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…
somebody czech on carol 