Hungary Happenings

This will be hopefully, a conclusive account of a holiday remembered favourably. Much of it was made up of decadent helpings of alcohol, club nights filled with racist bouncers, late nights, late rises, French travellers, bikers, peppermint tea and most favourably, courtesy of Josh Lawrence, unstructured; but highly informative; physics conversations.

Chapter One: The arrival

First came Josh, departing from a car driven by Emily’s cousin. That night Josh had been invited out by Emily for a catch-up session. Her cousin had tagged along as well. Emily lived in Berko so it was all convenient. Josh was in a happy mood and it was good to catch up as I let him into the house. The first thing he noticed was Grand Theft Auto 4, and he quickly got hold of the remote and without much thought headed straight for the strip club. Dan arrived, in the dead of night, a good two hours later than he proposed as usual. The main topic of discussion was Josh’s luggage, which was literally a rucksack and nothing else. We also discussed the fact that he hadn’t brought any sun-cream, which greatly offended my Dad; Josh’s reasoning being he had caught so much sun and tanned to such an extreme he was simply unburnable. My Dad seemed not concerned his philosophy being rather it was Josh than his own son, advised him wearily, “You should bring some sun-cream”; Josh easily brushed off the suggestion with an overtone of careless, reckless laughter.

So we slept, not long, until 5 or whenever. We slumped into the car and made our way to Luton. I can’t remember much here, only Josh stating that he had never flown from Luton.

Our airline queue was surprisingly busy, but we were moved to another and got our stuff put on the conveyer and all that jazz. Again, I really can’t remember much at all here, apart from Dan lost all his gel and toiletries at the hands of customs, he was much gutted; I had done the same thing on a previous holiday. This turned out to be one of the most memorable aspects; for the rest of the holiday Dan was forever checking into different pharmacies to get his hands on an ‘acceptable’ hair gel, none of them proving to be so. What was funnier was the fact that you would never notice, or smell (as the stuff is pungent, especially when it comes from Hungary) any of it on his hair, and if it was present, there was no implication as his hair always appeared to be styled the same as the day before; infact their really was no style, it was just a mass of straight hair, no quiff, Mohican, or any other feature which would make the desperate obsession for gel appear plausible.

Swiftly moving on; we were airborne, the excitement and the promise of adventure stirred within my loins. I was enjoying a John Smiths beer, where I was perched next to some old fuckers. Being on the end of the row I had little to keep me preoccupied. I gazed drowsily through the airline paper; being an Easyjet flight the quality of onboard entertainment was minimal. However, Josh and Dan were having a fantastic time. Josh was situated on the end of the row, nearest me, with Dan in the middle. Sitting next to him, nearest the window, was some queer, sparrow-like looking Hungarian girl who was rapidly becoming drunker by the minute. I’m a cold brute and she was an ugly thing so I didn’t much care. However, I felt a sting of jealousy as the others enjoyed all the fun. It took me a while to notice how drunk she was. She appeared to be drinking only standard beer. I noticed she and Dan where locked into some heavy conversing, where I got the impression his lothario skills were blooming. Yes, I am bigging your ego Dan, but its all for the cause of Journalism. At first it looked harmless enough, until I noticed she was swigging a bottle of Baileys at a rate a standard alcoholic would be ashamed not to equal. Her eyes grew increasingly restless, she begun gesticulating wildly, ruffling her hair until she looked nothing short of a Persian Whore. Finally the torture was over as we landed abruptly. We headed straight for the luggage; my fucking oversized two man tent took fucking ages to come. Let me explain, I had the latest in tent technology; a giant wheel which when unravelled would form a tent in a matter of seconds. It really was a marvel to watch, the thing would explode in less than two seconds and bang! there’s your tent, ready to climb into. Anyway, this was all part of the gig. Dan and me had really overthought the baggage situation, I had two bags, which, however, were relatively light and small and of course the great wheel upon my back. Although I had learnt from Benicassim that less is often more on budget holidays I had still overpacked. Dan, on the other hand had an excessive quantity of shit, which I swore he never used, and a bag weighing more than an elephant.

Taking our bags, we were approached by a familiar figure. It was that devishly handsome of all beasts: Kristof. He had tanned fantastically in Hungary. I foresee this not really being an element that would help him with the ladies so much in Hungary. Obviously back in the UK, where it is valued and rare; seeing as we’re in cloud cover most of the year; he would be an instant hit. But the problem was everyone was tanned in Hungary, so he wouldn’t stand out.

We embraced with vigour. He led us to a bus, which led to a filthy train. It wasn’t quite as I had imagined it. Kristof had filled my impressionable mind with pictures of shambolic trains that were filled with merchants selling chickens and various spices on board. He used to say stuff like, “We ride on trains for free, its Hungary, they don’t give a shit/ We can buy a car for £50”, the second statement may have actually been true. I remembered before the holiday when I changed my English bills to the Hungarian Forint, I was suddenly a millionaire, a pound being worth 250 Forint.
But still it wasn’t as rundown as I expected, and they definitely do not let you ride for free; our experience with the train security emphasising this point. However, I’ll come to that later.

We headed to Budapest. Our first stop; the most highly decorated central station. What the station was called I couldn’t possibly fathom; Ding H’ufghntrj maybe. However, it was a huge complex, like an American mall. It had all the essential American exports for that matter; McDonalds, River Island and a cinema hosting shit like Nightrider or something. However, I’m not giving a fair appraisal of the place; it was fantastic. It had a great central fountain that kids were constantly running in and out of. An indoor supermarket, which was frequently visited by us, had all the essentials. It was Hungarian as well, so cheap as chips. Beers for a £1, Wine for £5 and spirits for £7. We soon stocked up. I especially wanted to try the German deer, Jagermeister, after it was immortalised in The Dirt, a fantastic biography of Motley Crue. The apples, which brought much comfort to me that holiday, were succulent as well.



Next on the agenda was a trip to Nanny Szabo, Kristof’s Granny. This was a weird and wonderful venture into Budapest’s suburbs. The buldings are often vastly tall, though obviously nothing on New York, and we went through an Apartment complex. You walk through the front door and suddenly the place opens up; the apartment is in the shape of a square with the buildings built against the side of the square with an opening in the middle. This small area of land could have been done up, a swimming pool would efficiently suffice. Instead there were a few shrubs and plants in vases. The effect of the place was still calming though, tranquillity hung in the air from the vines which climbed down the apartments. We had to board the most frantically unappealing lift I have ever seen. With our bags we only just managed to cram in; all of us losing oxygen by the minute. I was hysterically paranoid the lift would stop and tumble downwards and we would loose our lives, and more importantly, our booze in an array of blood, alcohol and metal shards. The release of fresh air gave me much pleasure. We were on the third level. We ambled along the tight pathway, which hung off the apartments. Overlooking the fence, we were at quite a height, and the open square beneath me filled me with fear. I have an intense fear of heights, and although I have tried to overcome it by several means; The Empire State building for one, it still persists to this day. My only visible option: throwing myself out of a jet with a parachute at some point in life. And, by fuck I intend to do this; they say the high is better than ecstasy!!
We came to her door. A basket of flowers hung elegantly next to it. Nanny Szabo was a gentle, ancient creature, dignified and beautiful in her own way. Kristof’s flippant attitude towards her displeased us all. However, according to him she was forever reminding him to take tissues out with him, for a reason that seemed uncertain to me; the chance of catching a cold seemed remote, the heat was boring down on us and wearying our spirits by the minute. Kristof, dramatic as always, was flapping his arms about, exasperated, as she continued to infuriate him. This was one of Kristof’s unique features that made him both agonising and entertaining; he was not that level-headed and was prone to emotional excitement. The rest of us were welcomed with a variety of treats: bite size crisps, and coca-cola. I had hardly arrived in Hungary and my IBS was already playing up. Luckily I had brought plenty of peppermint teas in advance. I made a big fuss of drinking one and Granny Szabo brewed the pot. I noticed that the TV was on National Geographic, a programme on the Cheetah, and for some absurd reason I had an epiphany; an undeniable universal truth which has spun the ages; that folk who lived in the cities were forever looking for a way out, or rather a taste of the wild, country life. Whereas the opposite is true of people who live in towns and village dwellings.

We left our luggage and departed on the promise of adventure. Unfortunately, this was not realised. Jonathan who was the fourth comrade had only just flown in. We’d, as a unit, really buggered up our pre-flight organisation and although we were all, apart from Jonathan, on the same flight in, we departed on different days. Myself, however, was looking forward to enduring an arduous journey across Hungary to reach Croatia where I was rendezvousing with my papa and en famille for an extended holiday!! The journey was the real fun though. I’ll come to that later, but let me state this: in life it is important to make the journey as much fun, or just less so than the main event, I mean this in metaphorical terms as well as literal. For one thing, most of life is a journey. Either towards some goal, desire/aspiration or, simply just a journey of learning how to handle new situations and shit. And for another thing sometimes the main event isn’t even that good, or rather the preconceived idealised version of the event can sometimes be better. Its like Hunter S. Thompson says, “Buy the ticket, take the ride.”

So, back at the airport again. Bit of a drag, but had time to enjoy a cookie. I’d met Jonathan before; he was a genuinely nice bloke, on the quieter side. We raced back out to the bus and headed for the great Granny once more, to collect our stuff and then move on to the infamous Biker Camp that Kristof had said was a grand place to stay, and in a perfectly harmless part of Budapest. This was most reassuring.

Gap year

Prospects await, the future is red-hot... The countdown to Australia is well under way and I have no money stored. At the moment I'm completely buggered, unfortunately money = fun for moi. My days have largely been shaped into a mass of similar regimes and schedules, starting with Buffy the vampire slayer first thing and culminating in a work shift with many charming Poles and one ridiculously insincere Hungarian. This is what I have to say of my time working at Ask restaurant:
The Polish people I work with are lovely, however, they all have a distinctive sense of humour. They're prone to aggressive jokes that culminate with some sort of indecency towards the opposite sex, with a plentiful supply of 'fucking' and interspersed swearing added for dramatic effect. Tommy, the wild brute is a cage wrestler, but with a large heart. His face seems to have been condescended tightly around his nose, which always appears sunburnt. He has a great sense of who he is however, and I wouldn't want to get in a fight with the fucker.
Largely my other days seem to either branch two ways; I'm either looking for a job in some way of form, through a variety of means, my time not always used effectively, where I'm constantly looking towards the clock, the whole day seeming to be waiting/ building up to 4 o'clock where I depart for gymnastics. Apart from a rather rash fall out with my co-worker on monday, time at the gym is kinda fun. I work with an Iranian Din mostly, where I spend my time teaching him how to pronounce various English phrases. I should have no problem working for TEFL at this rate!! The other day was particularly humorous where I was explaining, at length, how to pronounce the phrase 'tip of your tongue', going as far as spelling it out for his benefit! However, I am by no means free of faults myself; Din has overlooked my Coaching skills, believing without doubt that I was capable of teaching a backflip, which ended in our gymnast falling, rather astutely, on his head. However, you live you learn.

However, beneath this surface of regularity, a restlessness brews within me. A great willingness to abandon and escape, maybe blossomed from reading The Rum Diaries by Hunter S. Thompson and the freedom of free-lance journalism, is revealing itself. It's merely my suppressed wild streak needing release. Nevertheless, I felt like I was gonna crack. I wasn't sure how much more of this monotonous crap I could take. Everyday a repetition of the one before. The need to blow it out on a friday was a certainty that was less and less realistic, as dire funding for australia was needed, all money needed to be saved for the 'bigger picture'. I was sure to hell I couldn't live in Berkhamsted, or with my family more than a year. This is the only thing I can say for certain.