Blasé Ex-Pat or American Tourist?

I waver back and forth between being in and out of my element in Budapest. I may never be completely comfortable shouting the familiar Hungarian salutation in public, but I can order off of a menu like nobody’s business.

The past weekend summed up the juxtaposition.

Blasé Ex-Pat: I met up with a few friends for drinks on Friday night and ran into multiple people I knew at the bar. Most notable was Paul, the first friend I made in Budapest after he responded to my desperate “Are you there, Friend? It’s Me, Alex” couch-surfing plea my first weekend in the city. I wondered why we drifted apart until he texted me the following night asking if I wanted to troll for girls with him and his friend.

American Tourist: One of my three tenets of living in/visiting the ‘Pest is one must call a taxi to avoid being ripped off by gypsy cabs. On Saturday night, I followed my advice, called CityTaxi, and proceeded to climb into a CityLine cab. Those tricksters. It wasn’t until I paid six times the standard fare that I realized gypsy cabs now are going so far as to mimic the names and logos of legitimate cab companies in the city.

Blasé Ex-Pat: My destination was the spa party at Rudas Baths advertised as “an outstanding cultural event that attracts the youth…at the beginning, the young people just wander around, but as soon as it gets hot, the corners become shady and everyone starts enjoying the party as much as they can.” While I unfortunately missed the “whale stripping,” I did enjoy the trapeze artists, belly dancers, flame throwers, and my backstroke/shoulder roll dance moves. Other highlights of the evening included my refusal to leave the bath until it was completely drained and new habit of writing in the passive voice.

American Tourist: I have a track record of being pulled over by the police while driving, and my Pavlovian reflex kicked in on Sunday afternoon when I saw a cop car heading for the shoulder. The subsequent conversation between the non-English speaking police officer and me was very confusing because for whatever reason he couldn’t understand why I had voluntarily offered myself up for a ticket (aka bribe). That combined with eating buffalo wings and potato skins at a Superbowl Party at T.G.I. Friday’s made for quite the American Sunday.