Budapest is better than Paris, I think.
It’s a city of two million people (Budapest, not Paris), which is about one-fifth of Hungary’s total population. It spreads out across the Danube, because it was originally two cities: the rolling hills of Buda, once belonging to the Romans, and the flat land of Pest, too sandy to be arable before the markets hit its shore.
You can see the layers of the city in its buildings, in its architecture. Many bits of the city were built in the nineteenth century, some older. You can see gothic, baroque, neo-classical buildings lining the streets, often right next to each other. Look closely, you can see bullet holes in walls.
A big part of Budapest was bombed during the Second World War (damn Americans!), and when the Communists rebuilt, their buildings were stale and ugly, big slabs of concrete with uniform windows. Every socialist building looks like a prison (damn Russians!). And those older buildings, the ones build in green and yellow stucco in the style of unique Hungarian architecture that you can’t find in ye-old-fancy-ass Paris or even central Europe, like ye-uber-trendy-Berlin, they sometimes go unwashed. You see the original color kept up on the bottom floor, but look up, and the greens and yellows and pinks and reds have turned into black, black, black, thanks to the smoky fumes of industry and lack of funds for upkeep.
But the parts that aren’t meticulously cleaned for tourists — well, that’s what makes Budapest the most interesting. It’s honest, organic. Layers of history right on top of each other. How many stories about Hungarian people do the buildings tell on their own, just standing there? Well over two million, I’m sure.
(This isn’t to say that I don’t like Paris, by the way. I like Paris very much. I just don’t like the center of Paris, which is mostly filled with tourists making the peace sign and stupid faces into selfie sticks (I assume, as the selfie stick was invented after I visited in 2012), and pickpockets, and French millionaires dressed in Chanel stepping over beggars, and people who incessantly follow you around as if you’re playing tag, trying to sell you a mini-Eiffel Tower as a souvenir for five euros a pop.)