On the train ride into Budapest I met an American on the train by the name of Vince. Vince was one of the more interesting characters I had met on the road, having opined on a political discussion Mike and I were having. After talking a little, we found out that Vince was a producer of pornography who did photo shoots out in Thailand for three websites he ran: two for Asian women and one for ladyboys. By ladyboys, I mean chicks with dicks. The story I will tell of Bangkok will clarify this distinction further. Anyway, in addition to producing porn, Vince occasionally made trips to Burma to acquire rubies that he would then smuggle into Russia and sell for a ridiculous sum. He was able to do this with the help of one of his girlfriends who lived in Moscow, who made her living selling knock-off art under the guise of being a renowned student from a top Israeli art school. Vince said he’d been on the road for eleven years, and only owned one house, a beach hut in the Philippines where he claimed to have three wives. He claimed his only vice in life was he was addicted to sex, and that he didn’t like to do it with condoms, and that even when he was requested to wear them, he would coat the inside with baby oil so that they would dissolve during the act. If there was ever an explanation for overpopulation, Vince was the indisputable answer. The guy probably had more STD’s and illegitimate children than James Bond. He then went on a random tangent about how after a heroin overdose in Pakistan he had a vision of attending the Hajj in Mecca, and spent the next three months learning Arabic so that he could do just that. As we pulled into Budapest, he said he needed a place to stay and that he would not mind splitting a cab with us to our hostel on the chance that they would have an open bed. I didn’t think I could stand to be around this creep show any longer, but I relented because his stories were so unbelievably funny that I couldn’t stand to lose the comic relief. That, and it saved me a couple bucks on cab fare which was better than figuring out the public transportation network as the sun set and the city became dark.
At the hostel, we were checked in by a nice girl from Finland. She was semi-cute, and I since she was the first Finn I’d ever met I looked forward to finding out more about her country and culture (in the end, the only interesting thing I found out about her was that her favorite song was "November Rain" by Guns 'N Roses). Unfortunately Vince could not secure a bed, but decided to stick around anyway. I spent the rest of that evening writing on my laptop in the common room, watching TV and just relaxing. By about midnight I turned in and Vince was still hanging out, even though he said he’d been searching for hostels online for almost three hours. I shrugged and went to bed.
The next morning I woke up early to be first in line for complimentary bread and jam and found Vince asleep on the couch. I only found this slightly strange, and ate my bread and jam in my dorm room. That day I went sightseeing and found the Hungarian Parliament.
In front of the parliament building was a square and there was a monument to the hundred or so protesters killed in the Hungarian uprising against Soviet rule in 1956.
After that I returned to my hostel I found Vince still on the couch, calling his Moscow girl on Skype and arranging a ruby run. At this point the guy was starting to give me the willies, and I quickly ran to my room and hid beneath the comfort of my sheets.
The next day, I went for a walk to St. Margaret’s island. It is an island located in the middle of the Danube River between Buda and Pest. It’s a rather large island and is mostly a park, though a water-theme park and resort hotel are also on the island. There also lie the remains of a monastery where St. Margaret lived. I believe she is the patron saint of Hungary or something. Here is a picture of her grave:
At the ruins of her monastery, I heard something thumping in the stone gravel that littered the ruins. Turning a corner, I found a youth doing flips off the wall.
On the walk home, not only did I capture a good image of St. Margaret’s island:
I also got a good shot of the Hungarian Parliament from across the Danube:
Instead of taking the metro, I wanted to walk back to the hostel. On the way, however, I ran into a blockade consisting of police in riot gear. I also noticed an abundance of police squad cars and paddy wagons in the area. I went as far as I could, literally up to the line of officers, and tried to peak around their sheer massiveness to see what was going on. Perhaps a VIP was in the area, or a bank robbery/hostage situation was in the works. Instead, I saw rainbow banners. In the distance I could make out a crowd of a couple hundred marching toward the main square waving rainbow banners. I thought this was novel, a gay pride parade in Budapest. However, the overwhelming police presence, I felt, was not warranted for this occasion. I had thought that maybe there was a threat against the parade by some neo-Nazis or something, and thus the police were their to protect the gay protesters. And then I started hearing the breaking of glass. As the crowd was nearing the square, the police were squaring off against them to keep them from entering. What was really happening was the parade was turning into mob, and they were throwing bottles at the police and breaking windows along the way. I then saw a police truck roll by with a 5-foot tall cattle guard on the front of it, heading towards the crowd. I believe it was meant to push the mob back, but I didn’t stick around to figure it out. I wanted to take a picture but was afraid one of the riot police would confiscate or worse, smash my camera, so I hurried back to my hostel, and found the Finnish girl watching the news. I asked her what the hell was going on, and she told me a riot was in progress. She also said that a few days prior the police chief of Budapest said that the parade was not allowed to convene on the main city square, and was ready to back that up with force. This struck me as the queerest (pardon the pun) situation I think I could have encountered. I witnessed my first-ever gay pride riot! I decided not to go out that night, hoping that things would be calmer the next day.
On the last full day in Budapest, I awoke to find Vince sleeping in the bunk above mine. This really perturbed me because a Brit had been occupying that bunk the night before, and had told me he was leaving at 6AM for a flight back to London. I surmised that as soon as he left, couch surfing Vince decided to steal his bunk. I didn’t want to talk to him, but he saw me and asked me the time, and what I was doing that day. I shrugged, and told him we were going to Heroes Square. He said cool; I left hastily.
Mike and I took the tram to Heroes Square, which features statues of Hungary’s finest patriots of the past. On the way, Mike and I ran into a precarious situation. While exiting the metro, we were stopped by a gaggle of transit authorities who demanded to see our tickets. Upon presenting them, they told us that we had not paid for the transfer between lines (something written on the back in the smallest print ever) and that we had to pay a fine. They told us we had to pay the equivalent of 30 Euro ($45) in Hungarian currency and that if we could not comply they would call the police and the fine would double. Since I was not carrying that much cash, I explained to them that I would need to visit an ATM. After taking down my AZ driver’s license info (I didn’t have my passport and it was my only form of ID), they gave me crummy directions to an ATM. Mike stayed behind while I ventured out. After ten minutes I was unsuccessful in finding an ATM, and, completely at a loss, I returned to the tram stop to find Mike steaming angry. I too was becoming very upset at the situation, and the heat and humidity was not helping. I told them in the harshest way possible that I could not find the ATM and that if they wanted to call the cops, they could go right on ahead because at that point I didn’t care if I had to spend the night in jail and go through deportation proceedings, I refused to pay them anything. The couple of transit officials stepped back, talked amongst themselves, and the woman stepped forward and said “Ok. No problem. You may go.”
What really pissed me off about that situation was that it was an obvious scam to rip us off, as many things did not add up. First of all, while we may have been in technical violation of some stupid transit law, a $45 fine seemed excessive, especially after we offered to go buy another ticket as a sign of good faith. Secondly, I did not understand why the fine would double if the cops were called. Thirdly, when writing down our information, they wrote it on the cardboard backing of their ticket book. Fourthly, Mike said that while I was away they shook down a British couple, did not issue a receipt, and one of the officials placed the money in a wallet pulled from his back pocket. And finally, they let us go after realizing we were unable and unwilling to pay them anything instead of calling the cops. I really tried not to let this experience mar my image of Budapest, as it really is a nice looking city, but as far as their transit authorities are concerned, they’re more crooked than a question mark.
Mike and I walked very quickly away from that tram stop, expecting them to call the cops on us anyway. We made it to Heroes Square, and it really is an impressive monument.
Exiting the square we were walking toward another tram stop, turned a corner, and bumped right into Vince. After a quick and awkward moment, I remembered telling him where we were going, and secretly cursed fate for bringing us together at this point in time. Mike and I looked at each other and nodded an understanding. We feigned fatigue as he talked of going to see some secret prison museum, and excused ourselves. The following morning we woke up extra early, and quietly made our exit. We were happy to have given Vince the slip, and that he did not invite himself along to Ljubljana.
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