It's around 10pm, I'm at a beer garden built from an old playground, complete with swings, in a rundown part of Budapest. Queueing at the bar, I step on a local bloke's flip-flopped foot. Twice. I apologise, he asks where I'm from, and a brilliant night begins. In the words of my former colleague James Taylor: incredible scenes. Come the dawn of the new day, I've turned into this...
The day starts with Marta's incredible free breakfast, and as much coffee as we can physically handle. We remember the episode of Futurama, where Fry decides to spend his tax rebate on 100 cups of coffee, and by the end of the day he's gone beyond the shakes to the point where he can actually control time. We get close, but we're not there yet.
Back at the tent we meet an English couple who are on a month's tour of eastern Europe. They've been here for a few days, and have worked out where to go at night. The guy recommends an area full of decent bars, and marks on the map the street where we can find the one made from an old playground.
This makes me confident that our time in Budapest will be spent well. When you've only got one night in a city, you can very easily end up passing the whole thing in some tacky tourist hole that you'd never go anywhere near if you were back at home. My criteria for a decent stay: by day, go up to the highest point you can and check out the city from above, then spend the daylight hours wandering around, ending up where you end up, and walking so much that your feet feel weird and heavy like deathbed Elvis. By night, somehow find your way to pubs that make you feel like you've had a genuinely ace night out. And that's it. Pretty simple really.
Still, when we set out in the morning on a chair lift up the mountain next to the campsite, for an amazing panoramic look at the city sprawling out amid miles of forest beneath us, it's hard to picture how the night could possibly be anything other than the superficial norm. Only that tiny glimmer of faith in how stuff always sorts itself out stops us digging out the hawaiian shirts and bum bags there and then.
We head into town for an incredible lunch, based almost entirely on meat. Then on the classic city bimble in the 37-degree heat, Jeff gets the shits, which dictates our direction for much of the afternoon. We amble around the historic Pest, and marvel over how mellow everything is. Then we scale a load of steps to check out some castle, where we watch a bloke rinsing tourists for cash playing that game where you guess which cup is hiding the ball. One bloke strides over, announces that he knows where it is, and slaps down a $100 bill. He doesn't know where it is. What a twat. Steve gets it right five times in a row, but just didn't want to play. We try to encourage Jeff to have a go - he's renowned for having the fox-like mind of a shrewd gambler.
(As I type this the sounds drift across the campsite from the tuba and squeeze box played by members of an 11-piece Belgian merengue band who are driving the length of the Danube, busking along the way).
Soon the heat is getting to us, so it's time to cool off by jumping in a really hot bath. Unfortunately we get to the spa 10 minutes after it shuts, which means we don't get the chance to lounge around looking furry in a moist loin hanky. And that means more time walking around feeling clammy, as if we were in a hot Fiat Punto. Hot sticky sucks, hot sticky sucks.
We stop for a beer at a random cafe, where Jeff is convinced he's getting the eye from this brunette at the next table. We don't believe him, but then he agrees to go and speak to them if we stay for another pint. We're impressed when he actually does so. Turns out they're Dutch students spending a month inter-railing. We get on well, even if they're unsure of my comments about my experiences riding the trains in Poland, 'with the cabin door open, naked and covered in butter'. But they warm to it - by the time I'm requesting 32 cocks for my 32nd birthday, they're on board, and when we're discussing the fact that Steve's been aged by smoking (he's only six years old, he has mortgage and he can't even read), it looks like we've properly made friends.
We go our separate ways, and the three of us take a long walk to find the bar we'd been recommended, leaving the tourist drag to wander off into somewhere far more dilapidated. Oooh, the 'real' Budapest. Soon we're walking down an alleyway, flanked by elegant crumbling facades, in total darkness. Real travelling, man - yes, we're in danger of getting raped, but at least we don't feel like tourists. Until we get the map out. Yep. Then a lovely woman in a long black dress comes over from the other side of the crossroads to see if we need help. She gives directions to her favourite pub, which turns out to be the playground one we were looking for anyway. Suddenly I picture God looking down at us, flopping back and forth on one of those little kids' cars on a spring, laughing.
The bar is ace. It has the feel of being somewhere decent, surrounded by locals. It's the Budapest equivalent of somewhere like Shoreditch, but without the need to express your individuality in exactly the same way as everyone else. The people are just being themselves, which is lovely.
And so we come to the part where I introduce myself to the dude by stepping on his foot. Turns out his name is Tomasz, a Hungarian who now lives in Warsaw and is back for a holiday. He also lived in Shepperton for a couple of years, to improve his perfect English. We offer him a gin fizz.
Tomasz takes us over to his table, where we meet his mates and neck black cherry polenks. His mates are an international bunch - which seems to be the way in central Europe. We talk about the history of the region. As a representative of Great Britain, I apologise profusely for fucking the whole thing up. The guy in the stripey top is a TV chef, the white Hungarian version of Ainsley Harriot. His girlfriend is an olympian pistol shooter. I spend most of the time talking to Anya, a beautiful down-to-earth 34-year-old Polish mother, who's over with her French boyfriend. She is a delight, and says the word 'fuck' in a brilliant way.
Memories of Dortmund - we're bowled over by how this group take us under their wing and make everything ruddy special. We get royally trashed together and say our goodbyes, and then Tomasz and Kabo take us to get a kebab. Steve says it's the best he's ever had. He chats to Kabo, who drops in the fact he is product manager of biggest vehicle parts distributor in Hungary. Which is handy when you're driving a 1.2-litre Fiat Punto to Mongolia. He says he'll give us anything we need. We're picking up one of his fuel filters in Romania. All free. Kabo, that's ace.
Jeff spends a while explaining to Kabo and Tomasz what we mean by the words 'mental' and 'ace'. They crop up a lot apparently. I hadn't noticed.
I'm making demands for more birthday beer, so Tomasz takes us on - into a totally anonymous iron-clad, sound-proofed grey block in the middle of the city. It looks the kind of place that, had you entered 20 years ago, you'd never have come out. It's certainly not the kind of place you'd walk past and think, 'let's pop in there for a boogie'. We go up endless flights of red steps to the top two floors, and emerge into what Steve describes as:
'The best club anyone's ever seen, full of people from every nationality going mental to decent funky techno coming out of the best soundsystem you've ever heard.'
Yep, the vibe and everything was ace. People friendly, open, attractive, and having a good time. We dance till 5.30am, stopping every now and again to get a view of the city from the roof. Surrounded by honeys.
We go outside and say our goodbyes to Tomasz, who is an absolutely brilliant bloke. As Steve puts it: 'I've always thought of myself as quite open-minded, but these are levels of openness and human acceptance and a love of life I've never seen before. And I never want to forget.'
I told Tomasz he had given us an amazing evening. His response:
'The really amazing thing is to meet three guys who are volunteering to drive to Mongolia, for charity. This is my volunteering - everything will go much better if they drive away from here with a smile on their face.' I'm starting to think this is all turning a bit gay, but then Steve points out how, embarking on a nine-hour drive after a night out with Tomasz, it's not smiles we'll have on our faces.
We decide to stay another day.
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