Back with the nightbus

First time on the nightbus proves a Saturday night out is exactly the same wherever you are.

I woke up early, ready to go to the flea market, but instead had a text from my friend who wasn't prepared to get up. So I popped on an episode of Seinfeld, then another. Before I knew it it was 11am, and the day was wasting away. I grabbed my bags and decided to do something practical, so went off on my merry way to Ikea. Sad to say, but on days when I'm not feeling so chipper, a bit of shopping certainly does the trick.

And so it was that I arrived back home, hands laden with goodies: a mirror, a standing lamp, a fruit bowl...

My favourite was this nifty set up I made with a light attached over the stove so I could actually see what I was cooking, similarly over the kitchen sink - hurrah, clean dishes you can see! Unfortunately my housemate decided she didn't want to go in with me on most of the bits and pieces. It's a sad fact that I've noted in the past, people don't want to pay for nice things they invariably use, but say they wouldn't have got.

I wasted the afternoon away with more tv, before heading out to a friend's birthday party, a colleague from work. On the way I made use of the time with a trip to the supermarket, picking up my weekly goodies, as well as a screwdriver set for the shower, and a LAN cable for the computer - practicalities.

The party was ok. Andras and I chatted, whilst everyone else talked in Hungarian, occasionally dropping over to say hello. And so we stayed for a couple of hours before heading home - Andras had a flight to catch the next morning. So we found the nightbus. And I sat there, with my shopping, while revellers jumped on. One girl asked me something in Hungarian, "Angol vagyok" (I'm English), I responded, she smiled and let me be.

Boozing at the British Embassy

After a less enjoyable week at work, I was looking forward to a party Zsuzsi had invited me to at the British Embassy. The early evening sun was still out, and extremely pleasant, as I met her at Deak Ferenc Ter. After a short catch up we walked over to the Embassy, not five minutes away.

After getting through security, a member of the staff pointed us to what was a rather crummy bar. Zsuzsi were both a little surprised, having expected rather more opulent surroundings, and a slighlty swankier crowd. The bar was currently being propped up by several old men, happily talking amongst themselves. Zsuzsi introduced me to her friend, who worked behind the bar, and organised us with our drink tickets.

The system at the bar was that you bought a 2000Ft token, entitling you to drinks up to that value. It was perhaps a bit of a swizz, since it forced minimum payments of that amount, but the drinks were very cheap, and there were free crisps, so who can complain. Zsuzsi and I chatted away about everything from politics, to culture, to men, and she agreed to accompany me the next morning to the flea market I'd been wanting to go to.

We even chatted with one of the guys on staff their, who gave us his email, and said if we ever wanted to come back, we just had to let him know, and he'd put us on the list.

Into the night with a double bass

Sally, Jane and I met at Castro Bisztro for some chatter and grub. The place has a great buzz, with eclectic music, including a fair bit of American 50s rock'n'roll. The food was dead tasty too.

There was some confusion with the waitress over whether Jane ordered a bottle or a glass, because apparently the words sound very similar. The matter was finally sorted though.

After a couple of hours of banter, we headed back to Jane's, where Sally showed clip after clip of Eddie Izzard sketches on YouTube, for the purpose of Jane's education. The man is most amusing.

We left at about 11pm, Jane hobbling down the street with her double bass braced against her. It was a special one, meant for the kind of folk music she was going to play at Gödör. She accompanied the band already playing, and it was terrific fun watching her.

Believe it or not, folk dancing is extremely popular in Hungary, even amongst the young folks. At these kind of events, the best male dancers show off, and are encouraged to do so by grateful applause. Hungarian folk dancing is one of those rare things, where the men do all the fun stuff, and the girls just get to twirl under their arms. That's not entirely fair, because the, often very very quick, couple dances require both the boy and girl to be extremely light and certain on their feet.

Working without chocolate eggs

That's right, while the rest of you got both Good Friday, and Easter Monday off, I worked both! Hungarians aren't savages like us Brits, and don't celebrate the day Jesus actually died. We are supposed to get the Monday off, but sadly the world of accounting chose not to see it that way.

On the plus side, the city was pretty damn empty (everyone goes out to see their family in the countryside for the weekend), which suited me very well. The day at work was stressful - as it was for the whole month-end week - because the girl who's supposed to be training me was stressed, and snapped whenever I asked anything. In fact, she kept doing everything herself, and left me feeling like I was asking too much to actually take things off of her, like it wasn't my job.

Oh well. I escaped for half an hour to get some fresh air. The miserable weather was adding to a pressure/stress head ache, and fortunately the time away from the office, pleasantly free of people on the streets, cleared it up rather.

Rearranging with ancient Chinese energy

The day was not nearly as productive as I'd hoped it would be - a fact I find all too common at the moment - but at least I managed to do some Tai Chi.

When I got home the previous night I checked the living room to see how the new sofa look, and discovered a mess, where Alexa had tried to drag it across the room, only entangling it in the rugs. So the next morning I agreed I'd help her move things around. Lots of lifting later, and compromising on exact positions, and the room looked decidedly better.

So next I put up a shower curtain, and did the washing up.

And finally headed off to try out my new Tai Chi book. I did all the warm up exercises, but found that those alone took over half an hour. How warmed up do you need to be Mr Tai Chi!?

(The book's not been opened since....lazy John)

Warming up with a fair few hands

The day (Saturday 3rd April) started later than I'd intended it to. I was waiting for Alexa to get ready, which invariably took a while, her dashing in and out of my room to check herself in the mirror. I got so bored I ended up taking the doors off my wardrobe, and replacing them with the curtains I'd taken down earlier that week.

We headed out, and passed a fun looking green sofa on the street. Checking around we decided it didn't belong to anyone, and attempted a feable lift. I had an apple in my mouth at the time though, and didn't want to put it on the street-fresh sofa, so we decided to leave it till later, and see if it would be there when we got back. So first we went to TreeHuggerDan's coffeeshop, which also sells secondhand English books. I didn't intend to buy anything, but of course I did, finding a book on Beginner's Bridge in the discount section. After picking up some back copies of the Budapest Time Out, we stepped back out into the sun. The shop's behind the Operahouse, which also has some cute flower shops nearby.

At the second bookshop, on Csengery Utca, I bought a book on Tai Chi, hoping I could mix it in with my yoga. I pondered while Alexa gave close examination to the Gender Studies section. The books here were better, but invariably more expensive.

Walking up Andrassy Utca, the sun was still shining, and I pointed out the spring buds. The biggest surprise was seeing pink forget-me-nots. Definitely a variety I'd like to see more in England. At Heroes Square, we popped into the shops of the two art galleries, and mulled over prints and diaries.

After a quick lunch in the park - during which we slipped a little set of salt'n'pepper shakers into a bag - we headed home. Or at least, Alexa headed home, because I was meeting a new Hungarian friend. He took me to a cute little hot chocolate cafe, which served various concoctions. I ordered the marzipan one, and was surprised to find, not some essence flavouring the chocolate, but actual pieces of marzipan floating on top. Finally I too headed home, with Andras in tow, not failing to pick up another little houseplant on the way back.

That night we were having some friends over, because Alexa had wanted a house warming. I popped out to buy a bottle opener and some plastic glasses, forgot the bottle opener, and came back with some glass glasses and a jug. A result of limited selection, rather than my ineptitude. Still, it did mean later that we had some fun opening the bottle of red I got.

After a few people had arrived, it was decided that we'd make an attempt at the sofa. Myself and four friends descended upon it, slightly intrepid (at least they were) towards the venture. It quickly became apparent that the sofa was far heavier than initially it had looked, and I'm afraid brows quickly furrowed. Fortunately when we were half way up the stairs a big American dude I know grabbed one end of the sofa, and the two of us carried it the rest of the way. The sofa was dumped, and we duly got back to the booze.

Without a bottle opener, alternative methods had to be found. These started off with pushing the cork in with a wooden spoon: FAIL. Banging the bottle's end against the wall to force the cork back out: Moved back to starting position, but ultimately FAIL. Then Tom managed to squeeze the cork in using the wooden spoon, and a teaspoon: HURRAH.

I ended the night by going to Szimpla with some of the guys, and trying to convince one that perhaps it wasn't a good idea to try kissing his female friend. On the way home Lovisa and I picked up a Lángos, the Hungarian equivalent of a late-night kebab. Yum.

Getting racially aware

Okay, so the vast majority of Hungarians aren't as racist as this guy, and I know that every country has a little xenophobia, but there's certainly a marked dislike of certain groups here. Namely, the Roma people ("gypsies"), Jews, Indians, and black Africans.

I was going for coffee with this one girl, who I'd met on the train on the way back from the airport on Sunday. She seemed nice, highlighted by the fact she'd agreed to have coffee with a perfect stranger. We started making the usual conversational rounds: back stories, siblings, jobs...

Somehow - and I confess I possibly brought us round to the subject a few times - we got onto the subject of these different racial groups.

Firstly she told me that, during her year in London, she didn't like the Indians, because they didn't integrate themselves, just making their own communities there, unlike the Eastern Europeans. I'm sure there are plenty of Brits who think Eastern Europeans have done just that, with Polish shops and delicatessens, and bars and estate agents. I corrected her as well, because most Indian families I know in the UK are as English as Terry & June, and she possibly meant Bangladeshi or Pakistani groups, which I think sometimes do still form mini-communities.

Secondly she mentioned that age old notion of a Jewish conspiracy, whereby there was some sort of agreement where they would work to get their own into work organisations they were in. I argued that the problem with this thinking is that there's always a certain nepotism with jobs, and that traditional Jews hold very much to their ties, but to put a slant on it that makes it so subterfuge is dangerously like butting heads.

Lastly, when she mentioned "gypsies" there was an almost pantomime aside, as if to say, 'those people'.

Eastern Europe has always been a melting pot of peoples, but tough conditions have made it more like a battle for resources, rather than a cosmopolitan dream. The Communist era continued to exaggerate notions of 'the other' and exacerbate racial tensions. It's going to take time for things to change, but at the moment, even otherwise very nice people can still spout racial obscenities.

I'm a foreigner in a strange land. What can I do when I'm trying to make nice with the locals?

She did give me details of a second-hand English bookshop...

What a wrench

Problem of living somewhere else #2 - Not having the right equipment, or knowing where to get it.

Miklos had pointed out to me why the shower was broken, that we needed a new tube. He unscrewed it with his hand, showed me, then screwed it back on. Problem, the idiot screwed it back on so tight I then couldn't undo it with my own hands later on.

So: a) In the UK I have several wrenches; b) In the UK I know exactly where to buy a wrench

In Budapest I have no wrench, and there are no Homebases or B&Qs, and little hardware shops are somewhat daunting (truly, I find hardware shops in the UK daunting, because the staff often talk to you like you're an idiot, unless you can talk hardware jargon). Also, they seem to prefer spanners here (why!? they only do one size fitting, wrenches are adjustable!!). So I headed off to my fallback option: Tesco. Sadly the little wrench I brought home was about 3mm too small. Grr!

I popped into a local shop and did the various mime actions one must for wrench, then being shown a spanner, and mimed a bigger spanner. The man did his best, but I decided his tool was too small.

I popped into another supermarket, which I knew had electrical goods, and chanced it. Pliers, but not much else.

I headed back to Tesco, and tracked down a bigger wrench, which looked barely bigger than the first I'd got there. "Cross your fingers, hope, and pray you get to Neverland," I said to myself. Fortunately, it turned out I did have a little pixie dust.

I was able to replace the shower tube, and we had a shower. Hurrah. Then we realised the head would probably need replacing, too, and we needed to unscrew it to check. Problem #3: No screwdriver. Oh well, another problem for another day.

Reinvention with wart remover

I refuse to actually take a photo of my own disfigured face, so needless to say these aren't my own lips. But I do have two of these hideous looking things, one either side, which unfortunately arrived due to shaving cuts. The knowledge that warts are in your DNA is deeply depressing, because it means they'll be back whenever they wish. These little pests are called filiform warts, particularly disgusting because they have finger-like tentacles, and you wonder whether an anemone has attached itself to your face.

I know. Yuck yuck yuck.

Try dealing with them in a foreign country though. Firstly I had to discover the word for pharmacy (gyógyszertár), then the word for filiform wart (fonalszerű szemölcs). That's right, you can now speak Hungarian.

My first attempt to go into a chemist and ask for something, whilst pointing at them had failed. So I wrote down the words, and handed it over the counter (at another store, to save humiliation). I came away with a little vial, and asked my colleague what the instructions meant.

That night I applied this most toxic of substances, after performing my favourite act of personal renovation. For about 7 years I've been letting my hair grow long, then shaving it all off, down to about 3/4 of a inch. Not only is this incredibly cost saving, it also gives me even hair, which is absolutely my preference. Only problem: standing there for 15-20 minutes going over and over and over until it's even.

The sign of success is people not immediately thinking you've done it yourself. The fruits of my labour were rewarded likewise the following day.

Returning with sweat and tears

Waking on Saturday morning I was understandably nervous. The weekend ahead was going to be stressful, tiring, and emotional. I had to get back to the UK, pack a van, take it down to my parents, get the train back to London, clean the flat, do the check out, then come back to Budapest. Thankfully my brother-in-law and best friend would prove utterly invaluable aides to my efforts.

Still feeling worse for wear, I got myself to the train station on a very sunny Saturday morning, and boarded the train. I was so unconvinced of Sally's guarantee that I could use my pass for the journey, I texted her to check once more. The ride took just 25 minutes, and with no guard to check I fortunately didn't have to test the theory. At the airport was one of those hideously long queues for check in. I only had a small bag with me, because I was planning to bring lots of stuff back, not the other way round, and quickly realised the benefits of online check-in.

After about 15 minutes of moving very slowly I noticed people appeared to be coming in at the side of the queue, and got very frustrated. In the end I shouted at one couple, and told them how rude the whole thing was. They didn't care, which left me more perturbed. When I got close enough, I saw a rather useless sign that said there were two queues, and, long story short, I was in the wrong one. Useless. Oh well, at least I made my flight.

Till that point I'd put off food and drink, my stomach being a little sickly. On the plane I realised though that in fact I'd been dehydrating myself, and with nothing in my tum, I was actually exacerbating things. I ordered a bacon baguette, and was much relieved. A quick clean in the tiny loo, and a slurp from the sink, and I was almost decent.

By the time we landed I was prepared for the big push, and very pleased we'd gotten there early. Little joy though when they had to bus us to another terminal. I got back to the flat, and was a little shocked by everything dumped in my room. The careful boxes of stuff I'd packed before I left had been swamped by all my other crap, which Sian had piled on top. Thank goodness Div had hired a van! Outside I found most of the plants I'd planted weren't doing so well, but was hopeful they'd burst into life soon. I went to unlock my bike, and set it free, since there was nothing else I could do with it. I laughed a little, but was also appalled to find someone had already cut my chain off and replaced it with their own. Not only that, someone else had tried to cut into this new one. C'est la vie.

It took far longer to put everything in the van than I'd planned, and we realised at best I'd only manage an hour with my family. Train services in the UK being what they are, I was buggered, whichever way I looked at it, since I couldn't even manage to get an early service back in time on the Sunday morning. Div drove the van for the two and a half hours back to Dorset, by which time it was dark. I had to grab some bits out of the back, much to the chagrin of my dad, who refused to help, cutting down further on the time I got to spend with him, my mum and my sister. Scarlet, her youngest was still up, but Poppy was in bed. Bugger bugger.

After wolfing down the food dad had prepared we raced back to Gillingham train station and I was off again. The guard on the train did that normal passive-aggressive deal, where they tell you they shouldn't really sell you a ticket, but will anyway. You can't have it both ways mate. Apparently I'm supposed to track down the guard when I get on board, anyone who gets on without a ticket is. How freaking ridiculous is that!?

By the time I got back to London, it was already nearly midnight. I packed my stuff as quickly as I could, and laughed off the change to British Summer Time depriving me an hour's sleep on this worst picked of weekends. I had to turn on the radiator in the wee hours, because the one blanket I had left wasn't really enough.

In the morning I baked a little breakfast for Sian and I, while trying not to make a mess in her beautifully cleaned kitchen. She'd really been such a star, cleaning pretty much the entire flat on her own, as well as packing up half my stuff. Bless her. When the check-out woman arrived though, it turned out it wasn't quite clean enough. She was a great gal though, and allowed us to finish it off there and then, saving us any professional cleaning fee (except a carpet shampoo).

Suitcases in hand, along with a bottle of champagne, we departed 57 Chiswick Village for the last time. We sat on the lawn for two minutes, just to get our bearings, before heading off for Turnham Green park, where we would try desperately to down the bottle of champagne, before realising it was impossible. I got a couple of Starbucks coffees, which hit the spot a little more accurately, and headed to Paperchase to pick up a diary. I wanted something pretty to make notes in, and keep myself sane back in Budapest. To my amazement, though it was only March, the only diaries they had were for the academic year starting in July! Ah well, c'est la vie.

Sian and I went our separate ways, and I started my trek home. The day before I'd realised the easybus ticket I'd bought was useless, because it got me to the airport too late, so had to make do with public transport. Bus replacement services are never fun, but quite scary when you actually need to get somewhere at a certain time. I just caught the train from West Hampstead Thameslink, but didn't have a chance to buy a ticket, so got a penalty charge when I got to the end. Bugger bugger bugger.

I asked the woman at check-in whether the spark lighter I'd bought on ebay would be allowed on the plane. She sent me to security, who confiscated it. Bugger!

I proceeded to spend most of the change Sian and I had divied up on calls to my parents and my sister. It was lovely to hear their voices, even if the payphones were deeply frustrating. They won't actually allow anyone outside to call them now, so you have to spend all your money. Bastards. Grrr. They've obviously never seen that bit in Love Actually about the airport arrivals gate.

Finally on the plane home, I felt deeply lost. Why was I going back, and leaving all this? The tears came, I sat with myself. When we landed though, my first thoughts were about getting home to my new flat, and I felt much better. On the train back into the city, a guard checked my pass, and it was okay - Sally had been right all along. Soon I would have everything unpacked, and a little more of me over here.

It had been a difficult weekend, and I wasn't looking forward to going back to work, but at least I'd managed everything I had to, and could have a nice relax in just five days.

Mixing with mixers

Friday was in the diary as a team day. I awaited it with trepidation, because, in spite of the joy of not working (not that I was doing any work), it meant being with all these people who chatted to each other in Hungarian, leaving me in a little world of my own. Isolating to say the least. In the first session I turned to one girl, and felt the waterworks starting. We shuffled off to the printer room, and I confessed my feelings. She said she'd speak to our manager for me.

I coped as best I could, back in the room, trying to keep my composure. My manager suggested we go for lunch together, a little place near the office. I told him how I was feeling, trying not to start crying again. He suggested things would get easier once I got to know a few people, and that if I could make the effort today it would really help. I jokingly suggested that if I refused I'd be automatically fired. He agreed, with a knowing smile.

In the afternoon we headed off to the National Bank, which was free to attend, complete with tour guide. The team were very excited, which I couldn't understand, since it sounded like a very dry event, nothing like go-carting, or hauling logs to make a bridge. I was proved right, as most of them quickly became bored. I found it interesting though, and enjoyed that the guide seemed to take something of a shine to me.

We left the Bank, and headed for a drink. Most of the team ganged together on a few tables, leaving the stragglers, including me to grab a couple of high stools. I got chatting to one girl, and we got on well. Everyone went their separate ways, intending to meet later at one of the managers' flats. The girl and I headed back to hers, and I ended up repotting one of her plants. Grubby fingernails filled with soil is a deeply comforting look for me.

Later, at the party, I felt a little uncomfortable, but was determined to make the effort. Helped on by alcohol, I got into the groove with anyone, and actually had quite a good time, though I'd certainly managed to drink too much. They were heading out to a club, so I popped off for a tactical, and escorted them there, before making my way home, wary that I had a flight the next morning.