BRATISLAVA: Mr. Lova Lova

We heard the strident whistle of the train as we found ourselves on a 5-hour stopover en route to Prague from Budapest via the Eurorail. Welcome to the fine city of Bratislava, the capital of Slovakia.

Snuggled between the countries of Austria and Hungary, Bratislava is Slovakia’s compact capital. It is the kind of city that feels like a little town, with quaint shops, medieval streets and town squares minus the cacophony of heavy city noise or maddening traffic.

By the way, it is worth noting that the denizens of Bratislava are not called "Bratinellas."

The train station that greeted us was a humble structure compared to grandiose cathedral-like rail stations of other European cities. It was a grim, dark concrete structure that seemed to let it no daylight. It showed signs of Soviet-era weariness and abandonment. I’ll be honest, the station can pass as a transit hub for the Philippine National Railway.

From the train station, we leisurely wandered into the city hall grounds, then along the Danube River and headed into center of the the nicely renovated Old City. There we found a collection of baroque palaces, Gothic churches, medieval towers and welcoming plazas. For lunch, we decided to stop at a cozy restaurant, sat outside and helped ourselves to a sampling of Slovak cuisine – some smorgasbord of breaded and fried chicken, pork, beef and other game meat, covered in some type of heavy sauce, fries and veggies. I wish I took down the name of such culinary monstrosity.

After downing lunch with some fairly inexpensive Staropramen beer, we continued to stroll along Bratislava’s streets. Other than the imposing Bratislava castle rising from a nearby hill, the major city landmark is a bronze statue of a construction worker peeping up from a manhole.

Speaking of manholes, here’s a Bratislava fun fact: the city is a popular destination for wild, weekend stag parties. Advertisements and posters litter the city surroundings promoting special stag nightlife packages, promising rowdy pub crawls, and access to the city’s finest strip clubs filled with beautiful Eastern European vixens in all their glittered glory. The signage was everywhere. You can't escape it, like the time Color Me Badd was number one with "I Wanna Sex You Up." Predictably, there were sightings of wolf packs of limeys nursing last night’s hangover in the city cafes, who all appear to be satisfied patrons of the aforementioned bachelor night packages.

Do not be misguided by your impression of Bratislava from the modern classic “Eurotrip” movie, where a group of American teenagers ultimately end up in the city, horrified by the dire desolation of Eastern Europe in the aftermath of the Cold War. Bratislava is undeniably a charming little European hamlet with that tiny hint of a wild streak. The train station is a bit of a fixer-upper though.

HUNGARY: Budapest is Budabest

Esther, thin, stalky and gorgeous with bleached blonde hair, wore a pink skirt, and gave off this sexy “I only work in classy soft-core films” air. She was the fetching guide to our walking tour of Budapest. Like a sultry Penthouse version of Gandalf, she was our consort to view the city’s major sights: Castle Hill, the Chain Bridge and Matthais Church, some really remarkable places where selfie snappers will have a ball. Although the views were impressive, my eyes were distracted by Esther’s green eyes and glowing skin. My ears were engrossed with her sexy Eastern European accent, which sounded Russian but without the cold, hardened history of dire despotism. 

Buda, on the West of the Danube River is where most of the touristy sights are at. It looks down at Pest, where business, culture and commerce intersect. After wandering around the city with Esther for 3 hours, we completed our outing by glugging down local overpriced beers on the balcony of a stunning tower in an area known as the Fisherman’s Bastion. We had great views of the Pest side, including the Parliament building, a gothic monster that almost puts London’s to shame.

Esther suggested we come back around the area in the evening. There’s apparently a secret entrance around Castle Hill where interested parties can explore an underground labyrinth with kerosene lanterns. Like Harry Potter and his crew wandering about in the Forbidden Forest. We elected to check this out, Maze Runner-style, the following night.

The jury is still out on the Hungarian night scene. But at least I found a copacetic Hungarian hidey-hole. Szimpla Kert is a quirky ruin bar, a drinking den housed in a derelict building with a scrappy courtyard, decked with couple of trees providing leafy shade from the midday sun. It’s a funky beer garden bursting to the brim with Bohemian layabouts, filled with tables, chairs, odd benches and tatty sofas, with Dreher on tap and charming bartenders serving up your ale with a smile. 

We situated ourselves by the bar. On my fourth beer, I get my chat on with a local damsel, Anna, who in all likelihood had “vivacious go-getter” as the headline on her online dating profile. She was tall, had short auburn hair and was wearing a tight white top. We talked and had a lively discourse on the merits of Budapest and argued the finer foibles of artistic meaning of the relics wedged on the ruin bar’s walls. That accent, murky and mysterious with an inviting Bohemian tone was equal parts carnal desire and ragbag roustabout. She flashed an exuberant yet impish grin as she wiped the traces of beer suds off her lips. I pulled her close and kissed her. We performed roughly 12 minutes of Hungarian tongue wrestling until we whizzed back to my hotel.

Nursing a trifling hangover the following day, my yearning to visit the Hungarian Museum of Fine Arts was half-hearted, like a 50-year-old smoker’s attempt at giving up his 40-a-day habit. Still, I was pleasantly surprised with the display of works from periods ranging from the Old Masters to the Romantic Period. And yes, the Impressionist collection was impressive.

The angry afternoon sun was scorching and I was sweating like a blind lesbian in a sushi bar. Skin-eating amoebiasis be damned! We were off to the renowned refreshing public baths of Budapest. On the way to the famous Szechenyi Baths in the east side of the city, we passed by Heroes’ Square, a large plaza speckled with the statues of the Chieftains of the Magyars and other effigies to Hungary’s heroes from history.

We paid the bargain 12 Euro entry fee and entered the premises. The geothermal baths have a normal indoor bit that smells a tad funny and feels like your average swimming baths. Inside, we were greeted by a small number of old, naked men enjoying the water. The cavernous place had around 15 different pools to lounge around in, ranging from freezing to steaming hot. I stripped naked, knob out, and sat on the ledges of one of the soothing baths. Geothermal bliss.

After a few minutes, I slide my board shorts back on and stepped outside the enclosed area and into something that looks like a vivid postcard. The neo-baroque architecture surrounding the outdoor pools was exquisite. This was the Versailles of spas. We spent a little over two hours lazily floating, drinking draft Sopronis and people watching.

We dried ourselves up and headed back to the hotel a few minutes right before nightfall. After a quick nap, we took a cab to Esther’s so-called underground labyrinth. Unfortunately, the tunnel entrance was closed that evening. Fail. No nocturnal, subterranean adventures tonight.

It was our last day in the city and we proceeded to explore the notable buildings on the Pest side: the grand Phantom-free Opera Populaire, the massive neo-renaissance basilica of St. Stephen and the Great Synagogue of Budapest, the largest in Europe. 

We were hungry in Hungary. After enjoying some of the local goulash in an outdoor cafe, we joined a Communist Walking tour and obtained first-hand insight into life in the city behind the Iron Curtain. Happy hour in yet another ruin bar then followed where Hungarians proved there's no party like a Communist party.

Cruising may refer to one of two things. It’s either a verb that connotes fit backdoor bandits from New York Sports Club looking for someone they can take home to their studio apartment in Hell’s Kitchen and provide bodily warmth from the Polar Vortex, or it refers to the act of taking a cruise. On a boat preferably on some water somewhere. We did the latter, along the Danube. While on the vessel, we admired the sights along the river and looked at people along the banks with their tripods and SLRs set up in specific places searching for the perfect sunset over the city. The photographers looked like early 20th-century painters wielding easels and paint pallets. 

Darkness fell like panties in a Prince concert. From the deck of the tumble-down sightseeing boat, Budapest appeared even more spectacular at night. The orange lighting from the many river-front landmarks gave the city a beautiful, shimmering hue.

Budapest is a city which demands your attention. It’s a heady mixture of Prague’s elegance, Vienna’s cafe culture and Brooklyn’s jagged hipness. I miss you, Budapest, old dame of the Hapsburg Empire.

SPAIN: Catalan-taduhan

Legend has it that the great demigod Hercules (played to perfection by Arnold Schwarzenegger in the 70's classic "Hercules Goes to New York") founded the city of Barcelona. The legend is true. Believe it. I can attest to this. The capital of Spain's Catalonia exudes such strength, beauty and perfection; there is no question that a demigod is its city planner. Let us give eternal gratitude to the son of Zeus for his fondness for mountains, modernist architecture and nude beaches. Barcelona…Vicky loved it. Cristina loved it. I guarantee that you will love it.

In the heart of Barcelona lies the Sagrada Familia, the architectural spawn when you breed the design persuasions of St. Patrick’s Cathedral with Snake Mountain (Skeletor’s eclectic stronghold from the He-Man cartoons). Throw in a little bit of Tolkien’s Isengard into the mix and you churn out Antoni Gaudi’s massive, neo-Gothic, albeit unfinished temple masterpiece.

Antoni Gaudi has long been described as a ground-breaking, audacious, creative genius, but quite absent-minded. One fateful day, while walking his merry way to his favorite local Korean nail salon for his bi-monthly pedi, his mind was distracted:“Did I really turn off the kitchen stove before I left my apartment?” Then BAM! Oblivious Antoni walked into the path of a speeding tram and died shortly thereafter. True story.

While tourists line up for hours to venture inside the Sagrada Familia, the true Barcelona experience is around the corner in a small tapas bar. There was no line to sit al fresco, partake of a pitcher of Sangria Familia and a plate of Sagrada Paella with a priceless view of the majestic citadel of spires. The pitcher of red juice was concocted to perfection; like drinking a whole bottle of wine and two shots of bourbon, giving the lady and I a happy buzz to get us through the rest of the afternoon.

The city offered more surreal buildings from the genius Gaudi. We ventured westward to bask in the majesty of Antoni’s other modernist creations. I was wowed by Gaudi´s tremendous tributes to nature and incredible designs of the apartment buildings Casa Milà and the Casa Batlló.

The Casa Milà and Casa Batlló are surreal, storybook apartments, seemingly settings straight out of the Beatles’ Yellow Submarine album. Dancing chimneys, spiral staircases, curving windows: I’ll have whatever Gaudi was smoking. But you know what would be cool? I surmise that Casas Milà and Batlló will be great backdrops for the next generation of surrealistic, film noir type of HD porn flicks. So this inspired me to conjure up a list of Antoni Gaudi-inspired adult movie titles, as follows:

Sagrada Semilya

Vicky Does Cristina in Barcelona

Barcelogganisa: European Sausagefest

Debbie Does Catalan

A Messi Situation

Casa Butt-low

Sagrada Semilya 2: Unfinished Business

Barcelona won’t be the cool Mediterranean metropolis without the seminal works of Antoni Gaudi. I was enchanted, amazed and delighted at his love of nature, sense of humor and sheer design genius. This is the final word on the matter: “Gaudi ain’t gaudy”. Deal with it.

Laid out sometime in the 18h century, the La Rambla is a tree-lined pedestrian mall that stretches about a mile from Barcelona’s center to the Mediterranean Sea. It is a hub of activity and quite the busy boulevard. You know you’re in a touristy part of the pueblo from the number of human statues and street performers loitering its streets. Guy dressed as a gargoyle in gold accosting Japanese tourists? Check. The only thing missing is the perfunctory Peruvian pan flute band playing "I Left My Heart In Lake Titicaca" and other greatest hits from the Andes.  

The afternoon started to swelter in the sexy Spanish summer heat. Instead of lingering along the strip like ther rest of the out-of-town, camera-totting sheep, we decided to sit at a café, order icy cold San Miguel cervezas, and gawked at other sweaty tourists and locals while happily intoxicating ourselves through the rest of the afternoon. 

We capped the day lounging around the beach at the end of the La Rambla. This was a refreshing retreat that gave me much-needed time to bask in the sun topless like the city's glistening denizens. I took in the warm Mediterranean rays as I looked up at Barcelona’s joyous perma-blue skies.

It is unfortunate that soccer fans beyond the great continent of Europe have no choice but to slum it in front of the television to get their dose of UEFA and other European football. There comes a time when a true lover of the game should prove undying loyalty, trace the footsteps of his soccer heroes and do a pilgrimage to his beloved team’s home stadium. I’m a casual football fan. I played a bit of soccer in my younger years and in the 90’s, occasionally kicked my college buddies’ glutes in PlayStation FIFA. Apparently, she took the whole pilgrimage memo to heart. Being the huge FC Barcelona bandwagon fanatic that she is, a visit to Camp Nou, the temple of red and blue was an indispensable part of the proceedings.

Camp Nou, home of FC Barcelona, is the largest football stadium in Europe. It is the true citadel of soccer, the Catalan Cathedral and the place where Colombian pop sensation Shakira takes her baby to see her daddy work.

We walked a few meters from Les Corts subway station exit and slowly see this imposing edifice rising in the distance. The place is huge but not that impressive from the outside. It’s a far cry from the gold standard of modern coliseum design: the La Salle Greenhills gym in Metro Manila.

The “Camp Nou Experience” tour starts on the first floor museum. This is a modern museum with interactive walls, an inordinate amount of trophy displays and a wide collection of objects that reveal the history of the football club. The exhibits retrace the steps of football juggernauts that have made history, such as Maradona and Ronaldinho. Let us not forget the club’s current poster boy, Lionel Messi. Naturally, we took photos with a digital version of Leo “La Pulga” Messi and coughed up 15 euros each for this kitschy memento - proving that Camp Nou wasn’t just a monument to football but also a colossal money-making apparatus.  

Tourists can feel the true FC Barca passion by visiting noteworthy areas of Camp Nou: including the locker room, which on a regular match day, is filled with the aroma of grass, filth, sweat and testosterone. As I walked through the tunnel onto the carefully manicured pitch, I gazed to the right and find a chapel, which according to my audio guide, has been blessed by no less than the Pope. Apparently, in this town, there is no such thing as separation of church and soccer.

We proceeded to the stadium bleachers, where a panoramic view of the whole stadium can be most appreciated. There’s also the television studio, press room and commentary boxes. The tour ends on the second floor, a multimedia space with even more fancy-pants, touch-screen interactive displays. Of course, you exit through a two-story gift shop where all sorts of FC Barcelona merchandise can be procured: from jerseys to jackets, bags to bobble heads, and posters to potato chips.

JAPAN: Shogunanigans

"For relaxing times, make it Suntory time."
- Bob Harris in Lost in Translation
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As far as I can remember, I have always been enamored and inspired by the bowl of crazy nuts that is Japanese culture. No doubt, the impetus for this life-long obsession was a lengthy yet healthy childhood exposure to various Japanese cultural phenomena: Ultraman, Voltes V, Godzilla and Star Rangers, to name a few. All I needed to learn about life, family, love, justice, I learned from the Armstrong brothers and their struggle against the horny Boazanian Imperials.

Given that I was en route back stateside from a hilarious holiday trip to Manila, I figured why not stop over Tokyo, the Asian capital of cool?

On the train to Tokyo from Narita, I was giddy as Little John Armstrong on his first trip to Camp Big Falcon. Looking out to the rugged landscape, I was excited over the high jinks that lie ahead. By high jinks I mean checking out Shinto shrines and trying out the freshest sushi. Yes, that is how I roll.

I made Roppongi, an area known for nightlife and more English signs than any part of the city, my home base. Needing to drain out all that iced green tea from the plane ride in, I checked into my hotel, entered the bathroom and wondered at the greatest invention next to the toilet: the electronic heated toilet. Why aren’t there more heated shitbowls with anus sprinklers and comfy armrests around the world? It's one of modern history’s greatest mysteries.

Naturally, the first night in Nihon involved a nocturnal excursion of the local Roppongi drinking scene. This enclave is infamous for nightlife which caters almost exclusively to foreigners (or the more pejorative term, “Gaijin”). So-called “shot bars” abound like red bumps on a herpes victim. I ventured into the classic ones: Propaganda, Geronimo, Gas Panic and a tiki-themed bar hidden within the streets of Roppongi Hills, the name of which escapes me.

With my trusty iPhone translator app, I struck a conversation with the bartender at Propaganda and asked her what she thought were must-dos in the city. She answered quite politely that there is really nothing much to do around Tokyo but shop (What? What is this, Hong Kong?). But she did tell me to check out the fish market (an indispensable part of the itinerary anyway). I also met a couple of female Australian snowboarders who were naturally spending their Thursday night boozing up. More drinking then followed. In Roppongi, the sake, beer, smoke fumes, and good vibes were intoxicating.

I had the grand intention of waking up at 4 am to catch the famous tuna auctions at the world’s largest seafood market in Tsukiji. Predictably, that did not happen. Who wakes up at this ungodly hour on vacation anyway? I trooped into the market 4 hours later. Fortunately, there was still a bit of action in wholesaler section. I found the area quite dangerous though with “turret truck” fish transporters zipping in dangerous speeds all over the market. If you get hit by one of these babies you will literally be sleeping with the fishes.

Every guidebook recommends a trip to old school Tokyo areas Ueno and Asakusa. Trusting Mr. Fodor, I headed out to Ueno Park, strolled its grounds and marveled at shrines, temples and pagodas where Tokugawa shoguns once roamed. The Asakusa district on the other hand, is famous for its massive Buddhist temple grounds guarded by one freakishly gigantic red lantern. Hot tip: the golden years of the Asakusa district are vividly portrayed in Kawabata's novel The Scarlet Gang of Asakusa.

Elementary, my dear Watson-san, there can be such a thing as “temple overload”, so I decided to see what the fuzz is about in Tokyo’s Akihabara electric town. The billboards. The lights. The place seemed to be the mutant offspring of The Tron Grid and Canal Street. Other than electronic shops and manga stores, this town is famous or infamous for so-called maid cafes. No visit to Tokyo is complete without a trip to one of these hilarious joints.

Boy, these maid cafés did not disappoint. Hands down, a visit to one of these fine establishments was one of the most bizzaro experiences ever. Here, guests are served by barely legal Japanese waitresses dressed as French maids. Other than serving food (the omelet rice was quite decent), these role playing dolls of otaku fetish engage in conversation and games with customers. My personal maid offered me my Sapporo, kneeled down and called it “magic dreenk”. She slowly poured catsup and made a smiley face over my majestic omelet of tastiness. We then both recited a discordant Japanese chant “moe moe kyun… something, something" while both our hands mimmicked the cheesy Taylor Swiftesque heart symbol. Mind-f-cking hilarity.

I bid sayonara to my pig-tailed hostesses and continue to take in Akihabara’s garden of nerdy delights. I visited the uneventful Tokyo Anime Center, a far cry from the uber-cool Gundam café with its savvy space-ship themed lavatory (the place lights up like a rocket ship when you take a dump, quite fascinating). The exhausting day ended with a dinner out at a Roppongi dining institution with old friends - Tokyo locals, toasting with boxes of premium sake over sushi and shrimp balls.

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Ms. Kawasaki: Welcome to Tokyo.
Bob: Thank you very much.
Ms. Kawasaki: My name is Kawasaki. Nice to meet you.
Bob: I've heard of you. Thank you.
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It’s Friday mid-morning. The crossing lights turned green and a wave of humanity converged in the middle of the five-way intersection before steadily dispersing again in all directions. Order among urban chaos. Welcome to Shibuya crossing. Did you hear that? That was the sound of a No.2 pencil ticking off bucket list item No. 27. Achievement unlocked.

Right across the Meiji shrine and sandwiched between the districts of Shinjuku and Shibuya lies Harajuku (gesundheit), where tweens dressed as anime superheroes and gothic laced up lolitas shop and parade around narrow streets. It is said that day-to-day life in Tokyo can be oppressively rigid, and cosplay is a creative reaction against societal pressures. Ahh, to be young in Japan. Who wouldn’t rather be a weekend warrior-princess with cutesy FMBs and outlandish hair?

The tea ceremony is possibly one of the most calming ways to enjoy the elegance of traditional Japan. I witnessed such a ritual at the ritzy Hotel Okura. The very basic act of enjoying a cup of hot tea is transformed into a high art form. The beauty of the ritual, as with much of Japanese art, flows from its simplicity — the tap of a water scoop against a ceramic bowl, the scrape of the whisk that mixes water with the aromatic powder and the silent wiff of the flatulence that fills the tatami room from drinking too much oolong.

The sun was setting over the land of the rising sun. Just south of Roppongi, the faux Eifle Tower with its loud orange color lorded over the city. In the observation deck, I drank my Asahi with quiet reflection, overlooking majestic snow-capped Mt Fuji.

Bring on the final night, and the most proper way to end this little journey was an electrifying evening out in Shinjuku with Mr. K, a friend and fellow goomba. The lights and liquor in this seedy sector were overwhelming. The western hemisphere could learn a few from the unique copluatory themed business propositions implemented within the bars and clubs of these lighted alleys. The Kabukicho district of Shinjuku is what you get when you throw in Times Square, Amsterdam and Quezon Avenue into a blender of urban merriment.

Like Daimos darting through a tunnel before battle, the bullet train raced out of Tokyo to Narita airport the next morning. Sadly, it was time to make like a cherry blossom tree and leave. I listened to Jesus and Mary Chain’s “Just Like Honey”, the somber closing hymn from Lost in Translation and dozed off as I fly back to New York, burned out from the city's energy that can't be denied.

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Bob: I don't want to leave.
Charlotte: So don't. Stay here with me. We'll start a jazz band.