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There are two schools of travel. One faction journeys to lower their living standards, by eating things and sleeping in places they wouldn't dream of at home. The other travels to raise standards, by eating things and sleeping in places they wouldn't dream of at home. 

Hungary is for the sinners, not the penitent. Retirees revel in the country's well-known wines and stuff themselves at hearty buffets as they cruise down the blue Danube. College backpackers on European vacation sleep through the sightseeing, conserving energy for late nights in Budapest's funky bars and cafes. Stressed execs and elders with ailments spend weeks reviving in the nation's medicinal baths and spas. Cultured creatures gorge themselves on Magyar art and music, the latter including Hungary's own Liszt, Bartok and anonymous legion of Gypsy violin virtuosos. And on hot August weekends, half of Germany and Hungary flood Lake Balaton, one of Europe's largest freshwater lakes. The resort-rimmed lake is particularly popular with the Hungarian tanning bed and Stairmaster set, who sail, surf and sunbathe their way into oblivion.

As any sinner worth their salt would do, I find another soul to drag down. With my mother, the ultimate partner in crime, we will accept nothing less than four-course meals and five-star hotels. With Hungary's remarkably low prices, her AmEx gold card is infinite. 

After eight months on the rough road, breakfast cereal and toilets with seats are enough to make me groan with pleasure, but Hungary has much more decadence in store. For me and Mom, the seven deadly sins are all of the same variety: fiery chicken paprika, goose liver pate, savory cabbage strudel, poppy seed pastries (sometimes translated as opium cakes), cold fruit soup, tarragon-flavored venison stew, and frozen treats that put the cream in ice cream (flavors include cantaloupe, tiramisu, pomegranate and white chocolate). 

Most Hungarian delights can be found in the capital, so like many travelers, we don't bother budging much from Budapest. 125 years ago, the towns of Buda and Pest, separated by the Danube, were united into the present city; today, most visitors first head west to Buda's walled Castle District. We spend a few days here, repenting in gothic Catholic churches and viewing the Royal Palace, once the site of a medieval castle and now home to several galleries. 

We loaf through the ages of art, particularly enjoying Jozsef Rippl-Ronai, a late 19th century painter with more periods than Picasso. Through their canvases, Rippl and his contemporaries offer windows onto myriad scenes of Hungarian life, such as saucy girls after a ball and playful lovers husking corn. 

When our feet tire of strolling, we soak them in thermal waters, choosing a grandiose Art Nouveau bathhouse from the city's seven. This liquid therapy is just the prelude to a rubdown. The masseur's oiled hands presses out all the shoulder knots generated by my 60-pound pack of penance.

The following day we visit Szentendre, a town on the Danube Bend, for a shopping orgy that even the most die-hard consumer would find obscene. A few historical buildings thinly disguise the village's inner nature, a tourist bazaar for Hungarian crafts. As if Christmas shopping for the Ark, Mom buys two of everything, and sometimes three or five: antique shawls, folk costumes, T-shirts, beaded jewelry, wooden crosses, Russian army hats, embroidered blouses, and hand-painted porcelain eggs, pottery and dolls. Shopkeepers see the expanding bags and give her a special smile. Our boat back to Budapest pulls up to the landmark Parliament building and Chain Bridge at dusk, all lit up like gold.

As the descendants of nomadic equestrians, Hungarians are no strangers to the saddle. We prefer to watch, although I admit our track outing is more to ogle Budapest's gamblers than to cheer on the muscular beasts. After staking out beers and seats, we peer down at the shaky hands clutching shaky claims. Apparently, the wrong horse crosses the finish. The bettors litter their paper dreams and line up to buy another round, turning to each other for cigarettes and 1,000 Forint loaners (a Hungarian ten-spot). 

We would have never hurried from our next stop, the wine cellars of Eger, were it not for St. Istvan's Day. The August 20 holiday celebrates the canonization of St. Istvan, Hungary's beloved first king. In 1000, Istvan united the hodgepodge of Magyar tribes and converted the heathens to Christianity. In Budapest, the four-day weekend honoring  Istvan rages with bands, barbecues and all the hoopla you can imagine, including a parade of the saint's well-preserved right hand around his namesake Basilica.

While some may deem fireworks a childish affair, my mother considers herself a connoisseur of the sky lights, and when she heard "fireworks on the Danube," we had to gulp down our ruby-red, oak-aged Egri Bikaver of the volcanic soil-grown grapes -- AKA Bull's Blood -- and get the next train back to Budapest.

I worried that Mom's hopes for the 'works were too high, but when the 2001 theme blasted off from omnipresent speakers, and crossing spot-lights settled on a statue of St. Istvan high in the hills, I knew we were in for a ride. In the wake of peach and lavender trails, red, white and green bombs burst into air; I thought Mom would burst into tears. The music moved into the works of Hungarian's famous classical composers, the colorful shooting stars matching their moods and turns. 

The sky lit with red smoke, the Danube Waltz induced a pyrotechnic sunrise for children to savor in their dreams until next year. The music stopped abruptly. A waterfall of white sparkles cascaded over the Elizabeth Bridge and into the Danube. One million people sighed in unison. We had reached the peak of Hungarian pleasure.