and fabulous than the version of my dreams!

Magic is here, in everything we see, touch, feel and do.

Reality is less stable than we may think.

Both are integral to the fabric of this world.

☆
☆☆

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