Five hundred years of Hungarian history stacked onto a single hill, where almost nothing still stands the way it was meant to.
A Hungarian origin myth, set in place by a dynasty from Vienna.
A week spent waiting for the ice to clear cost Széchenyi his father's funeral and gave the city its first permanent bridge.
In this yellow palace, a prime minister wrote his final letter.
The building across the water was designed for a country twice the size.
Four palaces have stood here, and not one of them died of old age.
The emptiest square in the quarter, and that emptiness is the trace the war left behind.
A shopping arcade beneath the palace gardens that never caught on, and spent twenty years as the country's rock venue.
An English insurer built a palace here, which later spent forty years falling to pieces.
Stone benches in the gateways, and nobody knows what they were for.
What looks like a fortress is actually a viewing terrace from around 1900.
A mosque for a hundred and forty-five years, then the church where an emperor became a king.
A whole neighbourhood once lay beneath this grass, with vineyards, taverns and hundreds of houses.
A plague column, a confectionery from 1827, and the way back down.
The ballroom that was shot to pieces from across the river, and the building that took its place.
A hospital inside the rock that officially didn't exist for forty years.
Sixty pairs of cast-iron shoes along the edge of the embankment, their toes pointing towards the water.
In March 1838 the ice jammed, half of Pest collapsed, and a baron took to a rowing boat.
A walk along both banks of the Danube, past the buildings that nearly every visitor passes by without knowing what they're looking at.
The white bridge above you is the second one; the first held the world record until 1926.
Beneath this street lies a synagogue that was found and then covered over again.
An octagonal pool beneath an Ottoman dome, in use for more than four hundred and fifty years.
The tower stands on its own, because the church around it was cleared away after the war.
This is where the wall broke in 1686, and where the man who defended it still lies.
Nineteen designs, forty million bricks, and an architect who went blind before his building was finished.
Three movements, three synagogues and a walled ghetto, in a quarter that is now nightlife district and memorial at once.
The building you'd walk straight past if nobody pointed it out, by an architect who never set foot here.
Six courtyards in a row, paid for from the estate of a Romanian lawyer.
The stones you're walking over are the structure itself: a harbour and a dike in one.
The last wall of the ghetto, demolished, rebuilt brick by brick, and still disputed today.