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.