SAST #4 The Final Stop
I couldn’t tell you anything about Hungarians.
Well, that’s a lie. I could tell you some things, and I will. But I haven’t observed anything of note. Perhaps, it is because Budapest is a tourist hot spot. You see, eighteen days into the trip, I don’t go over the bridge into the town centre. Yes, I hate bridges. I have a collection of self-recorded videos of me managing to cross bridges all over Europe, in particular Leipzig, where I had to overcome one almost every day. In Budapest, I lost my glasses on the first day whilst sprinting across, what I assume, is the biggest bridge in existence. I do not cross the bridge, anymore, because that’s where cunts like me are, and I don’t want to be the cunt.
Surely an ego thing, right? I want to be the exotic stranger in the room; I like the air to be filled with words I’ll never understand- Hungarian pronunciation is fucking impossible, by the way. I want my presence to spark intrigue and surprise; I don’t want to be just another Engish-speaking bastard that you can overcharge (convinced I paid too much for my haircut, I respect it, to be honest.)
I’ve tried to find places not bursting with tourists, but it is a struggle. Granted, I’ve not drunk as much in Budapest as in other countries; thank you, Richard Murchie, for accompanying me for a few nights in Budapest that gave us both the sort of hangover that produces teetotalers.
Several people, women, have told me Hungarians are rude. That they stare. Personally, I haven’t noticed. As I’ve written about recently, staring has lost its edge to me. Now, I see staring as almost welcoming. In fact, a beautiful woman in Zagreb stared at me several times and even laughed at one point whilst our eyes met. I, of course, didn’t do anything because how the fuck do you do that sort of thing? As a man, there is no regret as powerful as that sort of regret. I’ll say no more.
Today I sat and had lunch in sight of the river and all those beautiful buildings that face it. Buildings I haven’t bothered to learn about. I really don’t give a fuck about them. Their beauty, and their history, are wasted on me. Staring at them whilst eating my chicken salad (I had a KFC the night before), I couldn’t help but wonder when these sights became mundane to the locals- when routine inevitably robs you of awe. Some may argue that they never lose their spark, but I disagree. Naturally, they will lose their spark, but you can fight to save them.
My time in Budapest has been usurped by my absent mind. Glasgow has infiltrated my brain, I’ve got home on my mind, and I can’t escape it. Where I’ll live, going back to work, seeing people that understand me- being recognised again. Seeing my friend Richard was great, but it saddened me a few days later. It got me thinking of what I’ve written about loneliness before. (Loneliness) I think solo travel is better. Everything is new. I’ll repeat that, everything is new! When does that ever happen? Now, I’ve not even travelled that long. From what I’ve read, the standard minimum seems to be six months, but I’m not rich. Eventually, I should respond to the guilt that consumes me every time my Mum and Dad sustain me financially.
As I wrote in the loneliness blog, sadness comes from a reminder that you are alone. I never once felt like I was by myself until Richard left. Just was never a consideration until then. Previously, of course, I was by myself. I am doing my own thing; I go for coffee alone, I go for lunch alone, and I drink by myself (until the birth of drunken conversations). I loved it.
It is most likely, once again, my vulnerability issue. Someone who knows you can sense the discomfort. Who knows. When alone, I can just go home, hidden by my role as the stranger.
I wrote in my blog notes before I left Glasgow, “will travelling be a story I tell for the rest of my life, or will it be the start of a new life?”. I’m hopeful for the latter.
Cheers.