Day Eleven: The White Bridge

We wake up late, groggy from dreams. Damn this shaman tobacco!

Hostel Relax is deserted, apart from the owner. She gives us a tour – all the way to the local shop and back.

We need to get to the city, urgently. First, however, we must cross the White Bridge.

Rusting and unloved, the white bridge is the only way across the road than runs to the city. To get there, you must first avoid the furious dog and walk five minutes from Hostel Relax.

The White Bridge is then followed by a blind alley marked by a clock, which leads to the blue bridge. This is guarded by the tiny, jumping dog. He cannot be calmed. Just walk on past. Don’t look him in the eye, or you too will jump forever.

Over the blue bridge is the station where, once an hour, a train will take you to Budapest. It takes 18 minutes.

40 minutes after you leave Hostel Relax, you will arrive in Budapest. That is, unless you miss the train. In that case, it will take you 100 minutes to reach the city. It is like Prague 2005 all over again, only in crippling heat instead of near torrential rain. Oh, and we are staying at Hostel Relax.

Luckily, we survive the searing heat of the sun, make it on time and head to Hero Square. Naturally.

Statues. Everywhere statues. Some fearsome, some grand, some pitiful. In honour of the fearsome statues, I perform feats of strength on them. This may or may not be appropriate but, having left all my shits back at the Hostel Relax, I unfortunately don’t have any to give.

A stroll through the park, past the statue of Anonymous (the first man to document the history of Hungary) and the floating art exhibition, leads us to the biggest bath house in Budapest. By this point, it is early evening. We decide to come back the next day.

We feast in a Spanish restaurant, where Matt consumes litre after litre of fresh lemonade. It is roasting hot outside… I eat some bizarre crispy taco, whilst Matt is treated a veritable collage of foodstuffs, spread across a plate.

After dinner, we try to find a fabled bohemian bar on a lonely street. We fail and walk instead to a ruin pub. The owner greets us with a joke about my t-shirt (it is the same colours as his favourite football team). I do not feign interest, but he buys us shots anyway.

I feign a bit more interest… Many beers, free shots and some singing later, we remember we have to leave early, to make sure we catch the last train back to Hostel Relax.

Walk, wait, train. Blue bridge, jumping dog, clock, white bridge, angry dog. Hostel Relax. Our fury simmers like teddy bear in a saucepan.

Tomorrow, we shall bathe. Oh how we shall bathe.

About the Author
Ed Gamester is a silly man who lives in the United Kingdom. He is the harbinger of Ghost Squad, singer of Gay Bum and author of A Rum Run Awry. He fights, kills and dies for TV and films, and gallivants around the place wrestling, drinking and lifting things for glory and profit. Where Ed treads, there stamp the boots of the Guild. Ed does not wear glasses, but feels this photograph makes him look more intelligent and artistically talented than he is. Feel free to contact him: he is disappointingly affable.

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