Back in Hungary
After seven long weeks in England, we're back in Hungary, and we managed to smuggle a Craig into the country too:
We hid him behind some luggage on the train so as to hide him from the authorities who were now searching for him:
It was Craig's first flight, which was moderately exciting. However, Craig (and of course, as typical, Peter) had to get out their laptops. The novelty soon descended and so too did our conversation into whose laptop has the longest battery life. Mine, of course.
The air pressure caused some interesting effects:
The first thing we did was death march up Gellért Hill, as all tourists should do on their first night, but we already have plenty of pictures from up there in a previous post. All the hill drudgery caused a panging for liquid refreshment tendered from our favourite ruin bar -- Szimpla:
After Szimpla we got the Metró home and ate some food forced upon us by the generous Nati.
On the second day we decided to go to Hőssök Tere and see those really big fancy statues. Then we went to what is potentially Europe's nicest coffee shop: Centrál Kávéház. We did many other tourist type things which I'm not going to write about since they contain only minor amusements in comparison to other more random events. But also, I can't be arsed.
We were out one day and decided to have some pancakes as we're sure they have some sort of significance within Hungarian culture. They're full of fattiness which makes them typically Magyar. Peter took us to a 24 hour pancake house which he vaguely remembered stuffing his drunken face in after a boat party. This was also his rubbish excuse for why he thought ordering 5 (!) savoury pancakes would be just enough food. It wasn't. We almost died. Seriously, it's like they pack them with foam and once it hits your stomach acid you inflate to proportions normally only seen in Texas. Please tell me why Peter refuses to use his eating weapons and decides instead to consume pancakes in a style more befitting to the Slitheen (Doctor Who, not Slovenian nationals).
There's a nice photo of Budapest.
Some peasant jumped into the shot. So Craig kicked him in the face.
There's me hugging a tree. I'm not sure why.
One night we decided to go to the Frank Zappa Café. It was full and they made us sit in the non-smoking area. We were slightly intoxicated on Swedish vodka. Rather defiantly Craig got up and smoked about two inches outside of the non-smoking area. The waiter did not revel in this act of extreme provocation! I'd wager he spat in our drinks, the cheeky bastard. After the cigarettes he sat down and started to consume his Zappa trademarked booze. It was going quite well, glasses were being held and alcohol was pouring out of them and successfully refreshing our pallets. A minor smash occurred. Craig had dropped his glass from a small height onto the table and the top chipped. It was OK though since he could grab it and save it from the frying pan. No, instead he decided to watch it fall. Silence. Smash. We laugh. We get asked to leave.
We then went to a Gothic sort of DnB ruin bar called Kultiplex. Here's a short film. A word of warning, contained within one will find stupid fucking dancing, foot burning, and lots of loud swearing.
The next day we awoke to a snow-covered Budapest. Most people would go and swim in hot outdoor baths at Széchenyi or something, but instead we chose to march through the Buda hills. There were some very nice views from up there though, and we found some sort of Soviet transmission base:
Ushanka + cigarettes + snowy hills + soviet transmission base + Ivan Rebroff on Peter's phone + a camera = a video opportunity too good to miss:
The sun began to set, and we didn't feel like getting stranded in the middle of nowhere, so we caught the last train back down. Now, instead of going back the way we came (which would have been far too sensible), we took a different railway called The Children's Railway. I thought it might just be one designed for children in some way, and I was looking forward to getting free sweets or something. The train pulled up and a bunch of kids dressed as train conductors jumped out and started to throw snowballs at each other while the passengers clambered onto the platform, trying to avoid the cross-fire. Little did any of us know that the entire thing was ran by screaming kids!
One hour later we were cold and very hungry. The best way to solve this at any time is a trip to Sir Brian's -- the place where they play modern music sang by monks, your food comes on a huge wooden platter and you're not allowed to use a fork (so this is Peter's territory). It was all going well until the mealtime entertainment started, which consisted of a large man who used his arms to move various uninteresting things and made the children cry.
Just as we walked out the door we saw them dousing a Roma-lady in some sort of unquestionably flammable liquid from a canister. Perhaps it was "Burn The Gypsy" night, but now we'll never know. I wish we had stayed for a little longer, and perhaps the opportunity to roast marshmallows on the smouldering carcas of a lady of the night would have presented itself.
On the day of which we call 'Sun', nothing much is open in Budapest, except for churches. So we went to visit the stupendous "cave" church built inside Gellért Hill. Now, either that whole hill is filled with Polyfiller, or they're not really caves at all. Barstarding wankers.
After the heart-attack excitement of the rather dull 10-metre-deep cave ("It's almost like being blind" - Ed), I dictated that later that soire we went to a retro chillout club called Mono ElectroClub. We were quite lucky in that this club almost propositioned us into the pitfalls of another existential predicament. We clawed our way out by finding the door. It was interestingly furnished, and came complete with a hippy sitting in a birdcage who promptly produced a small collection of musical instruments including a violin (I really doubt a Strativarius - Ed) and a flute. He then played them much to the chagrin of the DJ who was trying to mix chillout music with Powaqqatsi.
As with any time we are outside our concrete communist tower after sunset, we headed for Szimpla for more drinks before heading home.
We didn't do anything very interesting the next day, except Craig and Peter laughed at me trying to grab at a hologram:
To sum up the next 48 hours: pancakes, walking, pancakes, walking, sitting, taking photos, pancakes, walking. And for Craig's last night we failed at ice skating. Well, Craig was actually quite good, but Peter and I struggled to skate properly on the poorly maintained surface. These zany Hungarians must think it funny not to smooth the ice all day so that it's basically a cheese grater. Then some crazed kurva (yes, that is indeed the Hungarian for a prozzie) ran into me and I fell on my arse.
That's it. Craig flew home and I hear he did a job of the landing -- jolly good. Peter and I teleported home.
Not really, we had to spend an hour in a Metró carriage with smelly tramps who kept falling asleep on their cigarettes and burning their hair. We love Budapest.
- Philip + Peter + Craig in spirit (He's not dead - Ed)
P.S. We've named the toilet Lucy Loo
We hid him behind some luggage on the train so as to hide him from the authorities who were now searching for him:
It was Craig's first flight, which was moderately exciting. However, Craig (and of course, as typical, Peter) had to get out their laptops. The novelty soon descended and so too did our conversation into whose laptop has the longest battery life. Mine, of course.
The air pressure caused some interesting effects:
The first thing we did was death march up Gellért Hill, as all tourists should do on their first night, but we already have plenty of pictures from up there in a previous post. All the hill drudgery caused a panging for liquid refreshment tendered from our favourite ruin bar -- Szimpla:
After Szimpla we got the Metró home and ate some food forced upon us by the generous Nati.
On the second day we decided to go to Hőssök Tere and see those really big fancy statues. Then we went to what is potentially Europe's nicest coffee shop: Centrál Kávéház. We did many other tourist type things which I'm not going to write about since they contain only minor amusements in comparison to other more random events. But also, I can't be arsed.
We were out one day and decided to have some pancakes as we're sure they have some sort of significance within Hungarian culture. They're full of fattiness which makes them typically Magyar. Peter took us to a 24 hour pancake house which he vaguely remembered stuffing his drunken face in after a boat party. This was also his rubbish excuse for why he thought ordering 5 (!) savoury pancakes would be just enough food. It wasn't. We almost died. Seriously, it's like they pack them with foam and once it hits your stomach acid you inflate to proportions normally only seen in Texas. Please tell me why Peter refuses to use his eating weapons and decides instead to consume pancakes in a style more befitting to the Slitheen (Doctor Who, not Slovenian nationals).
There's a nice photo of Budapest.
Some peasant jumped into the shot. So Craig kicked him in the face.
There's me hugging a tree. I'm not sure why.
One night we decided to go to the Frank Zappa Café. It was full and they made us sit in the non-smoking area. We were slightly intoxicated on Swedish vodka. Rather defiantly Craig got up and smoked about two inches outside of the non-smoking area. The waiter did not revel in this act of extreme provocation! I'd wager he spat in our drinks, the cheeky bastard. After the cigarettes he sat down and started to consume his Zappa trademarked booze. It was going quite well, glasses were being held and alcohol was pouring out of them and successfully refreshing our pallets. A minor smash occurred. Craig had dropped his glass from a small height onto the table and the top chipped. It was OK though since he could grab it and save it from the frying pan. No, instead he decided to watch it fall. Silence. Smash. We laugh. We get asked to leave.
We then went to a Gothic sort of DnB ruin bar called Kultiplex. Here's a short film. A word of warning, contained within one will find stupid fucking dancing, foot burning, and lots of loud swearing.
The next day we awoke to a snow-covered Budapest. Most people would go and swim in hot outdoor baths at Széchenyi or something, but instead we chose to march through the Buda hills. There were some very nice views from up there though, and we found some sort of Soviet transmission base:
Ushanka + cigarettes + snowy hills + soviet transmission base + Ivan Rebroff on Peter's phone + a camera = a video opportunity too good to miss:
The sun began to set, and we didn't feel like getting stranded in the middle of nowhere, so we caught the last train back down. Now, instead of going back the way we came (which would have been far too sensible), we took a different railway called The Children's Railway. I thought it might just be one designed for children in some way, and I was looking forward to getting free sweets or something. The train pulled up and a bunch of kids dressed as train conductors jumped out and started to throw snowballs at each other while the passengers clambered onto the platform, trying to avoid the cross-fire. Little did any of us know that the entire thing was ran by screaming kids!
One hour later we were cold and very hungry. The best way to solve this at any time is a trip to Sir Brian's -- the place where they play modern music sang by monks, your food comes on a huge wooden platter and you're not allowed to use a fork (so this is Peter's territory). It was all going well until the mealtime entertainment started, which consisted of a large man who used his arms to move various uninteresting things and made the children cry.
Just as we walked out the door we saw them dousing a Roma-lady in some sort of unquestionably flammable liquid from a canister. Perhaps it was "Burn The Gypsy" night, but now we'll never know. I wish we had stayed for a little longer, and perhaps the opportunity to roast marshmallows on the smouldering carcas of a lady of the night would have presented itself.
On the day of which we call 'Sun', nothing much is open in Budapest, except for churches. So we went to visit the stupendous "cave" church built inside Gellért Hill. Now, either that whole hill is filled with Polyfiller, or they're not really caves at all. Barstarding wankers.
After the heart-attack excitement of the rather dull 10-metre-deep cave ("It's almost like being blind" - Ed), I dictated that later that soire we went to a retro chillout club called Mono ElectroClub. We were quite lucky in that this club almost propositioned us into the pitfalls of another existential predicament. We clawed our way out by finding the door. It was interestingly furnished, and came complete with a hippy sitting in a birdcage who promptly produced a small collection of musical instruments including a violin (I really doubt a Strativarius - Ed) and a flute. He then played them much to the chagrin of the DJ who was trying to mix chillout music with Powaqqatsi.
As with any time we are outside our concrete communist tower after sunset, we headed for Szimpla for more drinks before heading home.
We didn't do anything very interesting the next day, except Craig and Peter laughed at me trying to grab at a hologram:
To sum up the next 48 hours: pancakes, walking, pancakes, walking, sitting, taking photos, pancakes, walking. And for Craig's last night we failed at ice skating. Well, Craig was actually quite good, but Peter and I struggled to skate properly on the poorly maintained surface. These zany Hungarians must think it funny not to smooth the ice all day so that it's basically a cheese grater. Then some crazed kurva (yes, that is indeed the Hungarian for a prozzie) ran into me and I fell on my arse.
That's it. Craig flew home and I hear he did a job of the landing -- jolly good. Peter and I teleported home.
Not really, we had to spend an hour in a Metró carriage with smelly tramps who kept falling asleep on their cigarettes and burning their hair. We love Budapest.
- Philip + Peter + Craig in spirit (He's not dead - Ed)
P.S. We've named the toilet Lucy Loo
posted by Philip Proudfoot at
7:07 pm
2 Comments:
Ah what an excellent summary of the weeks proceedings, and what a tit i was for not picking up that glass and instead watching in amusement as it rolled off the table and smashed into a million smaller glasses.
Nice name for a toilet but I call mine Lady Henry Bottingtom-Smythe.
You seem to be having a little too much fun - this must be stopped at once.
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