Budapest, Hungary (or Wódapeszt for my Polish Companions)

Skyline of Budapest at Night

To understand this entry, I must first ask you, the reader, to picture that place where you’ve been to, where the first thought you ever had was: Wow. I don’t care if it was in some little bush country near Longreach or on the steps of the Taj Mahal in India, that feeling where they subsequent words are: this is beautiful, is all I require of you.

I can’t exactly say that I’m well travelled, or have seen much in my short life, but I’ve seen a bit, experience more than the average 20 odd year old, and upon standing on top of this little brick wall, looking over the city of Budapest at night, all that escaped my lips was that phrase we’ve all uttered: Wow. I have seen, nothing.

The city itself has the main characteristics of most other. It has a heart, a couple of arteries, and little veins that spread across the rest of it. But other than that initial statement (and very much teething with naivety), it’s nothing that you’ve ever seen, or possibly experienced, before. An old and historic city that has seen its fair share of wars and bullet holes, you feel the cultural side of you grow as soon as you set foot upon the parapet. It might help you to picture a weather beaten face that has the cutest dimples, eyes that seem to just glow with age and wisdom, and more importantly smile lines. You can tell that the inhabitants of Budapest take pride in their capital, and so they should.

Usually I would have some funny anecdotes that I encountered with the natives, but alas, this time it would be different. I signed up for a trip with the university, and the goal was something similar to putting three monkeys in a room with a typewriter and sooner or later they’ll write Shakespeare’s King Lear. The student equivalent was: send a group of polish university students to an unknown city with money and the ability to purchase large amounts of alcohol, and see what happens. Luckily (or rather, as far as I am aware of) no arrests happened.

The City Centre - or rather, the walkway

The bus drops us all off in the centre of town, at which point we’re given some non-descript directions and left to our own devices. Now, this is slightly dangerous for me, as even armed with my trusty (and well worn) phrasebook and camera, I usually end up insulting some of the locals and making a couple of cultural faux pas. However, this time I had a security net in the form of number; there were now 34 of me. The city centre absolutely fascinated me. The hustle and bustle, the old paved roads and the cute little buildings, the enormous amounts of statues and statuettes, all taken care of to the finest possible measure. Street musicians and theatrical acts littered the streets, as well as these amazing market stalls displaying the best of Hungary’s culture ( food & wine…. oh the wine, my downfall). Writing this I succumb to the opinion that I am not nearly mature enough in my literary prowess to describe to you what it feels like to be there, for even a thousand of my own words would not do any justice to just one of the photos (so please, for my sake, have a look at them). And to add insult to injury, later on a group of us would take a little ferry trip along the Danube at night, and apart from being frozen to the bone, I was even more transfixed by this city.

The Danube at Night

The hotel life was, as you might imagine, and alcoholics convention. The poles have many a great thing: Girls, Food, History, but one thing that they certainly trump most of the other countries I have been lucky enough to visit is, their ability to drink. And being the token foreign guy with a quirky accent, well there was a great cause to get him drunk and get to know him. But we’ve all seen dancy dom, so I won’t describe to you the rest of the night (partially because my memory is a tad hazy)

Question time with the foreigner - yes vodka was drunk from a glass...

The next day we got assigned our tour guide, a cute old Hungarian man with a talent for story telling and hilarious jokes. The advantage of a tour guide is he knows where to go, and you find out a lot about the city that you won’t find in a guide book. The disadvantage (and the reason I usually avoid such class trips) is time, you never get enough time to just venture out and experience the things you’d like to see. The basicilica of St Stephen was beautiful, and I would have loved to stay there for hours and go to the top of the dome and look out onto the city, however, time was of the essence, and we still had a lot to see (and yet, not enough). If you guys go to Budapest, take a good friend, a guidebook, and a bit of cash (it is a capital

Our cute little guide

city, and even though it is reasonably priced, it still weighs on your pockets),  and be left to your own wills.

At night, we got what I was longing for, some free time. So a group of us got together, and let loose upon the town. Nothing is better than exploring a city with like minded people, especially ones that just seem to get you. We walked for hours and just tried to see as much as was humanly possible before heading back to the hotel, for our last night in this amazing city. I’m not going to lie, I was sad to go back to Poland and leave this spectacle. But next time, I’ll take one of you with me, and you will understand every word I’ve used. On that note, it’s time for your Bambi to go off and do something… not sure just what but I’ll come up with something.

YMCA near a national monument... that's alright , right?

Until next time,

Bambi

Berlin, Germany

So where did I leave you guys? Oh right, Doha. So you remember how it was ridiculously hot in Doha? I walked so much that I had worn holes in my shoe (yes singular), a rather large one and a smaller one, which caused more trouble than the big one (this shows again, that size does NOT matter, and I shall not heed to any opposing argument) Well, I decided to leave a couple things that I had in my carry on that were weighing me down and I was sure I wouldn’t need. I mean come on, like I’m going to need an umbrella, spare socks, and a cheap poncho, right? Well, funny story there.

I left that blissfuly hot Middle Eastern nation and popped onto a plane and made my way to Zee Germans (Snatch fans can giggle now. Others can giggle at the fact that I wrote Snatch. Twice.) The flight was pretty fun, met another fellow solitary traveller at the airport who had just been doing the after uni south east asia trip. His comments where: So. Blood. Hot. I never wore underwear! He was of the Scandinavian variety, and I didn’t feel like mentioning to him that somethings are best left unsaid. Thankfully I did not sit next to Mr. Free Ball on the flight, just a kind German man who insisted we drink to our healths, as the beer was free. I did not decline. And yes, we did get a bit silly.

I land in Berlin at 7:45am, to find it rainy and I can’t get in touch with my friend, and for the life of me I couldn’t remember her address. So there I am, standing outside Berlin Airport in the pouring rain at 8am in the morning slightly drunk and sporting a white shirt, black skinny jeans (which would soon decide to become skin tight and display 00 and 7), and a pair of shoes which were not, shall we say, comfortable? It felt more as though I was last in line crossing the red sea with Moses, and he decided ‘ah screw it, most of us got through. The sucker can get a bit wet.’ Well what else was there for me to do but go to the 24hr bar at the airport and enjoy a couple of reasonably priced Whiskeys to warm myself up and wait till I got through to my friend. 2 hours passed by, and I was making myself quite at home when I finally got in touch with her.

Now, Carolina (my friend) is this amazing violin player, and was very kind to me. We hadn’t seen each other in years, and it felt as though we’d just hung out yesterday and told stupid jokes to each other. We hung out, and I went off to explore Berlin, in style. That is to say, water proof (Duct tape people, duct tape. It is one of the best inventions since… screw it, there is nothing better, actually no, perhaps the condom. – sorry mum-) Why did I just type that?

Anyway, I spent two days in Berlin, and fell in love with the city and the people all over again. It’s beautiful, cultural, interesting, and I would never be able to find something boring about it. The days flew past, but I checked off some km’s of fantastic German built street (no wonder they got to Poland so fast!), and already found some cafe’s that I am sure that I will become a fixture of in the future. As well as a cute barista. I was sad to see it go, but I had to make my way to Poland, it was time to plant some new roots again.

The train trip from Berlin to Poland was honestly one of the most enjoyable experiences of my life. I was stuck in a carriage with a French German, and 2 of the most quintessential Jewish New Yorkers you would ever meet. But that my friends, is a story for my next blog.

I shall leave you with this though: Never, ever, ever, attempt to use hand signals whilst trying to find the way to a certain place when you do not know your audience. Apparently certain gestures are fine with Germans, but when you encounter, oh say a group of Turkish immigrants, you politely walk away after you notice that their smiles have turned to deathly glares. And you do this fast.

Till next time,

Bambi

Berlin

Bambi in Berlin

Doha, Qatar.

I arrive in Doha at 6:20 in the morning. By 7:15 it’s already 32 degrees. So what was my first thought about Doha? Black skinny jeans were a bad choice. With 19 hours to kill I decided to venture out into the big city. That’s a literal thing guys, Doha only knows how to do BIG. Meals, buildings, restaurants, cars. Now, I attempted the public transport thing, however, that ended in severe sweating as well as swearing. A bus came, yes, however neither the conductor nor the passengers were able to give me a direct answer on whether or not the bus was going to the city centre… they all thought it was in a different direction. As much as I like getting lost in a unknown city with only a 10 page Arabic phrasebook in a city were 85% of the population aren’t actually from Qatar, I decided not to chance it. Instead, I was in for a whole new world of trouble: Illegal taxi’s. I ventured back to the arrivals terminal and was stopped by a man, who introduced himself as a ‘sourcer of taxis’. Now, this sounded good to me… he called up a driver, and whilst we were waiting we got to talking and exchanged life stories, quickly. I say quickly as my Arabic was limited to ‘thank you’, ‘coffee’, and ‘not my marijuana’ (sorry mum). And his English was to rival my Arabic.  Unfortunately our deeply philosophical conversation (the last 5 minutes of which resembled much of Marceu Marceu’s collected works) was cut short by the authorities; the legal taxi drivers of Doha, who were not impressed by this man. They quickly whisked me away into an air-conditioned vehicle (which was a very pleasant thing, as my white shirt was starting to look like I had just come second place in the wet t-shirt competition at the Down Under Bar on a Tuesday), and we made our way to the ‘city centre’. Now, what I didn’t realise was that the city centre was actually a quite large shopping centre. This was not my idea of ‘seeing the sights’ and ‘becoming one with the locals’. But my fears were soon to be put at rest. I got a coffee, and wrote a bit of my story so far down, when I noticed a young gentleman that I had met a couple of hours ago. We’d only spoken for a 15 or so minutes, but we greeted each other like old lovers who hadn’t seen each other since the exchange of possessions. Awkwardly that is. He was a Frenchman by the name of Mustafa Bababuk (I giggled). However, he assigned me a task, to help him find a sheesha. I gladly accepted this mission of moumental risk (as we had no idea where to begin, and our common language was pidgin French). We enlisted the help of a friendly native taxi driver (legal), and we went off. And this is were I felt at home, getting lost and making a fool of myself.

 

The driver took us to the market area of Doha, which was definitely what I was looking for.  Now, the markets were of the dark alleyway variety, with shady types all over the place and many dead ends, and apparently a rabbit farm as well. But my colleague succeeded in procuring 10kg of apple and raspberry tobacco for his sheesha , to be picked up in a weeks time (he later explained that this was to be a business enterprise when he got back to France. I didn’t feel like faulting my only friend in the Middle East with the words ‘Customs will ask questions…’). After his purchase, we parted ways, Mustafa to China (I didn’t want to know what venture he was planning there… But I was really hoping he was going to say Afghanistan to see about some pretty Poppy plants), and I in search of caffeine.

 

I was rewarded after many a dead end and odd look, and offer to buy authentic Arabic dresses.. The corner café, with one of the best coffees I think I will ever experience, a cigarette, and all the time in the world to do nothing but order round after round and watch the people go by.

One of my favourites was this:

 

A man in his 50s was walking by, and caught his eye upon a lady, to which he insisted that she have a coffee with him. Drinking coffee alone is a sad affair, and reserved only for the non-cultured (eh, I saw his point). She politely refused, shocked to the core and desperately trying to find her husband who was a few stalls back bartering for a ship in a bottle. Impressed by the man’s actions I invited him for a coffee, which he accepted. I gave the man my name, and shaking his hand he introduced himself as Isaiah, but with a smirk he said: “You can call me Jesus”. I laughed, and for a split second I thought he might run away, however he composed himself and sat down. We talked for a long time, and the man turned out to be a jack-of-all-trades. A painter, poet, writer, inventor, scholar, mechanic. I remarked that he could rival Da Vinci, to which he responded: “No. I’m better, I’m still alive.”

 

I left that cosy café as I had a appointment to see a man about a painting. The Museum of Islamic Art that is, and the man turned out to be a woman…

 

Now the museum of Islamic Art is a beautiful building (just look at the photos!), and the exhibits were quite awe inspiring. The flowed perfectly, and detailed the influences from Greece to India that Islamic contained. However, I was much more interested in the people. I met John The Brit, from North Hampshire. I however will remember him as Batman (a remark that he used for himself). By day, he worked in the complaints department of a bank in a sleepy town in the middle of England. But for 2 months of the year, he ventured to the farthest corners of the earth in search of culture shock. All of Asia, South America, Middle East, and soon North Africa were to be conquered by this pasty, polite mannered Englishman. I liked him; we compared notes on where we’d been, and the pros and cons of the solitary traveller. We parted as old friends.

 

The rest of the day was marked by incidences such as these, not to mention some typical Dom events (laughing, tripping over my own feet, not being able to tell which one is the male toilet and chancing it… to mixed reviews and what I’m sure were insults from the Arabic woman).

 

However, even after all the sights, my favourite part of that day was just sitting at that little café, chatting to the customers that came and went, and watching the day pass me by.

 

Till next time,

Bambi

Delicate.

There are some phrases that I have heard in my life that always invoke a strong emotional response.

I love you. I’m leaving you. I miss you. I found somebody else, and yes, they’re better. You’re a nice guy, but he has a leather jacket. And perhaps the one that always hits me the most, “finish up your drink mate, we’re closing”.

I got to thinking about how delicate every word we utter is. Just like every moment we spend with someone, the next one depends on the one that preceded it. It can help someone, or it can ruin the most perfect moment. I never say the most profound of things, that I am sure we can all agree on. But this is something that I am slowly figuring out. Each moment that you spend with someone is delicate. Not Brittle. Not Fragile. Delicate.

It’s funny, how you don’t realize how much a couple of words can really help or destroy someone’s day. A kind word is always better. A spiteful one hits home the most. An awkward silence is sometimes the best option. But after working so much with people, seeing them come and go, chatting along and finding out more about their day, you start to notice things. Intonations that convey what they are really feeling. Even the strongest person can’t hide everything. Something will always give them away, and the kind soul that notices that something is amiss will ask, and perhaps, just perhaps, be that tiny spark that figures out what everyone else has missed.

I’ve got a task for all of you. Listen. Be kind. Be interested in another person that you meet, even for a day. You never know how you might actually affect person life.

Maybe it is something as simple as stepping out for a cigarette with someone, just to hear their story. You might just make a lifelong friend, or utter a couple of words that will make someone smile. And a smile is a great thing, on any day, especially our darkest.

Ira, the call me Ira

It amazes me sometimes, how much a person can actually travel without ever leaving more than 1km from his home. Most of us picture airports, exotic places, dingy hotels, and cuisine once the word travel is mentioned. However, I am referring to a different sort; two cultures meeting of the antipodean nature. For this, one must not travel far, you just have to observe.

Last night, whilst working at this little cafe that is open late at night, people drift in and out, and sometimes something absolutely picturesque occurs that, you would believe only happens in the greatest novels or movies.

A girl walked in. Absolutely dazzling and gorgeous, clad in the strangest assortment of clothes that you could possibly imagine, with additions such as emu feathers and aboriginal ornaments. Scantly 4 words of English in her entire vocabulary, she just stood there in front of me. She spurted out a verb, and maybe a noun or two in english, in such a way that one could barely deduce that she was after coffee. I asked, quite simply, “Where are you from?”. She stared at me, as though devising some kind of eloquent sentence that would put the likes of Hemingway and Tolstoy to shame and answered, “Russia”.

Now, I have this little talent with languages. I pick them up (at least the basics) quite easily. At hearing this answer, I ask “ Как дела?” (How are you?), at which point the girl, astounded to hear her mother tongue, starts rattling off on this elongated monologue of what she’s seen, experienced, and god knows what else. I couldn’t help but be amazed at her excitement of being finally understood by another soul on her adventures. I couldn’t shut her up. For what seems like and hour she just talked and talked with hand gestures that Moses would be envious of. Finally there was a pause, and I decided to throw my bit in. I cleared my throat, composed myself, and asked “What’s your name?” She smiled, with a smile that you can’t describe as it conveys more than words could have ever envisioned and said “Ira, they call me Ira”.

Moments like this make me realise that, sometimes, travelling is really just the people that you come across. Not the journey, not the destination, but the people.

New Blog, For An Old Dom

Hey there guys,

So, I’m leaving in a couple of weeks, and will be gone for a while. To keep in touch with all you guys I’ve decided to put up a new blog. I’ll still be on facebook and all that. But if you want to hear the stories behind the photos, or just want to see if I’m getting up to some mischief, this’ll be the place to look. Sometimes it won’t make sense, however, as you guys all know, I rarely do.

Till next time,

Dom