There must be a genre for this style of novel that features a neurotic, anxious, unsympathetic protagonist who follows every reasonable thought with a river of doubts and counterarguments. It's the umpteenth time I've come across this character, and the disconnect of the author’s depiction of women from every woman I know makes me feel like I'm existing outside of the reality of my gender. Are women really this fragmented and wishy-washy, and do women like to read about them?
In Strangers in Budapest, bored, sweaty housewife Annie meets Mr. Weiss, an elderly American living in Budapest for yet-unknown reasons but with whom she shares mutual friends. Afterward, she has a million questions: "Why is he here? What is up with his health? Who is the woman in the photo? Why is it so hot? Should we get A/C? Who are the gypsy girls on the street? Why don't they wear shoes? Does this 'jogger' make me look American? Am I endangering my child’s health by living here? When will Hungarian restaurants ban smoking? Why aren't my husband's business ventures taking off? How can I undermine his decision-making at every turn? Why does that one man always wear sandals?"
Annie’s endless, usually negative and always nonsensical internal monologues are exhausting. Every time I put this book down I had the same feeling after meeting with an Eeyore-type friend who never has good news and always sees a glass half empty: I need a drink.
But Annie is especially indecisive and anxious. By page 10, I was convinced she was mentally ill and her downward spiral into mania was the book’s mysterious plotline. By page 50, I was positive the "mystery" was that she was fully schizophrenic and imagining all the characters, including Mr. Weiss, while locked in an insane asylum. How else to explain her remarkably patient husband while she emasculates him at every opportunity, and Mr. Weiss’s odd, prying questions about her state of mind? Annie, I reasoned, must have suffered terrible trauma, she went mad, and was now living in a straitjacket. (True, her own family experienced genuine tragedy and she is damaged by it, but perhaps now her own child has perished?) No other explanation could rationalize her inexplicable obsessions: with the social worker who oversaw her son’s adoption more than a year ago, with street gypsies and their lack of shoes, with being perceived as American—and then jogging and wearing jogging shorts everywhere—with complaining about the heat, with two dudes in shiny suits having coffee she's sure are informers, with some random woman’s “enormous breasts” (one mention should do it), with what she perceives as her husband’s inability to do or decide…anything?
It turns out Annie is neither crazy nor committed. It was just me going crazy reading this book. Annie is meant to be normal, and we are meant to sympathize with her. I completed the book to see if my insanity theory was correct (it did make sense until the last pages!) and because I adore Budapest and wanted to revisit it through literature. If you feel about Budapest as I do, there are still things to enjoy about the book: Keener includes a few Hungarian phrases, which are fun to decipher, and Annie name-drops streets and sites, so you can follow along on a map. Otherwise, Strangers in Budapest paints the city as an inhospitable, dirty, backward place and Hungarians as cold and conniving. Annie loathes her adventurous new life and is depressed, so she complains about everything.
The story takes place in the 1990s shortly after Hungary's liberation, which was arguably a fresh and exciting time to be there. Yet Annie plays the quintessential ugly American. She rails against every inconvenience and cultural norm and never learns the language, all while patting herself on the back (constantly) for not fraternizing with Americans—yet never making a single Hungarian friend, unless you count her son's babysitter, whose beliefs she likes to undermine. She's a mess of contradictions. In America, smoking was not banned in restaurants until the 2000s, but here in the 1990s, smoking in restaurants is unacceptable to Annie. Why is the book even called Strangers in Budapest? Everyone Annie meets is friendly and sociable and seems to like her very much. Why not call it Friends in Budapest?
Clearly, Annie’s crazy has rubbed off on me. (Or maybe it's just the idea of my accepting Annie as a normal, human woman fills me with despair.) If you want to keep your sanity, perhaps avoid this book.