Famished, In Fact
Location: Budapest, Hungary
Local Feathers: Borne Aloft
November 2
Not a whole lot to do this morning except wait for my train to come. So that is what I do with notable sloth, of the Biblical nature. Fortunately, it is quite relaxing.
Trekking to the train station is proven problematic since actual street signs seem to be an endangered species, most likely due to grizzled aluminum poachers plying their dirty trade. I actually end up wandering around the back of what appears to be a museum for automobiles from the 1940's before discovering that the actual road to the train station was the one on the right. Silly of me; how did my clarivoyance miss that one? Fortunately all goes well and I manage to get onto a train heading to Budapest in relatively good order. I share my compartment with a talkative Hungarian man in an oversized top hat festooned with shamrocks. As it turns out, he is returning from some months spent in Ireland, and has a hearty supply of traveler's tales to swap.
Then I'm extorted for money. Yeah, that one's a first. I am told that Hungarian train conductors can, on occasion, be corrupt, much as if they bore the twisted taint of the Shadowlands. The first conductor to come by, a rather homely woman, was fine, but the next was not. This particular conductor spoke no English, just as I speak no Hungarian, but with my cabin-mate acting as translator, I discover that the man who until seconds before was innocently stamping my ticket is now demanding an extra 450 Slovak Crowns, or I will be thrown off the train at the next stop. Bear in mind that this sum is greater than the original price of the ticket. Needless to say, I am baffled. Do I look like I have a lot of money? What gave you that idea, Mr. Shitstain: my torn pants, my faded jacket, my paint-speckled shoes, or the fact that I'm riding second-class on the cheapest possible ticket? This is not a larcenous adventure upon which Robin Hood, Prince of Thieves would smile.
Fortunately, my friend is at least able to talk the bastard down to 250 Crowns, which I reluctantly hand over after remembering that there will not be another train to Budapest until tomorrow, leaving me stranded in a small town with nowhere to go if I do not aquiesce. The conductor is lucky, however, that it was not a lonely night train, for even as lanky as I am I would have had neither physical trouble nor moral qualm about breaking my 1st World foot off inside his Eastern Bloc ass, were there fewer witnesses.
Eventually I reach Budapest and hike the kilometer or so to the hostel with no hitches. The hostel is small and quite packed with largely interesting, talkative people, and since daylight is too far gone to do any sightseeing tonight, I settle in with a frozen pizza and "The Incredibles" to bond with my new bunkmates. And so it goes.
November 3
Up and at 'em for prime sightseeing time. I devour some granola and yogurt for breakfast and chat with a lovely American girl named Regina, shower, and I'm off. There is another American woman staying there (perhaps 40 years old, very gregarious, and stationed with the Peace Corps in Romania) by the name of Kylie, and we join forces for the day. No sooner have we gone down the street than we spot Regina and her friend Dana in a cafe. Kylie is hungry so we dart in for a croissant and a bit of gossip. Kylie, as it turns out, has gobbled up Romanian history like Mike n' Ikes, and breakfast conversation revolves around the ill-fated reign of Nicolae Ceausescu.
Next stops are the Dohány Synagogue and St. Steven's Basilica. The Synagogue is massive, one of the largest in the world (I'm led to believe the 2nd largest), with an amount of golden gilding that is rather uncharacteristic of such establishments. You may now make up your own joke about Jewish penny-pinching; it's a little too easy in this instance. I am favored to be given a yamukah to cover my head while inside, which I find amusing to no end. We get quite a few giggles out of removing it conspiratorially while the rabbi's back is turned, turning me into a bareheaded Egyptian-lover, or some similar Hebrew-spoken epithet. At the synagogue is The Tree of Life, a metal tree whose leaves are inscribed with the names of Hungarian Jews killed in the Holocaust. All respect for the dead and stuff, but something named The Tree of Life was just begging for the finger. There is also a museum there filled with all manner of things kosher, including a photographic Holocaust exhibit, which really is a very well-researched tribute to mankind's greatest tragedy, but it only holds one's good-spirited interest for so long.
St. Steven's Basilica makes the nearby synagogue look like a friggin' sandbox. It's enormous, up there with the biggest churches I have yet to see. I am starting to believe that 'catholic' is Latin for 'big and shiny.' I was able to conclude two things about St. Steven by wandering around there. First, he loved gold. Second, he was a claustrophobe. And, if the painting of God on the top of the dome is any indication, he was a great fan of the artwork in Gary Larson's "The Far Side." Oh, and his hand is there. St. Steven's hand. That's not a metaphor. The good people of christendom were kind enough to cut of St. Steven's right hand upon his death and preserve it in a glass case for us all to see. Damn, man.... wow. It is quite a gruesome sight, as one might expect. I used my right hand to obscenely gesture at his right hand (despite the presence of a guard, I might add), then we're out.
We wander around to Parliament, disappointed to see that the rioters and protestors from the past days have disappeared. Still, the Hungarian Parliament building is quite big and pointy, so the viewing does not disappoint. At this point I am starting to notice the tendency of the Budapest police to stand around in groups of four chatting with each other, looking eerily similar to the cast of "King of the Hill," sans brewskies. I still don't know why.
Lunch is at an Irish pub we find nearby. I grab some ghoulash, which in Hungary is the equivilent of beef stew, and also pack away the remainder of Kylie's fries, Dana's French Onion soup, and Regina's honey-glazed chicken when they can't finish their meals themselves. I need the fuel.
We then hop a subway and head to the City Park. The centerpiece of the park is Heroes' Square, a huge plaza adorned with dozens of statues commemorating Hungary's past leaders in manly poses bearing huge swords or spiked maces. These are some of the best statues I have ever seen, in conception if not in skilled scuplting, and my longing for a rousing D&D campaign piques yet again. The whole experience is made somewhat surreal by reggae music being piped in by people setting up for some sort of concert or festival in the square. Neato. I flip off all the heroes as one and we head out.
Further exploring the park we pass a large and quite precious outdoor ice-skating rink on our way to the Museum of Agriculture, which I still think looks suspiciously like a castle. Inside we are struck by just how perfect the place is for a secluded picnic (well, if the temperature wasn't -5 degrees Celsius). There is a quite bitchin' statue of a creepy, eyeless hooded guy marked "Anonymous" that we have a photo-op with, including some finger action, then we're gone.
On our way back home, we try to get to a sushi place that Kylie wants to check out, but the only way to it appears to be blocked by some manner of chain. In true daring commando style we resolve to simply clamber over it and continue towards our raw treats, but as we do we are greated by a very angry policeman shouting at us. We retreat, only to more closely examine the situation and discover that we had inadvertently just tried to sneak into the British Embassy. Whoops.
In Europe, it is quite common practice to simply not pay when riding public transportation, especially among tourists (there are no turnstiles, and the only ticket enforcement comes by way of random and extremely infrequent Control Officers who will hit you with a fine if they catch you on the platform or on a vehicle without a ticket). Thus far I had been fine, but on the way back to the hostel, we are confronted by control officer in the metro station. The younger girls have passes they bought, but Kylie and I are without tickets. As soon as we are approached, I let Regina and Dana form a screen while I hightail it out of there and walk home (it is only a brisk kilometer and a half). I later find that Kylie lacked the wherewithal to powerwalk in time and was hit for 2300 Forint.
Back at the hostel there is some more movie watching and conversation, but I don't have it in me to party after such a long day of walking. Out.
November 4
Up very late today, mostly because I can, wanna fight about it? I am just deciding what to do when I am informed about a neat restaurant in town and invited out with a group. Having no particular plans, I accept. A bus ride (still unpaid for, I'm sticking it to the Man) across town, and we're there.
The name of the place is Mongolian BBQ, which is always a good start. It is very fancy, with an air not entirely unlike my memories of Sunday brunch at the Officer's Club. The great part about this place is that it is all-you-can-eat, all-you-can-drink. Food is in 5 courses, with the 4th being a massive buffet from which you select meats that chefs will grill in front of you. They have beer, wine, and sangria on tap, all of which I try, though I stick mainly with the incredibly good house sangria. Also notable because this is the first time I have ever eaten horse, a rather prominent selection on the menu. Needless to say I am filled with apprehension due to my lady love's second-most fervent passion, but the meat is good so I enjoy it nonetheless. One of the girls there, an Australian named Stacy, is celebrating her 20th birthday, and the mood for celebration couldn't be better. After a beer, a glass of wine, what I believe to be 11 glasses of sangria, 4 plates of meat, a bowl of soup, and a delicious chunk of tiramisu, I am stuffed, happy, and quite sloshed. On the way out I steal 11 eggs (which we surmise are pheasant eggs, though with some doubt) in true Daring Commando style, 2 of which broke in my pocket on the way home. We managed to linger there for four hours, only leaving when forced to, and stumbled home in the rain to curl up in our nice warm hostel.
I do not remain curled up for long, as there is a local L5R group that has invited me to play with them. The journey is only about 5 blocks, so I bundle up and head back out. Upon arriving at the proscribed address, I am confronted by a doorman/security guard, whose sole purpose appears to be to keep track of who is in the building when. Of course, he does not speak a word of English, just as I do not speak of word of Hungarian, and he is absolutely adamant about me not getting up to the 4th floor to play cards with these fellows unless he knows exactly where I am going. We stare at each other for about 10 full minutes, trying to figure out how to break the language barrier. Eventually I solve the problem by pantomiming dealing cards, then holding up four fingers. He finally understands what I've come there to do, and escorts me up. The fellas themselves are very friendly and I join them for some games and some witty banter for a couple hours, then say my fairwells. I really have to give them credit, they did everything but hand me the keys to the chocolate factory in an effort to make me feel at home. Well done, gentlemen and ladies.
November 5
For my last day in Budapest, Kylie and I venture across the river to examine the jewel of Buda, as yet uncorrupted by our American pig-dog feet.
Oh, yeah... about the layout of Budapest. This is just a hoot, and rightfully deserves a holler. Budapest is divided in half by the Danube river, mighty artery of feces that it is. The part of the city to the west of the river is called Buda, while the part to the east is called Pest. Put them together and... do you see what I'm getting at here? This speaks a lot to the part of Hungarian culture that I like: simple, earthy, and brooking no nonsense. When coming up with the name for this magnificent city, they did not stoop to naming after some forgotten hero or strange legend. They took the names of the two hamlets that comprised the city and put the names together. Buda and Pest then became "Budapest." If that's not a testament to Magyar civic efficiency, I don't know what is.
So, after a cheap sandwich in a surprisingly fancy restaurant called Cyrano's (lacking poetic swashbuckling adventures, unfortunately) Kylie and I take a bit of a stroll across the bridge and into Buda. Buda is the hillier part of town, so we endeavour upon a rather strenuous hike up the side of a great, bloody cliff to see this famous statue that overlooks Budapest. The statue, named "A Great Monument to Something I Can't Remember or Translate," is basically of a woman holding a giant feather above her head in some sort of triumph. Was a great battle won against the evil Pigeon King? Knowing the history of Hungary, I wouldn't be surprised. Taking advantage of the view, I flip off the Danube and the city in one fell swoop, then we continue.
The statue tops the hill that also boasts the city's Citadel, the last defense in case of an invasion of Samurai Viking Amazons. It's an impressive and very defensible structure, but it costs money to enter, and bump that. Kylie and I wander down the hill in another direction, eventually getting thoroughly lost and wander through a rich neighborhood that appears to have been recently built, or else all the inhabitants are rennovating en masse. The street dead ends and we choose to keep going by a daring off-road adventure down a steep embankment. We reach the bottom injury free, which was very much in doubt for a few minutes, then succeed in finding the path leading back into the city proper.
Our next stop, after jaywalking and hiking under bridges to an extent usually reserved for defunct holligan firms, we find our way to Buda Castle. The castle is quite dark and creepy, just as one would hope, full of tiny alcoves and passageways barred with rusty iron gates that certainly have not been opened since the days of Vlad the Impaler. It also, by a stroke of ironic fate, houses the Hungarian Museum of Art, which thankfully has a large quantity of free exhibits. After muscling our way past some very unhelpful coatcheck personnel, Kylie and I poke around for a bit in the museum, alternating between scholarly murmuring and shameless ridicule of Garibaldi's "Fat Woman on a Sofa Number 384," and similar works.
After buggering out of the museum, we head back to the hostel, for daylight is fading and the day has turned drizzly, a bit of precipitation that the 55 kph wind turns into a weapon of Thunderdome. I am once again hungry, so we stop for a bowl of gholash on the way home.
For dinner we order pizzas from a nearby delivery place and enjoy yet another movie in the hostel. During the evening we are joined by several Yorkshiremen who, in their characteristic manner, begin to ridicule everything around them and smoke heavily. Fortunately for me, their attempts at wit are purely amateur, and I retire to bed happy in the knowledge that their puny minds are rotting in soon-to-be-cancerous bodies.
And who said cultural exchange was hard?
Progress Thus Far:
Countries Visited: 7
Stupid Tourist Moments: 46
Monuments Flipped Off: 36
Free Booze Ganked: 10
Free Food Ganked: 24
"i should be very much obliged if you would slip your revolver into your pocket... that and a toothbrush are, I think, all that we need."
-from The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes
Local Feathers: Borne Aloft
November 2Not a whole lot to do this morning except wait for my train to come. So that is what I do with notable sloth, of the Biblical nature. Fortunately, it is quite relaxing.
Trekking to the train station is proven problematic since actual street signs seem to be an endangered species, most likely due to grizzled aluminum poachers plying their dirty trade. I actually end up wandering around the back of what appears to be a museum for automobiles from the 1940's before discovering that the actual road to the train station was the one on the right. Silly of me; how did my clarivoyance miss that one? Fortunately all goes well and I manage to get onto a train heading to Budapest in relatively good order. I share my compartment with a talkative Hungarian man in an oversized top hat festooned with shamrocks. As it turns out, he is returning from some months spent in Ireland, and has a hearty supply of traveler's tales to swap.
Then I'm extorted for money. Yeah, that one's a first. I am told that Hungarian train conductors can, on occasion, be corrupt, much as if they bore the twisted taint of the Shadowlands. The first conductor to come by, a rather homely woman, was fine, but the next was not. This particular conductor spoke no English, just as I speak no Hungarian, but with my cabin-mate acting as translator, I discover that the man who until seconds before was innocently stamping my ticket is now demanding an extra 450 Slovak Crowns, or I will be thrown off the train at the next stop. Bear in mind that this sum is greater than the original price of the ticket. Needless to say, I am baffled. Do I look like I have a lot of money? What gave you that idea, Mr. Shitstain: my torn pants, my faded jacket, my paint-speckled shoes, or the fact that I'm riding second-class on the cheapest possible ticket? This is not a larcenous adventure upon which Robin Hood, Prince of Thieves would smile.
Fortunately, my friend is at least able to talk the bastard down to 250 Crowns, which I reluctantly hand over after remembering that there will not be another train to Budapest until tomorrow, leaving me stranded in a small town with nowhere to go if I do not aquiesce. The conductor is lucky, however, that it was not a lonely night train, for even as lanky as I am I would have had neither physical trouble nor moral qualm about breaking my 1st World foot off inside his Eastern Bloc ass, were there fewer witnesses.
Eventually I reach Budapest and hike the kilometer or so to the hostel with no hitches. The hostel is small and quite packed with largely interesting, talkative people, and since daylight is too far gone to do any sightseeing tonight, I settle in with a frozen pizza and "The Incredibles" to bond with my new bunkmates. And so it goes.
November 3
Up and at 'em for prime sightseeing time. I devour some granola and yogurt for breakfast and chat with a lovely American girl named Regina, shower, and I'm off. There is another American woman staying there (perhaps 40 years old, very gregarious, and stationed with the Peace Corps in Romania) by the name of Kylie, and we join forces for the day. No sooner have we gone down the street than we spot Regina and her friend Dana in a cafe. Kylie is hungry so we dart in for a croissant and a bit of gossip. Kylie, as it turns out, has gobbled up Romanian history like Mike n' Ikes, and breakfast conversation revolves around the ill-fated reign of Nicolae Ceausescu.
Next stops are the Dohány Synagogue and St. Steven's Basilica. The Synagogue is massive, one of the largest in the world (I'm led to believe the 2nd largest), with an amount of golden gilding that is rather uncharacteristic of such establishments. You may now make up your own joke about Jewish penny-pinching; it's a little too easy in this instance. I am favored to be given a yamukah to cover my head while inside, which I find amusing to no end. We get quite a few giggles out of removing it conspiratorially while the rabbi's back is turned, turning me into a bareheaded Egyptian-lover, or some similar Hebrew-spoken epithet. At the synagogue is The Tree of Life, a metal tree whose leaves are inscribed with the names of Hungarian Jews killed in the Holocaust. All respect for the dead and stuff, but something named The Tree of Life was just begging for the finger. There is also a museum there filled with all manner of things kosher, including a photographic Holocaust exhibit, which really is a very well-researched tribute to mankind's greatest tragedy, but it only holds one's good-spirited interest for so long.St. Steven's Basilica makes the nearby synagogue look like a friggin' sandbox. It's enormous, up there with the biggest churches I have yet to see. I am starting to believe that 'catholic' is Latin for 'big and shiny.' I was able to conclude two things about St. Steven by wandering around there. First, he loved gold. Second, he was a claustrophobe. And, if the painting of God on the top of the dome is any indication, he was a great fan of the artwork in Gary Larson's "The Far Side." Oh, and his hand is there. St. Steven's hand. That's not a metaphor. The good people of christendom were kind enough to cut of St. Steven's right hand upon his death and preserve it in a glass case for us all to see. Damn, man.... wow. It is quite a gruesome sight, as one might expect. I used my right hand to obscenely gesture at his right hand (despite the presence of a guard, I might add), then we're out.
We wander around to Parliament, disappointed to see that the rioters and protestors from the past days have disappeared. Still, the Hungarian Parliament building is quite big and pointy, so the viewing does not disappoint. At this point I am starting to notice the tendency of the Budapest police to stand around in groups of four chatting with each other, looking eerily similar to the cast of "King of the Hill," sans brewskies. I still don't know why.
Lunch is at an Irish pub we find nearby. I grab some ghoulash, which in Hungary is the equivilent of beef stew, and also pack away the remainder of Kylie's fries, Dana's French Onion soup, and Regina's honey-glazed chicken when they can't finish their meals themselves. I need the fuel.
We then hop a subway and head to the City Park. The centerpiece of the park is Heroes' Square, a huge plaza adorned with dozens of statues commemorating Hungary's past leaders in manly poses bearing huge swords or spiked maces. These are some of the best statues I have ever seen, in conception if not in skilled scuplting, and my longing for a rousing D&D campaign piques yet again. The whole experience is made somewhat surreal by reggae music being piped in by people setting up for some sort of concert or festival in the square. Neato. I flip off all the heroes as one and we head out.
Further exploring the park we pass a large and quite precious outdoor ice-skating rink on our way to the Museum of Agriculture, which I still think looks suspiciously like a castle. Inside we are struck by just how perfect the place is for a secluded picnic (well, if the temperature wasn't -5 degrees Celsius). There is a quite bitchin' statue of a creepy, eyeless hooded guy marked "Anonymous" that we have a photo-op with, including some finger action, then we're gone.On our way back home, we try to get to a sushi place that Kylie wants to check out, but the only way to it appears to be blocked by some manner of chain. In true daring commando style we resolve to simply clamber over it and continue towards our raw treats, but as we do we are greated by a very angry policeman shouting at us. We retreat, only to more closely examine the situation and discover that we had inadvertently just tried to sneak into the British Embassy. Whoops.
In Europe, it is quite common practice to simply not pay when riding public transportation, especially among tourists (there are no turnstiles, and the only ticket enforcement comes by way of random and extremely infrequent Control Officers who will hit you with a fine if they catch you on the platform or on a vehicle without a ticket). Thus far I had been fine, but on the way back to the hostel, we are confronted by control officer in the metro station. The younger girls have passes they bought, but Kylie and I are without tickets. As soon as we are approached, I let Regina and Dana form a screen while I hightail it out of there and walk home (it is only a brisk kilometer and a half). I later find that Kylie lacked the wherewithal to powerwalk in time and was hit for 2300 Forint.
Back at the hostel there is some more movie watching and conversation, but I don't have it in me to party after such a long day of walking. Out.
November 4
Up very late today, mostly because I can, wanna fight about it? I am just deciding what to do when I am informed about a neat restaurant in town and invited out with a group. Having no particular plans, I accept. A bus ride (still unpaid for, I'm sticking it to the Man) across town, and we're there.
The name of the place is Mongolian BBQ, which is always a good start. It is very fancy, with an air not entirely unlike my memories of Sunday brunch at the Officer's Club. The great part about this place is that it is all-you-can-eat, all-you-can-drink. Food is in 5 courses, with the 4th being a massive buffet from which you select meats that chefs will grill in front of you. They have beer, wine, and sangria on tap, all of which I try, though I stick mainly with the incredibly good house sangria. Also notable because this is the first time I have ever eaten horse, a rather prominent selection on the menu. Needless to say I am filled with apprehension due to my lady love's second-most fervent passion, but the meat is good so I enjoy it nonetheless. One of the girls there, an Australian named Stacy, is celebrating her 20th birthday, and the mood for celebration couldn't be better. After a beer, a glass of wine, what I believe to be 11 glasses of sangria, 4 plates of meat, a bowl of soup, and a delicious chunk of tiramisu, I am stuffed, happy, and quite sloshed. On the way out I steal 11 eggs (which we surmise are pheasant eggs, though with some doubt) in true Daring Commando style, 2 of which broke in my pocket on the way home. We managed to linger there for four hours, only leaving when forced to, and stumbled home in the rain to curl up in our nice warm hostel.
I do not remain curled up for long, as there is a local L5R group that has invited me to play with them. The journey is only about 5 blocks, so I bundle up and head back out. Upon arriving at the proscribed address, I am confronted by a doorman/security guard, whose sole purpose appears to be to keep track of who is in the building when. Of course, he does not speak a word of English, just as I do not speak of word of Hungarian, and he is absolutely adamant about me not getting up to the 4th floor to play cards with these fellows unless he knows exactly where I am going. We stare at each other for about 10 full minutes, trying to figure out how to break the language barrier. Eventually I solve the problem by pantomiming dealing cards, then holding up four fingers. He finally understands what I've come there to do, and escorts me up. The fellas themselves are very friendly and I join them for some games and some witty banter for a couple hours, then say my fairwells. I really have to give them credit, they did everything but hand me the keys to the chocolate factory in an effort to make me feel at home. Well done, gentlemen and ladies.
November 5
For my last day in Budapest, Kylie and I venture across the river to examine the jewel of Buda, as yet uncorrupted by our American pig-dog feet.
Oh, yeah... about the layout of Budapest. This is just a hoot, and rightfully deserves a holler. Budapest is divided in half by the Danube river, mighty artery of feces that it is. The part of the city to the west of the river is called Buda, while the part to the east is called Pest. Put them together and... do you see what I'm getting at here? This speaks a lot to the part of Hungarian culture that I like: simple, earthy, and brooking no nonsense. When coming up with the name for this magnificent city, they did not stoop to naming after some forgotten hero or strange legend. They took the names of the two hamlets that comprised the city and put the names together. Buda and Pest then became "Budapest." If that's not a testament to Magyar civic efficiency, I don't know what is.
So, after a cheap sandwich in a surprisingly fancy restaurant called Cyrano's (lacking poetic swashbuckling adventures, unfortunately) Kylie and I take a bit of a stroll across the bridge and into Buda. Buda is the hillier part of town, so we endeavour upon a rather strenuous hike up the side of a great, bloody cliff to see this famous statue that overlooks Budapest. The statue, named "A Great Monument to Something I Can't Remember or Translate," is basically of a woman holding a giant feather above her head in some sort of triumph. Was a great battle won against the evil Pigeon King? Knowing the history of Hungary, I wouldn't be surprised. Taking advantage of the view, I flip off the Danube and the city in one fell swoop, then we continue.The statue tops the hill that also boasts the city's Citadel, the last defense in case of an invasion of Samurai Viking Amazons. It's an impressive and very defensible structure, but it costs money to enter, and bump that. Kylie and I wander down the hill in another direction, eventually getting thoroughly lost and wander through a rich neighborhood that appears to have been recently built, or else all the inhabitants are rennovating en masse. The street dead ends and we choose to keep going by a daring off-road adventure down a steep embankment. We reach the bottom injury free, which was very much in doubt for a few minutes, then succeed in finding the path leading back into the city proper.
Our next stop, after jaywalking and hiking under bridges to an extent usually reserved for defunct holligan firms, we find our way to Buda Castle. The castle is quite dark and creepy, just as one would hope, full of tiny alcoves and passageways barred with rusty iron gates that certainly have not been opened since the days of Vlad the Impaler. It also, by a stroke of ironic fate, houses the Hungarian Museum of Art, which thankfully has a large quantity of free exhibits. After muscling our way past some very unhelpful coatcheck personnel, Kylie and I poke around for a bit in the museum, alternating between scholarly murmuring and shameless ridicule of Garibaldi's "Fat Woman on a Sofa Number 384," and similar works.After buggering out of the museum, we head back to the hostel, for daylight is fading and the day has turned drizzly, a bit of precipitation that the 55 kph wind turns into a weapon of Thunderdome. I am once again hungry, so we stop for a bowl of gholash on the way home.
For dinner we order pizzas from a nearby delivery place and enjoy yet another movie in the hostel. During the evening we are joined by several Yorkshiremen who, in their characteristic manner, begin to ridicule everything around them and smoke heavily. Fortunately for me, their attempts at wit are purely amateur, and I retire to bed happy in the knowledge that their puny minds are rotting in soon-to-be-cancerous bodies.
And who said cultural exchange was hard?
Progress Thus Far:
Countries Visited: 7
Stupid Tourist Moments: 46
Monuments Flipped Off: 36
Free Booze Ganked: 10
Free Food Ganked: 24
"i should be very much obliged if you would slip your revolver into your pocket... that and a toothbrush are, I think, all that we need."
-from The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes
posted by Will Jones at 1:37 PM
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