Wandering through Heathrow after getting off a plane is always a marathon, especially if you have an imminent connecting flight to catch. Thankfully, I didnt. But the twists and turns corresponding to the multi-directional arrows on hundreds of yellow signs made me wonder if a piece of cheese was waiting for me at the end.
All that was waiting at the end might as well have been an extremely overpriced piece of cheese. And coffee. And everything else. It was a wonder I was allowed to breathe without forking over some kind of nominal fee. Regardless of the gripes, I was on my way to see a shortish, scraggly-haired man who was waiting for me at the Budapest international airport's Terminal 2. When I layed sore eyes upon the young Che Guevara look-alike, I did what brothers who've not seen each other in over six months do. I let him carry my bag.
Davey led me via bus and subway car to a homey, IKEA catalogue of a flat in the heart of the Pest part of Hungary's capital city. I was introduced to a very affable roommate and empty pizza boxes littering the living room. Ah, college.
'Lil Davey had chosen a city for his study abroad adventure with quite an exciting year behind it thus far. A few months back, the Hungarian prime minister was caught on tape claiming to have lied to the electorate and not in so many words, but in pretty much those exact words. Unsurprisingly, he survived a confidence vote along party lines and is still in power despite enormous, weeks-long street protests. Further, this year marks the fiftieth anniversary of showcasing what a Soviet tank did best; steamroll its way into an Eastern Bloc city to crush anti-Communist uprisings and maybe a goulash run. We were fortunate to encounter a moving commemoration of the tragedy as thousands of the city's citizens marched across a main thoroughfare, carrying lit candles on a drizzly, Sunday dusk.
Similarly, the so-called House of Terror, where communists tortured several of the rebellious Magyars responsible for all the trouble had a rather chilling display lining the outside of the museum. Miniature oval photos of each victim, or hero, were spaced out about six inches from each other with plenty of colorful candles underneath. Observers came to light more candles and to quietly reflect on the sacrifices many of the brave, working folk-turned-revolutionaries had made so Hungarians could have a life of choice instead of having to live with garish, Bolshevik red day in and day out.
Once inside the museum, however, the solemnity of the occasion and the monument intself were cheapened, Davey and I noticed, by the haunted house music being played on loop as visitors walked in. While the Soviet repression was an afront to thinking people everywhere, is there really a need for Vincent Price theatrics to plow the point home? Shouldn't the large, Soviet tank in the lobby and the inscription, "They died for you." chiseled on every wall suffice?
Davey and I bonded as we wandered the architecturally stunning streets of Budapest, indulging in restaurants here and teahouses there. We sipped dozens of espressos in tiny coffee shops and cocktails at Cha Cha Cha, a lively and fun bar tucked inside a subway tunnel which I had enjoyed on my first visit to Budapest four years prior. This time, though, it was nice to be able to leave the place on my feet.
I fell in love with the city on that visit, before its acsendancy to the European Union. The main difference I could detect this time around, was a real air of progress. The town itself seemed somewhat cleaner than I remembered. Not once was I approached by a prostitute claiming to have met me a few days ago and wanting me to accompany her to a "great bar". Many new restaurants and bars had sprouted up and English was spoken with a regularity I certainly did not recall when getting off the train in 2002 and inquiring of a place to crash from a woman behind a desk who just stared at me for minutes at a time. I'm not sure if that is progress or not, but it certainly makes the city and its numerous charms more accessible.
The steaming pots of goulash; the platters of stuffed paprikas; the generously plump sausages; even the extraordinarily good Hungarian wine was all had by us for a song, or at most, half an album. The cumbersome Hungarian florint is still in use and will be for a bit longer as Davey told me that it won't be till possibly 2014 when Hungary finally gets to use the euro. Thankfully, for us, the prices haven't been affected that much by joining the Union. Even our soak in the famous baths of the stately Gellert Hotel was a mere pittance for the pleasure of dipping yourself in soothing thermal pools filled with scores of old Hungarian men who lost the war against gravity, years ago.
Davey has it good. He's enrolled in a school filled with students from all over the continent, as well as other continents, in a city rich with history, tragedy and triumph. What's more, his classes are relegated to only two days a week and his only worries remain where to party on Tuesday night. Youth is wasted on the young.
Still, it's hard to place the blame on my 21-year old, little brother. While Budapest is wonderfully distracting, his institution of higher learning also sets the bar pretty low. In actuality, they set the bar up every Friday and Saturday night.
School Club I suppose, could be considered an extra-curricular activity. As we approached the steps of the university Davey attended on the banks of the city-splitting Danube, I could see the colorful logo consisting of a mortarboard resting on red letters spelling out those very words. Once inside, there were a cadre of bald bouncers, tersely demanding an admission fee. I had an instant flashback of being escorted from another Hungarian establishment by similar looking henchman and a woman in a fur coat four years ago, but that's an entirely different, longer story. Once the fee was paid, Davey and I entered what was essentially a happenin' lounge area with a semi-full bar and nothing but Heineken on tap. In fact, Heineken was sponsoring the whole thing as was evident by the gigantic Heineken signs littering the place. We checked our coats and made our way downstairs to where the real party was.
School Club quickly turned from relaxed lounge into booming niteclub once we descended. In the center of the large, oval-shaped room were huge bars serving every kind of alcohol mixed with every kind of mixer, by trendy-looking male bartenders. Everyone in the crammed joint was dressed in "club-wear" and, as they do in the rest of Europe for some reason, most of the men had copius amounts of styling gel sculpting their hair into making you think they just woke up from a nap. Mass cleavage abounded on virtually every single woman I saw, God love 'em, and the music was typically stupid, Euro-techno-pop.
Surrounding the perimeter were ebony and gray-colored mannequins with bad perms and pink lips. Each of them donned a green Heineken shirt and were posed in such a way so as to mimic dancing. Looking as if a Heineken representative broke into a JC Penny's and decided to host a throw down, the mini-auditorium couldn't have looked more ridiculous. And fun.
Davey and I did a lap and headed upstairs for the beer counter. Sipping on the Netherland's second-best brew, I kept looking around in disbelief. Respected university by day; Studio 54 by night. Where was this place when I was in college? My second time in Budapest and I was still discovering and learning new things about her. I just never expected to actually be in a place of learning to do so.
