Behaving responsibly in Budapest

The freedom of travel and the extroversion it encourages, along with the proximity and intimacy of hostels, allows for friendships to flourish quickly and profoundly. Knowing that you might never see a person again makes it easy to open up to them in a way that would normally feel unseemly. And of course there is little more unifying than a shared evening of reckless boozing, a means of breaking down reticent shyness as well as providing banter fodder for the next day.

As a result I am forced to conclude that both the best and the most depressing part of travelling is this ease in developing friendships, as implicit to the process of meeting someone is having to say goodbye.

As it was I was on my way to Budapest with Aaron, Potato Mike and Andrew, a few quality people I had met thus far on my travels and with whom I was lucky enough to be meeting up again. Also coming to join the party in Budapest was one of Andrew’s friends, Sarah, who was flying in from Ireland, as well as Martine, someone I’d met in Kotor, who was coming from Sarajevo. Curiously we were all solo travellers who had somehow fallen in together through various fateful meetings.

Well-illuminated

We were gathered for Aquaworld, but arriving on Friday night there were 24 hours that needed to be killed first, so after some cursory drinking we were sent off on a booze cruise on the Danube with the promise of a party with various other hostels, as well as a view of Budapest at night. With regards to the latter, I have seen few cities that illuminate themselves quite as well as Budapest, with lighting skillfully showing off so much of its beautiful architecture and monuments. 

Always know where the camera is

 With regards to the former, sadly the party that was taking place on the boat was immensely depressing. Perhaps it was the charmed luck of a long string of excellent hostels filled with people of meritorious company coming undone, or that no longer was I in Balkan countries off the European city party circuit, but suddenly we found ourselves on a floating prison of douchebaggery and overpriced drinks. The worst kinds of party people milled around us, those one delicately refers to as cunts, and those with whom I have nothing in common and no interest in associating. To give some frame of reference, think of the type of people who proudly wear shirts proclaiming their having been on a pub crawl, or those who endlessly talk about how much and how frequently they drink and get oh so drunk.

It was some small measure of my discontent that as we left the hostel that night slightly behind the main group of people I remarked to Aaron—and apparently quite loudly, “This is such a mediocre crew,” such that one of them turned and inquired as to whether this was actually what I’d said, a situation I defused unconvincingly.

Langos

In a similar situation later that night as Aaron and I jammed out to some late night Dream Theatre to unwind, an unfortunately unlikeable chap tried to endear himself by asking the usually unfailingly nice Aaron if he could play any number of painfully mediocre songs on the guitar on which he was strumming. A string of terse “No” replies clearly failed to indicate our disinterest in association, as the next day he sidled up to me as I was preparing some food asking, “What’s up, short-stuff?”

Now I know such people have to go somewhere, and I have no objection to them all being in one place—in fact, this is an ideal situation as I then know where to avoid. Sadly, on this first night avoidance was not an option as once the boat began its boozy path up and down the Danube there was no escape.

Small salvation was the company with whom I’d come to Budapest, as well as the fact that in anticipation of this cruise we had all liberally consumed beverages to facilitate tolerance of all that might come. Still, this proved to be insufficient, the unhappiness rendering me more impolite than usual, and forcing those like Martine to entertain themselves by looking under the kilts of those Scots foolish enough to wear them in the Autumn chill.

Thankfully redemption was at hand in 24 hours.

Hostel barbershop

It is some small measure of the quality of your company when over the course of one night you can be crash tackled while urinating, have another man’s fingers down your throat after you demand the bus be stopped so that you can vomit, and have someone change you into your swimmers while you incoherently cast your belongings all over the changing room. In sum, people who tolerate your belligerent drunkenness.

Suffice to say, I was the one at the thoughtful end of each of these gestures. With the promise of a boozy waterslide-filled night club looming, I decided best practice was to get rip-snortingly drunk at the hostel. Somehow this got slightly out of hand. I do not remember how I got there, or much of how I got home, but in a defiant bit of rallying perhaps triggered by the adrenalin of a waterslide or two, I have a bevy of quality memories of that after which I’d lusted and that which had brought us all to Budapest: Aquaworld.

Table tennis at a ruin bar 

It really is a simple premise, adding booze and lights and music to what is already fun: a waterpark. But it is something you would struggle to find anywhere else, especially in Australia. It is also one of the most ridiculously enjoyable things I’ve done, something best summed up by Aaron when he remarked that usually he is not at all disappointed when something closes and he has to leave, but for once he was upset and really wanted to stay on until dawn.

In the wake of Aquaworld there was little recourse but to retire to the Turkish baths to sweat out the booze and recover. From the 37 degree pool with the back massaging fountain, to the green and particle filled mineral pools; the saunas hot enough to melt, the power and giggles of the whirly-pool, as well as the testicle-shrinking plunge pools, it was a very fun and relaxing way to spend six hours that left me feeling wholly relaxed and healed of all evils.

Old men could be seen playing chess, and old women could be seen scoping out the best jets. Observing the latter could be quite amusing, particularly in one pool where the jets were really quite strong, and old ladies could be seen manoeuvring themselves on them to some effect. One went even so far as to raise one leg up and rest it on a nearby rail for better access. It wasn’t subtle, but she was having a good time.

Marching to the baths

 In another pool where columns of bubbles would alternate with the whirly-pool, one time we lucked out and took up some prime positions on the bubble columns as they came on. Martine had inadvertently chosen the best spot, and was bustled out of the way by a particularly matronly veteran of the bubbles.

Over the course of the six days I spent in Budapest I had ample time to wander around, including a rather dry walking tour as well as improvised ones with Aaron and Potato Mike and Martine. Traversing both the hills of Buda, as well as going on a self-guided bike tour with the Potato and Martine was a fun way to get around a rather large and beautiful place. Like so much of Europe it is a city that has played host to many wars and occupations, but it does not bear too many scars and comes across quite new and fancy.

Sadly, Budapest is not a very bike friendly city so on our tour we battled multi-lane roads and on one side of the Danube, a very unfriendly cobbled path about one foot wide that separated us from a steep slope into the river. But we bravely soldiered on knowing a hearty bowl of goulash awaited us.

But Goulash, delightful as it is, was not the gastronomic highlight of Budapest. That award goes to Langos. Deep-fried dough smeared with sour cream, squirted with garlic juice and sprinkled with cheese and any number of equally healthy toppings, it is one of the most diabolical foods I have consumed.

Aaron, Potato Mike and Tiger Tim hang out

 In pleasant contrast, at Szimpla, the most famous of Budapest’s ruin bars, in addition to the pizza that they served, also available were freshly peeled carrots being proffered by a charming young lady that one could purchase for about 65 euro cents. Aaron managed to convince her to let him try and sell the carrots and it soon became apparent that most of the carrots were sold on the back of her feminine charm, rather than on the back of the public’s lust for root vegetables.

Bikie gang

Speaking of ruin bars, it is quite a grungy term for what is really just a bar in a repurposed quasi-rundown looking building. Basically what any cool bar ought to be, anyway. On one night the proprietor of the hostel at which we were staying, Tiger Tim, joined us for a ruin bar-crawl at the end of which he insisted we join him for a Hungarian car bomb. The Tiger is an Irishman and this is clearly his ode to the Irish car bomb and consists of one shot of Unicum, a Jagermeister style concoction, and one shot of Palinka, the local fruit brandy, which tonight was Apricot flavoured. Mix them together and down the hatch. Yummy.

Aaron working hard to sell a carrot

In addition to the ruin bars, the other frequent destination of the debauch-seeking backpacker is Morrison’s. It was here that we passed one night in blissful karaoke, during which we met the peerless Timo. A large gay German, he was in possession of two admirable characteristics: a fantastic singing voice and a passion for Aaron. Such was his determination that as the night ended he nibbled Aaron’s neck and looking deep into his eyes pleaded, “Just one night.”

The heavens

Aaron left Budapest after only a few days to head to Pristina, and as Martine prepared to return home to Montreal, the Potato marched into Romania, Andrew headed to Amsterdam and I returned to Belgrade. The crew (Black Beauty, Nipslip, Potato, Alf, Nogag/GC) was suddenly scattered to the winds, and as I walked out of the hostel I was already starting to feel a bit nostalgic.

At least we’ll always have Aquaworld.