ADVENTURES IN VACI STREET; BUDAPEST, HUNGARY AUGUST 2011

Rain can do things to a person.

It can soothe you into a soporific slumber, it can cool a hot temper.

Too much of it can begin to have a depressing effect.

But for me, sitting in my apartment in downtown Pest, I was experiencing boredom on a grand scale.

After 6 days, there had been but one very short fine afternoon. Every morning and evening it had rained. It had rained softly, gently, like snow falls slowly here in winter. It had rained hard and long; one night I was caught in it and absolutely drenched within what seemed seconds. And then you have the guerilla type rainstorm, where you think it has passed, and you go out in it. It then hits you in short sharp bursts, just like some of the snipers that hid in these buildings in times gone by.

Boredom is not a good state for me to be in. But, I’d slept and slept, and then slept some more. I was fully recovered from the semi-emaciated state I found myself in when I returned to England from Morocco. I read all the books I could find. I spoke to friends and got this blog up-to-date. But I had very little to write about Budapest once some history and general impressions were out of the way.

I walked across the green bridge every day and climbed the Gellert hill in the rain. I went to Marguerite Island and ran on the synthetic 5k track with other fanatics and tore my left hip muscle again. I just found myself feeling a little antsy, a little stir crazy. Too much energy, and nothing to do with it.

The city itself was very quiet. This was the height of summer, the tourist season, but there was little evidence of it. The Formula One Grand Prix was here in a week, so perhaps that would pick things up.

But the Rain!

Normally, I’m a very disciplined person. I watch what I eat, I don’t smoke, I don’t drink very much or often (things can change though!). I am scrupulous in my fitness, and I try and keep a balanced view of things, I don’t get over- emotional or lose my temper. But Boredom drives me nuts, and it causes me to think a little irrationally at times and take on risks that I normally wouldn’t. It’s the kind of state, for me, where you could make a life-changing decision that you live to regret, something that could possibly change your life forever, for the worst. The reason you remember these bad events is because you overlook the times it all works out well, and you feel like a hero or the smartest guy on the block.

I was reaching that stage now, and it was the rain, the damned rain.

I had done some research on scams and con jobs that were run regularly in Budapest. Many people had stories of taxi drivers, and tram conductors, sometimes police, and the odd pick-pocket or two. Of course there were also the gypsies and the ubiquitous ladies of the night.

Most nights after I had eaten, I would go for a wander down Vaci Street. It was the next street over from where I was staying, and it was the main area tourists would go. There were plenty of Italian restaurants, fashion stores and Hungarian souvenir shops with women dressed in the traditional way standing outside with pained expressions on their faces. It was a mall, and at night the cobblestones glistened wet in the artificial lights. There was rarely anyone else walking around; it was wet, and cool without being cold. Of course when you reached the area close to the strip clubs, the mainly female touts would do their best to persuade you to enter their club. It was the only way these women were paid; heads through the door. And every night as I made my way back to my apartment, a street girl would run across the street to me from the corner where she plied her wares. At first she was almost friendly;

“Hello, darlink. I can keep you company tonight. Do you want me”?

It was probably the wrong question to ask, you generally get a ”No” from a stranger, it’s a trust thing. But as the nights wore on, and we developed our relationship around my indifference and her frustration, her tone changed.

“What’s the matter with me? You not vant me? Am I not beautiful”?

If it was a ploy to make me feel guilty about my lack of interest in her, it didn’t work. But I felt sorry enough for her to assure her that she was certainly beautiful, and that if I wasn’t married I would certainly go with her. Well, you should all know I’m not married, but it was either that or play the “gay” card. I feared she might try and set me up with a guy in that case, for a “referral fee” of course.

“When zee wife’s away, the husband can play” was her answer to that one.

I pondered on delivering a lecture about Sexual Morality in the 21^st century to her on that lonely street. But as there doesn’t seem to be much of it going around these days, I said “szia” and walked on.

I mentioned the street-girl to a friend of mine back home.

“She’ll get you eventually” he said.

“If that rain doesn’t stop one night she’ll catch you out, I’ll bet”

I could see what he was getting at. I was jumping out of my skin looking for some kind of stimulation.

I emailed Luke, an Australian who owned an apartment in Budapest which I was going to rent for a while, a couple of kilometers from where I was currently staying.

He said “Go to some Folk Dances, they’re fun, and you’ll meet people”

I actually looked into it. But it seemed they were all closed for the summer. Just my luck.

So, things were getting desperate. If I didn’t do something, make something happen, the hooker was probably going to get me, it seemed.

And it was then that I came across the Vaci Street Music Bar scam.

I’ve told you that boredom is a dangerous state for me, but I must say I felt anything but bored as I strode down the Vaci Street mall.

I had a plan, I had a purpose.

I had a risky adventure in mind.

It was getting late, a little after 11pm. It was cool without being cold. It was quiet on the River Danube, all of the dinner-dance-buffet boats seemed to have docked early, it was that kind of night.

Literally, no-one was out but the same strip club touts. They eyed me up and gave me the usual lines, but I didn’t even stop to converse tonight, I had a big fish to catch.

And it didn’t take long.

I was wandering rather aimlessly it must have looked to the untrained eye. Walking slowly, dressed rather smartly I might say in black, dress trousers, a white shirt with blue, vertical stripes, and a black leather jacket, I looked at women’s fashions in Gucci windows and gave the occasional tuneless whistle. Just another middle-aged guy out on his own, probably on a business trip, and ripe for the plucking.

I saw them come out of one of the side alleys that run off the mall, about a hundred metres away.

Two blondes.

I tried my best nonchalant, I’m not aware of you look.

I could hear them approach as I intently studied a t-shirt in the store window which had “I Love Budapest” emblazoned across the chest.

“Ezzuse Me, we are looking for the Bacchus Bar, do you know vere it is”?

“mmm..not bad English”, I thought.

It was the slightly taller one of the two that spoke. She was also the better looking of the two, with a straight posture and a good physique, but a kind of vacant look in her eyes, that when you looked intently there was really nothing there.

She smiled, and she was Elly. The other woman looked a little stressed, with a furrowed brow which said she was a little worried about something, but still, she smiled and put on a friendly face.

She was Vera.

They were two thirty-somethings in Budapest to celebrate a friend’s birthday on the weekend. They came from Lake Balaton, some 80 kilometres away and were not familiar with Budapest. They were out looking for this “Bacchus Bar” as supposedly they were live music fans.

Their dress fitted the situation. Jeans, casual tops, flat shoes. Elly even wore a cardigan.

Nothing flashy, just a couple of country girls looking to kill some time in the big city.

“No, I haven’t seen any live music pubs down this way” I replied,” but I do know of one at the other end of the street that’s ok”.

This was obviously the wrong answer.

“Oh, we just passed one back there, maybe we go to that one” Vera said.

“Do you want to come with us”?

Bang.

I felt like I had just hooked a shark.

Now I had to keep my wits about me and be very, very sharp.

“Sure” I replied “Let’s go!”

As we walked they took turns asking me about myself, where I was from, was I married, what was I doing here, the general sort of things I suppose you’d ask a stranger.

But I had my own questions.

“What is your job”? I asked.

Well, Elly was a beautician in a salon in a big hotel, and Vera had just lost her job, poor dear.

There was something about these two.

If you looked really closely, it was a worn look, like a faded, almost jaded beauty.

They both had breast implants.

They laughed in all the right places at any lame joke I attempted.

If I didn’t know better, I might have begun to have wild sexual fantasies about having both of them back to my room to do some chandelier swinging after a couple of drinks to loosen everybody up. They walked either side of me and casually rubbed shoulders with me and smiled.

We turned a corner and they made for a strange lift, which stood completely on its own surrounded by pavement. It looked to go about 3 stories up, and attach to a cantilevered extension from the building that was 25 metres away.

“Nice” I said to no-one in particular.

“What is this?”

“Oh, it’s the bar”

“How did you manage to walk past this and hear live music?”

It was obviously a question that hadn’t been prepared for. They looked at each other for a second.

Vera smiled, “Oh, we were walking in the shopping mall up there this afternoon and heard the music. Let’s go up, it’s good.”

Nice comeback Vera.

So the 3 of us squeezed into the lift, and when the doors opened, there was a red carpet that led across a concrete patio to a door. Inside the door was a woman at a coat check counter. She didn’t smile and avoided my eyes.

Inside the “pub”, it was all red carpet and red leather booths and a dark mahogany bar.

There was a guy with a swathe of Roland keyboards punching out a one finger melody over the canned, recorded backing music to “Girl from Ipanema”.

“Let’s cha-cha” I said.

They looked at each other as if to say “who is this guy”, recovered composure, gave a nervous laugh and motioned to a booth where we all sat down, with me between them.

A humourless, plain Drink Frau came over to take our orders.

The girls ordered big.

Energy drinks and big cocktails.

“Vat vood you like, sir?”

“I want, a beer thanks, in a bottle, and can you please open it at the table”.

She looked at me as if I was a cockroach who had just crawled out from under the table; the girls looked at me too.

“Oh, sorry, I just have a bit of a germ phobia, and I like to open beers myself. I hope it’s not too much trouble.” I said.

She grunted and went away. The girls rattled on a bit about how far away Australia is, and kangaroos and such.

The drinks came and my beer was surprisingly good.

The girls sculled their drinks before I’d barely taken a sip, and the waitress was back again.

This time, more cocktails, and fancy Irish whisky cappuccinos.

“You’d better be careful with those” I said. With the energy drink and the coffee, I don’t see you getting much sleep tonight”.

They laughed heartily at that one, as if it were a dirty joke and made sure to give me plenty of encouraging eye contact.

A Fat girl singer in a tight fitting silk pantsuit that emphasized her lack of physical discipline had joined her Father on the bandstand and was unenthusiastically trying to pump out “Three Times a Lady”. She looked bored. She sang so badly, only a Father could have liked it.

“Great music, you girls really know how to show a stranger a good time.” I said with more than a hint of sarcasm.

And then the Drink Frau was back.

“Any more drinks”?

Given the amount of liquid these girls had put away already I was surprised they hadn’t paid the toilet a visit half-a-dozen times. But, they’d had enough.

With that and a theatrical flourish, the bill was presented to me.

The End Game.

“Ah, eight thousand Florints” I said “Gee that’s expensive”. It’s about $40 US or Australian.

“No”, she thundered, “Seventy-Eight thousand Florints”

I looked again. Hungarians do a funny “seven” with a stroke through the body, to me it looked like a backward “f” or florint sign.

So this was it.

This was the scam.

About $400 or 300 Euros.

The girls had had 4 drinks each, and I had had one beer.

I looked at each of them.

“What’s going on?”

Vera put her head in her hands and started to cry.

Elly was as cool as a cucumber.

“I don’t know, I don’t know anything” she said.

“You must pay”! thundered the Drink Frau.

“OK” I said, “let me look at the bill. It’s outrageously expensive, don’t you think’?

“You should have checked the prices when you came in, they are available at the door”

“Oh, I see. I should have checked them”.

“Ya, and you must pay”.

“OK, so” and I ran my finger down the drinks list till I found my beer. 4,000 Florints. About 20 bucks.

Expensive, but it was a good beer all the same.

I pulled out 4000 florints.

“There you go, that’s my beer”.

They all looked at each other. This wasn’t the knight in shining armour they’d been expecting.

There was an embarrassed silence.

“Well, you girls did insist on this bar, and I’ve got to say the music was terrible”.

The Drink Frau stood there, she didn’t know what to do.

“Now, I think you’d better leave us so that we can discuss this bill together” I said.

“No, it must be paid”.

I raised my voice.

“If you don’t leave us right now so that we can discuss this confidentially, I will call my American friend in the Tourist Police and get him to come down here now!”

It had the desired effect. She left and went to the other side of the room where she gestured towards us with two other women bar workers.

One of them came over to us.

“The bill must be paid” she said.

I had to tell her in no uncertain terms to leave us. I had noticed that the only other man in the room was the keyboard player, and he didn’t look like he was up for anything very physical tonight.

“What’s going on girls? Anything you want to tell me?”

They both looked at each other, Vera said “They will get the police if the bill isn’t paid”.

“Well, you guys had better find some money because I’ve paid for my drink” I said, “and if anyone gives me any hassles, I will call the police myself and report this scam”.

They looked at each other.

Elly pulled out 38,000 florints from her purse.

The drinks Frau came over.

“You can go” she said to me.

“I had wanted to stay and hear the next bossanova set” I said “Perhaps we could have danced”.

She just stared. I know when I’m not wanted.

So I left the girls and walked the red carpet to the lift.

While I was waiting Elly came out.

“What’s going on” I asked.

“I have to go home to get the money, and my friend stays till I bring it”.

In the lift she made a call, and spoke in Hungarian to a man with a very deep voice.

Fortunately, he wasn’t waiting when the doors opened.

I went home.

The street-girl was chatting up someone else when I walked past.

She saw me and left him and ran to catch up with me.

“You have nice night? You take me with you now?”

I just shook my head, “You have a customer there, go with him”.

“He just a friend”.

“Sorry Darling, not tonight”.

I walked off into the misty darkness and left the seediness that is a dark spot on Budapest’s soul behind me.

I had satisfied my urge for some excitement to break the bored funk that I was in.

I was lucky.

There were no goons in sight when we entered the bar. It was a quiet night. So I didn’t have to run or fight, and I didn’t get my neck broken.

And don’t feel sorry for the girls.

As you have probably worked out by now, the whole thing is a scam.

The girls go out in twos looking for likely pickups. They split the bar tab with the bar. Most men pay it to be manly and to save themselves from trouble. Because I convinced them I knew someone in the tourist police, and made a fuss, they played along with it and wanted me to think they had to get the money. I don’t even know if they have tourist police in Budapest.

But next Saturday night Vaci Street is busy with men in red Ferrari jackets who have drunk too much at the Grand Prix. I spot perhaps six groups of two girls working the street. Two ask me if I know “Bacchus Bar”.

And I see Elly and Vera with three Italian looking men in tow, leading them to the lift that stands on its own in the street.

This rain needs to end.

Soon.