Rooming with a friend-of-a-friend

So Alexa arrived on Monday, but was so tired from her travelling - she started at 6am in Wales - that she'd gone straight to her friend's to crash. She texted me on Tuesday morning, and I arranged for her to come and take a look at the flat that afternoon. After a short chat, and some of the usual questions, we decided that we would live together. The flat was just what she was looking for, and she seemed reasonably normal to me, so all that was left was running it by my landlord. We went for a drink at Jelen to finalise the deal.

My landlord was fine with it, partly because it means a little more rent for him, so Alexa came to get my keys to have them cut. By the time I got home from work she'd moved her stuff in, and it was nice to have someone there to say hello to. At the same time, it was a bit of a shock to the system, and I realised there would be some getting used to for me. I rearranged the food in the fridge so we could each have a side, and it was nice to see some fresh toiletries in the bathroom. Now if I can just get her to turn her music down a little...

Spring with bumps

The radical change in weather last week brought Spring rapidly to Budapest, such that suddenly the crocuses and even the daffodils were out. Starting my first full week of work, I headed into the office, and was pleasantly surprised to find that the fountain in the courtyard (previously covered over) was now gushing forth water. Elsewhere I saw bobbing golden heads (a la Wordworth), which I subsequently discovered are called Nazis here. Ok, not actually Nazis, but Nárcisz (like Narcissus), they sound remarkably similar though (I wonder....).

The Friday before I'd found out that a friend's friend was moving to Budapest and was eager to see whether they'd be interested in becoming my new flatmate. The day passed with my friend and I exchanging details, and waiting for her friend to arrive here. After work I was scheduled to have my first Hungarian lesson, but it was cancelled, because my teacher was ill. Boo.

I went home, checking my phone all the time to see if this girl had called or texted. Nothing. So I headed out to Tesco, in order to do my weekly shop (which I'd substituted the day before for buying of roses). I also had to get some celotape to put on my mailbox downstairs. I was appalled to find it was around £2.50 for two rolls, which to me seems an exorbitant price, especially in Tesco.

I headed home, and met Miklos, the bane of my life, on the street. He was due to come over to collect money for bills. We'd been trying to arrange this for a week, me agreeing twice, then him calling to ask if he could do later in the evening, and me already having plans. It was all a little frustrating. Trying to make conversation I told him my teacher was ill, which descended into my attempts at mime, which readily failed, and a desire to bang my head against a brick wall. When we got upstairs it turned out he didn't even have the bill, and would have to come another day. Hmmph.

Well, still no news from the girl, so I decided to make the best of a bad lot and go to Ikea. I'd already managed to amass around a dozen plants (I'd purchased three in Tesco that day - shocking impulse buying), and they were beginning to demand proper homes. Fortunately I got there before it shut at 10, but had to race round a little. Ever the savvy-buyer/out-and-out-thief, I snipped cuttings off a couple of plants there, which I'd later pot up at home. I came back with some mugs and a clothes basket too. It would have been rude not to.

Oh well, not such a successful day, but my plants looked happy in their new pots, and I had some new mugs. Time for tea...

Planting hopes with a little compost

For the last four mornings I'd woken up at 8am or earlier, in spite of what time I went to bed or intended to get up. So I was pretty knackered by Sunday morning. I didn't have much planned for the day, and intended to keep it that way.

I arranged to meet a new friend for coffee, and we ended up having brunch in a little cafe on Liberation Square. It was exceedingly pleasant, including the cute little dog owned by the proprietor. He took me to an English bookseller nearby, and I was a little forlorn at the price of the English magazines, which were almost triple their UK price. No Esquire, Economist or GQ for me.

In the afternoon I decided to make a quick trip to Tesco. There I picked up three rose plants and the necessary accessories, which I potted up at home for the balcony. I'm very excited about seeing them come up in a month or so.

Later a friend popped over for a quick cup of tea, then left me to my own devices.

The evening passed peacefully, watching a little TV, falling asleep in front of it, and finally getting myself prepared for another week of work.

Lovely.

Getting happy with a Cuban dictator

For those of you who've been reading my blog regularly, you'll be pleased to hear Saturday was a very good day :) This little papier mache dude was on the corner outside a shop.

In the morning I got up and headed off to meet Judit at the big market I went to on my third day. After a quick look round, we headed off to meet her sister, Zsuzsi for coffee, at a little place called Castro's, near Deak Ferenc Square. The cafe was very cute, with eclectic music, and free internet. While we were there, Judit sorted out the delivery of my new internet on Tuesday, much to my relief. We chatted about lots of things, and one of Zsuzsi's uni friends showed up to pick up some dog collars Judit had made her. After that we had a quick look inside St Stephen's Basilica, where Judit and her husband, Phil, were married. And I saw the wretched hand of St Stephen, which is over a millenia old, and the English translation of its history, which some tourist had seen fit to correct.

We strolled on to the West End shopping centre, where Judit was going to ask the people at T-Mobile how much I owed for going over my internet limit. We were all on tenterhooks, fearing the worst (that I might owe £100 or more). As it turned out all was well, and the deal I had would only ever cost the flat rate. The only catch was that internet speed will drop dramatically after I go over my limit, but that I could live with (especially since I was getting a new internet connection at home). The mobile internet would just be a bonus now.

Next we wandered around Margaret Island, which is noted for being the only real large spot of green in the city centre. The entrance was difficult to get to because of works on the bridge, and the warm weather bringing out a lot of park-going people. You could tell it would be a nice place for the summer. I still missed luscious English parks though. Turns out we're quite spoilt in London.

The girls headed off, and I went to meet Sally, who was out shoe shopping (unsuccessfully). I met her and Lovisa for coffee, then we headed to Tesco to buy some grub for supper (and, so it seemed, a yoga mat for me!). Sally's flat was very nice, and the communal entrances had been renovated beautifully. It's hard to know whether there's more charm in some of the grumbly facades and entrances (like mine), or whether the renovation knocks the dazzle into them. Either way, you can't help but keep noticing beautiful buildings all over Budapest.

Finally we headed out to the rugby, and watched England get unfortunately beaten by the French. Then Sally and I headed off in search of a bar. She took me to a small place near Astoria, which was nice, though suffered from relatively expensive wine. With some red in side me I began to get a little emotional, and we had a long chat into the wee hours, before heading homeward on a nightbus. It's nice being just one stop, and 5 minutes from your home.

I arrived back at the flat feeling a little drunk, and had found a small rug on the way back there. It seemed a few people had belatedly put their rubbish on the street, and with all the poor interlopers out of the way, I was determined to find some second-hand goodies. I headed out into the night, and by 3am had staggered home with a chair, a very large blue rug, and this rather lovely drinks cabinet. I was most proud, because it was real wood, unlike a lot of the junk I'd seen chucked out earlier in the week.

Heading to bed, rather chuffed, I put on the first Terminator film, until my eyes decided it was too much, and fell asleep, anticipating a rather quiet Sunday.

Getting crafty with jazz

My favourite thing is to stumble upon things quite by chance: serendipity is a wondrous thing. I left work happy to have got through the week, and looking forward to a well-earned weekend. Walking out with two of the girls in my team, we headed off talking about weekend plans. At the crucial point I had to decide which way to get home, and decided to go with Dia towards the metro. Changing at Deak Ferenc I managed to walk to the wrong line, decided to take it and use an alternative route, but ended up going in the wrong direction. Oh well I thought, why not take a look at the Danube in the dusk light.

I climbed the steps out of the station, and was pleasantly surprised to find I'd accidentally arrived at a little Spring festival. It was just like the commericalised, standardised 'fair', with little wooden huts, and 'crafts', that you find all over Europe now, but extremely pleasant nonetheless. There was a stage with folk music, and the traditional dancing, where the men slap their thighs. Oddly Hungarian folk dancing is almost entirely about the male dancers, who just twirl the girl under their arm, before going back for a good thigh slap. The stalls were very cute, but I didn't buy anything, because it was all quite expensive. I meandered towards the river, and gently strolled back to where I could get a bus, past the very pretty, and grand Belvarosi Plebania church.

Sally and I headed to a little jazz cafe off Blaha Lujza in the evening, called Jelen. There wasn't anything live music that night, but we got in some cheap wine, and enjoyed some very edible grub. Again I marvelled at the tremendous amount of space in Budapest bars, a far cry from the tight, crowded ones you find everywhere in London. Tim and Lovisa joined us, and I decided to show them my flat, which has hardly had any guests so far. Sally serenaded us on my piano, which is even more out of tune than I'd realised. Hopefully she's going to find someone to tune it, on the proviso I allow her to practice here. It's a pretty fair deal. How often can you get a concert pianist to play in your flat for free?

Quizzing with the expats

One of things I was sorry to leave in the UK was our regular pub quiz at The Castle, every Tuesday. So I was pleased to discover early on in my new city that Caledonia, a pub run by two Brits here, has one every other Thursday. Phew. The usual rounds, and guessing at random photos... What fun!

After two weeks of unusually cold weather, including snow, Spring finally arrived, and I actually trotted to work without a scarf. Walking home, I decided to head off in a slightly different direction from my normal route, and found some fresh beautiful buildings. Central Budapest has an almost Parisien feel at times, and felt so much more inviting in the balmy Spring late afternoon glow. After days of feeling rather despondent, I was hitting a good mood. Then I wondered back towards my normal route, and ran into all the annoying rubbish pile owners again. They didn't seem to care about blocking up the pavement, and neither do normal Hungarian pedestrians. As a confirmed fast-walker, I despise people a) getting in the way without giving a fuck b) refusing to be polite and always making you move out of there way. Nearly back at mine, I actually stood stock still because a woman was walking straight at me, in spite of my leaving plenty of room for her to walk on my left. She decided to barge past me out of spite. I'd had enough. Perhaps one day I'll become like my father and actually full-on shout at people. One day...

In the evening I headed out to the pub. There seemed to be so many people on the streets, presumably lured out by the change in weather. Caledonia's not far from me, up near Oktogon, and it didn't take me long to get there. Sally was there with her friends, many of whom I'd not met before. It was one of those places where you can't really hear someone more than a metre away, so unfortunately I didn't get a chance to really meet anyone else, except for a splendid American girl, who was very amusing.

In the end we didn't did okay - in spite of coming second from last - because there were only 6 points between us and the winning team. The usual questions we should have got right were there (I knew the Harlem Globetrotters were from Chicago!), but it was still a very fair showing. Well done us. See you at Caledonia in two weeks for the rematch.

Dodging the rubbish keepers

In the morning I walked to work, and saw that piles of rubbish were sitting outside people's homes. I didn't have time to stop, and couldn't have carried any of it in with me to work, so I had to pass up on a trawl through it. At the end of the day I hung around at work on the pretext of sorting out various accesses to programmes I'd need, hoping to give my sister a call. I tried twice, but she didn't answer. So I finished up my pretext and headed home. It was gone six, and dark outside. Feeling tired I jumped on a tram, and headed for Blaha Lujza Square. I'd hoped to pass a couple of the piles on the way home, see if I could grab something.

I cottoned on that this was something of an annual thing, or at least not too often, when the citizens of Budapest throw out their odds and ends onto the street, and it's picked up by a council service. In the mean time, the local gypsies (as they were described to me, though I doubt they are Romany, probably just the poorest people), come and take from it what they will.

But on the way home there was a slightly scary energy to it all. One woman shouted at a man who was picking up an old rug, and I assumed it was because she'd claimed it first. Suddenly there were lots of people in the street, hanging around, and these are streets where there's normally no one. They all seemed to be looking, with this slightly intense energy. Each pile seemed to have been claimed, with someone standing guard, who I assumed was looking to sell things. If it had been Brick Lane I might have stopped to browse, but in the darkness, in a foreign country, it was slightly scared, and decided to head for the safety of home.

It's such a shame for me, because I'm such a skip-diver in the UK, but it seems I won't get the chance here, even though the flat could still do with a lot of cool stuff.

The folks with the cimbalom

After a hard day at work, sitting around with my eyes become bleary, and watching an American guy get excited about systems on an online training video, I was, unsurprisingly, looking forward to a change of pace, and some Hungarian folk music.

Before I left, my new Brit friend, Phil, and his wife Judit, came round to drop off the old computer monitor they'd promised. Along for the ride was a tiny little pup that Judit called Shitty. The monitor was a godsend, and has revolutionised my life: I am eternally grateful. While they were there, Judit also checked over the contract for my internet, with pessimistic sucking in of air. It seems I could have been a tad screwed over. They're going to do their best to help me though. And Judit and her sister are meeting me for coffee on Saturday, and taking me round the huge food market by the Danube.

I called Sally, who gave me some directions to the pub where they perform folk music weekly. It was a little place, reached by a kind of garden gate in the wall, on a street near Njugati station. The band were playing in a converted beer cellar, and it had a terrific 1940s feel to it. They were a four-piece (though a slightly random guy, my friends call the King because of his outstanding moustache, was singing along occasionally), and this included the cimbalom. It's a traditional Hungarian instrument, in shape like a harpsichord, but in fact more like a xylophone with strings instead of blocks. With some inexpensive wine in me, it was a most enjoyable evening, and I'll probably end up there again some time.

Celebrating revolutions with rosettes and hussars

March 15th is a national holiday in Hungary, commemorating the revolution of 1848-9, when the country made a bit for freedom from those evil Hapsburgs. This year hussars were dotted around the capital, rather like those cows that popped up all over the place a few years back. For some reason the city decided English tourists would be interested in the history of the various regiments. As usual, the rather literal translations had a somewhat comic nature.

I'd been warned several times about potential political riots going on, but had not seen anything, and twitter told me things were peaceful thus far. Everyone was wearing a little rosette of green, red and white, which are apparently called something like 'cocado'. I shuffled off to an old lady and bought one for 200Fts. I like to think she put the money towards her own revolutionary fund. One old dear actually had some medals attached below the rosette (plastic ones), and I wondered if they were from her time spent revolting 150 years ago.

I met up with one of my new Hungarian friends, who had a friend of his in tow, and we headed off for one of the funicular railways that runs up one of the Budapest hills. At the bottom we tried a local sweet thing, biscuity balls - one coconut, one orange - which were quite pleasant, and sat briefly in the sun, trying to ignore the bitterly cold wind. On the way up the hill I repeatedly pointed out the snow to my companions, who said that Spring was coming. We talked about the corruption that plagues Hungarian politics (a fact all too common for most national governments, if not all). They seemed confused when I asked whether there were ever public enquiries. Apparently not.

At the top we popped into the children's railway. Not a railway for children in the traditional sense, but one run by them. It was something of an early achievement for the socialists; my friend joked that it was because they'd even got the children into the labourforce. Now it's something of a novelty, but the little station still has a beautiful mosaic above the ticket kiosk, depicting the children playing their little socialist games, ensconced in nature. Apparently the red squirrel was something of a celebrity back in those days. As much as Tufty??

We made the long walk (we didn't know how long when we started), along the road and through the woods. On the top of János Hill, at the highest point of Budapest, stands the Elizabeth Lookout (Erzsébet-kilátó, built in 1908-1910). The views are terrific, showing all of northern Budapest, as well as a lot of the surrounding countryside. At present all the trees are brown, but no doubt it will be an even more beautiful sight in a month's time. On that day though the wind almost knocked us over, as we intrepidly made our way to the top. After taking in as much as we could we made our way back into town.

I waited at home for some other friends, when I received an urgent phone call from Tim asking me to leave the house as soon as possible. I wondered why it was so important I meet them right now. It turned out it was because his girlfriend's hair was still wet from the baths, and she was getting cold. I thought it might be vampires (a little hooked on True Blood at present). I marched to the tram, and made my way to Oktogon. At the pub they were already eyeing the snack menu. We settled in for beer, snacks and cards. And that was how my day ended. No rioters in sight.

Glossing over the past without much care

I tried going on a date with a guy in his forties today. Needless to say it did not go well. While I stood there waiting for him I saw loads of old people around, and got a horrible preminition. Obviously I've got nothing against age, per se, otherwise I wouldn't have been there, but when he showed up he did not look good. His skin was almost translucent, and his nose had that thing where you could see lots of red veins. I knew it was a lost cause, but didn't have the heart to say so immediately. I thought I'd give it a chance, he might be a nice guy, and perhaps we could be friends.

Sadly it was not to be. He was from the old Buda part of town, and didn't know Pest at all, so that he didn't even have any suggestions of where we should go. His energy levels were really low, and he wasn't going to inspire me, which was what I was sorely needing at present. We went to find a restaurant for lunch, though he said he'd already eaten. I made the best of it and tried some local dishes, which were more than adequate. When I took him to the tram he asked if we'd meet again. I had to tell him that I didn't think it would be best. He seemed a little surprised.

He represented the split between Buda and Pest so well. The older, more sedentary sit on the westbank, generally better off than their Pest counterparts, often older, and feeling that their part of town is better. The younger people live in Pest, with its newer vibe, which is increasingly what the tourists want to see, but is also being stepped upon by foreign companies and cultures. The Danube is dividing more than just land.

When I got home I pondered what to do with the rest of my day, and asked an online contat for the best place to buy a new computer monitor, so that I could work on my laptop while watching films. He recommended a place in the West End mall, which, incidentally, was the place I'd gone on the first day to sort out my T-Mobile internet. I got the tram there, and walked quickly to the shop. Discovering a screen would set me back around £100, and a cable another £10, I left slightly disappointed, and wandered round the mall.

It was just like any number of shopping centres back in the UK: soulless yet flashy, and full of eager faces. I saw all the gloss and glitz, and evident new money in the place, and bemoaned the fact that Hungarians were obviously choosing to spend their money here rather than updating their beautiful capital, which is so clearly in need of an injection of funds. It's so sad, yet so common nowadays that people choose to live moment to moment, with selfish material fashionable objects, rather than taking care of what is and always will be: their lands and houses: their homes: their environment.

Despondency clung around me like an ill-fitting cloak as I headed home. The door to my floor refused to open again, causing me to struggle for five minutes with the key, fearing it would snap and all would be lost. When I finally got into the flat I sent an email to my landlord telling him all about it, but appreciating there was little he could do, it being a communal door.

The English guy who'd stalked me on twitter came up on msn, and started talking to me. He's a terrific guy, and everso helpful, having a lot of compassion for the plight of Brits in Budapest. He lives here with his wife, and, I soon discovered, four dogs - I asked if it was possible to borrow one on occasion. All my problems were solved, as he kindly offered to bring me over an old computer monitor on the Tuesday evening, when his wife would check my T-Mobile contract, and see if it would be possible to relieve me of it. Along with information on a nearby Lidl, a promise to bring over a whole load of films on his harddrive, and advice on other internet providers, he put me in touch with his young sister-in-law, who would show me around the town. Good things come to those who wait....

Breaking bread with the expats

Having spent the morning in Tesco, I was ready for a break, and a change of scene, and headed off to watch the rugby with Tim and his girlfriend in Legends, the sportsbar near the Elizabeth Bridge. I don't often go to see it in the UK, but was hoping to meet some more expats, and stretch out my circle of friends a little more. Expat communities are potentially problematic though, brought together with one common sense, but still potentially as disparate as any group.

The Tesco hypermarket near where I live is the kind of place where people push dwarf conifers around in their trolleys, and actual bob-bobbing fish float around in a tank by the fishmongers. Everyone seemed intent on running into one another, and blaming the other person for it. It wasn't long before I felt like full-on shouting in someone's face. I was still not in a good mood, but trying to make the best of a bad lot, and had gone to stock up on juice, frozen veg, and various teas. On a whim I decided to buy a kettle. I knew it was a luxury (a £7 Tesco Value kettle), but I felt it was well worth it. At home I quickly unwrapped it and made my first cuppa.

The bar was across town, and looked easiest to get to by bus. I'd put off using the buses thus far, because I wasn't sure I'd know where they went or when to get off (trams and the metro are far clearer in that respect). I didn't realise I'd missed my stop till I had, then it did exactly what I'd feared, racing on for another ten minutes, before finally stopping, in spite of my frequent 'pings' on the bell at other stops. I wasn't sure where it had dropped me, so crossed the road and waited to make the return journey.

Making the short walk to the pub I noticed a dog that looked decidedly like a mop, and had to take a quick photo. It's apparently called a Komondor, and is one of the most famous breeds of Hungarian dog. This one had a little rosette around its neck, but I doubted it had been at Crufts (which was on this weekend). I bustled into the pub, feeling rather like a wrinkled mop myself, and made my apologies.

During the match various people arrived, who Tim knew in varying degrees. At our end of the table were his girlfriend, and another English girl he'd met watching another match a couple of weeks back: they were both lovely. The rest of the people seemed to keep more to themselves at the other end, and I wasn't quite sure what to make of them. I was wearing a vesttop, which appeared to cause some consternation. I hate it when people base their opinion of you on such a trivial thing. The game ended in a draw, which roughly represented my sense of the two groups, and my bittersweet feeling towards it all.

Our end headed off to Szimpla bar, where the others promised to join us later. It's a terrific place, which feels rather latin, and made a nice change from the spaceless bars and clubs of London. We found a table and continued on with the general banter we'd been having on the way over. The rest of the guys joined us, and we broke up into little groups, fluidly moving between one and another, conversation and drinks flowing. At about midnight we decided to call it a night, and left the others to it. All in all I was not convinced we'd become bosom buddies, but was very enamoured with our little group.

The expat community in Budapest is there for anyone that wants to find it, and largely it's quite an open group, which you can slowly discover, swinging from little groups like this to others, like Tarzan. Your openness to other people, and willingness to compromise will prove the extent to which you'll make friends, and you'll quickly find yourself making those sort of choices. Be brave enough to say hello, but also to hold your own and know when it's best to say no.

Girls may not wanna have fun with Brits

Friday mornings are always extremely easy and extremely hard: knowing that you're so close to that magical lie in, but you're still one day away. I wasn't convinced I'd get any nearer figuring out what it was I was actually supposed to do, in spite of a two hour training session in the afternoon.

At lunchtime I went out with the girls this time, to a restaurant near Kalvin Ter, an area more frequented by tourists, a sign that it was unlikely to be as bargaintastic as the previous day. Indeed it wasn't, but it was still very reasonable by English standards. I went for chicken livers, and unfortunately my meal looked decidedly less attractive than theirs. I consoled myself with the fact mine was probably the healthiest. Surprisingly though the girls were very quiet, and seemed a little nervous. I imagined it was because they'd normally natter away in Hungarian, and so my presence was a decided complication. Ah well, perhaps I'd grow on them.

The afternoon training was very tiring, running through a long overview of the accounting processes with several powerpoint slideshows. It was educational, but frightfully dull, and I was glad to have an excuse to get out a little early, needing to get a form signed by the HR douche before he went on holiday. Come five o'clock I was very pleased to be going home, and looked forward to plans I had.

As I got to my door the phone rang. It was the annoying guy who acts as representative for my landlord. After a frustrating phone call, where I once more tried to make myself understood without antagonising him to much, I found myself spitting feathers, and wanting to hit things. He was going to come round on Tuesday with my bills. I was amazed at the cost giving that I'd been here less than two weeks! But trying to ask whether they were just from the period I'd rented the place was useless. Thank goodness he'd not called the night before, when I was already feeling overwrought and weepy.

Unfortunately the plans I had for the evening quickly got cancelled, and I faced a rather depressing night in alone. I managed to convince a friend to come over, if only for a few hours, and set about doing a little housework in the mean time. There is something deeply satisfying about clean dishes, and a very appetising, if utterly simple supper (cheap man's risotto). Roll on the weekend...and another trip to Tesco!!

Crashing with soggy feet

I woke up for the second morning feeling very tired. Knowing that I had a doctor's appointment at 9am I'd woken up at about 6am, and never really got back to sleep, assisted by thin curtains and noisy dustbin men. Clambering out of bed I saw that it was snowing quite heavily outside, and tried to dress accordingly, the only problem being I'd not packed for snow. In a few hours my feet would be soaked, but it wasn't till the end of the day that my spirits were truly dampened.

Riding the tram out to the westbank (Buda), I got off and went into the underpass, intending to head south. The snow was thick and I hoped the surgery wasn't far along the road, since it actually went off the bottom of my map, which was getting damp in the flurrying white drizzle. After walking for about fifteen minutes, and phoning the receptionist to tell her I'd be late, I found someone to ask for directions. Quickly I discovered that I was in completely the wrong place, having confused two of the bridges, and tromped off northward, back to square one, my feet slowly stewing in my shoes.

Eventually I found the doctors, and after a twenty minute way, during which I filled in their form and read a little of the copy of Ovid Joel gave me, I was ushered into the exam room. A very attractive female doctor saw me, and began asking the usual questions. She couldn't understand why I'd left England for this 'poorly-paid wasteland', where she said she got no respect, and a terrible wage. I didn't ask her why she'd left the Middle East to come here herself. When she read on my form that I'd once attempted suicide she was stunned. She couldn't fathom why I might do it, and basically told me how utterly crazy and foolish I was. I suspect it was a cultural misunderstanding, since there are still a lot of people, primarily those outside the US and the UK, who hold this sort of view, and can't really understand depression at all.

Formalities through with, I set off for the office. To reach there it seemed necessary to me to find an enormous puddle, and plunge into it, so that my already soaked shoes took on a ratio where they were more water than material. At my desk I quickly removed my shoes, and even my socks. Whenever I had to go and see someone I slipped my shoes back on temporarily, and relieved myself once more when I could sit down. It was to be another day where I understood very little, and gained even less knowledge of what it was I was to do there. Endless computer systems, with their usual puzzling abbreviations, and complex processes of acquiring access to them.

Some of the guys at work kindly took me out to lunch with them, to a place near the office that served huge portions for miniscule prices, and was apparently called something innocuous, like 500 Eyes. This is what was left of the Baked Alaska I ordered, and I was certain could sustain the entire population of that outer US province. I was a little surprised, because the guys I was with were so very friendly, and didn't seem at all phased by my being gay. We chatted quite happily, about various things, including my views on chicken farming, and the Body-Mass-Index of suitcases.

By the time I was heading home, though, I realised I was reaching a mini crisis point. Going home in the dark, feeling very tired and needing to go to Tesco, life felt very bleak, and I wondered why the hell I'd moved all the way here if there weren't to be any perks. I felt sad, lonely, and despondent of the tired monotony of the daily grind, especially since I didn't feel in the least sure when I'd be able to go into work and just get on with my own bits. The dream seemed to be crashing down around my ears. I texted my sister to say as much, and she tried calling to offer solace. Sadly I missed her call, and had not a clue how to pick up my voicemail.

Coming back from Tesco I resolved to be proactive and figured out everything I needed to do before bed: cook some dinner, write my blog, have a shower, and catch up with my sister on MSN. I managed three out of four, and considered it a fair score. Setting the alarm for the morning, I cuddled in under my bedclothes, and tried to make the best of things, if not entirely convinced.

Nearly not nine-to-fiving with a douche

Fully intending to go to work that day - my first day of work, I hasten to add - I woke early (7.30am is extraordinarily early for me), and headed off to the tax office once more. A little nervous about them not understanding English, I had the note in Hungarian my colleague had written down for me. In spite of the nearly two hour wait, and a woman who looked rather like a character from Bo Selecta, I managed to get my tax number, and was on my way to the heady world of the Hungarian workplace. Or so I thought...

Calling the HR man (here after referred to as "the douche"), he informed me, in a way that made it clear I was unimportant to him, that he would be able to see me that afternoon at 2pm, after lunch. Though it was not quite 10 in the morning, apparently there was no way he could fit me in sooner, even though it had been arranged for a month that this would be my starting date at the firm. God forbid I disturb him, and especially his hour-long lunch. Douche.

So there I was, left to my own devices for the next four hours. Knackered I took advantage of a little lie down with an episode of something on my laptop, and enjoyed the opportunity to relax. (I'd nearly fallen asleep earlier, in the tax office.) Checking the various online websites I use, I arranged to meet a New Zealand guy, who was passing through town, for a coffee. An hour or so later, we met in Blaha Lujza Square and headed off. Spotting a picture outside a sort of restaurant that looked something like congealed custard, he decided it looked simply devine and that he must try it. Tentatively I agreed, considering that it would at least be interesting to see if it could actually manage to be any worse than it looked. When he sat down to eat it, it was apparently delicious: I was not convinced.

As it turned out he was the classic anglo-saxon gay male from western society I have become so very used to. Quickly it became apparent that he felt he was better than me, and spending time in my presence was a terrible bore. What made me laugh was that he was an aspiring novelist, and in spite of being ten years older than me, he couldn't see the incredible cliche that he was. His novel was a) everso interesting b) something everyone who read it had loved and c) far more compelling an idea than mine. It reminded me of one of the poor ITV attempts at writing 'new' Miss Marple episodes. Of course this means it'll probably be highly marketable, like Dan Brown, or the novel is Tom Sharpe's fun book The Great Pursuit. Two douches in one day, I was clearly on a roll.

Later at the office I signed all the various forms thrown at me. I couldn't understand, given that the douche had had all my information for weeks he hadn't figured out a way to copy and paste it across them, before requiring me to do just that by hand. Next he informed me of a small exam I'd have to take next month, something which apparently had slipped his mind, and then, the piece de resistance, he had forgotten to get me to take my medical. I'd been there over a week, and at any other point, while I was fannying around with nothing to do, I could easily have got it done. He told me not to mention it to anyone, since strictly speaking I should have had it before I started, but oh well. The douche.

The afternoon passed reasonably, meeting with all my new colleagues, and instantly forgetting all their names. I asked the girl I sat next to to help me right a quick aide de memoir of them all. The big joke though, was that they'd given me reams of paper about fire safety, etc, but because of budget cut backs on stationery I got one pad and one pen for the next three months. "We have to request it quarterly," she told me. The punitive measures are clearly causing staff morale to falter.

That night I met up with an English guy I met through a friend of a friend on Facebook. I've come to accept that spurious connections should not make you think twice, and are just as rewarding. We went to a sports bar to watch the Man U v AC Milan match. The first one we went to was called Champs (sports bars all over the world truly have the most ridiculous names), and was full of men I found a little scary, because they all looked decidedly able to beat me up. We headed off because there was literally no where to sit or even stand really. Even the table with car seat chairs was gone! (Probably a favourite with regulars.) So we headed off. Tim, decided the one offering girls girls girls sounded just a touch seady, so we wandered off to Legends. Of course the streets near it each had strip joints on, with those freaky men outside trying to lure you in...or should that be leer you in??

I headed home after the match, a little worse for wear, given the double whisky chaser I added to the large beer. Tim was adamant that Prague is superior on all counts. I told him he should go and marry it then. I managed a meat-spread sandwich, and fell asleep...

Getting friendly with the locals

In the next month, Hungary will hold its elections, and there is a strong belief that there will be a victory for the radicals, who will oust the current socialist party in the parliament. Speaking with some of the local Hungarians has afforded me some insight into a few of the issues facing Hungary today.

Szabi is a cameraman and film editor for a local news station. In his late 20s, he has lived in Budapest all his life, though has had the opportunity to travel in Europe. He told me about the various political swings that have taken place since the fall of communism in the country. The socialists have been in power for the last eight years, but have failed to live up to their various electoral promises, which appears to be the main problem for all the parties. With aging politicians in power, little is being done to address the concerns of the young people, and modernise the country, and the capital, in the way that Eastern Germany and Berlin have been able to do. As a result, Hungary has been stagnating somewhat, and not able to revitalise itself as it might have done.

Gergo is a young student, in his early 20s, who is learning English and also Chinese, hoping to become an interpreter. He is trendy, and enjoying all the things that his generation are doing across Europe. The education system in Hungary is going through something of a change, becoming less flexible than it has been, and introducing a system more like that currently in place in Western Europe. Hungarians often feel a little ashamed at their failings to speak other languages, and there is a constant need for native English speakers to come into the country to teach.

Szilard is an actor, currently doing voice-over parts, and looking to join a company in Berlin. He has lived in the US, and appreciates the difference between the profession in Hungary and over there. Here in Hungary actors are still generally secure in finding a job after training in the main acting school, because the profession is still largely state funded. Political affiliations cause some consternation, as directors and actors are vetted, but at least there is work available. New drama schools are opening, though, and state funding is beginning to fall off. I told Szilard about the UK theatre scene, where I believe there is something of a balance between state funding from the Arts Council, and private investors, especially in the West End. Actors in the UK and the US are of course well known, however, for working second and third jobs to make ends meet.

Budapest reminds me very much of Havana, which I was fortunate to visit before Christmas. Beautiful buildings from the nineteenth century have fallen into dilapidation as a result of the communist regimes. However, Budapest has continued to fail on this point ever since its liberation. This piece of graffiti, showing a meerkat with a pneumatic drill, bears the slogan, "No future". In spite of its obvious nihilism, so common in street art, there is a ring of truth.

Where Vienna has been reignited by money put into refurbishment, Budapest continues to languor. Modern Budapest citizens are buying cheap furniture from foreign chains, like Ikea, Tesco and Auchen. About ten years ago, Szabi tells me, all the Hungarian furniture retailers were built up by these international conglomerates, leaving a gap in the market. Sadly, unlike in Berlin, the Budapest people have not yet learned to embrace their own heritage, choosing instead to look on it like a dirty old relic they wish to throw away. Objects that in England would be revered for their 'kitsch', 'retro' or 'vintage' values, are cast aside and considered ugly.

The necessary changes must come from the young, as they have done in Berlin, because the politicians here are too old, and still trying to prove their own worth against the communist legacy. However, it's important that the political party in power is not overly regressive, or oppresive to liberal attitudes. Budapest is ripe for a reawakening, and it would be wonderful to feel that I could be a part of that. Still, it is a big task, and more people will need to jump on the bandwagon if it is to gain any momentum.

Getting let down without getting put down

Life is fortunately not the climbing wall: you're not reliant on someone else to help guide you down, because you can manage it yourself. For the second day I was left waiting around for half an hour, in the cold, wondering where someone I was meeting had gotten too.

In the morning I rushed across to Ikea, intending to buy the three dozen hangers necessary to convey my apparently redundant workshirts to the wardrobe (business casual in Hungary is not like the UK, you have been warned). Once there I realised I had ample time, and began to meander through the aisles, a decidedly dangerous use of time, though I managed to largely contain my desire to spend. Rushing home I put everything I'd purchased in its right place, and headed out again, to meet a friend of one of my English friends, who happened to be a gay South African.

After half a dozen calls without an answer (actually, I lie, there was an answer once, but it seemed to throw back my own voice, so I hung up and tried again), and no response to my text, I decided it was time to go home. Again I found myself at the Saint Stephen's Cathedral, but this time decided there were more important things to do at home. These important things included warming up, and having lunch.

At about 4pm he called, saying he had woken with a fever and that his phone had been in the kitchen. He hung on the phone expecting me to say something. I was not sure what to say, because I was still pretty annoyed, and didn't consider it an adequate response, because I know when I've been ill and had someone to meet I was sure they'd been told I wouldn't make it before I collapsed in a pool of my own sweat/sick/excrement*. What can one do in these situations but mentally call the person a "fucker" and move on. Fact of life: gay men are unreliable regardless of race, creed or religion. (*I have never collapsed in my own excrement)

In the early evening I headed off to join my work colleagues for an evening of indoor climbing, which the nice man I had met last Wednesday had arranged. Unfortunately most of them had dropped out, which he was a little aggrieved by, but we set off anyway in good spirits. A short while later, and after getting a little lost, we arrived. (The benefit of getting lost is that you discover new things, like the large shopping complex at the end of my tramline.)

Nice man, my manager and I prepared ourselves: getting into harnesses, donning very uncomfortable climbing shoes, and attaching carabiners. I was first to go up, and the nice man picked an easy start for us. Still, it was a long time since I'd done anything like this, and my arms are not the strongest. I made my way to the top, though my time was smashed soon after by my manager. He was surprisingly fit, and made light work of all the routes we tried, much to the chagrin of the nice man and me, who by the end were pretty tired. On the last wall, which not only went up, but jutted outwards as well, my arms began to fail, and, try as I might, I fell off twice. My manager let me down gently on the guide rope.

We'd all had a very good time, and pleasantly tiring time. My manager drove us back into the city, where we stopped off for a drink, in a bar called Jaffa. Some hearty banter followed, during which I learnt that in Hungary they too have the mystical cake of the bar's very name. It was also a kind of beer, which I tried, and found entirely satisfactory. When I got home I realised I was a little tipsy, due to a lack of food during the day, and settled on another plate of stodgy pasta, due to exhaustion and lack of coherent coordination...

A run in with the law

My day started as usual - various men on the agenda to meet, with almost certainty that one if not all would cancel. I could probably be a Greek goddess, who endlessly sat around waiting for mortal men to appear, only to be disappointed, and eventually drowning herself in a lake. See it sounds poetic if you put it like that. Anyway, this is a photo of the police car that stopped outside my building later that afternoon.

After my first disappointment, complete with the requisite excuse, I headed off for lunch with a friend. He took me to a nearby Chinese restaurant, which served good food, at a very reasonable price. It's interesting to consider how odd it is to eat a dish which is not native to your own or current country, and yet feel that it is more out of place there because at home it is normal. A quick trip to the supermarket, and he kindly bought me a Hungarian delicacy: cottage cheese mixed with sugar, and coated in chocolate. It wasn't as grotesque as it sounds, but was, nonetheless, unappetising. I'm sure the French feel the same way about Bakewell Tart.

At home I waited for my second disappointment of the day, which allowed me to reschedule another meeting for later that afternoon. I had a shave, because the date I'd organised had said he preferred that, and tried as best I could not to cut open the two lumps that have formed either side of my mouth. I think once they were spots, but now I fear they are attempting to become second and third noses. Dabbing off the small amount of blood I'd produced, I settled back to an episode of Six Feet Under (one of my staples while I eek out the days before work). Snow was falling outside, making it all the bit more cosy. The buzzer went. I waited for the second ring, hoping not to have to answer, since I don't speak the language. There was no second ring. Phew. I settled back into the programme. 5 minutes later there was a knock at the door. I went to answer it, and found two policemen at the door. After explaining I was English ("Um, Angoloo..."), one showed me a picture, which was apparently of a neighbour of mine. I told him I didn't know her, and they left.

The afternoon coffee was very pleasant, and we fell into a discussion about various twentieth-century playwrights. When we left we headed for the Metro, and boarded one of the older trains. It was a pleasant experience, with real leather straps for the grips from the ceiling (a fetishist's dream). I was running late for my date, and as soon as I got out of the metro station tried to call him. I couldn't find the place we'd agreed to meet, and wandered around trying to find it, still trying to call him. There was no answer. The snow was falling still, and it was very cold. I found the place, but couldn't see him. I waited for half an hour, all the time trying to call. Eventually I left.

A short way off I saw the cathedral, and decided to make the best of things and go over to take a look. It looked beautiful in the crisp wintry night air. Checking my map I saw that it was just a short walk to the Parliament, via Liberty Square, and the nearby metro station. I headed off, and realised yet more of what I'd been missing. Great noble buildings surrounded the square, clear cut and impressive. A few people were out walking their dogs. While I was there my date texted, apologising for not responding sooner. He said he had a fever, and had sent a message earlier, which I had obviously not got. The cynic in me wondered for a moment, but I decided to appreciate what was around, and sent him a text back wishing him a speedy recovery.

I walked on to the Parliament, which was oddly reminiscent of our own in Westminster, set back on green lawns. My boots slid over the plastic floor at the entrance to the metro, like skates, and down I went on a very long escalator. When I got home I saw two messages from my date, saying he was ill. "Why had he not texted, though?," I thought. The idiocy of men. Still I had seen a little more of the city that I was to call home, and learn to love.

Roadtripping with a Hungarian

I started the weekend with high hopes of meeting several of the nice men I'd been chatting to online. I ended my Saturday getting back late from an unprecedented roadtrip over the border, to another capital city, Vienna. Needless to say it was an entirely satisfactory alternative, and involved meeting one of the lovely men.

In the morning I did my yoga, weary as always of overstraining knee joints, breathing like a race horse after the Grand National (flaring, sweaty nostrils included) and trying not to make a bigger hole in my jogging bottoms. Fortunately I was doing it home alone, so could easily internalise all the shame. After my now routine breakfast of break with jam, I settled down with a book in the sunny living room. I say settled down, first I did a small furniture rearrangement for good measure - preparing the second bedroom for a new inhabitant (at some point), and reordering the resulting living room furniture. I didn't get very far into the book - a copy of Ovid my good friend Joel had given me before I left London - before I was sending off a couple of texts, querying arrangements for later that afternoon. No response. Attempt to read. No response. I decided to do the heavy pile of washing up weighing down the sink after just 5 days.

Feeling rejuvenated from the cleanliness, I again checked my mobile phone; one wonders what people did before mobile-phone checking - did the Victorians endlessly run in and out of their dove cotes in case a message had been retrieved from Mr Fotheringay? After a further attempt at the book, but still totally distracted, I did receive a message. He apologised for the belated response, having only just gotten up, and said he was going to Vienna that day. "Oh," I thought, "that sounds nice. I wonder what I'll do with my day." (insert thumb twiddle) Then, minutes later, he messaged on MSN Messenger, a further modern communication method that creates as much exacerbation as it solves. 'Would I like to come?'

We arranged a time for him to pick me up. He was an hour late. But then we were off. Before I left I loosely left open an invitation to meet someone in the evening, assured by my companion we'd be back by 7pm. The drive out of town was very enjoyable, and we got on famously. He did that classic Hungarian thing of apologising that his English was not perfect - it was very good indeed. No wonder Hungarians who speak no English hate me so, clearly it is deeply shaming to speak anything less than the English of the Queen or Jeremy Clarkson.

On the way we stopped at an 'out-of-town' discount shopping plaza. I was still holding to my budget, and had to resist buying dozens of Body Shop bottles at huge reductions. My reserve held, but was deeply tested. I told my companion we'd have to come back soon, and was chagrined when he said he might be moving to Madrid. Bargains are to a Tyson what insulin is to a diabetic. I felt like I might slip into a coma at the very idea of being denied a future excursion.

After another hour or so we slipped into Vienna. It had been snowing on the way, and Vienna looked beautiful for all the floating white specks. The city is very similar to Budapest, and yet infinitely different. Where Budapest is gently falling apart and in a state of elegant disrepair (similar to Havana), Vienna is crisp and clean and newly renovated. It must be said that the Austrians have a little gem here, even if their attitude is somewhat cold with it. Strolling through the white bespeckled streets was magical for a Brit, being so rarely allowed access to snow as we are. We stepped into St Stephen's Cathedral in the centre, which is truly beautiful, and lit a candle each for our departed loved ones.

After a fish supper at Norwegian seafood chain Nordsee, we headed homeward. In spite of tiredness we attempted to teach me 1 to 10 in Hungarian, with limited success, due largely to the complexity of the consonant sounds. Imagine speaking with a swollen tongue and a lisp and you're half way there. After that I sat back to relax, serenaded by the vocals of a Spanish Pop Idol star, who I begged to borrow the CD of when we got back.

We arrived home a little after half ten. Fortunately the little git I'd asked about meeting with at seven had decided not to even bother texting me. The unreliability of men worked in my favour once more. But I thanked my good graces for a truly wonderful day. It seemed I was working on one great day to every two more trying ones, a ratio that was deeply satisfactory. Settling back in the flat for the night, I wondered what joys I could expect in two days time...

A step backwards with a net

So I'd sorted out internet, my phone, the heating, food, and my finances. The language barrier was still there, but it was the end of the week and things were progressing reasonably. Of course something had to go wrong, as my phone ran out of credit, and I had no idea of how to top it up.

In the morning I decided to activate my internet banking, since it's now as integral to your money's experience as the zip in your wallet that holds the small change in there. Calling the number the guy in the bank had indicated, I was put through to the usual hold, and heard the Hungarian attempt at replicating the usual fractious messages in English. "Thank you for your anticipation, we will try to connect you". Do you mean patience? "Thank you for your increased anticipation". Are you trying to say continued patience? Do they not get actual English people to check this shit? I mean, if it's a service for English users, it would make sense to pay someone a fiver to at least make sure they were representing themselves in the best light.

Once I got through to someone, they explained the protocol, and I waited for the SMS (they don't say text) to arrive. I could have changed the login page to English, but I trusted all would be well. The text arrived, and I put in the password as the woman had directed; then, on the next page, I tried putting in my new password. It brought up another similar page; new password confirmation I figured, and typed on. Turned out I'd fucked up. There'd been a second text, with another password. God knew what it meant, since the text was in Hungarian. I went back to the login page, tried both passwords, tried to check the text using an online translation. Fail. Error. I'd blocked my internet banking.

Okay, I'd phone up again and start the process once more. Shit, a text message from T-Mobile saying my credit was low. I couldn't even reply to my sister to say I wouldn't be able to reply to her message, let alone calling the bank again. I had to get credit. Unfortunately, Miklos ("the idiot") had not told me how to do this, or at least had miscommunicated. I'd asked him how, whether I could do it online, or in the supermarket, yes yes the nods came. Never ask someone who doesn't speak your language well a question they can say yes to, invariably they will, and it will turn out the real answer was no. As humans we like to acquiesce, and do so even when we've not got a clue what we're agreeing to.

I headed off to see the lovely Iraqi man, he would know what to do. He wasn't in. It was his wife. "Besail Angoloo?", I asked, in my best Hungarian (ie Do you speak English?). "Nem," she replied, flatly (ie No, fuck off), as if I was a piece of shit on her shoe. Heading for the supermarket in the square I stalked around looking for a sign saying 'T-Mobile', like they have in UK supermarkets. In my psychology textbook it said we have schemas of understanding, which we use to navigate the world. Mine told me that tobacconists and supermarkets usually sell top-up cards. Well, in Hungary they don't.

I hurried off to the tourist information centre. It had been my plan to go there anyway that day, because I wanted to get a lovely big map to stick on my wall. I thought they might know. The woman behind the desk was like an old librarian, the kind who helps you but wishes she didn't have to. I think she wanted to be sunning herself on the Black Sea. Still, she gave me the address for a T-Mobile shop, and pointed it out on a map she gave me (I also got a complimentary Time Out Budapest into the bargain), I couldn't really ask for more.

Trotting off in the direction of the shop, I walked vigorously. In spite of what my only Hungarian friend had said about the glorious weather, the day was bitterly cold due to a very strong wind. It ate through my coat, and I sincerely regretted wearing a sleeveless top. On the way I spotted the Opera House (to be visited again later), and an Oxford University Press bookshop (I wondered if they'd have books in English...). Finding the T-Mobile shop with out too much difficulty I wandered in, took a number (like you do at the cheese counter), and waited patiently.

The shop was at least a lot less busy than the one on Monday. The girl who served me spoke enough English to help me top up my credit, which was a great relief. Unfortunately when probed on the intricacies of website logins, her smattering failed her, and she disappeared upstairs for around fifteen minutes, while I waited, as patiently as I could. Her colleague returned, with that classic Hungarian resentment I have come to accept - it's as though my presence, and request that they speak a little English and be helpful is a huge imposition, and how dare I. Don't get me wrong, I appreciate anyone wishing foreigners would learn their language, but when they stand before you looking like frightened kittens, have some compassion please.

As it turned out, Miklos had grossly misled me. The website was for contract customers only, and the only place I would be able to top up was at ATMs. I gratefully thanked her for the information, and set off for home, glad to get out of the cold, and relieved to be in contact with the outside world again. She even told me how to check my credit for free. I was a man of infinite knowledge.

Later that day I met up with my friend Viktor, who put the final piece in the puzzle. The second text from my bank was a security password, and the number to put in on the second page. I called the bank back up with my new credit, set the webpages to English, and breezed through the relative examination of internet bank set up with flying colours. The only nasty surprise was that they'd already put my bank charges through, in spite of there being no money in my account. In one day I'd amassed interest on the overdraft of a princely penny, a lot considering I was only about £10 overdrawn. I decided to never be overdrawn again on the account, and will put myself into the black with them on Monday.

One step back, two steps forward. Just the way it should be.

Budgeting with grave robbery

Would you believe this sizable bag of food cost less than £7?

While I was at Ikea the night before, spending more money that I didn't have, and praying that my landlord would reimburse me for all the things I was being for his flat, I worked out my budget. With 100,000 HUF free a month, I could reasonably spend around 3,300 HUF a day, just shy of £10. "Sheesh," I thought, "how the fudge am I going to survive on that!?" Consider for a start that flights back to the UK would probably be £100 a pop! Up late that night I racked my brains, and considered three prospective plans:

1) Suggest to my landlord that we rent out the second room in the flat, assuming he could get a door on it
2) Teach 'advanced' English to Hungarians in the evenings (advanced because I wouldn't speak any Hungarian to them)
3) Take English walking tours of the city at weekends

Okay so I wouldn't actually have time left to have a life, but at least I'd be able to eat. Suddenly my whole exciting adventure seemed pointless, the balloon popped, because there was no way I could be happy and enjoy myself under such a heavy burden. I went to bed understandably despondent.

In the morning I woke up and felt none-the-better for my rest. What on Earth was I going to do? I headed out to find a bank to open an account with. The process was decidedly easy, though I doubt they'd ever be able to send a letter to my parents' house - the English method of addresses being abundantly foreign, postcodes are a mystery to their computer systems. Reassured by the besuited man that setting up internet banking the next day would be easy, yet feeling rather distraught that I was being charged banking fees before I'd even got my first statement, I left. He had at least given me details of a nearby Tesco, which, I felt, was my only chance at salvation.

Not meaning to find religious salvation, on my way to Tesco I headed for what looked like a park on the map, but turned out to be an enormous graveyard. It was atmospheric to say the least. Tumbledown tombstones and fancy statues mingled in the ivy like objects in a tragic Victorian novel. There was tremendous poignancy in the number of gravestones I saw for people who'd died between 1939 and 1945. I strolled round the extensive grounds, with a sense of freshness, and once more enjoying the solitude it afforded me.

On my way round I began to notice little objects in the undergrowth, and sensed my intrepid scavenger instinct coming over me. Retrieving the large Ikea bag from my satchel, which had been intended for Tesco goodies, I popped in some empty plastic flowerpots. They'd obviously been left when someone was planting up a display in front of a gravestone, and were clearly going to waste. Next I found a heap of weeds that had been torn up with the earth attached. Weeds they were to the groundskeepers, but for me they were fastgrowing foliage that would keep me happy in the flat. By the time I'd left I had half a dozen plant pots, unwanted weeds, a discarded candleholder, a small but attractive piece of barbed wire, and pine cones from a dismantled wreath. I decided the tyre I found would be too heavy, and unfortunately various attractive tree stumps likewise. Careful not to take anything that was near any grave, and not already thrown away, I headed home with a free array of goodies.

Finally I headed off for Tesco, and found a little holy grail. Ever since I arrived in London I'd been a Sainsburys boy, and felt my defection hard. Not only that, but I was sure that the cheapest goods in there would go against any remaining grains of ethics I had (after my petty graverobbing). I temporarily threw my qualms out the window in a personal bid for survival. The outcome was deeply satisfactory, with the better part of a weeks food shopping done for less than my daily budget. Renewed I headed home, confident that I would indeed be able to have my cake and eat it, even if the cake was not the finest, and the fork cheap looking. I finally understood what Marie Antoinette meant when she said, "Let Them Eat Cake".*

*She never actually said that

Finding your feet with tourism

After an hour-long chat to my sister the previous night, I'd gone to bed late, and was a tad bleary eyed when I headed off to meet the guy from work at 7.45am. That morning we were supposed to sort out my tax details at the two relevant government offices. He was there because apparently no one there spoke English, which indeed they did not, as it turned out.

He was running late - something I began to wonder, from experience, whether all Hungarians would be - so I stood in the square listening to my iPod, and only half wondering whether this mass of faces would dare speak to me or mug me. A young guy, who I thought might attempt to relieve me of my iPod sauntered up, and appeared to ask me for some cogent information. I muttered back "Angolow", which I have been led to believe by my phrasebook means "English", though the looks I occasionally get back lead me to think otherwise.

After my guy arrived we set off on foot, the first office being quite nearby. I was unbelievably relieved to find him not only able to speak very good English, but also to be extremely kind and friendly. As it turned out he had been working for one of the 'Big Four' accounting firms, like myself, in England, and was here under similar circumstances, except this, instead of England, was his home country. The morning passed happily, and I became more and more optimistic that I would enjoy my new place of work.

After we'd done everything we needed to we headed back to IBM. For the second time I met the HR guy that arranged the job in the first place, and for the second time I thought, "jerk". Of course it is a fact that you can never get on with everyone at work (even when you're self-employed and work entirely alone, in fact, especially then), so I took his offhandness with a pinch of salt, and left on a pleasant note with the affable guy, who asked if I'd like to come along to the indoor-rock-climbing work social he'd organised for Monday. I concurred with a smile, and headed off into the city, adamant that I would do something nice and touristy for the first time since I'd arrived.

From the office I walked a short way down one of the main tourist streets, and off into a little cafe to plan my course of action. Eager to get a better view of the city than I had from the bus coming from the airport, I decided to head on up the hills of Buda on the westbank. Finishing my coffee I smiled gratefully at the patrons, who happily spoke a little English, and walked further down the street. A few boxes of plates caught my eye. They reminded me of the ones I had seen my flat, old and quaint, rather rustic things. The box was at the entrance to a little antique shop, invitingly down a little flight of steps. I stepped in, and, after a hearty browse, left with two attractive vases, moderately priced.

At the next corner I found another gem: a huge brick hall with high windows, coated in tiles. Stepping through the doors, and on through those large plastic curtains that remind one of stepping into Narnia, I passed into a lovely indoor market. The foods were fresh and appetising, and the interior reminiscent of a large nineteenth century iron-railed hall. I didn't buy anything, but was all too aware I would undoubtedly spend a lot of time here in the future.

Walking across the bridge and over the Danube, the wind took on one of those exhilarating airs. The steady incline of the hill was tiring but warming in the cool midday Spring sun. The view below of the cityscape made it all seem worthwhile, and gave me a completely new perspective on my adventure - just what I needed. There was hardly anyone around - the benefit of being somewhere too cold for tourists - which was ideal for me, because I could move freely and totally appreciate my surroundings: the liberation statue, the citadel, and the statue of Saint Gellert, who the hill was named after, and is the patron saint of the city.

The castle on the next, smaller hill posed equally inviting, and I headed over to see it. On the way I tried to get in at a little baroque church, but to no avail. The castle too seemed impenetrable. Useful to keep out invading armies, but I felt it was a little harsh to lock me out too. Checking the map I planned my attack from around the back, and headed off along the road. Weary from my campaign I stopped for lunch. The food was exquisite, the service was not. As I entered the restaurant all eyes turned as if to say, "who the f*ck is this!?". Clearly my sort of people. I stayed, but left no tip. Once I finally got into the castle I realised all its history and magnitude, but was aware this was an adventure for another day. I headed off and homeward.

But one last parting shot, I couldn't help but show you this little picture. A photo I took of two dolls in a booze-shop window, who I feel look exactly like my sister Katy and her husband. Servoos, all!

It was...a good day.

Freezing with stodgy pasta

If someone suggested going to Budapest, I doubt this is the sort of image that would spring to mind. Even if they talked about Hungarian food, you'd probably imagine rich goulashes. My second night here, and supper consists of fried egg, bread, and a cup of tea. If I can get the oven to work I may even get some stodgy pasta. Here's hoping.

Early on Monday morning (3am) I headed out of my London flat with a large suitcase, large rucksack, and two smaller shoulder bags, heading for London transport. I thanked heaven it wasn't raining. Boarding the nightbus I began my journey for Budapest, where I had a job, and new life waiting. With less than a month's preparation, the realisation kept hitting me in big watery emotional waves.

Turned out easyjet didn't want my two big bags though, and plopped me with a £100 surcharge. Then they told me I could only take one carry-on through. I quickly undid my jacket, shoved several books in each pocket, and adjusted the strap so that it sat neatly under my jacket and beneath my rucksack. The guy at the escalator gave me a second look, but didn't stop me. Turning so I faced the boarding pass check got me through there. Security was tricky though. I had to fumble lots, so that I could shove the first bag through so it looked like it wasn't mine, then cover it with my coat when I went through the xray.

At Budapest airport, the weather was surprisingly mild. Waiting for my luggage I texted my sister and began to cry. I turned away from the people and used an old hanky to wipe the tears. Little did I know that in 24 hours I'd miss that soggy hanky, discovering the roughness of Eastern European toilet paper. Out of the airport I met Miklos, who was to be my guide briefly.

Miklos was the friend of the brother of the guy who was renting me his flat. Miklos' English was not great, and I was immediately pissed off that he didn't offer to carry my suitcase, instead cracking a joke that I had a rucksack on the front and back, instead of carrying one. [I should say I probably remember the aggravations more because of how things ended; I think he was at heart a very affable bloke] After taking the long way to the flat (turned out there was a 12minute bus instead of the 45minute one we took), where Miklos hardly spoke to me, we arrived. I was still trying to maintain high spirits, and the flat looked much like the pictures I'd seen. I quickly discovered though, that the promised bedding was nowhere to be seen (I discovered later that the previous tenants had scarpered with it), and was in for a very cold night.

Miklos took me out for lunch, and to get me set up with a phone and internet. He seemed to chat happily to othe Hungarians, people I was reasonably sure he'd never met before, which was nice. The language barrier meant he didn't speak much to me though, and I got a little frustrated when he spoke for ages to other people on the phone.

After a couple of failed attempts, we found a shop that would unlock my phone. They said it would take two hours, so we headed off. As we did so though, Miklos said something that sounded like it would cost more to just get a SIM than a new phone with SIM. Realising the illogicalness of spending money to unlock my phone AND paying more for just a SIM, I quickly tried to pass on the message to him. This involved saying loudly "old SIM", indicating with my outstretched left palm, and "new SIM", indicating with my outstretched right palm. He quickly sought some fellow Hungarian to translate, but eventually I got the message across, much to the detriment of our relationship. After that I think he considered me a burden.

In the phone shop, I watched blithely while he sold my life away to the man behind the counter. When a contract was produced I signed, and handed over a nominal sum for the SIM. I considered that if it ever proved to be a dodgy contract or I unknowingly broke it, I could claim complete ignorance. When we got back to the flat he set up my internet, demanded the rent money, and our ways parted.

Later that night I realised the flat was freezing, and with no bedding I was due to freeze to death. After scrambling together what rags I could in the flat, and constructing a makeshift duvet, I called Miklos, who seemed at a loss. Left to my own devices I quickly descended into tears, cursing all the horrors that awaited me in this godforsaken place (it's fair to overdramatise when you're shivering and your face is soggy). With the intuition God blessed me, I decided the best idea was to find the boiler. Once done all my problems were quickly sorted, and in hindsight I realise my short-lived idiocy. Checking the radiators every minute for the next quarter of an hour, I reassured myself they were heating up and ran back to my ragged covers.

The next day I awoke, dedicated to my tasks of finding bedding and food (I'd only had a slice of pizza the previous day). A phone call from one of my sisters in the morning was a happy distraction, but quickly led to floods of tears, which I choked back, because she didn't seem desirous to deal with them. She did however offer much positivity, and renewed my vigour. After popping into my new workplace to deal with some formalities I headed out to a couple of supermarkets. Reconnaissance on the first revealed suitable bedding, and I headed to the second to do a price comparison.

At the till I was met with yet another person who spoke no English. Somehow before I arrived it seemed I only internalised the various reassurances about the ease of setting up in Budapest; various myths were quickly dispelled on arrival, including this one about "everyone speaks English". It turned out I'd not weighed my fruit and got the price label for it, a fact conveyed to me by the checkout girl miming scales. Another of my sisters reassured me on the phone later that I was not mad, and she had had a similar issue in France. On the plus side, the supermarket was largely as one would expect, and I managed to get a reasonable shop done, including my first houseplant, who we shall call Hilde, in honour of my good friend.

Pleased with myself I went home and prepared to cook supper. Realising I didn't have any matches, I ran out to get some. On the street I checked my phrasebook for "matches" and went into the first shop I could find. Much to my surprise, the shopkeeper was a lovely Iraqi man, who spoke pretty good English, and said he'd been here since 1982. I told him I would come again.

Back at the flat, the difficulties of the usually simple task of cooking become apparent. I realised the gas hob on the stove seemed to turn off unless you held your finger on the knob, so I made fried eggs on a small sheet of metal, which I was not convinced was designed for the purpose, and boiled some water for tea. Both tasks I felt I could manage with my finger clamped to the button. The strange thing was that when I took my finger away the gas flame seemed to burn on. Confused I concluded I must have managed to turn something correctly, and attempted pasta.

Not long after I settled down to watch an episode of Seinfeld with my stodgy pasta, and my new bedding, reasonably content, but certain I would soon be able to do better.

[I learnt the next day from a work colleague that the oven was quite normal, and in working order. All that was required was to hold the button in for half a minute once lit, allowing it time to heat up. When first he said it, it was as though I was an idiot for not knowing, but later he confessed he himself had only learnt a month ago when his girlfriend showed him how.]