Day 13 - Budapest

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Day 13
Ahhhhh. It was the 14th of July and I just had one of the most peaceful sleeps of my trip. No noise at all. Nothing but the rhythmic sounds of air rushing in and out of my lungs. Even the Quaker didn't make a peep. While I was adequately rested, this was exactly the opposite of what I was looking for. Sleep and rest? Who wants sleep and rest? I can do that back home. Nope. I needed excitement. I needed to be woken up by drunken roommates muttering about some leggy broad with a weird sounding name that they almost banged only one hour earlier. Where was the buzz? Where was the excitement? The answer came to me as soon as I opened my eyes. One word repeated over and over in my head… Diasport...Diasport…Diasport. The Diasport; “Budapest's Party Hostel”, was the answer to my quest for alcoholic equilibrium and moral debauchery.

The storied Diasport was known by the backpacker community as the holy grail of the Eastern Europe hostel scene. Unfortunately, I am a gullible sap who did not listen to the Diasport chap who approached me on the train coming into Budapest. I never found out my error about this until I spoke with a couple of other disgruntled lads who made the same mistake and also wasted their evening at our plush yet vacant accommodations. The Diasport. Sure, it may not have been as new as the four-star Marco Polo hostel. It was definitely not as clean as my four-star hostel. I have soiled my underwear into russet hues that were cleaner than my cot in the Diasport. The Diasport was downright filthy! To be truthful, it had very few things going for it. Yet, shining bright at one full star, the sparse few amenities were exactly what I was looking for. It had everything that the Marco Polo lacked. It was incredibly cheap, had a dingy pub in the basement and sold pints at ridiculously low prices. My tips were actually higher than the cost of the beer. For ten bucks, I got one night's stay on a mattress that was so disgusting dogs would turn it down as a place to die. On the upside, sleeping was the last thing on my mind.

After dropping off my backpack, I set back out on the town. Once again, I had no agenda and stuck to it. My day was spectacularly uneventful. I did most of the interesting attractions that were open yesterday. I did, however, accomplish something totally unique. After two weeks and 4 countries, I bought my first souvenir. From Brussels to Bruges to Amsterdam to Hamburg, Lubeck and Berlin, the only thing I emerged with was good times and great memories. I have been looking for something different to buy and have tried to stay away from the standard fare. No snow globes or “My brother went to (fill in blank) and all he got me was this lousy t-shirt” t-shirts. No t-shirts that were so thin they could double for mom’s cheesecloth. I wanted something that I could be happy about lugging around for another two, three months. Thus, after wandering down a quaint, cobbled street, I entered an antiquarian bookshop looking for something old, something different.

You can blame my recent experiences visiting Europe’s fabulous cathedrals or churches, however, to the contrary I have always wanted to purchase on old family bible. Like the feeling I get when you walk through some of these miraculous places, they have a life. They have stories that will long outlive the existence of their owners. Unfortunately, I could not find one that was either in English or light enough to carry around. So instead, I purchased an early edition of Alex de Touqueville's “On America”. Sure, I can envision the puzzled look plastered upon your face. However, I did spend fifty-odd thousand on an education that focused on American history. The volume would also be an excellent starter for a home library. I spent the afternoon sitting on a bench, in the middle of a centuries old cemetery, resting under an ancient tree flipping through the pages. I must admit that I never felt so relaxed and comfortable. What a wonderful way to spend my day.

I nonchalantly weaved my way back to the hostel after a truly peaceful afternoon. To commemorate a most wonderful day, upon arrival at the hostel I rewarded myself with a steady stream of pints. Descending to the basement level pub, two dozen, booze-starved, party hounds collectively greeted my entrance. From that moment on, rumour has it that I had a fabulous time. We drank and partied and smoked and drank some more and stayed up until the wee hours. From what remained of my motley congregation of conquered brain cells the only things I could recall was hanging out with a lad from Ireland, a bird from Australia, and another collection of smashed Irishmen and Irishwomen. I also vaguely recall giving my liver a bath in the company of a pair of Yanks and vaguely, very vaguely remember something about a fellow Canuck. Together we inhaled buckets of Hungarian hootch. Sometime that evening I stumbled off, bounced from wall to wall until I found my pile of filth, retired to my clorty mattress and tipped my hat to Budapest before having it rest over my blood-shot eyes. Nighty-night.

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