A Fortuitous Fashion Affair in Budapest

Though just two blocks from Budapest's bustling Opera district, the only occupants that Sunday afternoon on Hegedu Street were the four mannequins staring down at me from the second floor balcony. In white jumpsuits they looked chic, grotesque even, like something out of a sexy sci-fi thriller. But what felt more out of this world was walking inside the 18th century building and arriving into a psychedelic speakeasy. The kaleidoscope-stained windows and a florescent basketball hoop provided enough light to make out a stairwell behind the tie-dyed bar counter. I had heard of ruin pubs, derelict complexes turned drinking joints, but never felt so conflicted whether I’d traveled back in time or forward.

I crept up to the second floor, peaking into rooms along the way. Serri, a local designer I met last night at the Erzébet Square design fair, invited me to this so called “artist’s colony” after I complimented her bicycle-themed accessories. She also taught me that I shouldn’t greet with “hello,” because “allo” in Hungarian means “goodbye.” Luckily I’d have a second shot to get it right.

I continued down the hall to the last room. I poked my head in, spotting first the refreshment trays of Kürtos, hollow tubes of fried dough dipped in cinnamon sugar. Across the room, 30 or so people surrounded a table piled high with fabrics. A blonde woman stood before them, demonstrating how to handle a leather puncher on a neon-strapped ballet slipper.

She saw me. She said something in Hungarian, and the entire room turned.

I froze. “I think I’m lost.”
“See ya,” she said.
Ouch. “Sorry to bother.” I turned to leave, but someone held my arm. It was Serri.
“She is welcoming you. In our language, “szia” means hello!”
Oh. “Szia?”
“Szia!” The group laughed, shifting to make room for me. Everyone had edge, uniting skirts with knits, retro with metro, while I blushed in yoga pants and a hoodie. But where I lacked in style I had to make up for in effort. I stepped forward.

The blonde, who turned out to be the owner of this fashion school, handed me a pair of scissors. “Everyone is a designer today! Pick your favorites, and see what happens.”

All the students set forth to snip, glue, attach, create. I watched for a bit, impressed by their skills with needle and thread, but even more awestruck by their convivial welcome. To my left, Serri sat hard at work stitching a bike onto a tie.

With a deep breath, I grabbed some teal satin and a watch-strap and set off to work