But a new page! I’m here in Hungary and couldn’t feel more released. Amsterdam is still an option for the next year as soon as I get a signature from Mark Davidov on a reccomendation which he already agreed to do. Get that in, plus a visa and I will be golden nuggets.
Budapest breathes even more heavily than Prague, her open hill-spanning streets and towers—not ever too crowded but gorgeous. The people here are vibrant, helpful and always in the art of doing. I remember Friday when we almost left Prague but found out the train would cost too much, that was a day for me that culminated in a trifecta of angst at home, lack of money, the anticipation of suddenly leaving the country—I had been devastatingly drunk the previous night and had two double-espressos that morning, all the while we brooded over a lack of plans to even get to Budapest/have somewhere to stay, I had stomach pains all morning because I was full of nada but espresso, alcohol and anticipation.
But by gum… we’re here. I met a very pretty Hungarian last night; shy but self-confident, whose name was Rita, which she admitted is ironically an Italian name. She was of mixed race, white and either Mediterranean or black—she had that elusive Aegean beauty I’ve always sought in a girl; long chandelier earrings, curly hair styled back, colorful clothes, her lips were sensuous and pert but not big, something about their texture was so perfect the way they emerged from her mouth. When she spoke I never thought I would hear anyone make Hungarian sound pretty. But she was an angel—now don’t take me for a fool. I wasn’t in love. I’ve since learned to discern. But a great companion, a warm body moving with mine in the night, her eyes transfixed against mine, she was so intelligent too! Knew English just about as well as I did, asked me what I thought of Budapest—and after a night of strolling along the river in both towns, a sensational Hungarian dinner, a Summer music festival, watching the sun set from the Chain Bridge and all the droves of pleasure-seekers taking to the streets in the cool air of the night it was not any particular wonder I told her, “It’s beautiful.” But maybe I was talking about her. Maybe she knew that.
Well, she wasn’t alone, she was there with a friend, who, in trying to get over a boyfriend was drinking and dancing herself into sweet oblivion. Well, of course she got sick and Rita must have been terribly embarrassed—she looked like it. Either that or frustrated, but she never stopped watching over, taking care. And so I offered to leave if it was a burden but she insisted, “No… I like you.”
We danced and danced, to Michael Jackson’s “Beat It” (the world is still in mourning), a remix of “Funkytown” and eventually her friend reached the point of no return. I ended up carrying the unconscious corpse off the dancefloor with Rita at which point Kody spotted me for the first time that night,
“What’s going on?”
“Hey! Nothing man, don’t worry about it.”
I carried this girl out, past the bemused bouncers at the gate, up several flights of stairs, bear in mind that this club is entirely outdoor, under the stars. I rested her on the curb while Rita, crouched over the body phoned some friends to pick them up, switching seamlessly from Hungarian to English to explain to me what they were saying.
From there it was another voyage of sorts out of the island to the bridge where I was able to get her safely to the bus stop. Rita was immensely gracious and thanked me profusely but I just smiled and declined; more amused and exhausted physically by the whole thing than mad. She had to say goodbye, insisting she would take it from there but before she left she pulled me tight and kissed me twice on each cheek (a European thing, sure) but she didn’t have to! It was genuine, firm appreciation, not obligatory. She was so cute. Her friend too, before I could leave, gave me a huge warm hug then I galloped back across the bridge to my friends, waving goodbye.
I remember talking to her for a while about Budapest. She was glad I found it so appealing, she was tired of it and wanted only to get out. She had just graduated from University. There was a funny moment when she asked me how old I was and I lied and said twenty-one. She laughed,
“You’re young.”
A Computer Science major if you can imagine! How many hot, young Computer Science majors do you find in the U.S.?
If there is one thing I may always remember about her—it would be the feeling of her skin. When I ran my fingers down the small of her back it was like running them over the surface of a still body of water. It was remarkably smooth, impeccably. And the way she moved on the dancefloor was so lucid, it wasn’t forceful or forced, just a long, cool sway; slow and low and intent. Always intent on precisely the motion she was doing. The stuff of dreams, my friend.
I talk about the dancefloor but really there were so many other cool cats we met there; two Swiss guys who knew English English like I’ve never seen a foreigner know it, who could talk football as seamlessly as American politics and vacationing in the Alps and in Italy, even World War II. We compared stereotypes of Switzerland (Swiss cheese, Neutrality, Swiss Banks, Chocolate, Swatch, Rolex) to stereotypes of America (McDonalds, Coca Cola, Cowboys, Wide open spaces). It was funny and I’m glad they had a sense of humor about it. We implored them to understand that most Americans hated Bush, even going as far to explain the concept of Approval Ratings.
By the way, there is apparently a prevalent Facist party in Hungary. There was an odd moment from our day walking past the Neo-gothic spires of the Parliament building; there were several armed soldiers outside, who knew why. One of them hopped the barrier, walked over to a memorial where a crazy old man had thrown himself to his knees praying hysterically in supplication to whatever it was of, the guard removed what looked like an American flag from the soil, carried it back with him and disposed of it in a trash can. Well one of our British friends related to us that there had been a huge Facist demonstration earlier that day, including clashes with the police. The flag was not actually an American, but the all-red-and white-striped-flag of the Hungarian Facists. Bizzare to think that a country long under the taint of Communism would so quickly turn to the solace of near-Nazism. It was explained to us the Facists primary goal was to keep Jews, Africans and Romanians out of the country.
Two of the other British girls this guy was with from Londontown, Francesca and Lucy who were cute but not pretty, nonetheless proper Londoners in the way they talked and carried themselves talked to me a while in the Hostel about British music, which almost didn’t end—they were fascinated to see that some of these bands had been heard of in America. They filled me in on Brit slang; innit and proper. I even danced with the pair for a while—they offered me drinks! “Satisfaction” remix was killer and came on while we were doing the hip shake.
Pictures survive so of course you realize this means Facebook. As any perfect ending in such a city of the night, we walked back along the bridge, chewing on greasy burgers from a stand as the sun was just peaking its sleepy forehead out from behind some buildings as if to ask permission to come out.
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