Day 12 - to Budapest

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Day 12
Piss off! Sure, it has been a few days since I’ve written in this thing but I have been quite busy circumventing the globe. From what my weary noggin recalls, the last time we spoke I was in Berlin and getting onto an overnight train to Budapest. I think I was trying to decide if I should look for a cost-effective place to stay in Berlin or follow my Scottish instincts and take an overnighter train. The latter allowed me to save on a night’s accommodation cost. It was going to be dark outside and I wouldn’t be able to see anything anyway, so why not save a bit of cash and zzzzz the night away? Sounded reasonable to me. At most, my trip would only cost me one day from my Eurorail pass.

Boy, was I wrong. Instead of laying back in restful bliss, dreaming dreams of little fluffy lambs bounding one by one over my head, I spent the evening wide-eyed, counting the steady stream of Commie customs officers marching over to pester me. As regular as Stalins' purges, every hour, on the hour, Joseph, Vladimir and his pal Gorby would tramp over to me, grab the holster of their sidearm, poke me with their billy clubs and demand to see my identification. I had to endure 14 straight hours of repeated interrogation and harassment before I could finally make it to my destination. I should have stayed another night in worm-ville.

Before this ‘Berlin to Budapest’ train ride, I was never asked to show my passport. My citizenship and well intensions were taken for granted. Thinking back…upon arrival in Belgium, I was merely waved me through customs by the uninterested officials. When I snuck into France, they did not even bother to send people over to be ignorant to me. The Dutch were the same as the French and the Germans have learned that dictatorial behaviour does not get one ahead in life. All this changed when my train entered the Czech Republic. The Czech Gestapo checked my identification going in and to make sure they did not err, checked again going out. Their Austrian cousins patted me down when we rambled through their territory. The exact same procedure was followed in both Slovakia and Hungary. These people must have nothing better to do but harass tourists. Talk about paranoid. Come on, I am a traveller not a spy. What was I going to steal? Their recipe to borsch? The secret dossier on “How to Dance the Pole at a Wank Joint?” Regardless, those power-starved commie throwbacks, longing for those days when the red curtain was proudly draped over their shoulders, retained their loony mindset and spent the evening harassing one extremely tired North American.

In additional to dealing with these all these jokers, I had to follow standard procedure and bribe the ticket-takers. My Eurorail pass allowed me entry and passage through a fixed number of countries. Hungary was on the list. The Czech Republic and its’ former partner, Slovakia, were not. Apparently, I was supposed to buy a supplemental ticket to accommodate the fact that our train wormed its’ through the above mentioned countries. I should have been more aware of this risk as a work buddy warned me all the same. He relayed a story about how an acquaintance he met on the train entered the Czech Republic without buying a supplemental ticket. Immediately upon inspection, he admitted that he did not have the commensurate document, but unlike myself was dragged out of the car and abandoned in the middle of the night on some remote train station platform.

Standing, freezing in the dark, in a foreign land, he was given two choices. Hike back to Berlin or pay the requisite fare, plus a little extra for their hassles and be allowed to continue. Thank heavens that the Communist era is over. When we entered the Czech Republic, Goebels goose-stepped over to interrogate me. All I had to do was toss the pigeon the equivalent of five bucks Canadian and I bought my continued passage through his god-forsaken wasteland. I love these places where the average person gets by on a few sheckles per day. While the first commandant was a pushover, his dim-witted Slovak cousin was even more pathetic. Responding to his threat of expulsion from the car, I flipped him a fist-full of useless Kraut coinage and was cheerfully granted passage. It is an accepted historical conviction that the West won the cold war because they out-spent the communists. In honour of former US president Ronald Reagan, I thought it would be most respectful to emulate the patriarch of conservatism by doing my duty and buy my passage to victory. West 2. Reds 0. We win again!!

Continuing my journey to Budapest, it was approximately one half-hour from my destination when a friendly representative from a hostelling company approached me. His job was to prearrange accommodations for naïve travellers, like myself. After a quick chat, I took the kind chap up on his offer and reserved a room in their brand new facility. I had to. The pictures in the brochure were beautiful. The hostel looked very clean and the gentleman stressed that it just had opened for business. It was the "hottest" new hostel in Budapest. Relaxed and glad that I did not have to worry about sleeping in some Budapest parkette, I sat back and returned to reading my Economist article. Then… a few minutes later, I looked up I noticed that two more fellows from two different hostels were lined up to also flog their beds to me. One by one the aggressive salesmen stopped at my seat to bombard me with their sales pitch. Each guy tried to convince me that their hostel was “the place” to stay. As with almost on queue, each fellow noted that I was a sucker for picking the first one and I would be regret not staying at their place. Where to go? What to do? I used the 'early bird gets the worm' analogy and went with the first offer.

As I descended the steps from the train, I was immediately impressed by the service that these Budapest hostels offered to me. My lighten my load and ensure that I did not get lost on the way to their location, my chosen hostel had a van waiting right outside. I was then dropped me off at the entrance to their four-star, A1 facility.

The pictures did not do this place justice. It was gorgeous. The walls were freshly painted and the floors were so clean you could see your reflection in the shine. It was perfect. Almost too perfect. While the facility it was exactly as pictured in the brochure, I find that sometimes pictures can actually be a misrepresentation in itself. As noted in the photos, the rooms were spotless. The rooms were clean, the bathrooms were unspoiled, the beds were made and it was decorated with brand new furniture. However, in retrospect, I recall that the photos were conveniently taken without guests cluttering up the shots. What I saw in the hostel was exactly the same as pictured in the photographs. Beautiful place…no guests. Out of the fifty or sixty beds, only five or six people were booked as guests. It was a virtual ghost town. Can someone say…sucker?

Despite the relative emptiness of the hostel, I was given a roommate. I was bunked with some guy named Mike. He was from California. They placed another yahoo named Chris, also from the States, right next-door. I guess they thought that by placing the three of us in such close proximity to affirm the façade of having a bustling hostel. In a rather unfortunate way, their plans worked and the three of us, came together for the sole purpose of creating some hostel camaraderie. Together, our trio went sightseeing.

Budapest is a city that is sectored by the mighty Danube. Buda is on one side and Pest is on the other. Our hostel was situated on the Pest side while most of the cities’ key attractions were over on Buda. Therefore our tour began in Buda. The first item on our itinerary was the Buda Castle. It took about 40 minutes to walk over. However, within five minutes upon arrival, our hostel companion, Chris abandoned us. I was left to entertaining Mikey. I equated Mike with a bowl of Quaker Oats porridge ...he was boring, stiff and desperately in need of something to liven himself up. The guy was a lamppost. After about ten minutes, I too found a chance opportunity to wander off unnoticed and, like Chris, escaped to investigate Budapest by my lonesome.

As mentioned, my tour started when I dumped Mike at the Buda castle. While Buda Castle was called a castle, its’ appearance was far from any castle that I ever saw. It looked more like a fancy palace, than any of the castles that I saw in Germany and Belgium. No moat. No castle ramparts. Blaaaaaaah. To spice things up, I rested at the base of a huge statue, sat down and spent some quality time ogling women. Two particular ripe honeys were frolicking nearby. My eyes were granted a nice display of eastern European talent only to be tempered by the unfortunate appearance of their mommy and daddy. Hey….as the saying goes …what happens while on vacation…

Next was the Buda Caves. For context, I was currently plodding my way along a peninsula. The peninsula rapidly rose from the banks of the swollen Danube. Deep within the landmass, a vast network of ancient caves were built. Apparently, the caves were first constructed well back in the medieval era. Cool. When I say cool, I mean cold. The place was only about 10 degrees Celsius. Meandering through the extensive myriad of underground caverns, I felt like a human mole. Normally, this type of activity and attraction was right up my alley. Just think…exploring in caves that are over 800 years old. Men wandered through these caves almost as far back as when we were cavemen. (Ok…not that far, however, as this was Eastern Europe, I am partially correct) I looked forward to seeing cave murals, subterranean graveyards, old fire pits with air shafts built to allow smoke to escape ….stuff like that. However, following on the disappointment of the Buda Castle, this was not much better. Question…if your country had medieval caves that have survived 1000 years of continuous use, would it be a great idea to slather cement over the side of the walls? The morons made an antiquity look more like a sewer system. Worse still, they hired very more moronic morons to conduct tours of the sewer. It must have been their objective to ensure their tour guides were not burdened with knowledge about what they were showing to people. The proverbial pylons had as much historical knowledge of the place as me and I didn't even know the place existed thirty minutes prior. I exited a bit cooler but not a heck of a lot more knowledgeable than I was before I entered.

Continuing along to the southern tip of the peninsula, I found St. Mathias Church. What an impressive find! This building was constructed in the 13th Century. It was a visually stunning gothic structure. I continue to be mesmerized by all the extravagant churches of Europe. I have yet to visit one that did not leave me with this impression. However, my experience at this church was different. Many churches have vagrants mulling around the entrances and exits begging for loose change. The lady whom I saw at St. Mattias was different. Picture this, kneeling on the pavement, wrinkled face buried in a prayer pose, hands cupped and slightly raised, a lady who appeared to be at least 85 years old begging for money. She was clad head to toe in black. Now, I am not one to donate my loose loonies to supplement the crack habits of street urchins. However, I could not see this great grandmother hitting the pipe. As I watched this lady, I left feeling somewhat different…thankful. Back home, our society looks after our aged. We supplement their incomes to ensure they don’t have to eat cat food and sleep in a cardboard box. Yet, here I was in Budapest, shelling out scant sheckles to sleep in a four star hostel while they have 85 year old ladies begging for money to buy food. I took a picture, walked over to her, placed some money in her cupped hands and walked away. I wish I could have done more.

Just south of the church was a courtyard that overlooked the Danube. I scanned across the river and was startled to see a most visually striking building facing back at me. It was the Hungarian Parliament. In a word…beautiful. While not really noticeable from my side of the Danube, the structure’s outer facade was missing a number of its' original statues. These have been damaged from years of pollution, military conquest and general ignorance. Regardless, it remains as one of the more majestic of government structures, visually stunning and steeped in history.

I eventually made my way back to the Marco Polo Hostel. I ran into Quaker-boy and the two of us went out for a bite to eat. While many of the backpackers that I have been hanging with prefer to stroll the aisles of Euro grocery marts looking for a discount dish, my budgetary priorities are different. No spam sandwiches for me. I ate good. Real good. Budapest was no different. That evening, I indulged myself with the most scrumptious meal I have ever consumed. Seriously, ever!! Superb. Brilliant. Unforgettable. With each bite, my mouth savoured a delectable burst of flavour. Ravioli a la Milanese alo. I find it ironic that I travelled the globe looking for good times and good eats and the place I find it is in an Italian restaurant, in Hungary, on a patio, in a city that I picked for the sole reason that I needed a place to sleep and the overnight train stopped there. Such circumstances continue to amuse and amaze me.

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