Budapest - Sziget, kebabs, and narcolepsy

The awake, agreeable, and affable Jeff Jones and I landed in Budapest around 9am, and promptly bought day tickets to Sziget Festival to see Gogol Bordello and Laurent Garnier. I got tickets to see Tool, among others, for a day after Jones took off, knowing full well the perils that can take place at a festival when attending alone.

I don't think I mentioned this earlier, but I had lost my ATM card somewhere in that 36 hour clusterfuck in Croatia. I suppose it would have added more drama and tragedy to that time period, but with so much else going on, I neglected to bring it up. Or, maybe it was a subconscious decision to thinly spread my misfortune over many blog entries. Either way, the winner is: YOU!!! Schadenfreude!!!

In any case, I managed to get my ATM card back after two weeks of trying. It took this long because Citibank has fraud protection so secure, that I can't even endanger my own accounts despite really, Really, REALLY wanting to.

Despite the fact that I am obviously traveling, they can only send my card to my home in NYC. This I found to be retarded in such a way that is almost brilliant. Kind of like how Einstein didn't speak until he was nearly six years old, and everyone thought HE was retarded. Wait. That didn't make any sense. Now who's retarded? Who cares?? Customer service rage!!!!

The issue was resolved when I faxed a signed statement (complete with account numbers and all necessary data) to Citibank that read as follows:

Dear Lucy:
Please accept this statement as notification that my ATM card may be sent to Nino Tasca at the below address. This action need be taken as I lost my card, shortly before I lost my mind while on the phone with your department. PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE send the card as we agreed, or I might kill myself. Thank you for your time and my utter frustration.

So I finally got my card back. That's the point I'm trying to make here. Jones and I arrive at the hotel, which he generously paid for with his reward points. While I was on the phone with Citibank at the internet cafe, I had arranged the reservation. Eh, for the wrong day. I seem to have a problem with dates and reservations and tickets, it seems. This is no less than the fourth time I have somehow screwed up a date for a ticket or a reservation in 2007, and it has cost me a good amount of money and grief. Thankfully, the patient, value-adding, if silently enraged Jeff Jones solved the problem adeptly.

Jones makes a good point as I consider laying down for a nap, that we hadn't been up that early since he arrived in Europe, and that we should take advantage of the day. Stupid schedules. I somewhat agree, and we head off to: where else? The castle!!! Never seen one of those before!!!

Once at the castle, I am completely exhausted. I look across the river at where a nice, comfortable hotel bed awaits, and I wince at the thought of hiking around ANOTHER castle all day. We begin the guideless tour and no less than 15 minutes into it, I NEED to sit down. About 0.07 seconds after my ass hits the unforgiving steel, I am in a coma. I am dreaming about featherbeds and pillows and big, fluffy dogs. After about 15 minutes, I come to and see the loyal, tender, and adequately uncomfortable Jeff Jones sitting by my side.

Quick aside: a year or so ago, Gregg and I hatched a theory that in order for Jones to be comfortable, he needs a certain level of discomfort. Read that again. Jones is not at home in any environment in which nothing is abrading him. It makes me wonder things about his upbringing like: What kind of mattress did he sleep on growing up? How long past their use would he wear a pair of shoes? Does he intentionally cut his fingernails just a little too close to the cuticle? Why does he work out so much?

I digress: the standing, walking, sitting, and sleeping pattern continues throughout the afternoon. Jones is to the point where he walks off, sees an entire wing of the castle/museum, and returns to find me sitting in a corner somewhere. I suppose all the partying, malnutrition, and viral infections finally caught up with me. And here I thought I was indestructible...

The next day, we headed off to the Turkish bath house. Hungary has hundreds of natural hot springs, and Budapest itself has more than a few. I'm not quite sure how these bath houses are situated in relation to these hot springs, but I was willing to give it a shot anyway. Simply put, the one we went to was wildly overrated. I went in there with expectations of miraculous healing, and came out with probably a half dozen communicable diseases.

Sure, it's relaxing. If you don't mind knowing that the water you're "relaxing" in is likely contaminated by the dirty, smelly, under-dressed Hungarian guys who frequent these places. In fact, I'm quite sure that half the men in Budapest use the hot springs as their only method of cleansing, and I damn sure didn't see anyone with a bottle of Dubbel Dusch.

That said, the baths were worth doing. Especially if you have Keith Richards' immune system. If not, stick to soap and a massage.

An interesting thing about Budapest is that the Danube bisects the city into two parts (Buda and Pest). I like this method. It's like using 23rd St, and naming downtown "New" and uptown "York." Get it? Because New is better, and York is for married couples dressed in Ralph Lauren Polo and Ann Taylor's Loft. Another example is, you could use Route 13 and call the eastern part of Smyrna "Smyr" and the western part "Na." Guess which one has the beautiful expanse of the Walmart distribution center? And guess what else? It doesn't matter!!! They both suck!!

In the interest of full disclosure, National Geographic Magazine did name Smyrna, DE one of the nation's top 50 small towns to live and play. Personally, I found this news simply astounding. I had always thought Smyrna would find itself on the list of "top 50 small towns if gruesome suicide is a short-term goal." But as my parents are quick to point out, Smyrna is "exploding." I think there was more, but I passed out mercifully from all the Xanax I'd already hungrily ingested.

I'm rambling. Ok, back to Budapest. Jones and I ventured off to Sziget, after a couple nights of shitty clubbing. Apparently, the whole city is out at this festival, and when we got there, we knew why.

First of all, after my experience at Open'er in Poland, I was skeptical of festivals in Eastern Europe. But after nary a glance at anything but my armband from the security officer, I felt a bit more at home. This was the kind of lackluster security I'd come to expect (and enjoy) from live music festivals.

Inside, it's set up like an amusement park for drunk adults. There is a zipline, a bungee jump, a foam tent, a foosball area, a karaoke tent, a poetry tent (interesting sorts in there), a tent for any one of a dozen political causes within which you could drunkenly soapbox, and... all the delicious food that 350,000 drunk Europeans could ever ask for.

The wide-eyed, surprised, and seductive Jeff Jones and I first took in Gogol Bordello. It was our first time seeing them, which is especially interesting considering we were in Budapest, and the band originated in the Lower East Side and has been playing in New York for some time. But they rocked. Seriously, if you have a pulse, you should see them. They're a mixture of gypsy punk metal and Ukrainian speed rock. Or something like that. Anyway, check em out.

Next we caught Laurent Garnier. I'd seen him at night in a throbbing mass of people at Open'er, and it was a great show. Admittedly, he was a bit weak on this day.

Then, it happened. We sampled the food. Well, I should say that on our way in, we stopped at literally the first food counter we saw, and choked down some of the worst pasta I'd had since our racist, drunk cook Steve was serving butter ziti and bacon back in college. However, when we ventured toward the food stands, we had our pick of more than 30 international cuisines, and they all looked delectable.

And they were. Everything I ate from that point forward was incredible. Serbian mixed grill, sausages, Mexican, etc etc. ESPECIALLY the donor kebabs. Wow. I may never eat another kebab again, because these were the best I'd had in my entire lifetime, and anyone who knows me, knows how much I love a kebab... even a bad one. These were so good, you'd think they were made of the most tender kitten meat in all of Europe.

The night stretches into daybreak at Sziget rather quickly, with a half dozen late-night DJ tents thumping till dawn. And the tireless, well-fed, and willful Jeff Jones and I took advantage of nearly every hour, before returning to the comfortable confines of Pest VII by way of a pirate cab. Duration: 20 minutes. Cost: $125US. We stormed out of his late-model Jetta after paying $75 and threatening to sleep in his back seat, though we hardly felt vindicated. Pirates, I'll soon learn, are everywhere.

Next night, we spent hanging out with a couple from Leeds we'd met at the end of dinner. They were a bit young, but overall very cool and I don't know how Jones felt, but it was nice to hang with some other people for a night. I think Jones felt the same way, actually. After all, he man-sarged the guy in the bathroom, and given his history of oddly-hetero man-sarging, the move to do so in the bathroom was aggressive, even by his standards.

Jones excitedly, expectantly, and unreluctantly left the following day. I think he missed the comfortless chaos of his apartment, and was looking forward to nearly a half day of travel, punctuated appropriately with the loss and eventual destruction of his luggage. Jones was right back in his comfort zone, and I couldn't have been happier for him.

I proceeded to log two more days at Sziget with a group from the hostel I was now staying in. I am really growing into this hostel traveling by this point. After engaging in very little socializing with Dr. Jones around, I was thrust right back into a thick social blanket, under which I felt warm and fuzzy, and a bit hungry. In a land of kebabs this yummy, I am always Hungary.

Whoa!!!! See what I did there?? "Hungary" instead of "hungry?!?!?" GOOOOD Times!!!!

The second day at Sziget, after seeing Sinead O'Connor (interesting and worthwhile) and Faithless (waaay more awesome than I thought they could ever be), I managed to extricate myself by about 1am and did my own thing (ie. stuff my face with three kebabs throughout the night) in a much happier, albeit more solitary mental space. If a kebab were a woman, I'd marry it on-the-fucking-spot. Then, we'd have little hebabs and shebabs, and I'd live happily ever after, surrounded by the pungent aroma of marinated grade-D lamb. And the younger they are, the more tender the meat. Right? Right???? Eh, where was I?

Right. The last night, I spent (solo) seeing Tool. Let me rephrase that. The last night, I spent surviving Tool. The fans of Tool are fucking insane. And not in a good way, but more in a gay way. There's a lot of forced, if nonviolent physical contact, and even more hysterical screams for Maynard. Having said all that, once I escaped the fear of imminent death (a theme seemingly omnipresent lately), Tool was a fucking sick show. Wow.

As mentioned before, going to a festival by yourself is not recommended. But I wasn't about to miss Tool, so I did it anyway. This is dangerous for several reasons: 1) with no one else to buy rounds, you double-fist while walking away from the bar, only to suck down the first drink as quickly as possible, because no one likes double-fisting, 2) however, this does not at all affect the rate at which you buy rounds, and thus, you drink twice as much, 3) and get belligerently drunk, by yourself, which leads to 4) no one intervening with the question "Do you really need a third kebab?"

After Tool, I got a kebab. Man, these things are good. I went off, danced around in a DJ tent or three and by about 5am, I decide I've had enough. Dancing and not-kebab-eating, that is. I head back to my favorite kebab stand, and proceed to put down another, my second in the night. I order another, and as I'm eating that one, I realize that if I'm going to have one more (3rd in a row, 4th on night), I'll need to get more money. One would think this would be a strong enough deterrent to call off the dogs on kebab #4, but instead, I determinedly march to the ATM (about a km away), withdraw more money, and head back for #4, all while eating #3. Gross. For those of you keeping score, that's two, three, and four kebabs in three nights at Sziget. And you know what? I didn't gain a pound. Bulimia!!!!!!

After that many kebabs, it was time to leave Budapest. I scheduled to leave the day after the festival was over, after spending the entire previous day in the train station, waiting on line for a ticket to Lviv, Ukraine. Only I lost my ticket. Awesome. $90 and a day of angst-ridden queuing, down the fucking drain. Only to face another day of the same. Good times!!!

But it was sort of a good thing, because I got to go out and see Budapest on a night when it wasn't vacant due to Sziget, and it was pretty live. I had a good night, and headed off to Lviv the following day. Though I'll admit, by then I fucking hated Budapest and just wanted to leave. And I managed to resist the ever-present urge to get one last kebab. I figured after my episode in Croatia, the last thing I needed was a serious digestive issue on a 12 hour train from Hungary to Ukraine. But part of me wishes I had anyway. And that part of me, is my yearning belly.
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I know it had been awhile since my last entry. I'm going to stop apologizing and instead pick up the pace on this thing a bit. Honestly, since getting to Ukraine, I've been a bit lazy with this thing. And you know what? I can do what I want!! I don't even hear from most of the people who read this thing, so if you're too lazy to send an email, you can hardly crucify me for taking a few days off from entertaining you cunts!!! Where's the symbiosis, man???

Kidding. It's not like I'm working. I'll be better about this going forward. Although, I have uploaded nearly all my pictures now, with accompanying captions. And you know, those captions aren't easy when it's been weeks and several liters of vodka between picture-snap and captioning. Enjoy my toil.

Bitches.

Dubrovnik is burning? Let's eat!!!

Gregg and Nino took off on a Saturday from Dubrovnik, leaving just me and the undeterred, unflappable, unstoppable Jeff Jones to take apart Dubrovnik, and soon after, Budapest.

Jones and I moved that day to an apartment nearer the Old Town, on the X and Y axis, but much further away on the Z axis. So basically, instead of being about four km away, we were now about two, but they were straight up in the air. Awesome. One thing I really needed was more obstacles between the bars and the safety of my bed at night. Mission: accomplished.

One thing Dubrovnik is not short on, is stairs. There are stairs everywhere, to go anywhere. When I arrived, my calves were that of an average 180cm tall (I'm all metric now) 31 year old. Now, they are chiseled masterpieces right out of any Michaelangelo gallery. Johnnie Drama, eat your heart out.

Dubrovnik, the town, is striking. The sun strikes the roof tiles at dawn and dusk the way you'd imagine it would on the canvas of any of the old masters. The colors are brilliant, and the layout of the city is breathtaking. The Jewel of the Adriatic definitely earned its nickname, as far as I was concerned.

One thing Dubrovnik is short on, is good clubs. The nightlife there is shit. The clubs are jammed with sweating, heaving, misguided tourists lost on an eight hour land break from their enormous cruiseline eyesore before they go back two hours early and mark off Dubrovnik on their "Cities I've Visited" map on Facebook. They're all cunts.

Sick of that scene, Jones and I go back to the only club cruisline cunts don't go to, East/West, where I run into some Portuguese guy I had evidently entertained the night before. I'd heard about a big party at the Belvedere hotel, and East/West was pretty dead, so the Portuguese guy, his friend, the adventurous, expectant, slightly scary Jeff Jones and I all head to the Belvedere.

Fucking wow. This party was out. of. fucking. control. It's set into the mountainside in a tiered coliseum-type layout, with every tier jamming with people (all beautiful), pouring their energy onto a thumping dance floor in front of world-class DJs like Ian Pooley, among others, with the backdrop of Dubrovnik reflecting it's grandeur onto the small bay in between.

Mentally, and alcoholically speaking, I am horribly ill-prepared for this. It's about 12:30am, and I, along with the dumbstruck, dazed and bedazzled Jeff Jones head for the bar with the two Portuguese guys. One guy (the one I'd met the night before), Artur, is your typical suave, good-looking, fucking cheeseball. But in a really endearing, positive way, so he's fun to keep around. Their pace in drinking slips behind mine, as I make the solo decision to increase the slope of my time-over-drunk curve by putting down one tequila shot, chugging a red bull-vodka, and buying a beer to walk around, with each trip to the bar. Astonished gazes by onlookers notwithstanding, I felt rather strong in this environment.

Around 7am, the party closes down, I am sufficiently drunk and exhausted, and the determined, undeterred, and persistent Jeff Jones is busy trying to meet the last of the women remaining in the cavity that was once Dubrovnik's biggest party of the year. We endure a 5 km walk back to our apartment, feeling triumphant and fulfilled, if also exhausted and acutely suicidal. Hyperbole!!!

Next day, we walk around the wall of Dubrovnik, which is something people with an immense amount of patience and energy typically do. Those people, generally, are not coming off an 8 hour raving binge the night before. And if they are, they are probably still complaining about the experience, much as I am now. What else would I be doing?

The walk was sufficiently taxing, though still worthwhile. I bought the audio guide with the best of intentions, only to eventually come to the conclusion that I was only listening, and not hearing. Or hearing, and not listening. Either way, I was using it as a barrier between me and mankind to keep from speaking. I learned a few things, but most of them had more to do how not to spend a day with a brutal hangover.

That day, the overwhelming smell of a campfire filled the Old Town. Why? Because the hills behind the city were on fucking fire, that's why. Of all the things I was equipped to do on this day (sleep, eat greasy food, lay, sleep, drink liquids, roll over, sleep), outrunning a forest fire was not one of them. Nor was inhaling unhealthy levels of carbon monoxide while trying to scale a flight of stairs that go straight up in the air. So, you can imagine how welcoming my attitude was towards an advancing march of flickering death flares, as they approached the Old Town. Where, interestingly, they were already nearly devouring the apartment in which we were staying. One good thing is, imminent danger = great pictures!! Hope you enjoy!!!

Owners of nearby homes were dousing the trees behind their apartments to prevent them from catching ablaze, as the timid, tepid, yet somehow tempestuous Jeff Jones and I were passively suppressing our otherwise obvious concern. While the hills of Dubrovnik gradually burned off their beauty, we discussed plans to sleep on the polished marble grounds of the Old Town, (or, more likely, the floor of a friend I'd met who lives in the Old Town), as we dined on the most delicious seafood I'd had in years. Grilled baby squid, steamed shrimp, and the freshest other-seafood-crap-I-can't-remember known to man. Ahhh, memories!!

We fall asleep in the arms of the Lord, knowing that with 91% of Croatia being devout Catholic, he's watching over this land rather intently. Hopefully, there are really big churches nearby. We wake up the next morning, inspect our brush with danger (to the tune of about 200m) and are on our way to the airport.

The drive proves that literally every square inch of what was once natural beauty, is now ash. One would think the cause would be the intense heat and dry conditions, but no, no no.... locals most often blame the Serbians for setting time-release fires to scorch the countryside.

I personally blame the Jews. Clearly they were upset at the Croatia cash-only system and wanted to stunt their burgeoning tourist metropolis. It's true. An Albanian told me so. And if there's one thing I learned from Croatians while there, it's that Albanians are always right. Or was it that they were asshole cunts? Ya, that might actually be it. My bad.

By the way, I know it's been so long since I uploaded any pictures, that everyone has probably stopped checking for them. Well, you're in for a big surprise, because Croatia and Budapest are ready for your distracted inspection. Go for it.