In Search for Connections:

2023 Istanbul, Budapest, Prague

Agnes He, May 2025

 

Beyond raising children, if there is one enduring bond that Jackson and I share—one that has shaped our relationship over the decades—it is the joy of travel. We have explored many corners of the world together, both as a couple and with our children. Travel, for us, is not merely movement across space but a deeply enriching practice of learning, discovery, and connection. And it is a joy to see that this same wanderlust has taken root in our children. Since Yiran was two and Luran four, they have journeyed with us across continents. Over the years, their curiosity about the world has grown into a shared passion, making them enthusiastic global citizens in their own right.

Our Christmas 2023 vacation was extraordinary not only for where we went, but because we managed to travel together as a family (sans Amy)—something we had not done in a full decade. The last time the four of us took a trip together was in December 2013. That winter marked a milestone for our family: Luran had just received early acceptance to Harvard. To celebrate, we took a memorable trip through the national parks of the American Southwest. It was a beautiful farewell to a particular chapter of our family life—one in which we were still, mostly, under the same roof.

In the ten years since, we’ve each been absorbed in the unfolding of independent lives—through work, study, and personal growth. While travel remained a constant, it came in ever-shifting constellations: Jackson and I traveling alone, one of us with one or both kids, or the kids setting off on their own adventures. But the four of us—together, all at once—had not managed to synchronize our schedules until this recent holiday. The alignment felt both improbable and deeply meaningful. It reminded us how rare and precious family time can be when adulthood and responsibility scatter us across the globe.

We chose to travel to Istanbul, Budapest, and Prague—three cities that none of us had visited before. Each place held the promise of the unfamiliar, the alluring, the richly layered. This shared sense of discovery made the trip all the more special.

Istanbul

Istanbul was our first stop, and in many ways, it set the tone for the entire journey.

Straddling Europe and Asia, Istanbul is a city of astonishing juxtapositions. It is a place where the call to prayer echoes over sleek, modern cafés; where Byzantine mosaics shimmer beneath Ottoman domes; where centuries of history breathe through the stones of its old bazaars and cobbled streets. More than a meeting point of geography, Istanbul embodies the convergence of civilizations, religions, and epochs. For our family, this visit to Istanbul in December 2023 held a special resonance, because it echoed a memorable trip we had taken together in 2010. That earlier journey brought us to another place where continents meet: Andalusia (Spain), Morocco, and Gibraltar, where Europe and Africa stand face to face across the Strait of Gibraltar. Crossing that narrow stretch of water by ferry was an unforgettable experience. Istanbul, in turn, offered a new version of that crossing—this time between Europe and Asia—reminding us once again of how geography can shape and connect human experience.

It just so happened that the year 2023, the year of our visit, marked a momentous milestone for Turkey: the centennial of the founding of the Republic. In 1923, Mustafa Kemal Atatürk formally declared the establishment of the Republic of Turkey, following the dissolution of the Ottoman Empire. The 100th anniversary in 2023 was not only a celebration of national sovereignty and modern statehood, but also a moment of reflection on a century of transformation—from empire to republic, from Arabic to Latin script, from sultanate to secular democracy.

The Bosphorus Bridge, which links the European and Asian sides of the city, serves as a living metaphor: a bridge between worlds. Our hotel was located on the European side, and one evening, Yiran and Luran ventured across the strait to dine on the Asian side—an act that, while logistically simple, felt symbolically profound. One evening, we took public transportation across the city and made our way to a spot right beside the Bosphorus Bridge. We arrived just in time to watch the sun set over the water, standing at the edge where Europe meets Asia—an unforgettable moment suspended between two continents.

Another symbol of East-West connection lies in the grand Sirkeci Terminal, once the terminus of the legendary Orient Express. This train, which for decades carried the elite and the adventurous from Paris to Istanbul, has long symbolized the Western imagination’s romantic fascination with the East—an allure wrapped in mystery, luxury, and adventure. But it also reveals the limits and projections of that fascination. For many Western travelers of the late 19th and early 20th centuries, the "Orient" was less a geographical reality and more a constructed idea—a realm of exoticism, sensuality, and perceived otherness that began where Europe ended and extended vaguely eastward. The train itself, departing from Paris and culminating in Istanbul, traced a route that mirrored this shifting mental map. Istanbul—once Constantinople—was seen as the threshold, the final outpost of the familiar before the imagined mysteries of the East truly began. The journey, then, was not only physical but also ideological, revealing how the West defined the Orient in ways that were as much about fantasy and desire as about geography or culture.

My first encounter with Istanbul, however, was not in person but through the pages of a textbook in my high school world history class. I remember learning about Constantinople—its strategic significance, its layers of conquest and transformation—and feeling a sense of awe. Years later, that fascination deepened when I met Maureen Freely, the gifted translator of Orhan Pamuk, the Nobel laureate whose work has become almost synonymous with Istanbul itself. Maureen spoke to me about the challenges of translating Turkish into English and introduced me to the untranslatable word ‘hüzün’, a uniquely Turkish form of melancholy, imbued with sorrow, memory, and an oddly luminous hope. It is a sadness with texture, shaped by history, beauty, and longing.

Because we arrived in December, Istanbul greeted us with a chill in the air and a dampness that lingered well into the evenings. The city felt cloaked in a kind of subdued mystery—cold, wet, and dimly lit, just as Orhan Pamuk so often describes it. The narrow cobblestone streets, slick with rain and scattered with fallen leaves, shimmered faintly under the muted glow of the streetlamps. People passed by in long, dark coats, their figures dissolving into the mist like shadows from another time. In moments like these, it felt as though the boundaries between past and present had blurred. In certain corners, we found ourselves wondering—are we in Istanbul or Constantinople?

Reading Pamuk’s My Name is Red, I was again transported—not just by the story, but by the way in which the story is told. He gave voice not only to characters, but to inanimate objects, creating a chorus of perspectives that blurred boundaries between the animate and the symbolic. That narrative experimentation inspired my own ethnographic writing, particularly as I attempted to weave stories of immigrant lives and languages across time and shifting contexts.

Language, too, speaks volumes in Istanbul. Turkish, once written in the Arabic script, underwent a radical transformation under Atatürk in the 1920s when it adopted the Latin alphabet—a symbolic gesture toward modernization and Westernization. Though Turkish remains linguistically unrelated to European languages, its Latinized appearance renders it more visually familiar to many travelers. This script reform was emblematic of Turkey’s broader cultural pivot, one echoed in many spheres, from architecture to governance. The Dolmabahçe Palace, built in the 19th century, exemplifies this turn: its grand European baroque and neoclassical features are nearly indistinguishable from the royal residences we have visited in Spain, France, Italy, Austria, and other European countries.

Yet Istanbul also holds fast to its own aesthetics and traditions. In the Topkapı Palace, once the opulent seat of Ottoman sultans, we encountered the ‘tughra’—the stylized calligraphic monogram of the sultan, a powerful symbol of authority that merges artistry with governance. Islamic art, in its avoidance of human representation, turns instead to the natural world—floral motifs, arabesques, and the flowing elegance of Arabic script, woven into tile and manuscript with a grace that reminds me of the fluidity of Chinese calligraphy.

The mosques of Istanbul, majestic, serene, and intricate, stayed in my mind long after the trip. From the soaring grandeur of the Blue Mosque (its cascading domes and minarets forming the backdrop of a family selfie we came to cherish) to the quiet dignity of smaller neighborhood mosques, each seemed to radiate not only architectural brilliance but a kind of spiritual poise. There is a rhythm to this city, marked by the calls to prayer, the sway of ferryboats on the Bosphorus, and the ebb and flow of history and modernity.

In the corner of the street leading to our hotel is Denkli Turkish Delight and Spice, a small, family-run business that has stood the test of time for about a century. We visited this charming little shop and were instantly drawn in by the vibrant display of spices, sweets, and the rich, nostalgic aroma that filled the air. The owner Erkan Denkli was warm, humorous, and effortlessly welcoming. He spoke fluent English and had a delightful way of making guests feel at home. He treated us to a series of impromptu drinks—spiced, aromatic, and each one a small surprise. We ended up buying a generous amount of spices, partly because of the joy and sincerity that infused the encounter. In a city steeped in layers of imperial history and cultural memory, Erkan and his shop reminded us that we are alive in the present, laughing, tasting, connecting.

Istanbul offers a meditation on coexistence. Inside the Hagia Sophia—once a cathedral, later a mosque, then a museum, and now a mosque again—the complexity of layered histories is palpable. The vast interior, filled with visitors from all over the world, Muslim and non-Muslim alike, was more animated than solemn, its sacred quiet interrupted by the low hum of voices and the shuffle of footsteps. We stood beneath its immense dome, once the largest in the world, surrounded by grand circular chandeliers suspended like floating halos. The air felt dense with time. When people spoke, their words echoed through the cavernous space, as if hollowed by centuries of prayer and silence. Christian mosaics, worn but still luminous, peeked through the imposing Islamic calligraphy—none more prominent than the towering medallions bearing the names of Mohammed and Allah. I stood in quiet awe, reflecting on the poignant tension and enduring beauty of a space where multiple faiths have long coexisted in both visual and spiritual dialogue.

Budapest

From Istanbul, we headed to Budapest. Hungary is a country that feels both foreign and familiar to Jackson and me. At a very young age, while still in China, we memorized a poem by the famous Hungarian poet Sándor Petőfi. Petőfi being born in 1823, the year 2023 marked the 200th anniversary of his birth, coinciding with our visit to Hungary. Petőfi’s verses resonated deeply in Chinese translation: “生命诚可贵，爱情价更高，若为自由故，二者皆可抛.” The poem, celebrating the heroism of sacrificing life and love for freedom, was widely used during our childhood as part of Communist political indoctrination. It served to glorify revolutionary sacrifice and instill in youth a reverence for the foundation of the PRC.

While in Budapest, we learned that Sándor Petőfi was not only a revered national poet but also a revolutionary hero who made the ultimate sacrifice for his country, through both his words and his sword. He was a leading figure in the 19^th century Hungarian Revolution that sought to free Hungary from Habsburg rule and establish national independence. He believed passionately in liberty, equality, and the power of the people, and his poetry expressed these ideals. His famed "Nemzeti dal" (National Song) became a rallying cry for revolution, with its urgent call "We vow that we will no longer be slaves!" —The resonance of those words felt eerily familiar, uncannily echoing lines from the Chinese national anthem. It seems likely that those who contributed to the Chinese anthem found inspiration in Petőfi’s uncompromising spirit of resistance.

Remarkably, just a short three-minute walk from our hotel stood the grand statue of Petőfi, reminding us of the historical and poetic ties that unexpectedly connect distant nations. And like in Chinese, Hungarian names place the surname first—so he is known locally as Petőfi Sándor. Our children, born and raised in the U.S., had never heard of him. Speaking of generational gaps!

They did, however, know of Franz Liszt, the celebrated Hungarian composer, known for his elegance and princely bearing (according to Rowena, Luran, Yiran and Jackson’s piano teacher). Though I know little about music, I have long loved Liszt, particularly his Liebestraum. Years ago, I taught myself to play a simplified version of it. One cold, snowy evening, the night before we left Budapest, we walked for nearly an hour to reach the Franz Liszt Academy of Music. When we arrived at Liszt Ferenc Square, snowflakes danced in the glow of amber streetlamps. The scene had a painterly quality—as if we had stepped into an impressionist canvas. The Academy itself rose imposingly before us, a sculpture of Liszt above the main archway. We gently pushed open the doors, hoping to step inside. At the reception, a woman informed us that a concert was underway and that we could go no further. We pleaded, explaining that we were leaving the next day and this was our only chance. She smiled apologetically, but said firmly: no exceptions. So we stood there in the vestibule, imagining the music unfolding just beyond our reach.

Hungary's history is complicated and often tragic. For much of its past, it was dominated by larger powers. In 1989, the fall of the Berlin Wall and the disintegration of the Soviet Union ushered in dramatic political changes across Eastern Europe. Hungary transitioned to a multiparty democratic system, moving away from decades of Communist rule. Yet the legacies of those years remain. On the road from the airport to our hotel, we were struck by the gray, block-like buildings and the austere landscape—a visual memory so reminiscent of Beijing 30-40 years ago. We passed on visiting two prominent sites: the House of Terror Museum, which documents the horrors of both Nazi and Stalinist regimes, and Memento Park, home to fallen statues from Hungary’s Communist period. We had lived through similar histories ourselves; not all traumas are worth reliving.

Goulash is another thread connecting our childhood memories to Hungary. We first heard of the dish in China, where it was known simply as ‘potato plus beef.’ Perhaps it entered Chinese political mythology via Soviet leaders. Goulash became symbolic of a plentiful life under Communism, an emblem of prosperity that contrasted sharply with the actual scarcity of those years. We tried it in Budapest—a rich, hearty stew served in a hollowed-out round loaf. The warmth and simplicity of the dish belied the complicated legacy it carried. How modest dreams can become exalted under difficult circumstances!

Budapest itself is a city of duality, formed by the unification of two historically separate towns: Buda, on the west bank of the Danube, and Pest, on the east. The two halves were joined in the 19^th century, and today, a series of majestic bridges link the city across the river. The Chain Bridge, perhaps the most iconic of them all, glows at night with a cinematic brilliance—its lights casting a golden shimmer over the Danube, as if trying to wash away the shadows of pain, suffering, and history's darker chapters.

Prague

People say love at first sight is rare. But with Prague, for me, it was love before the first sight. I had admired this city for years—through readings, conversations with people who came from there, and stories from friends who had visited. By the time we arrived, I already had a mental image of Prague, just as I had for Venice and Vienna, Krakow and Kyoto. But here, the reality surpassed the imagination.

We spent Christmas Eve and Christmas Day 2023 in Prague. I had known it was a popular tourist destination, especially in the summer—what the Chinese vividly call ‘people mountain, people sea.’ What surprised me was how crowded it was even in winter. Perhaps it was because of the season: Christmas in a city steeped in history and romance.

This is a city where I felt I already knew people. I knew Kafka—the writer who didn’t write about love or war or peace, but about the absurd. He captured, like no one else, the silent tyranny embedded in institutions and in our daily lives. He showed us how absurdity could become normalized, how the banal can become sinister. A German-writing Jew from Prague, Kafka chronicled the alienation of the modern self. It’s thus fitting that his statue in the city shows a headless body carrying a small, contemplative figure, an image that distills the disconnect between the mind and body.

Prague was once a center of Jewish life in Central Europe. That presence was brutally disrupted by history. The Holocaust devastated the Jewish community. Evidence of that loss and resilience remains in the city’s Jewish Quarter. Just days before we arrived, Prague was shaken by a senseless tragedy—a campus shooting on December 21st. In front of the university building where it happened, a sea of candles and flowers filled the steps, flowing into the street. We were deeply moved by this communal mourning. How fragile peace is. It takes the sustained care of many to build a society of trust and openness, and only a fleeting moment of violence to destroy it. Despite this shadow, Prague felt safe, calm, and welcoming to us. As in many parts of Europe, public transportation operates on trust; no ticket inspections, just a shared understanding.

I also came to know Prague through the writings of Milan Kundera, who had passed away just months before our visit. His The Unbearable Lightness of Being remains etched in my mind. Why lightness? To me, it speaks to life’s ephemerality—its fleeting freedoms, its fragile loves, its impermanence. Kundera’s themes are undeniably weighty—betrayal, exile, identity, history—but his prose floats: graceful, melancholic, precise. The lightness, I’ve come to see, conceals a profound gravity.

Prague, too, carries this duality. On the surface, it is light—tender, whimsical, almost dreamlike. The city’s spires and bridges, its music and cafés, seem to float on air, inviting romance and reverie. But beneath that elegance lies a deep and complex past: wars, occupations, silenced dissidents, and the long shadows of totalitarian rule. There is a sentimental quality to Prague that feels both romantic and realist. It is a city that remembers, even as it enchants. And like Kundera’s writing, it lingers in the mind, not only for its beauty, but for the questions it refuses to let go.

And then there’s the music—Smetana’s Vltava (or Die Moldau), the luminous symphonic poem that traces the river’s journey through the Czech lands, from its bubbling source to its majestic passage through Prague. I first heard it from Jackson, in our early years, and something in it opened my heart. The music tells a story, clear, flowing, evolving, like the river itself, winding through forests and villages, gathering strength, and moving inexorably forward.

Smetana is often regarded as the father of Czech national music. Writing in the 19th century during a time of growing national consciousness under Austro-Hungarian rule, Smetana infused his work with patriotic spirit and cultural identity. He faced immense personal struggles: political tension, financial hardship, and, deafness in his later years. Yet even in silence, he continued to compose—Má vlast (My Homeland), of which Vltava is a part, was largely written after he lost his hearing. In this music, he gave voice to a people and a landscape, immortalizing the Czech spirit.

We arrived in Prague from Budapest by train, crossing Slovakia, and checked into our hotel just after nightfall. Despite the cold and darkness, we made our way immediately to the banks of the Vltava—the very river that had already flowed through us in music. To finally stand before it should have felt like a culmination, but in truth, it was a bit anticlimactic. Shrouded in darkness and unfamiliar with the best vantage points, we saw the river but not its full splendor. It appeared quiet, even underwhelming, in the city’s nightscape. It wasn’t until the next day, walking alongside the Vltava by daylight and at dusk and crossing its storied bridges (e.g., the iconic Charles Bridge with its baroque statues and centuries of history) that we truly felt the river’s grandeur. Framed by Prague’s castles, domes, and spires, the Vltava revealed itself as the living artery of the city: majestic, reflective, and timeless.

Prague is a city where poetry enters politics. Václav Havel, the playwright-turned-president, embodied that rare fusion. He was not just a politician but a poet of conscience. In many ways, he resembled the Confucian ideal: those who governed were expected to be literate, to pass exams in writing poetry and essays. Today, such ideals are nearly extinct; heads of state are often vulgar, illiterate, and morally bankrupt. Havel might have been the last political leader with genuine poetic sensibility. He led with moral clarity during the Velvet Revolution of 1989, helping to peacefully dismantle four decades of totalitarian rule. Even in power, he retained the soul of a writer, his speeches laced with irony, humility, and a deep belief in human dignity.

Our hotel was perfectly located in the heart of Prague. Just steps away stood a museum showcasing a special exhibit on Alphonse Mucha. Jackson has long admired his work. I find Mucha’s art enchanting, but I struggle with how he portrayed women—as ethereal, stylized ornaments. We were also just minutes away from the grand Smetana Hall. During our four days in Prague, we attended not one but two Christmas concerts!

 

So this journey has been about connecting the dots—between places, between histories, and most meaningfully, within our family. As I mentioned earlier, this was the first time in ten years that the four of us traveled together. In that time, our children have grown into adulthood. It was often they, not we, who led the way, planning daily itineraries, choosing restaurants, navigating unfamiliar transport systems, and calmly solving the inevitable hiccups along the road. Watching them take charge and being led by them was gratifying—it was a priceless gift.

The theme of connection extended beyond our family. Each city we visited was a nexus of its own, bringing together worlds, histories, and ideas. Istanbul, our point of departure, is a city unlike any other—where minarets and domes rise above Byzantine ruins, and where one can stand with one foot in Europe and the other in Asia. Its layered history, Greco-Roman, Ottoman, Republican, reminds us that identity is never singular or fixed. Istanbul connected us not only to different civilizations, but to a sense of human continuity across time.

Budapest drew us into the echoes of the communist past, prompting reflection on our own histories in China and the shared post-socialist transitions across Eastern Europe. It is a city of contrasts with socialist buildings and baroque façades, a place where nostalgia and renewal coexist in delicate balance.

And Prague—Prague was everything at once: poetic and political, romantic and practical, steeped in both the extraordinary and the everyday. It drifts between magic and memory, love and lamentation.

Central Europe sits at the crossroads of Latin and Slavic worlds, shaped by centuries of Habsburg, Ottoman, and Soviet influence. It is a region where intellectual traditions are marked by both rationalist Enlightenment and lyrical mysticism. In some ways, Central Europe is a mirror, distorted yet illuminating, of both Eastern Asian and Western European experiences. It bears the scars of colonial ambitions and ideological impositions. It aspires toward democratic ideals and artistic freedom. These overlapping legacies, often fraught and paradoxical, offer valuable lessons about identity and the difficult but vital art of coexisting with difference.

We returned home with our hearts full. We are more connected, not just with one another, but with the broader, entangled world.