two weeks

I found the place next to the museum where the couchsurfer meeting was being held.  It was a nice restaurant, with black solid oak tables and silver finery, but it lacked any real character or charm that makes a place unique, like what I had witnessed the day before in the Sirius tea room.  About 15 people had showed up.  There I met a girl who worked for Avis, but drew cartoons as a hobby and had just entered some into a competition.  Also arriving was an old Scottish friend, Al, who I knew from Tbilisi.  He was a journalist who was dating a Georgian girl who was attending university there in Budapest, so he followed with her.  Now he works with some Roma group who’s working on raising awareness on Roma issues in Hungary.  The Roma, more commonly known as gypsies, are a complicated issue.  As one of the couchsurfers who was talking to Al put it, “I hate to be prejudiced against anyone, but I’ve never met a gypsy not trying to take my money.” 

Pavlos arrived a bit late to the place, with all of his bags and readiness to join into the party.  He immediately sat down and broke into the conversations around him.  He relates with people with an uncanny ease, always having some story to tell relating with nearly anything, so you never have to worry about him being a melodramatic wallflower at a party.  After the party, we hopped on the train back home.  Amanda was living in an apartment block building quite near a train station.  The building, which was quite typical in design in Budapest, opened to an inner courtyard, from which all the apartments were accessible.  Across the courtyard from Amanda’s apartment was a brothel with a sign, “Sweet Massage Escort Service.”  Roman had told me that if you actually wanted a massage there, you’d have to pay extra.

The next morning, I made my way to the Russian embassy, my papers in order and in hand.  When I entered, I was greeted by a guard, who asked me in Russian, “What is your citizenship?”

“I’m an American.”

He nodded and smiled.  “That’s very nice.  Have a seat right over here and you can go to the window after this man.”

“Thanks.” 

A few moments passed.  The man went to the window.  The guard returned, saying, “Actually, go to that window.  The lady there speaks English, so you won’t have any problems.”

I thanked him again.  I went to the window he had mentioned and greeted the lady, an older blonde Russian lady whose face was lined with wrinkles.  I slide my papers through the window slot. 

“Permission to stay in Hungary,” she said in English. 

“Permission?”  I showed her my passport with my entry stamp.

“No.  Permission to stay in Hungary,” she repeated.  She pushed my papers back through the slot.

“I don’t need permission.  I’m an American and Hungary is in the Schengen.  We can be here for three months without permission.”

Without saying another word, she closed the window and walked off.  I waited.  And waited.  And waited.  I was thinking what I had read online.  I had gone to both the Russian embassy in the US website and the Russian embassy in Hungary website, making sure that I had all the appropriate documents.  Fifteen minutes later, she returned.  She opened the slot, pulled through my papers and looked at them.  “Insurance?”

“Yes, I have it.”

“Where?”

“I don’t have any copies.  It didn’t say I needed copies.”

“You need insurance.  Bring insurance, then two weeks.”  She slid my papers back through the slot. 

“It said I can buy a faster service.  A three day service, yeah?”

“No, two weeks.”

“No three day service?”

“No, two weeks.”  She closed the slot and stared at me, waiting for me to go.  I left.  I was not pleased.  It meant I had to revise my journey.  I could wait the two weeks in Hungary or try my luck at the Russian embassy in Kiev.  If I had to wait two weeks, it’d be better to wait in Kiev, since at least I can speak one of the common languages there, Russian, and I could practice that.  In Hungary, there was only the jibba jabba of a language that wouldn’t help me advance in anything if I practiced that. 

“We’re going to Kiev,” I told Pavlos, coming back into the apartment.  “Friday, we’ll go.  Then we can still do the folk dancing thing on Thursday night.”  Pavlos wanted to stay an extra day though, so we compromised to Saturday.  “I just need to be at the embassy in Kiev on Monday to apply,” I told him.    

The bridge to Buda

The rest of the day was spent walking around on the Buda side.  Buda was the side with the big hill and castle on top.  The castle, which was a huge fortified area, included a small medieval style town, a palace and an old cathedral.  This was where the old nobility would have lived, though long since replaced by rich foreigners and bankers.  I overheard one tour guide saying, “People do live in the castle district, but I don’t understand why.  It’s expensive and crowded, especially in the summer when all the tourists are out.  But, I think, when you tell someone you live in the castle district, then it sounds pretty cool.”  To me, Buda was lacking the real spirit of the city, though it was more scenic.  The more vibrant side of Budapest was definitely in the flatter, Pest side.  

View of Pest from Buda

Pavlos along the city battlements

Buda Castle

We got back to the Nyugati district late, intending to go to a couchsurfing meeting at another bar which was nearby our apartment.  The bar was called Pokucs.  I had looked on a map before and it seemed fairly straight forward to find.  But as we walked up and down each street, unable to figure out where it was, we decided to try to find the address on my phone or search for passersby who might know.  We did find one guy, who was with a couple of Australians.  They didn’t know where the bar was, but Pavlos took the guy’s iPhone and logged on to Facebook to find it.  With Facebook, he got the actual name of the bar and searched for the address.  He gave the phone back and we went down the first street I had thought the bar was on.  There was an unmarked fence that we had to enter, then to continue down a small, tree covered patio until finally we found it, what appeared from the outside to be a small squat squeezed in-between two five story buildings.

The rest of the night was spent meeting other couchsurfers.  I had been sitting next to this one buxom, brown haired Hungarian named Dora, who smiled an unnatural amount for Hungarians.  “What do you think of Hungary?” she asked me. 

“I think Hungarians never smile,” I told her.  “Except for you.  But usually, y’all seem so serious.  I mean everywhere.  Restaurants, bars, at shops, with friends.  I haven’t seen this many depressed people gathered in one city in all my life.  Even in Georgia, where I was living, there was a lot of miserable people, but not like this!  But, at least you smile, and it’s a pretty smile.” 

We were joined by another American guy named Craig.  He was blonde haired and blue eyed, with a broad face and a mole on his cheek.  I couldn’t tell if he had already known Dora, or was just trying hard to hit her up, since as I got up to get us some traditional Hungarian shot, he moved Dora from sitting next to me opposite him to next to him and when I came back, I found myself sitting in Dora’s old spot.  “This unicum,” Craig explained to us, “has a story.  They say there were two Hungarian brothers.  One had gone off to Germany and invented Jagermeister and the other had invented this.  It tastes a lot like Jagermeister, but it’s somewhat stronger.  Most people can’t handle it.” 

What Craig failed to know was that Georgia was a real conditioning ground for drinking.  Especially when it came to tchatcha.  No drink in the world burned like tchatcha does, or makes a man want to heave up when he drinks it.  There is absolutely nothing enjoyable or compelling about tchatcha, except that it’s an overwhelmingly efficient way to get drunk.  To tell a good grade of tchatcha, you light it on fire and make sure that it burns a bright blue.  Jagermeister didn’t compare to it, and as I poured this new, blood red syrupy substance into my mouth, which tasted like Jagermeister, I didn’t think it really compared either.  “That’s nothing,” I told Craig.  “You need to try some Georgian liquor.” 

Later, Dora left and Craig got up to escort her out.  I thought they were leaving together, but then Craig had come back.  “Your friend there,” he said, pointing across the room at Pavlos, “had come out following Dora trying to creep on her.  He wouldn’t go away.” 

The night passed and Pavlos and I were next to each other again.  “Man, that Dora girl was hot,” he told me. 

“I know, I was talking to her most of the night.”

“I went out to try to get with her,” Pavlos said, “but that Craig guy was creeping out and following her.  He wouldn’t go away.” 

“But then he came back,” I told him.  “He started talking to me again, so I got him to buy me some drinks.”

“Yeah, I don’t get it.  I mean, why didn’t he just go home with her, if he was going to go through that trouble?”