Budapest Part I: The Search (Six Girls, One Tiger Tim)

I’d like to preface the following post with the fact that there is no adequate way to describe our weekend in Buda & Pest…I call it Buda & Pest, not Budapest, for a particular and regrettable reason. This may be a lesson in procrastination or unwavering optimism, both of which landed us in an unprecedented situation with a man we call Tiger Tim. Even when taking our Cesky Krumlov living arrangements into consideration, this experience blows that orphanage with Egyptian paintings out of the water. I’d have to say our weekend revolved more around the slow digestion of the concept of our hostel rather than the city itself. But then again that may be due to the fact that we thought Budapest was Tiger Tim’s…until our last day when we discovered that the real Budapest was actually across the river, “no worries”. What can I say; Tiger has a way with the ladies.

(The Tigers can’t stop won’t stop)

Maybe booking a hostel the night before going to a foreign city isn’t the best course of action…or maybe it’s not the best sign that almost every hostel and hotel are booked therefore the remnants should be reexamined a bit more closely. Either way, we read about this “amazing” hostel located within walking distance of the metro in the “heart of the city of Budapest” with an approximately 99% approval rating (recommendation site not to be mentioned for kind hearted reasons). Note to self: must investigate what sort (and/or species) of humans are on this site providing recommendations and whether or not they are on any sort of offender’s list or belong to organizations that promote no showering and free love. Key deciding point, the competitive cost came to a grand total of $12 a person per night. I don’t think any kosher (literal and Carol dictionary version of word) weekend starts this way. We assumed the name “Tiger Tim’s” must simply be a random and most definitely non-explanatory description of the hostel like many others we’ve stayed in such as “Atlantis”, which bore no connection to the undiscovered underwater empire. Whether or not we were disappointed about that is still in question.

(just a quick value comparison, you can either invest in an electric pencil sharpener or one night at Tiger Tim’s Hostel…the choice of the century)

Let me set the scene. We take an eight-hour train ride, which involved six girls stuck in a Harry Potter-esque cabin with stops that were questionably similar to the landscape of the aforementioned books with characters that probably attended Hogwarts, nothing compares to the sort of animals (wearing muzzles?) and “souvenirs” (a.k.a. an entire tree at one point) these people bring with them. Against all odds, we get off at the right stop. We find our way onto the metro (because we are real legit world travelers and don’t take cabs) which looks like its last remodel may have taken place during the Industrial Revolution or better yet as a side project while man constructed the first wheel. We get off the metro. We ascend the staircase from the metro. We come upon what we consider to be the shining monument of Budapest, a McDonald’s set in a renovated train station resembling the Plaza Hotel. Greatest of all and unbeknownst to us, until Alyssa got rejected at the door under the condition of her purchasing items from a nearby competitor, this monument had its very own body guard most likely named “Bratislavio”. Nothing like Americans in awe of an impeccable McDonald’s.

(Castle or McDonald’s, still unsure)

Next, we cross the street only to see little arrows and the word “hostel” painted on the street pointing us towards a late night Kebab dive restaurant I recollect was named “Prince of Shwarma”, but that’s just my personal interpretation. Surprisingly this is not our hostel, although in regard to quality standards and shock value it is somewhat equatable. We pass this creepy location and exchange glances and words about how vile this “shwarma” establishment must be and what a joke if people actually go there out of all the possible dining options in Budapest. Funny joke here is that after all the following events go down “Prince of Shwarma” became our most promising dinner spot and we spent our night under marble (for sure 100% real authentic Hungarian marble) columns and golden (for sure 100% real authentic Hungarian gold) statues eating lukewarm falafel.

(funny how google images knows exactly what “Prince of Shwarma” looks like)

Back to finding our boy Tiger Tim. No one on this street responds positively when asked “Where is Tiger Tim’s?” which is obviously strange because most people should know where such an establishment is located given the name and the world-class reputation. We reached the conclusion that we must be completely lost in what we believed to be “Buda” (later will elaborate on this but basically the town Budapest is divided into Buda and Pest on the basis of the Danube River… all the while thinking we were staying in Buda we found out on our last day that we were in Pest, which is what everyone advises you to avoid and of course we were dumb girls like “Duh, obviously we won’t book a place in Pest”). Classic move.

The searching continued. Turns out, “Prince of Shwarma” was a direct neighbor of Tiger Tim. They were only a few buildings away from one another but it was understandable, once one sees the facade of our elegant hostel, as to why we had a bit of trouble finding our “hostel” (I put this in quotes because it should instead be called “private apartment of a man who calls himself Tiger who suspiciously wore the same outfit every day for three days that has showers with lights that are motion censored aka that enforce naked dancing every 1.4 minutes and has 50 bottles of communal sunscreen during winter ). I can only describe the entrance as an ancient fortification fit for a Greek temple that had lost all standing power, leaving it to be adorned with Indian script denoting some sort of abandoned chicken farm and/or mafia hang out (this translation was only made possible after navigating the intricacies of the Tiger Tim host building). There was no hostel sign, not even a Tiger image, indicating what this building held…a.k.a. the precious hostel of Tiger Tim.

( S.O.S. this cannot be our hostel )

Not much is needed on my part in terms of description when trying to conjure up the image of six girls outside such an esteemed piece of architecture with the knowledge that they were soon going to be inhabitants. There were some grade-A faces going around with intermittent gasps. There lay the buzzer. We buzzed the buzzer only to be given three different sets of codes that would send us on our way through the labyrinth that was our hostel path. First, you enter a code that leads to a large atrium with empty chicken hatches, an abandoned bridal store (sign that one of us for sure was going to have a Budapest shotgun wedding), and not to be forgotten, a variety of ramps used for unknown endeavors. Next, you enter another code to make your way into a creepy hallway that leads you up four flights of twisting stairs. If you drink, you vom. Next, you reach the top of the stairs. You walk through approximately three outdoor corridors that resemble the balconies of downtown New Orleans during Mardi Gras except your only view is into the windows of Hungarians doing “laundry” while evaluating your estimated net worth in case they need to exchange you for a shotgun. Next, you reach a barren door holding the final keypad and the accomplishment of reaching the Tiger Holy Land.

(lucky for us we are MAJOR maze junkies, just love this shit)

Not going to lie, we were expecting rays of light and a cornucopia to usher us through the door after such an arduous journey. Instead, not too far off, there were about 42 unmatched pairs of 1980’s era shoes that literally could have created their own garage sale streaming out of the doorway. Were we staying in a hostel or a Chinese sweatshop? Jury is still out. After that welcome and an exchange of awe-struck eyes, we looked up and came upon the myth, Tiger Tim. Tiger Tim was not just a hostel, but a man himself. It all began with “Hi I’m Tim, no worries”.

To Be Continued…

A little bit of Cesky in my life, A little bit of Lady Gordo by my side, A little bit of Burrito Loco is all I need

A big concern coming to Prague was the availability of late night drunk food. Let’s be real.  This was a legitimate worry which was validated after experiencing a place they call Cesky Krumlov with Michelle Van Wykova, together Van Wykova and Van Dykova (Czech adaptations), where not a single door was open past 2 AM to answer our prayer , and the prayer was for food. We needed food. Enter fable which provides a crucial moral story:

We were in awe (drunk girl “wow the world is so mean to me” type of awe) that no place in Cesky was open for late night aka early morning bread/cheese/life and proceeded to near-tears debate about how democratically repudiating this was and how no human should be denied such a basic right (loud enough for our roommates in our hieroglyph embossed, orphanage-esque, could-house-the-seven-dwarves-style hostel to hear us and suggest we just dream about it and pass out). We cut our losses and retired to our ten bed convent inspired room, but not before realizing my thirst rivaled that of a camel and there was no water bottle in sight. Wise people say ‘desperate times call for desperate measures’ thereby condoning my decision to  fill my empty wine bottle with water and chug it throughout the night only to replicate the “clug clug clug” sound of an AA member casually topping off a wine bottle throughout the night. Yet again, I received some interesting reactions from aforementioned roommates. Although we came out of Cesky Krumlov alive, we could not ignore the injustice perpetrated.

*I have chosen to leave out some crucial details regarding this trip, partially because they serve no purpose for this story, mostly because I chose to bury Cesky events alongside the others located in the get out of jail free section in my memory bank.

Every time we come home to Prague we think it’s still ten times better than the place we just were and this time we can credit Cesky Krumlov’s serious inadequacy in the realm of drunk girl fun aka food. Finally there has come a time, after many weeks of contemplation, to dedicate a little love to our local Mexican neighbor. Since I’m not in California anymore this is not a geographical reference, rather a reference to one of Prague’s many five-star dining establishments we call El Burrito Loco.

The fact that there is a 24 hour burrito, quesadilla, taco, basically anything that ends in -ito -illa -ita, place without a glowing bell worthy of a rave concert and adorned with “fourth meal” signs (Taco Bell if you don’t speak Carol) says a lot about Prague, especially when you take into account our location in Central Europe in relation to its projected 8 year travel time to Mexico. You know you are in a strange land when tortillas can only be found in the “exotic foods” aisle at the grocery store…they are as scarce as salt circa the trade era of India. Now that it’s out there and we can highlight the strangeness that is Mexican food in Prague, let’s take a moment to imagine a room full of Czechs and Mexicans…let me know when you’ve figured out how this would go down, I’d genuinely be interested. Would it be possible without mass amounts of booze? I undertook what I consider to be a scientifically sound approach to the matter in order to investigate the oil&vinegar dynamic that presumably would play out.

 First google image result for “average Czech person”

First google image result for “average Mexican person”

Can’t wait until they wake up the next morning, roll over, and ask “Who put something in the vat?”

And you now see why tortillas are where they are.

Back to the main point. The official name is Burrito Loco, but my first experience there led me to believe it was “El Burrito Loco” and for that reason, it is El Burrito Loco. Then again, the first time I experienced this late night food haven it took me days to decipher events before reaching a verdict on whether it was just a really ridiculous drunk food dream (as I’d been instructed to do in Cesky Krumlov) or if it was in fact reality. I talked to Lady Gordo, Gnomio, and others about this burrito like it was a mythical half-man half-horse (aka a Centaur) that would never be found again.

(found this on the Centaur modeling website, rival of Ford Models)

Until I realized it was one corner away from my apartment: Centaur spotted. Learning about the proximity of El Burrito Loco to my bed made the Freedom to Burrito Whenever You Please (FBWYP) a staple in our Czech lives, which is obviously an essential element in the quest for true cultural immersion. The burden had been lifted, the fear had dissipated, and soon thereafter we found ourselves a 3 AM home away from home with a professional whateva-you-like maker named Michael. He is the man behind the beans, the rice, the guac, the tortillas, and last but not least, the legend. He prepares our burritos in a top of the line fashion while submitting to our requests as far as him becoming our new best friend. If I could dedicate a song to him that illustrates his impact it would be “What A Girl Wants” by Christina Aguilera. Michael knows all.

So, we had a love affair with Michael’s skills for a few sweet weeks…even to the point of Lady Gordo occasionally doodling hearts and burritos with Michael’s name interlacing the two. We often found ourselves toasting to our night and more importantly it’s end at El Burrito Loco. This is where the problems began and the tumultuous relationship between burritos and booze took a hit.

(Lady Gordo & friends caught in natural habitat, El Burrito Loco)

There’s a bit of a sad twist to this story. In light of recent events, many of us have had to take on 12 steps and pursue a life of burritobriety. After a few successive traumatic evenings, all of which came to an end inside the 4 walls of El Burrito Loco, we become too familiar with the negative side effects of burrito addiction. It’s hard to distinguish which part leads to the negative reaction, burritos themselves or just their keen ability to unearth unwanted memories of disastrous times.

Shots after shots led to instances that led to burrito recovery

a) 17 frontal leg bruises due to a certain pair of black deathtrap heels not agreeing with cobblestone and of course not learning that lesson therefore insisting upon wearing them again the next night and rather than accept help when a fall ensues taking 5 minute rest periods on the floor wherever the fall occurred which added up to a solid 2 hour nap that took place amidst historical sights of Prague because a girl has got to get to know some good architecture at some point and nothing competes with the view from the floor

b) an accidental and abrupt tumble off of a dance stage amidst the Macarena which was already enough to raise questions but then was  followed by a name-not-to-be-mentioned’s swift and aggressive “attempt at helping” aka jumping on top of previously mentioned dance stage victim with both feet aimed for the ground but instead of planting firmly on the floor he found  the victims body with his feet while spilling an entire drink on victim and leaving her with a questionable arm bruise resembling that of a casual heroin user

Of course it seemed fitting that those nights end in Michael’s burrito assistance but that choice sealed the fate for El Burrito Loco’s future in our book.

Even walking past El B.L. conjures up some questionable emotions so I have made a conscious effort to forge a new route that does not entail eye contact with the burrito land. It’s like that phrase every girl swears by upon waking up after a hellacious evening involving one too many tequila shots, cups of vat, rubbing alcohol, whatever it is you choose…“I’m NEVER drinking ever again” except modified to “I’m NEVER going to Burrito Loco ever again”. Unlike the case of drinking, the case of recovery for the burritoholic is shockingly promising. Scientific studies are now taking place if anyone is interested in taking part which I highly suggest because this groundbreaking research on El Burrito Loco recovery will be crucial to the understanding of UPCES and it’s history. Contact me or my assistant, Gnomio, at Vezenska 6 if you are interested.

R.I.P.

Mardi Gras’ less aggressive brother: Oktoberfest

Consider this an upgraded version of Rick Steves’ Oktoberfest lessons & tips before all of these memories permanently vacate my mind to make room for the 200 pages of E.U. reading I have as part of just 1 week of 1 class, not to mention the 4 other classes I have (funny when you realize you are abroad for that reason…insert awkward turtle emoji)….

Oktoberfest de Carol

1. The site 90EuroMenPer1AmericanLady.org (because it’s nonprofit) runs an excellent dating service for those looking for love amidst the morally degrading aspects of Oktoberfest. It is truly innovative in respect to the seemingly natural way you meet your match…somehow you magically stumble upon them and they inform you that you have found your future mate and sometimes a proposal follows suit. My friends and I were particularly lucky when we found ourselves on a triple date (the more advanced relative of the double date) with the most promising bachelors in the Hofbräuhaus tent. I was personally blessed with the most physically and intellectually desirable, clearly this dating service knows more about your spiritual pursuits than eHarmony.

2. When strangers (of course still men) offer you any bite of food or sip of beer you have no choice but to accept. Even if it tastes like a frozen meat/veggie/dirt burger with sour milk you smile and pray you aren’t contracting the Plague. When they feed it to you like it’s a spoonful of Gerber baby food…even better.

3. Oktoberfest is also an academically enriching endeavor for all involved.

Personally, Michelle and I learned that asking a police officer while lost post-drinkdrankdrunk what would happen if we”hypothetically were to get on the metro without a ticket but ‘didn’t know it was illegal'” actually yields minimally threatening results yet the real problem was that Michelle and I were about to get on public transportation to a German town 30 minutes away probably titled “Wienershnitzelditchzelheaven”. Meanwhile, our hostel (going by the name of Jaeger, for real) was actually only a 3 minute walk from the festival and we had spent 2 hours interacting in every language on planet Earth, including African click on my part, in search of directions.

As for some men in our tent, we learned that I provided a crucial lesson in human anatomy when one accented man asked Michelle while motioning towards me “how do you say the the phrase ‘aaa…sssssss?'” and simultaneously fondled the air. I always knew I would serve a didactic purpose in this life. It was between this recent experience or Teach for America…I guess my fate was sealed in Munich. After the lesson, it became habit of every Neanderthal in the tent to grab this anatomical bit with no shame. Luckily it served the purpose of waking me up from the beer induced state of confusion that encompassed Oktoberfest. That’s why they serve beer in steins…so you can teach some Germans/Italians/Spaniards/every drunkard under the sun a lesson with an “accidental” stein bump to their head.

This whole experience makes you wanna say….

UPCES?

(pronounced “oopsies” and this saying serves the purpose of both denoting a huge error in judgement and also making fun of the name of our program meanwhile linking the two together because the error in judgement wouldn’t occur if UPCES didn’t bring us here)

—It’s a more irritating version of YOLO, if that’s even possible. Instead of “You Only Live Once” it stands for “Undergraduate Program for Central European Studies”. Same difference—

I’ll stop now before this turns into Wilson’s 14 Points, but this post is T.B.C. (to be continued) because there are actually too many stories and disturbing events witnessed to leave it at 3 points. Adventures including hung over biking, being told to enact a statue of a lion, finding yourself in an awkward eye contact exchange with a Chipendale appearing body guard, etc.

Hope some people out there had a civilized weekend.

Speakeasy to Me

Amidst this Prohibition (http://rt.com/news/czech-alcohol-prohibition-poisoning-188/) a famous Praha singer dropped her newest single titled “Do you know the methanol man?” which refers to the mysterious man who is getting between bitches and booze. This is a thing no man should ever do. Also, the famous singer I just referenced goes by the name of Lady Gordo, a distant cousin of Lady GaGa from the land of El Burrito Loco (she is queen of this late night burrito shop and may even be the inspiration for a frequent member stamp card, stay tuned).

This is Lady Gordo’s latest Teen Bop magazine cover (she is the desired mate of every teen Czech boy)

 Let me give you the melody for this future Grammy award winning pop single—sing it to the beat “Do you know the methanol man, the methanol man, the methanol man” and when appropriate insert “who lives in bumb fuck Czech Republic”

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lMOd8WADZZM

(excuse the music video, we had limited time and stage production funds)

This catastrophe has brought about a deep desire for me to reflect upon American history, as always. Back in the day the breezies of our united nation were pissed at their quagmire old hubbies who would roll back home crunk as Lohan and often unleash Chris Brown tendencies. Rihanna would have been all over this Prohibition movement. Talk about a valid reason. But let’s be real here, booze has gone from making women victims to making them bo$$y and independent. Women can own their own companies that sell Vodka to the aforementioned scuzzbags and make bank off of them, they can throw back shots when they wanna make the moves on a foreign hottie (don’t know anyone anywhere who would like to do this at the current moment), and they can pin drink recipes on Pinterest because that’s what highly educated and fierce females choose to do with their time. Let us take a moment to compare and contrast, cause that’s what a good history paper does.

How lady friends used to feel about Prohibition

vs. how all my Praha sistas are feeling

Prayin’ for that shit to return

In the mean time, I am personally opening a Speakeasy titled “Come Get Crunk with Carl”…wait my name isn’t Carl, it’s Carol*. I’ll be mixing some moonshine and nail polish in my Czech tub so come by and drop some korunas on the finest booze Prohibition has ever seen. Let’s party like we’re in the 1920’s.

*explanation of this will follow soon…it has to do with a certain level of intoxication reached in a small Czech town they call Cesky Krumlov where I sold my soul for beer and wine…and then more beer and then more wine…topped off with wine and a tumble down the river

cookies and stairs don’t mix

Backstory: Every day we have to walk up 8 flights of stairs to get to our apartment after also walking back and forth from anything we chose to do that day or didn’t willingly choose to do (aka 3.5 hours of intensive Czech language classes urry morning starting at 9 AM). This fact rationalizes the geographically desirable bakery, Bakeshop, that is around the corner from our apartment building where we bought the soon to be mentioned face-sized cookies.

So, after a day of tours and walking and walking and walking….and walking….all of it added up and we were delusional to say the least (to the point where Michelle and I were wrapping scarves around our heads and dancing like Aladdin characters). We ended up at a random restaurant owned by an Australian man and his dog that would serve us American-ish food and accept our sweats as normal attire. Please infer the non-serious tone about that. Side note, the Australian man also had to teach Alyssa how to eat fish. I hit up the steak and potatoes while Michelle slurped pasta and we all meticulously planned our trip to get cookies after we paid. Enter cookies.

Point of post: It’s a far stretch to call it an epiphany but tonight there was a moment that pretty much symbolized the ridiculous contrast between American and European life. It became increasingly clear while we were huffing and puffing up our stairs complaining about how many more flights we had to go yet at the same time stuffing bites of huge Bakeshop cookies into our mouths, therefore decreasing our oxygen flow and increasing our fatty flow, that we really are not in tune with the Czech way of life. Our lack of being able to make it upstairs because we aren’t Europeans and can’t walk and also the face stuffing because we are Americans who can eat but not walk proved to be a perfect paradox that is our life here thus far. The obnoxious laughing that followed once we realized what we were doing also brought up another issue because of strict quiet rules in hallways that clearly our loud American culture would never condone cause that shit is oppressive and boring.

Moral of the story: Everything we do here makes us realize how American we are.

 

P.S. We were making jokes about our cleaning lady and our landlord (David aka young man with Czech accent who we pay to bring us random pieces of furniture whenever we request) secretly shacking in the locked towel/cleaning supply room in our room while walking down our stairs to dinner and low and behold David was walking up the stairs. Aside from the fact that he walked in on us all pant-less today, I’m pretty sure he has a very high opinion of Americans and could contribute a lot more to this post. Dobry BYE!

evacuate the dance floor aka evacuate the apartment building

Once upon a time there was a girl named Carol. On her first night sleeping in her Prague apartment after going out she decided to take a quick vacation to the building doorstep.

 

With all of her 4 suitcases, repacked. And best part, she was still asleep.

 

No joke I was in a dream that I was on my way to a wedding in Italy and thought I had to pack all of my suitcases and rush to the airport. So basically to leave our room you have to use a key to unlock it and then go down FOUR flights of stairs and leave the main building door which proceeds to lock behind you. And of course because I was on my way to a wedding I didn’t need the keys or a phone so I decided to leave them in the room. Imagine me lugging all my shit while being unconscious down the stairs looking like I’m on a full blown mission. 

 

Long story short, when I woke up I was outside on the doorstep in a fancy going out top and jeans and all my suitcases staring at the door like I just landed on Mars with the fucking NASA crew. So I was locked out of the apartment with all my suitcases with no way to get in and our first day of Czech language class to get to 3 hours later. I started screaming Romeo and Juliet style for Michelle or anyone in general and banging on the door at 6 AM. 

 

Finally, some Czech woman came who lived in the building and let me in while staring at me like I was an escaped convict and probably fearing for her life that I was entering the building behind her. Talk about an epic first night. This was after being on the doorstep for 2 hours and falling victim to a wonderful morning rain shower. Never fail to disappoint. 

 

Whatever, I heard the wedding in Italy was a rager. 

Ode to Gnomio aka King of the Castle

When you are jet-lagged, hungover…near puking…and you enter your new apartment in a foreign country only to find a Gnome chilling there in the entry way there aren’t many ways to explain the reaction. Well, I decided to name him Gnomio and just go with it. I’m dedicating this post to him because he is the King of the Castle, our Prague castle, and he is the center of all pre-games and intense daily conversations. He contributes only in Czech but doesn’t know many words other than “Ahoj” and “pivo” and whatever the Czech translation for “I’m a pimp” is. In this photo we crafted a genuine blunt and local Vodka bottle for him to rock. Also, on the topic of vodka, there was a national emergency declared the other day (mind you after 2 nights of straight downing the drank) that people were dying of methanol poisoning in the vodka. LOL RIGHT?…..no…..

Taken part 2, the vodka series. 

That’s all for Gnomio today, but stay tuned for an in depth description of my sleep walking adventure that resulted in me being locked out of our apartment by myself with 4 bags thinking I was headed to an Italian wedding. Cheers to my life in Prague and stay hopeful that I return in one human piece.