Budapest, Hungary

Budapest, Hungary

Chapter 2

Five Words:  Hungarian Meat Market Rage Bar

I pay a cover fee of some incomprehensible amount, and upon entry, my mind exudes dread to my enveloping body parts.  I cautiously progress and realize the massive club appears more like King Louie's palace from The Jungle Book, as there are people and things hanging from every orifice of the complex--monkeys chattering, long legged gazelles teasing, and barrel chested bears roving the many dance floors.  The main hall is open air, and entrance to this palace court prompts stares and discerning glances from all those lining the walls.


I'm immediately bored with the English speakers I arrived with, as most set to their now battle tested sexual bartering.  Most order shots before drinks, and for some malicious reason, tequila pours for mere pocket change.  I don't even think my cohorts intend on a drink.  It becomes an inhumane cycle of shot, dance, sweat, repeat.  I order a beer, bypassing the unsurmountable challenge that is the Magyar language.  While I wait, I notice there are an unusual amount of staircases, leading to some underground lair.  Of course, I lurk into the abyss.

I encounter a labyrinth of excess and energy.  There is room after room, some resembling Cold War fallout bunkers, and others like long forgotten prison wings.  The DJ sits behind plexiglass as the warden to this experimental psychiatric ward.  He monitors the movement of his inmates closely, effortlessly manipulating their fluid motions.  The music is two years behind the States, but the disc jockey warden is sure to mix in Hungarian classics from the 80's, 90's, and today.

The beer is cheap, too cheap, and as my intentions are incongruous with my ravenous accomplices, finding the bottom of the glass becomes a consistent goal.  It must be raining outside, as drenched joy seekers infiltrate the club.  Voracious and wet is not a good combination I conclude.  Damp skin constantly slithers across my own, and the contact from wild arms and legs is only followed by the briefest of apologetic looks.  I step into a rare forgotten corner of the complex, and as the Village People's YMCA enters the sound waves, I smile and realize it's time to go.

More on actual Budapest tomorrow.

READING:  The World as Will and Representation, Arthur Schopenhauer


LISTENING:  This should be every club's best and dearest friend.