Postcard from Pest
In pursuance of my strategy of making visits at random to major European capitals, and as previously trailed in this very weblog, I decided to spend New Year in Budapest, which is in fact where I now find myself, propping up the bar in a suitably dark and smoky outlet of the Gosser Brauerei. Much to my gratification, the two people opposite me are actually eating authentic Hungarian goulash, and even dipping their bread in it, although the pleasing effect of this rustic tableau is somewhat diminished by the fact that judging from their accents, they are both from Birmingham.
I am not sure, thinking about it, whether random short-hauls actually constitute a strategy. They might, I suppose, conceivably be termed a tactic, or even a policy, but the question would still remain as to what aim, or goal, such an activity could logically be argued as being in support of. Perhaps they might more accurately be characterised as a habit, or if one were being judgemental, a foolish foible. Or perhaps I am just trying, ineffectually, to escape.
Regardless of such ontological issues, however, and notwithstanding any moral defects the practice might be indicative of, the fact remains that every now and again I feel an irresistable urge to dash off to somewhere foreign, but conveniently close, and do exactly what I normally do, but in the company, or more accurately the presence, of total strangers. I also love the sensation of not being able to understand anything I hear, or read, it removes the background hum of irritation that accompanies me everywhere in my day-to-day life.
I must admit that I knew very little about Budapest before I arrived here, apart of course from the fact that the people who lived in it subsisted entirely on goulash, and that it was composed of two completely separate towns, one called Buda and one called Pest, which had sneakily pretended to be one large town in order to lay claim to being, by right of size, the capital city of Hungary. One other thing I did know, however, was that there was a track called 'Budapest' on one of the later Jethro Tull albums, so I downloaded this onto my phone before I left, and listened to it in the taxi on the way to my hotel.
In the event I felt the song fell some way short of being a useful guide to the city as whole, comprising as it did endless repetitions of the phrase 'and her legs went on forever', accompanied by various permutations of flute and guitar. From what I could make out the owner of these legs was some woman Ian Anderson had encountered backstage at a concert, presumably in Budapest, and had been sufficiently struck by to immortalise in song. I resolved to buy a proper guide book as soon as possible, and switched back to my normal playlist of progressive rock classics.
Much to my surprise, however, the first thing I saw as I slouched in to the hotel bar that evening was what must have been this very same woman, in a short cocktail dress, singing 'Night and Day', accompanied by a small jazz band. It was clear to me immediately that the only sensible, and in fact possible, reaction to encountering such legs would be to write a song, or even a whole concept album, about them, and that no matter what other architectural marvels the city might possess, none were likely to arouse the same degree of shock and awe. I mentally apologised to Ian for doubting his judgement, and decided to stay in the bar for the rest of my life, or longer if possible.
I was, of course, also looking forward hugely to the hotel's Sylvester dinner the next evening, after my delightful experience in Cologne last year, but if truth be told it turned out to be a little disappointing. For one thing, instead of being sat in splendid isolation at a table on my own, where I could look soulful and intriguing, I was forced to sit with other people, and even worse, talk to them. Luckily no-one else at my table spoke English, so the evening was not totally ruined.
The second disappointment was that the advertised Gypsy Orchestra, which I had been awaiting with great anticipation, were conspicuous by their absence. I suppose it is in the nature of Gypsies, to wander hither and thither as they please, but even so it would have been polite for the hotel at least to mention that they weren't coming, rather than replacing them at the last minute, as they did, with something called Ronnie and Rick's Revue, and expecting us not to notice.
The eponymous Ronnie and Rick turned out to be two identical twins, both with shaven heads, eerily reminiscent of the Mitchell brothers in East Enders, except obviously more similar, and their speciality involved lifting each other up. Actually, this wasn't so much their speciality as their whole act, which they reprised after each course, of which there were in total nine. They didn't jump around at all, or throw each other up in the air, which would have been moderately exciting, they just lifted each other up, on their arms, and legs, and heads, puffing and wheezing all the while. To add variety, they dressed up in a variety of costumes whilst doing this lifting, so we saw them in loincloths, and in leotards, and in pin-stripe suits with bowler hats, and once (horrifyingly) in diapers. After each bout of lifting they would join hands and bow to the audience, most of whom were, like me, trying not to look so as to avoid spoiling their appetite.
Their Revue, such as it was, consisted of six grinning girls in black 'Pulp Fiction' Uma Thurman type wigs, who came out and danced to Madonna songs, after the lifting was over each time. For some inexplicable reason, there was also a dwarf, who just wandered about the stage aimlessly, falling over every now and again.
After five hours of this, all of us at my table, despite the drawback of our not sharing a common language, managed unanimously to agree that we could bear no more, and we all rushed outside to watch the fireworks instead.
Several seconds later, we all rushed back inside. "Oh My God" said the Norwegian lady, who had previously shown no sign of having any grasp of English at all. The honeymoon couple who had been sitting next to me stood moulded into a single figure, the bride in floods of tears. Even the groom looked a bit shaken.
The hotel concierge wandered over towards us. "Is very loud, yes?" he said, proudly. "In Hungary, we are permitted to make firework, but only at New Year. So everyone make firework at home in secret, then bring them to New Year in street. So is many fireworks, very big."
We all nodded in agreement. I decided that having no dependants, and consequently no responsibilities, I could risk my life at no cost to my conscience, so I went out again, and for a glorious half hour, lost myself completely in a roiling sea of people, and noise, and light. Things exploded next to me, and behind me, and on top of me, people screamed in languages I couldn't understand, and I was pushed and pulled by the crush of the crowd until I had lost all sense of where I was, or what shape I was, or even who I was.
Finally, I was on holiday.
I am not sure, thinking about it, whether random short-hauls actually constitute a strategy. They might, I suppose, conceivably be termed a tactic, or even a policy, but the question would still remain as to what aim, or goal, such an activity could logically be argued as being in support of. Perhaps they might more accurately be characterised as a habit, or if one were being judgemental, a foolish foible. Or perhaps I am just trying, ineffectually, to escape.
Regardless of such ontological issues, however, and notwithstanding any moral defects the practice might be indicative of, the fact remains that every now and again I feel an irresistable urge to dash off to somewhere foreign, but conveniently close, and do exactly what I normally do, but in the company, or more accurately the presence, of total strangers. I also love the sensation of not being able to understand anything I hear, or read, it removes the background hum of irritation that accompanies me everywhere in my day-to-day life.
I must admit that I knew very little about Budapest before I arrived here, apart of course from the fact that the people who lived in it subsisted entirely on goulash, and that it was composed of two completely separate towns, one called Buda and one called Pest, which had sneakily pretended to be one large town in order to lay claim to being, by right of size, the capital city of Hungary. One other thing I did know, however, was that there was a track called 'Budapest' on one of the later Jethro Tull albums, so I downloaded this onto my phone before I left, and listened to it in the taxi on the way to my hotel.
In the event I felt the song fell some way short of being a useful guide to the city as whole, comprising as it did endless repetitions of the phrase 'and her legs went on forever', accompanied by various permutations of flute and guitar. From what I could make out the owner of these legs was some woman Ian Anderson had encountered backstage at a concert, presumably in Budapest, and had been sufficiently struck by to immortalise in song. I resolved to buy a proper guide book as soon as possible, and switched back to my normal playlist of progressive rock classics.
Much to my surprise, however, the first thing I saw as I slouched in to the hotel bar that evening was what must have been this very same woman, in a short cocktail dress, singing 'Night and Day', accompanied by a small jazz band. It was clear to me immediately that the only sensible, and in fact possible, reaction to encountering such legs would be to write a song, or even a whole concept album, about them, and that no matter what other architectural marvels the city might possess, none were likely to arouse the same degree of shock and awe. I mentally apologised to Ian for doubting his judgement, and decided to stay in the bar for the rest of my life, or longer if possible.
I was, of course, also looking forward hugely to the hotel's Sylvester dinner the next evening, after my delightful experience in Cologne last year, but if truth be told it turned out to be a little disappointing. For one thing, instead of being sat in splendid isolation at a table on my own, where I could look soulful and intriguing, I was forced to sit with other people, and even worse, talk to them. Luckily no-one else at my table spoke English, so the evening was not totally ruined.
The second disappointment was that the advertised Gypsy Orchestra, which I had been awaiting with great anticipation, were conspicuous by their absence. I suppose it is in the nature of Gypsies, to wander hither and thither as they please, but even so it would have been polite for the hotel at least to mention that they weren't coming, rather than replacing them at the last minute, as they did, with something called Ronnie and Rick's Revue, and expecting us not to notice.
The eponymous Ronnie and Rick turned out to be two identical twins, both with shaven heads, eerily reminiscent of the Mitchell brothers in East Enders, except obviously more similar, and their speciality involved lifting each other up. Actually, this wasn't so much their speciality as their whole act, which they reprised after each course, of which there were in total nine. They didn't jump around at all, or throw each other up in the air, which would have been moderately exciting, they just lifted each other up, on their arms, and legs, and heads, puffing and wheezing all the while. To add variety, they dressed up in a variety of costumes whilst doing this lifting, so we saw them in loincloths, and in leotards, and in pin-stripe suits with bowler hats, and once (horrifyingly) in diapers. After each bout of lifting they would join hands and bow to the audience, most of whom were, like me, trying not to look so as to avoid spoiling their appetite.
Their Revue, such as it was, consisted of six grinning girls in black 'Pulp Fiction' Uma Thurman type wigs, who came out and danced to Madonna songs, after the lifting was over each time. For some inexplicable reason, there was also a dwarf, who just wandered about the stage aimlessly, falling over every now and again.
After five hours of this, all of us at my table, despite the drawback of our not sharing a common language, managed unanimously to agree that we could bear no more, and we all rushed outside to watch the fireworks instead.
Several seconds later, we all rushed back inside. "Oh My God" said the Norwegian lady, who had previously shown no sign of having any grasp of English at all. The honeymoon couple who had been sitting next to me stood moulded into a single figure, the bride in floods of tears. Even the groom looked a bit shaken.
The hotel concierge wandered over towards us. "Is very loud, yes?" he said, proudly. "In Hungary, we are permitted to make firework, but only at New Year. So everyone make firework at home in secret, then bring them to New Year in street. So is many fireworks, very big."
We all nodded in agreement. I decided that having no dependants, and consequently no responsibilities, I could risk my life at no cost to my conscience, so I went out again, and for a glorious half hour, lost myself completely in a roiling sea of people, and noise, and light. Things exploded next to me, and behind me, and on top of me, people screamed in languages I couldn't understand, and I was pushed and pulled by the crush of the crowd until I had lost all sense of where I was, or what shape I was, or even who I was.
Finally, I was on holiday.