I'd suggested a cozy country house. February meant it would be cold. We would see drizzle and likely need boots. But there would be fireplaces and puddings. Books would be read, fond memories stamped upon tween and teen brains.
My oldest held up a hand. "Um, no offence, but that sounds kind of pathetic. Plus, you said we could pick."
Three-and-a-half years after moving to London, a permanent return to the United States was on the horizon. With flights on sale, we told the boys to choose a last adventure.
For Eli, a fan of myths, the choice was easily made and approved: Athens. But with Casey – our world-hungry teenager – some negotiation was required.
"Lviv?"
"No."
"Tbilisi?"
"Casey."
"Okay, Budapest."
When we left the United States, Eli was 8 and still calling out whenever nightmares slipped into his sleep. Now, he lobbied to walk to school on his own. Casey, who already did, bristled against boundaries we set for his urban wanderings. For his 11th birthday, I mapped London's candy and bookshops; the four of us walked and ate and read for hours. He turned 14 last year and celebrated over dim sum with friends. No scavenger hunt, no mother allowed.
This trip, just me and the boys, felt like a last hurrah. Ignoring the lump in my throat, I offered up the independence they craved: I booked the tickets, but ceded the guidebooks.
We were Budapest-bound, with the boys in charge.
We arrive at dusk to raindrops, but Andrassy Avenue hums with life. People smoke and splash through puddles, some carrying roses. It's Valentine's Day.
The grand, tree-lined boulevard, a UNESCO World Heritage Site, is a fairy tale, even in the gloom. Balconies pinned to ornate brick buildings, a fin de siècle feeling heightened by glowing street lights.
Eli leads us across the avenue toward St. Stephen's Basilica. This is not our destination. Instead, we veer left to Chez Dodo. Macaroons the colours of spring fill the front window. On Eli's watch, we will uncover Budapest through its sweets.
A view from Buda Castle, of the Hungarian parliament across the Danube, that is typically crowded by tourists in the summer in Budapest, Hungary.
SETH KUGEL/NYT
We fill a box and dig in, dessert before dinner. At bedtime, he revels in his discovery.
"I found that place." He is sleepy, but determined.
"Four more to go."
In the morning, Casey is torn. His itinerary blends history and politics and a hunt for the object in which they converge: Tisza Cipo sneakers.
The shoe, manufactured during the communist era, re-emerged, newly hip, in 2003. Casey's debate is not whether to find it, but when. He has time to decide; first breakfast.
The Donut Library targets readers with a sweet tooth. The doughnuts are deluxe – tiramisu, PB&J, Champagne – and the books, quirky. Within the stacks, I find Charlotte Bronte, John Grisham and – my heart leaps – Micimacko.
"Do you guys remember me reading this to you?"
They lean in, thankfully not yet too old for Winnie the Pooh.
The Liberty Bridge of Budapest on an autumn day.
Getty Images/iStockphoto
After doughnuts, Casey is clear-eyed. History first, sneakers later.
The vast Hungarian National Museum brims with stories. There are gold coins, goblets and a coronation mantle from 1031. We see Roman urns and a 15th-century book cupboard, the country's first public library. We absorb the tumult of the 20th century through objects that need no translation: a leather jacket from the fascist Arrow Cross Party; striped and numbered uniforms; and a hunk of Stalin's hand, torn from a giant statue in the city during the 1956 revolution.
The images are hard to shake; lunch is schnitzel and conversation about power and hate. When we leave, the sky is grey, the boys quiet. It's time to shift gears.
Outside Tisza Cipo, Eli teases: "Your precious sneakers!" Casey, who has saved his allowance for months, hurries inside, too giddy to take the bait.
We admire a wall of high tops stamped with the iconic "T." Casey quickly declares a yellow-and-black speckled shoe the one.
"Tie them up, be sure they fit." As I speak, the young clerk winces. He lifts his own unlaced foot, Velcro strips crinkling away from the tongue like pipe cleaners.
"This is how I wear them," he says.
"Do they stay on?" I imagine a future of twisted ankles.
He gives me a look of pity and turns to Casey. "I can show you."
We leave carrying sneakers and knowledge: Never let the laces show.
Dessert at an under-$5 weekday prix fixe lunch at Klassz in Budapest, Hungary.
Seth Kugel/NYT
At Frohlich bakery, we celebrate the day. The flodni – an apple, walnut and poppy-seed pastry – is delicious.
"Is this too much cake?" I wonder.
"Not possible," Eli says.
It's certainly an economical way to travel: Eat cake, skip dinner.
Day two promises a zig-zag across the city, from parliament to the basilica to the Gellert Baths. At Artizan, I bite a cardamom-spiced bun and ask Eli how he sleuthed such delicious picks.
"I looked through TripAdvisor for the best pictures of dessert," he replies.
I consider the hours lost scouring the Internet for insider travel tips: Had I been overthinking things?
Parliament building in Budapest, Hungary at sunrise.
Getty Images/iStockphoto
The Hungarian parliament building sprawls along the Danube, dramatic spires towering over the city. To American eyes, it seems a castle.
Inside, we find gold leaf, red carpets and cavernous hallways. The centrepiece is a domed hall where the Crown of St. Stephen, Hungary's first king, is watched by stern men with swords.
Hungary's recent tilt toward authoritarianism has been on Casey's mind, but the tour is not about politics. We visit the grand staircase, admire statues of past kings and learn that the crown was sent to Fort Knox during the Cold War for safekeeping.
Afterward, we retrace our steps to the basilica, seeking not the bell tower or dazzling ceiling mosaics, but the mummified hand of St. Stephen.
"Why would they keep that?" Eli whispers as we squint at the dark box where the hand lays.
"It's holy," Casey explains.
Eli nods, satisfied by the wisdom, or at least attention, of his brother.
We grab juicy burgers for lunch and, because the boys are in charge, promptly head to the Gellert Baths for a swim. No digesting necessary.
The thermal springs that flow beneath the city are the geological wonder of Budapest. The Gellert, an Art Nouveau bathhouse circa 1918, feels frozen in time. Elderly women in swim caps pass us in the locker room; attendants hand out scratchy towels. The boys stop, wide-eyed, before the pool. Light streams through the glass ceiling, flickering against gold mosaics and aqua tile. The water beneath shimmers. We swim laps among columns and carved statues, the boys paddling crooked strokes as they try to take it all in.
The back-and-forth between the cold pool and thermal baths leave us giddy and hungry. But when we leave, my phone is dead – with the address of Eli's last bakery inside.
We cross Liberty Bridge. I tell him it's okay, we've done so much already on this wacky, perfect trip of their design. As I ramble on, a teal awning across the plaza catches my eye. I stop the boys and point: Amber's French Bakery & Cafe.
It feels like fate. They run toward it and I chase after, not quite ready for the adventure to end.
Liz Leyden is a writer living in London.