the law firm of Buda and Pest

Traveling is a lot like getting a tattoo. You have an idea, you spend the money and suddenly you want to do it again. It keeps happening until you are looking a the spaces between your knuckles going, "I could totally fit the state of Florida there..."

And that's not even the worst of it. Honestly, the more pleased you are about traveling the more likely you are to meet someone remarkably more well traveled than yourself. There you'll be, having a friendly backpackers contest over the  different color combinations of other countries' flags, or deluging well planted insights into what really turned the tides of the Arab Spring, when you'll accidentally say something so unwittingly common the other travelers won't even bother laughing. They'll just take the conversation where you can't go. As though it were some place you've neer been. And if they were tattooed, they'd suddenly look like this guy:

Oh, you've still got blank spaces on your passport, how quaint.

Even if you as clever as me and know to keep your mouth shut, or call in for air suport when you're quite literally outclassed, you still can't help but glance down at your arms and think, "Here *should* be dragons."
But when this happens, and even when it doesn't, we are--at least, presented with a chance to understand humility, at best--the chance to comprehend our own limitations, or at worst,  the opportunity to come to grips with the fact that we are seriously overlooking the space behind our ear as a rocking new lo-cal to get tatted up!

It's totally tribal. No but really, it means something.

Budapest was amazing. For me, it had everything a vacation needs: Cheap, delicious food, excellent exchange rate, perfectly sunny weather, and good places to get wet. 

The streets are wide boulevards which rarely reek of piss. (Unlike mon ami, Paris, on both counts.) One can speak only English and never feel misunderstood. There are very few homeless people and a great bicycle culture.
The food is thick and creamy. They eat lots of soup and sausage. Big hunks of white bread at every meal and they can pound donuts like champs. 

Compared to Paris, Budapest is sprawling. People stop at cross walks, because they probably couldn't hoof it in time. No one  came up to me and hit on me in a rude way. Ok, well, one guy did--but I was starting to miss it ;) Street art is alive and kickin your face in, round Budapest way.

So you're sitting there thinking, "ok, Erin, artery clogging gastronomy and writing on the walls, I'm so impressed--Budpest is in in central Europe, that's basically Eastern Europe with a boring in front of it. What kind of what could there even be?"

Well, it just so happens that Budapest sits on top of natural thermal springs that the Turks turned into public baths. 

 The best part about them is how sexy they seem to make us both look.

And, no thermo, but they're pretty sexy themselves:

Watch that water glistening, flaunting its curves.

Visting them on the two days that we did were pretty much the most decadent thing I've ever done. But then again, I feel decadent when I drink a mimosa...or take a bath with scented candles lit.

Oooo, vanilla!

Can you believe I actually got a massage? I did not expect to be naked. Honestly? They always have towels across their bums in the vids. (Ok, not THOSE vids) But some Grandma giving my tummy a tickle was almost too much!  I kept squirming away like a slick fish....I still don't know if I was supposed to tip.

Wait, let me get my tourist cap on.

The time I spent alone with Sebastien on this trip was a paragon of placidity and languidly luxurious in every shade of sunshine and chocolate. Laying on his chest in warm bath water, outside, under the sun,

 Sipping an icy drink or hiking up Gellért Hill and gazing out over the surround areas of Buda.

Long walks on both sides of the river danube. Having drinks AND dessert. Talking about whatever felt good.
Reading together alone in the grass. Knowing our best friend feels the same way as we do. 

Sebastien is the best tour guide ever devised. He actually tried to speak Hungarian and marched me off to all the places he kept finding on the maps. If I had gone alone, my greatest and daily ambition would likely have amounted to finding a nice place to read and later on, a good spot to get loaded. Oh and ice cream, but that would have hardly taken substantial planning.  (Yeah, I'm kind of exciting.)

If you go to Budapest durring the summer, the indoor-out-door baths and wave pools are easy amusement and all the museums make for good sport as well. The food will fill your belly and the drinks are cheep. But nothing compares to kerts.
These are garden parties that get set up in abandoned spaces and turned into the kind of establishments I would like to run. The furniture, the lighting. PERFECTION. If you end up in Budapest, find a local on couch surfing and get them to take you to one. It will be like no bar experience you've ever had. There aren't even lines for the bathroom!

Obviously, I've taken a million more photos and you can check out a slide show of them here:

I guess the part where the tattoo/travel image falls apart is, after a trip like the week we spent in Budapest, I find I'm all tatted out. But hey, there's no such thing as a perfect metaphor ;) Hmm, on second thought, maybe I can squeeze a few stars in between my toes...

You have read this article Backpacking / Budapest / flickr / Kerts / Street Art / Tattoos / Travel with the title Backpacking. You can bookmark this page URL https://trendcelebrity2014.blogspot.com/2011/08/the-law-firm-of-buda-and-pest.html. Thanks!

The Quiet American

The Quiet American

“Well, some of them are really, reallly rude.”

The sudden loud English breaks my reverie. I’m in Paris, and I was staring off into the bottle-dotted depths of the Seine outside of the sort of hostel known for housing loud Americans, Aussies and any other twenty-something who honestly believes they’re “traveling” and not just on holiday. The bar inside is decked out in colorful plastic furniture with clean chrome lines and crushed velvet accents. The music they are blast-casting out here on to the patio is bassy and basic but the waves of the river, and all the rubbished pooled at the base of a nearby bridge, move out of sync.

“Like, I took a train once between San Francisco and LA and, you know, it’s like a five hour ride.”

“Rhite, rhite…” another man tries, in heavily accented English.

             “And this girl was putting on makeup—literally, the entire time!”

“Oh vov.”

“I think her tits were fake too. It was brilliant.”

The Englishman’s head is shaven and he is wide enough to play rugby, with a huge yellow Nike swoosh plastered across his red tee shirt and a devil crest on his left sleeve.

I cringe and shift. In my experience, Manchester United fans are the Yankee fans of the football world. His friend by contrast is slighter, with shaggy brown hair, a diamond earring and an endless sort of summer tan. His shirt is teal, without writing; he keeps twisting his facial hair up close to his chin. They didn’t come here together, and they won’t be taking the same tours in the morning. For now, it is enough to simply laugh and smoke with a stranger in a strange land. I’m down wind, but they don’t notice.

“I fink da ting viv da States es dey are da best in da voard and sometime dey act may-bee better, like better den us?”

“Well, it’s like if they are the most powerful nation in the world, you’d expect them to be best at everything,” the native speaker interprets.

“Yace, but al-so dey is arro—arrogant?”

“Quite right. They think they can just go over to Iraq, or wherever else really, and take whatever they want.” He drinks deeply from his pint, gulping revoltingly.

“Yace and I see dis youtube vid-yo, and dey are askin American to point to Irak and, and dey don’t!”

They laugh again.

I make up a wide range of angry excuses in my head for why the dumbest people in my country always stop to talk to camera crews. But when I can’t make any of them stick, I go back to resenting their cigarette smoke.

“Well it goes back to what I was saying before, with that woman on the train. I said to her, ‘Excuse me, I think you’re in my seat’, and she said, ‘I paid for a ticket too!’ Just like that, went right back to putting on her makeup! Can you believe it?”

“Yace, yace. And, and I see also dis vid-yo vere dey ask American vere are da con-contry vut start vid ‘U’ and dey know only one!”

“Yeah, there are loads of them, aren’t there? Uganda…”

“Ukraine.” He says with a nod of certainty.

“Uruguay. Loads of them…”

You forgot the United Arab Emirate, dickwad. I tell myself sulkily.

“Yace, yace, lohdz.” The chrome on his red plastic chair scrapes the new concrete as he rises, pulling up his belted pants as he goes. “I get nother beer. You vant?”

The first waves his hand away. I find I am looking down at the menu—a

boilerplate selection of drinks and snacks. I’m trying to calm down; to be fair. It isn’t without reason that these stereotypes of my countrymen exist, and it isn’t as though I didn’t just make assumptions about that prick based on his tee shirt.

But America is like my mother. Now, my mother is crazy, I know that. My saying that isn’t based on a two week vacation where I met her for the first time, or something she posted on Youtube. I’m not the fighting type—all I’m saying is, if you’re gunna criticize her, you better be ready to finish what you start.

Je demande, “Excuse moi, tu a bu cette bier?” I was even kind enough to point at his empty bottle.

“Um pardon, uh sorry, oh beer, oh yes! Yeah, this beer!”

“Sa bier.”

“Yes, this beer, uh, oui!”

“Alore, c’est bien?”

“Bien? Oh um, yeah, uh oui.” Lots of head nodding and then, “Alright.” Plus his best international, “thumbs-up.”

“Mais, bon. La vue de la Sein c’est tres agreeable, non?”

“Um, sorry ?”

“You don’t speak French?” I ask in a contrived half-accent. The way his eyes light up, I surmise he just plain doesn’t speak with women.

“Oh um, yes, ah, a little,” he says in English, pantomiming a pinch.

“En fait, tu ne parles pas en Francais?” I say, shaking my head, again guiding him to an answer I will accept.

“Um, no, not really well, I mean... no, nah.” He shrugs up his shoulders self consciously.

“Its just interesting to me,” I say, fully American, “I heard you talking about the States, but you speak no French.”

Quick enough he catches on.

“Fair point.” He smiles down at his ashtray, finally extinguishing his fag.

“Et tu habites ou?”
”Uh, come again?” he asks, laughing. 

“Oh, sorry—I forgot. You live where?”

“Oh, England,” he says, his coffee colored teeth proud.

“That’s very interesting. And your friend, where was he from?”

“Oh, him? Ukraine. He’ll be back, um…. Would you like a beer?”

“No thank you. La bier ici, c’est tres cher pour moi.” After a blank look, “Too expensive.”

“Oh. Right.”

“You know it’s very interesting, I’ve had a hard time finding people to practice my French with. But everyone speaks English.”

He laughs a little.

“I don’t think I would go to a country where I wasn’t willing to speak the language. I mean, imagine coming all the way to Paris and not be able to comment on the loveliness of the river.”

“You think it’s lovely, do you?”

“Oh yes, it’s quite pleasant at night. People bring bottles of wine and blankets and play Pétanque, and—“

“Play what?”
”Um, it’s rather like lawn bowling.”

“Oh. I hadn’t noticed. How long have you been here?”

“Don’t know. Bout’ three days, I guess. I haven’t been staying here of course. But you can get une demi for only 2 euros down there at that pub, too.” I say pointing at a row of buildings not 50 meters off. “It’s all very charming.”

“Sorry, a demi what?”

“A beer, you know, une demi. It’s just the cheep stuff. But you could pay what you’re paying here for three Kronenbourgs down there. How long have you been here?”

“Oh, I don’t know... a week. I leave in the morning,” he adds, altogether too hopefully. When I don’t smile, he goes on, “But you, you’ve only been here three days have you? Brilliant. And you saw this all in a guide book, then?”

“Guidebook? Heh, I left that paper weight in Spain. Enjoy your drink.”

You have read this article American Barbaric / Backpacking / France / Paris / Short Stories / Stuff White People Like / The Quiet American / Twenty Something with the title Backpacking. You can bookmark this page URL https://trendcelebrity2014.blogspot.com/2010/08/the-quiet-american.html. Thanks!