I wanted to
stay for the folk dancing night. Folk
dancing is one of those things you can only experience the real bit in the
right country. You can go to a punk or
rock show in nearly any country. Sure,
some slight variations on style and sound occur, but in the end, modern music
is modern music. I had fun in Germany
watching I Heart Sharks and in Czech Republic watching Tata Bojs, but neither
were really German or Czech, as they both had modern, international sounds. The real beat of a culture is in its folk
music. But as Pavlos had once pointed
out, “Things can either get stuck or they can modernize. Things can happen where they don’t just get
stuck, but they move forward too.
Tradition doesn’t have to die, it can move forward, it can change and adapt
and still be tradition.” Folk music and dance make a statement about to a culture, and to an anthropologically minded person, can provide a window. But
traditionalists often don’t agree, wanting everything to remain pure and old
until its covered in cobwebs and broken bones.
In some ways, folk music is like that, it is the old, bitter man in the
corner, stumped over from osteoporosis, with an aching back and burning
joints. But sometimes the old man can
shake himself off, get down and boogie.
The club was called Godor. It started as a project to build a new theater, but as they dug and dug, for some reason the project was abandoned, leaving a great gaping open pit behind. Someone else picked up the idea again and kept the place underground, with a gentle slant that went downward to the club. They put in a bar and several rooms for dancing and space for live music and named it “Godor”, which was Hungarian for “the Pit”. Now they play live music every weekend and live Hungarian and Romanian folk music every other Thursday. One room was dedicated to a band strong in the violin, playing more intimate songs meant for pairs, while the other room featured more of a jam band style folk group where the dancing mostly involved large circle dances, with some more skilled pairs in the center. As the night waned on, the lesser dancers went home and the real serious folk remained behind, doing their twists and twirls with expert precision and timing.
The club was called Godor. It started as a project to build a new theater, but as they dug and dug, for some reason the project was abandoned, leaving a great gaping open pit behind. Someone else picked up the idea again and kept the place underground, with a gentle slant that went downward to the club. They put in a bar and several rooms for dancing and space for live music and named it “Godor”, which was Hungarian for “the Pit”. Now they play live music every weekend and live Hungarian and Romanian folk music every other Thursday. One room was dedicated to a band strong in the violin, playing more intimate songs meant for pairs, while the other room featured more of a jam band style folk group where the dancing mostly involved large circle dances, with some more skilled pairs in the center. As the night waned on, the lesser dancers went home and the real serious folk remained behind, doing their twists and twirls with expert precision and timing.
Pavlos (here's his blog) and I went there together, and met Sara, who had showed me the tea room
a few days before. She had brought two
Indian friends, one of whom she met off of couchsurfing and the other a friend
of that one. We all danced and drank
beer together, until finally we left around three in the morning and hit up a
gyros joint. After the gyros, everyone
went on their own way. I walked Sara to
the bus stop, as Pavlos went jogging into the night, trying to find his way
home on his own, which was interesting to me, knowing that he had no sense of
direction whatsoever. It was endearing though
since I knew he was trying to give me time alone to hook up with Sara, since he
knew his overpowering charm would distract her away from me, and perhaps he
felt sorry for my lack of game. My lack
of game paid off in the end, with a hug, a smile and a wave goodbye.
Pavlos ended up calling me from some dark street on the other side of Budapest. I was already home and asleep, but woke up to the sound of my phone. “Shawn,” Pavlos said, “where am I and where am I going?”
“I don’t know where you are, but you are going to the Nyugati station.”
“Do you know where the Nyugati station is?” he was asking someone else, perhaps the owner of the phone. “Okay, I’ll see you there soon.”
I went back to sleep and woke up to the knocking on the door. I opened the door and saw Pavlos there, still jogging in place. “You know it was unlocked, yeah?”
The next night we were to go out with our hostess, Amanda, who was finally taking a break from her studies. First we went to a bar, the Loft, nearby her place to wait for her to get home at the library. We ordered what was called a “giraffe” of Stella Artois. Why Stella? We learned some time ago that Hungarians could not make beer, and both of us knew that the Belgians could. Since the internet wasn’t working, and the waitress didn’t seem too eager to help us with anything, Pavlos took a nap while I wrote on my laptop. When Pavlos excused himself to go have a smoke, I grew bored and looked at the people around. There was a pair of Hungarians across from me, occasionally kissing each other and holding each other’s hands. Some Hungarian guys sitting down and chatting, occasionally shouting at each other. And in the far corner, a group of four English girls. So I went over to talk to them and pass the time.
They were in Budapest for a weekend, having found some cheap flights over the internet and just looking to get out of London. They had come from all over England. Laura had moved in with her boyfriend, whose flat mate was Leah and they had become friends. When Laura and her boyfriend broke up, she and Leah found a new home, where they met the other two girls and they had been friends for solid years afterwards. They asked me about my trip and all the places I’d seen and what were my favorites. “Prague was fun, it was nice and cheap, but it’s pretty normal. I think Ljubljana was amazing, that was a real party town. It’s small, but there’s the river and just tons of bars lining the river, and they’re open around the clock.”
“That sounds perfect,” one of the girls said.
“And Strasbourg might have been the prettiest town I visited,” I said. Though I didn’t care much for the French people themselves, Strasbourg was undeniably beautiful.
“That sounds German,” one of the girls said.
“It was. Then it was French, then German, then French. It’s right on the border, they’ve fought over it a lot. So what brings you guys here?” Then Pavlos came up and sat down with us, stealing my thunder and pushing me back into invisibility while all the girls focused on him. So I focused back on my beer and watched Pavlos weave his own stories in and out, talking about anything from Central Asia to smoking to jumping jacks in the morning, keeping the girls’ attention focused on himself. Knowing how rapt he was, when one girl spoke up about something, he joked, “Excuse me, can we keep the attention on me?” I drank my beer in silence, until he up and decided to leave. He had left a jacket back in Romania and his last hostess had put it on a train, so he was hoping he could get it from the driver. He tried the same tactic when he left his charger in Ljubljana, but it had never arrived in Belgrade, like we were hoping back then.
Now the attention was back on me. They asked me interesting places to go in town. I told them about the folk dancing, but then realized they weren’t going to be there for a Thursday night. “Then you want to go to Szimpla,” I told them. “It’s in the Jewish district. I didn’t get to go, but everyone I talked to insisted that I go there for some real partying. Or –“ and then Amanda buzzed me on the phone, she was home and getting ready for the party. “Excuse me ladies, I’ve got to get going. The friend I’m staying with is having a party. You guys can come later and I can send you a text then.”
We went to another bar near the museum. Hanging on the high walls were random objects of pop culture, from a blow up Spiderman scaling the bricks to a fixed gear 1960s style bicycle. We were there to say goodbye to Amanda’s friends, namely a collection of undergraduate German students who were taking a few Masters courses for their Erasmus exchange program. Which was how Amanda met them. The Germans were from all over Germany and shared that same pleasant, humble friendliness found throughout most of Germany.
After mingling at the bar, we went on to one of Amanda’s friend’s houses nearby, where we had more beers and danced to reggae and jazz. “Ophelia!” went one song by The Band, “Where have you gone?” This was a song Pavlos had introduced me to on our trip and was worth every listen. I found a box of falafel mix in the kitchen and insisted that we make some, so I pulled out a bowl and stirred it up. The next day, Amanda confessed that she thought I was making it from scratch – “I was thinking I’d have to sit back for a couple of hours! But then in 15 minutes you already had it out and served.”
“You must have thought I was a master chef or something,” I said back to her. Our things were strewn about the apartment and we were slowly gathering them, getting ready to leave Budapest. Our train was at 7 o’clock in the evening, arriving in Kiev then next day at 8 o’clock in the evening. I didn’t know what to expect from the train. “We don’t have to pack any food,” I said to Pavlos, not yet knowing at the time there was no restaurant car. “There will be something to eat, it’s no big deal.”
Pavlos ended up calling me from some dark street on the other side of Budapest. I was already home and asleep, but woke up to the sound of my phone. “Shawn,” Pavlos said, “where am I and where am I going?”
“I don’t know where you are, but you are going to the Nyugati station.”
“Do you know where the Nyugati station is?” he was asking someone else, perhaps the owner of the phone. “Okay, I’ll see you there soon.”
I went back to sleep and woke up to the knocking on the door. I opened the door and saw Pavlos there, still jogging in place. “You know it was unlocked, yeah?”
The next night we were to go out with our hostess, Amanda, who was finally taking a break from her studies. First we went to a bar, the Loft, nearby her place to wait for her to get home at the library. We ordered what was called a “giraffe” of Stella Artois. Why Stella? We learned some time ago that Hungarians could not make beer, and both of us knew that the Belgians could. Since the internet wasn’t working, and the waitress didn’t seem too eager to help us with anything, Pavlos took a nap while I wrote on my laptop. When Pavlos excused himself to go have a smoke, I grew bored and looked at the people around. There was a pair of Hungarians across from me, occasionally kissing each other and holding each other’s hands. Some Hungarian guys sitting down and chatting, occasionally shouting at each other. And in the far corner, a group of four English girls. So I went over to talk to them and pass the time.
They were in Budapest for a weekend, having found some cheap flights over the internet and just looking to get out of London. They had come from all over England. Laura had moved in with her boyfriend, whose flat mate was Leah and they had become friends. When Laura and her boyfriend broke up, she and Leah found a new home, where they met the other two girls and they had been friends for solid years afterwards. They asked me about my trip and all the places I’d seen and what were my favorites. “Prague was fun, it was nice and cheap, but it’s pretty normal. I think Ljubljana was amazing, that was a real party town. It’s small, but there’s the river and just tons of bars lining the river, and they’re open around the clock.”
“That sounds perfect,” one of the girls said.
“And Strasbourg might have been the prettiest town I visited,” I said. Though I didn’t care much for the French people themselves, Strasbourg was undeniably beautiful.
“That sounds German,” one of the girls said.
“It was. Then it was French, then German, then French. It’s right on the border, they’ve fought over it a lot. So what brings you guys here?” Then Pavlos came up and sat down with us, stealing my thunder and pushing me back into invisibility while all the girls focused on him. So I focused back on my beer and watched Pavlos weave his own stories in and out, talking about anything from Central Asia to smoking to jumping jacks in the morning, keeping the girls’ attention focused on himself. Knowing how rapt he was, when one girl spoke up about something, he joked, “Excuse me, can we keep the attention on me?” I drank my beer in silence, until he up and decided to leave. He had left a jacket back in Romania and his last hostess had put it on a train, so he was hoping he could get it from the driver. He tried the same tactic when he left his charger in Ljubljana, but it had never arrived in Belgrade, like we were hoping back then.
Now the attention was back on me. They asked me interesting places to go in town. I told them about the folk dancing, but then realized they weren’t going to be there for a Thursday night. “Then you want to go to Szimpla,” I told them. “It’s in the Jewish district. I didn’t get to go, but everyone I talked to insisted that I go there for some real partying. Or –“ and then Amanda buzzed me on the phone, she was home and getting ready for the party. “Excuse me ladies, I’ve got to get going. The friend I’m staying with is having a party. You guys can come later and I can send you a text then.”
We went to another bar near the museum. Hanging on the high walls were random objects of pop culture, from a blow up Spiderman scaling the bricks to a fixed gear 1960s style bicycle. We were there to say goodbye to Amanda’s friends, namely a collection of undergraduate German students who were taking a few Masters courses for their Erasmus exchange program. Which was how Amanda met them. The Germans were from all over Germany and shared that same pleasant, humble friendliness found throughout most of Germany.
After mingling at the bar, we went on to one of Amanda’s friend’s houses nearby, where we had more beers and danced to reggae and jazz. “Ophelia!” went one song by The Band, “Where have you gone?” This was a song Pavlos had introduced me to on our trip and was worth every listen. I found a box of falafel mix in the kitchen and insisted that we make some, so I pulled out a bowl and stirred it up. The next day, Amanda confessed that she thought I was making it from scratch – “I was thinking I’d have to sit back for a couple of hours! But then in 15 minutes you already had it out and served.”
“You must have thought I was a master chef or something,” I said back to her. Our things were strewn about the apartment and we were slowly gathering them, getting ready to leave Budapest. Our train was at 7 o’clock in the evening, arriving in Kiev then next day at 8 o’clock in the evening. I didn’t know what to expect from the train. “We don’t have to pack any food,” I said to Pavlos, not yet knowing at the time there was no restaurant car. “There will be something to eat, it’s no big deal.”
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