Journey to Budapest from September 7th to 10th, 2019
I find myself at the Urban Café Otvírací Doba (I can personally attest for the meaning of the first two words, but as for the two latter I only dare to speculate they are environmentally friendly), in the outskirts of the old quarter of Prague, Czech Republic, gathering up the memories of my stay in Budapest, the city I had left the night before on a busline of the RegioJet.
Walking out of the toilets in Urban Café, a dose of caffeinated inspiration appeared to me.
Rákosliget, my suburban little cottage, Kukushkin, and the 34th Wizz Half Marathon of Budapest
I landed at the Hungarian capital to participate in the Budapest´s Half Marathon, organized by the Wizz´s guys, held on Sunday September 8th. I was lodged in a suburban small cottage in Rákosliget Quarter, three train’s stops away from Keleti Budapest Central Railway Station. I had stunningly appreciated on booking websites the running tracks existing around Liget-Apartments, which persuaded me to rent one of the eight-available Liget´s residences. The Trotzky-like atmosphere brought me back to the lyrics of one of the most famous songs of Argentinian rock band “Patricio Rey y sus redonditos de Ricota”, named “Mariposa Pontiac”, whose initial lines are: “Come to my suburban cottage (ven a mi casa suburbana), I am obsessed with your prison (me obsesiona tu prisión)”.
Link of Mariposa Pontiac: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UPgafSTrpdc
The flowers of my suburban front yard did not fully represent their colleagues planted on the airport. Upon arrival I hired a shuttle to transfer me to my Budapestian address, so to speak, a modern Van with a capacity to carry eight passengers; the vehicle arrived to pick us up with a one hour and a half delay, plus two hours to complete the whole deliverance (I was the last stuff to be dropped). The driver, a middle aged eccentric Hungarian character, barely spoke a few words of English; however, his short phrases always stressed in the adverb “much”. He then “thanked you so much”, there were “troubles so much” and if you happen to ask him the time remaining to be dropped home, he would nod negatively while saying “not so much”. He proudly felt himself Anglophone as long as he pronounced his fetish word. Believe it or not, it was sufficient for him to communicate with the lorry-like bunch he was driving, by unrestrictedly using the word much. To some extent, telegraphic people are usually happier. As we were happily seated on our places after the driver had already peeled out and left the airport behind, he suddenly headed back to the departure platform where we had been waiting -for him- a while before. To our surprise, he got tangled into an eclectic discussion in Magyar, with the under-assistant of vouchers control. The thing was not leading anywhere, since each one was arguing and defending his position by waving about to the other a word that sounded as Kukushkin, whereas the counterpart actively shouted back the corresponding Kukushkin. Despite we imanaged to catch the sound Kukushkin, that awkward word maybe was an invention on our own, maybe a Russian aftertaste triggered by our collective unconscious associating Hungary to an ex-communist colony. However, none of us, travelers, was understanding what was going on, except for he who signs this chronicle. It clearly turned to be a treasury issue; there was a balance difference between the number of passengers on the way of being delivered and the money collected by the clerk, supposedly for the same quantity of passengers. The poor bold driver was unaware that in the nick of time a pretty small Japanese girl infiltrated into the Van, just besides him, in one of the front seats. This bonsai threaten carelessly said in English to her friend sat behind me, that nobody has charged her the ticket. A small girl on the run had provoked a an unaudited 29 euros cash difference at the poorly organized ticket office. The Japanese, brazen, just laughed at her prank. Far to be fresh news: Japanese people laugh at everything and for no visible purpose. “Japan world-level power” –would my father have said-. Out of such reiterated behaviors, improper to a Samurai fighter but adequate to politicians like Hirohito, the most powerful nations are usually built upon.
Klára, my host of the suburban cottage in Rákosliget, was more concerned in her incoming marriage to an Italian (he is my fiancé –she told me proudly) than to render proper guest service. The details on the booking mentioned that there was a washing machine available, but as I get into the house I notice that the washing machine was assembled in Poland and therefore the instructions of use were beautifully stamped on in the language of the -almost always blushed- ex Pope Karol Wojtila. When I suggested Klára that in order to provide a better guest service there should be instructions of use in English for non-polish-speaking tourists, her WhatsApp answer was: “I offer a washing machine but I am not in the business to assist guests on a daily basis.” What a divine serpent she looked like, from the virtual distance offered by a mobile phone app. I finally did the laundry in Bubbles, located in the City Centre of Budapest. It was an automatic and depersonalized laundry room; where all the clients stepped in, inserted their coins in the slider and then sat uncomplainingly down until the process is done.
At Bubbles I met Franky and Eva simultaneously. Franky is in his late fifties, a good-looking pensioned North American loner-like traveler that went off the grid to devote himself to artistic itinerant photography, who sporadically stopped in Budapest for a one month or longer stay. Taking into account that we needed to wait forty minutes for the washing to be completed and another 37 for the drying, Bubbles’ facilities somehow constituted an undeclared temple for single´s encounters. Eva spoke no English and, although she assured me to understand my basic German, in fact she ignored Goethe´s tongue as well. Next to the couch, besides Franky, Eva lay, holding the apple of doom. Eva is Hungarian, in her advanced forties, blond, beautiful and, according to Franky, she had lied to me when she said that her civil status was: married with a 17 years old huge son. Eva was only concerned in laughing at my Germans attempts to start a conversation. My humble environmental comprehension, though, suggested Eva laughed because she had nothing else to do, during the 77 minutes that lasted the whole thing. Insisting, as always, I threw a last slap of drowned by seriously asserting to Eva that my name was Adam and, if she happens to read between the lines the Bible´s small letter, in more or less apples, it´ll there be advised Eva and Adam should be together anyway whatsoever, of course including a Laundry room situation. We could thus wash away our communitarian sins - I am Argentinian holding an Italian passport, hence as regretfully communitarian as Eva. I did not want to keep on walking on broken glass, so I attacked differently and volunteered to cook the daily lunch for Eva and her husband (it was already 10.30, early enough to make it). I post added, for the sake of showing my pure intentions clearer, that Franky will come along to attend the agape. I´m afraid that, sort of a blietzkrieg, her German oral comprehension somehow returned to her tongue, undoubtedly caught the purpose of my approach, because she refused the flirting I was manufacturing: “My husband Kaleshnikov” –she mouthed, the first two words in English, and the third in perfect Russian. It seemed unbelievable to me that an innocent polish-assembled washing machine conjointly with the laziness of Klára to stamp on it the instructions of use in English, had derived into a proto-biblical approach between a real Eva and a fake Adam. Thanks a lot, Klára, for having blown up such an occasion. Eva is too pretty; she would have been an excessive prize for an amateur runner who came to Budapest not to test the fleshy Hungarian beauties but to complete the 21 km length of the Marathon race, within a decent expected rhythm. I am also grateful to Franky, for his unconditional logistical and emotional support during the sustenance of my fruitless and under seductive attempts to conquer Eva´s heart in Bubbles.
Recalling the monotone Magyar melody which, while driving, the Van´s driver sang, melody often violated by the aphrodisiac Anglo-Saxon adverb much, melody with which he intended to endow some kind of cosmopolitan touch to his live performance, I headed on Saturday 7th September, in the morning, to pick up my BIB number at the Half Marathon Race Center. The atmosphere prior to the race seemed overjoyed; miles of runners from different countries were crowded round me to also pick up their BIBs, they were crowded around me as if it were the glorious Christian moment of the communion. “Underneath your running T-shirt –explained me the young blond clerk in sport clothes- you will find a chip; try not to detach it, so that we could follow you up during the race and to record your time as well”. My twisted mind projected the real aim of having attached a BIB to my T-shirt: The Hungarian Secret Intelligence Services, a prehistoric institution whose activities dated back to the communist regime or even farther back to the Austro-Hungarian Empire. I could imagine my chip being the conduct to inform the High Places of the Secret Services my exact domicile in Rákosliget, its tentacles capable to monitor, to supervise my private naked movements from the bedroom to the bathroom and vice versa, intromission that might have gone beyond the innocent former follow-up sporting purpose.
The bridges stretched over the Danube River, motionless escorts of the Buda Castle and the Parliament, maximized the functioning of my muscles, tendons and articulations, this additional force which summed up to the natural vitamins I have been ingesting (such as Magnesium, Zinc, Selenium and relatives by simple or altered blood) fostered an excellent final time of 1 hour 54 minutes 28 seconds, five minutes quicker than the records obtained during the training period done in Cali, Colombia. When I downloaded the results of the Half Marathon I notice with extreme joy that I was ranked at the 2.188 position out of 6.968 male runners; and with lesser extreme joy that the Bunker of the 34th Wizz Half Marathon placed at the 2.187 position an Hungarian surnamed Itsvan, who timed the same 1´54” 28””: either he is more handsome like me, which is pretty likely, or it was simple localist discrimination. Of course he is Hungarian and me a fake Italian, but the top Management of Wizz does not know my underground untraceable ID history (born in Argentina, resident in Colombia and holder of Italian passport, this would have been worthy to consider 2.188 runner a narco-guerrilla soldier). “We ran in Budapest, say no More” – I finally exhaled as I was climbing the steps to leave Keleti Central Railway Station. I am satisfied with the race I´ve done anyway, enjoyed the up-hills and down-hills light slopes, entertained my eyes being part of the human tide, twelve thousands of athletes working out on the streets of Budapest dressed in multicolored sporting clothes, trying to reach the finish line. Among the runners they stood out moms with their newly born babies competitively pushing their cribs, a limp guy running with an orthopedic leg, and a middle aged bold man sweating like a pig as he ran fiercely pushing her daughter´s wheelchair. During the after-race I passed by the bold runner, now running a stand where he was selling sport clothes, just in front of Decathlon´s stand, whose size was a few inches larger. Part of the amount of your purchase ended up into the cash flow of a Foundation that helped quadriplegics like her daughter to succeed. I decided to buy a T-shirt from the bold seller, who, at the moment in which the transactions was being made, stood almost naked before me, only covered by a small towel that worked as a loincloth. “Sorry to be selling you in such a relaxed way, I am in the midst of changing my marathon clothes into more formal ones; do you know that I ran with my handicapped daughter?” –he said, pointing out to the closest wheelchair (instrument that advertised his business), as if his nakedness would have made me uncomfortable, just me, the faked Adam who failed to seduce the real Eva. I asked for permission to take him a picture naked, at whose request he gladly posed.
Soon, the after race found me celebrating in the Thermal Baths of Széchenyi, and later, prior to getting on the bus to Prague, I spent some time in the most famous Ruin Bar of the World, Szimplar, kind of chic piggery with varied ornaments, sometimes bizarre, a place where foreigners love to go for drinks -or like me to play the piano- with the hidden objective of flirting before getting dead drunk. The amenities, baroque style and démodé, offers a bathtub, in which I was taken a picture holding a glass of red wine in hand, a signal that Budapest was already mine, or at least it didn´t belonged to itself any longer. It was Franky and not Eva who came along with me to Szimplar, and there we met a troupe of tall and outgoing Canadians and Irish folks travelling across the world under an ecstatic phase of their wild sabbatical year, drunken jokes tellers, to which a sub 30 Yankee had just joined (maybe a sub 40 girl, updated by successful reconstructive plastic surgeries) super-freaky, in search of a sui generis nightlife. She started shouting out the she loved each of us, the Brady´s Bunch. She managed to inspire us a deep hope. When she stared towards me, so in a rush as to personalize her hints of desperation, she said to me: I love you. And then:
- What´s your name?
I was touched by how inclusive Leslie could be, given she could love nameless people.
I informed her that she should call me “La Morada de Horus”.
- Tell me again “I love you” –I prayed her, in a challenging way.
I wanted her to become aware of the precariousness of my sentimental life: I was in need of more security.
- I love you –repeated, looking at me straight in my eyes, pointing the remainder of her eye contact obsessively down to the cleared flank of my crotch.
- It´s a real pity – I exclaimed in my better English possible, with a face appearance close to affliction-, that now that I bump into a woman who loves me, my bus will be leaving shortly to Prague, from Kelenföld Vasútallomás, being that unpronounceable stuff a Bus Stop located in the opposite side of the City. Time is running fast. You got it?
Leslie´s face got a green-like tone similar to the one Klára might have acquired when she received my WhatsApp answer as a feedback review on the Liget apartment she rented me: “your guest service was a disaster”. A green like tone aroused by the sleepiness that surely inflicted her my brutal honesty. “Needless to say – I added- the cottage is lovely and comfortable.
One of the tallest red head Canadians, the long-bearded one, laughed out loud when I said goodbye to Leslie with the following words: “Let’s meet again in the afterlife.
