It felt like a return to Jewish life back home. For lunch, we shared a hummus platter, matzoh ball soup, chicken paprikash, and a fascinating Israeli bean stew called cholent, typically eaten on the Sabbath. We followed it up with a trip to the Dohány Street Synagogue, the largest synagogue in Europe, impeccably decorated with elements of medieval Spanish and Islamic art. The inside was a full-blown identity crisis: brass chandeliers, a choral organ that towered under two Moorish onion domes, and a rose stained-glass window. Bordering the Budapest Ghetto, the Synagogue, much like the Old New Synagogue in Prague, comprised the ill-fated holy trinity of European Jewish landmarks: graveyard, memorial, and museum.

Few places smell good after a 12-hour overnight train, and Budapest was no exception. Fresh off breakfast of a plain roll and the European equivalent of Sunny D, we were greeted at the Keleti railway station with the scent of burning trash and strong perfume. We dragged our bags for a mile before arriving at our hostel. Occupying half a floor of a tenement building, the hostel teetered on the sixth floor, with a balcony that cantilevered inward, a ring of identical apartment windows facing down. The courtyard looked like the bottom of a drained pool: cracked green tile, bruised and rutted, with puddles of stagnant water collecting in the center. None of it mattered. Budapest was the highlight of the honeymoon, as underdog as cities come. And in many ways, this was our most perfect day.

We crossed the Charles Bridge to Mala Strana, also known as “Lesser Town,” from its position on the west bank of the Vltava River. Located on the slopes just below the Prague Castle, its opposition to Prague on the right bank gives it a historic, gritty charm, characteristic of the Lennon Wall, the only place where graffiti is legal in Prague, and the pubs and eateries that line its narrow streets. Each one advertised “traditional Czech food,” which we’d deduced consisted of bread dumplings, goulash soup, and knotty shanks of meat, but we were nevertheless impressed with the abounding oddities of Prague the Lesser.

An enduring legacy of my mixed heritage is that I’ve never felt Jewish enough. At my predominantly Jewish high school in New York, I never bonded with my classmates over having gone to Hebrew school, or fallen asleep in synagogue, or muddled through the Torah portion of my Bar Mitzvah. My own justification for such inexperience has come in the form of penance. It’s no wonder that the only Jewish holiday I make a habit of celebrating is Yom Kippur, where atonement for a year of ignorance comes in denying the pleasure of food. Or maybe every Jew secretly feels that they’re not Jewish enough? Perhaps that’s the true miracle of Jewish guilt.

It’s amazing what can pass for longing these days. Rain was coming down in thick sheets as we left Therme Vals, heat still beating off my cheeks from a morning trip to the spa before check-out. Courtney and I had decided to get creative by switching up the order of the baths from the recommended circuit: lukewarm then sauna, followed by ice plunge, then back to boiling. Like true free spirits.