Foreword: I apologize for the massive delay in posting, but traveling without a computer can really set you back schedule. Before I start, I want to mention that I didn’t put any names of people, or of the hostel, because I’d rather their dignity to remain intact, so excuse the ignorance of describing people as ‘the Aussie’ and ‘the Brit’ etc.
I was really tempted to name this blog post “How I Fired Three People with a HostelWorld Review”, but then I thought, that’s a bit harsh. Unfortunately this actually did happen, but I think my entire trip to Budapest can’t simply be out-shined by our, um, interesting hostel experience.
***
I planned a week-long trip to Budapest and Prague with my roommates Amalie and Dyanne (and Ellie, but due to unforeseen circumstances she couldn’t come) to de-stress before exams. On student budgets, we chose the cheapest way to get there (aka the most inconvenient). We arrived in Budapest at around 3pm after an overnight fiasco of attempts at falling asleep but constantly being awakened by screaming toddlers who must have had mountain dew for breakfast.
Armed with print outs of google map directions (because there isn’t always wifi to save us), I directed us to our hostel, and we went as far as settling our bags down in reception and talking about the free breakfast until we realized we were at the wrong one. Apparently there are two hostels under the same name, with the only difference of the numbering. Ours was, of course, number 2.
“This must happen a lot, eh?” I smiled at the receptionist apologetically, cheeks hot from slight embarrassment.
“Actually, no.”
Awkward.
Finally we reached the right hostel, which happened to be a block away, we buzzed in and entered a dark, stony complex with a winding staircase that led us upstairs to the reception (which was also the kitchen and the common room). As we checked in, the French receptionist asked us for payment. Well this was a new concept, but sure, let me just leave my bags here so I can go find an ATM (a scarce thing here in Budapest. It’s like they don’t want you to spend money). Barely understanding our slowly-pronounced English, after several repetitions, she agreed that we can pay later and told us the codes to our room in her thick French accent. (Okay, okay, I can speak French. But I was a little surprised that she hardly spoke English at a hostel in Budapest, and I’m guessing she didn’t speak any Hungarian either. I spoke French to her later.)
Interesting thing about Hungarians though, we found out that they aren’t allowed staying at any hostels in Budapest, because apparently when hostels became popular, a group of them would book rooms, steal tourists’ stuff, and leave. So now they are banned cheap accommodation in their own city.
Anyway, we stumbled in our room and noticed two guys passed out in their bunks. Budapest clearly has a wild nightlife (it was 3 PM). They woke up from their drunken slumbers as we were unpacking and introduced themselves: one was an Aussie backpacker, and the other was a Brit, working at the hostel for a bunk. They both had been there for about 10 days already.
***
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| All smiles on the cruise |
The first night we went on a cute boat cruise that strolled along the river that separates Buda and Pest. The buildings stood brightly lit up on either side of the river, and this happens every night, so I can’t imagine what their electricity bills look like. We thought the Parliament building was the Palace, that’s how amazing it was.
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| Parliament |
At the end of the cruise, we followed our tour guide among the crowd of tourists to the meeting point. All of a sudden, Amalie started laughing.
“You see those three girls who just walked past us?”
They were tall, blond, in dresses and stilettos (I mean, on this cobblestone?!) and speaking a Scandinavian language.
“Yeah?”
“Well,” Amalie smirked. “They’re Swedish, and they we’re just complaining rudely how slow I was walking. Compared me to a turtle. So I walked even slower on purpose, and that’s why they passed us in a rush.”
I connect the dots and burst out laughing. I had noticed that.
“The best part is one of the girls let out a panicked whisper of “Oh my god, what if she can understand us?” and it’s funny because I do, bitches.”
This is why she’s my best friend.
I think this realization washed over them when they fully absorbed Amalie’s light blond hair, blue eyes, soft complexion – most likely Scandinavian descent… Oops. They start giggling ahead of us, hoping they were just psyching themselves out, and so we followed them and, armed with Swedish words, we pretended to have a conversation right beside them. Amalie went on in Swedish while I helped out by responding the only two words I know, “Så fint!” and “Ya!!” to everything. It was glorious.
***
We planned to go to the Széchenyi Thermal Spa the following day for some much needed aroma therapy. We decided we were going to full-on pamper ourselves; not only treat ourselves to the outdoor thermal baths for three hours, but end the day with a 30 minute relaxation massage. I think with everything included we paid about 60 bucks, which is pretty damn decent for the largest medicinal thermal bath in Europe.
The outdoor baths were bubbly and blissful. We went on a Tuesday, so the small crowd mainly consisted of Hungarian Retirees and older folks or tourists. It didn’t feel like it was made for the purpose of attracting tourists (it was built in 1913); no, it was genuinely was a place for relaxation, and what better way to cure your arthritic joints while polishing that Hungarian leather skin than soaking in an outdoor thermal bath infused with minerals? How we envied the old Hungarians for having this quite common leisure in their backyards, in which retirees could probably soak every day of the summer if they wanted to.
The yellow cream neo-baroque style building that surrounded the baths stood proud and tall, and we soaked in the bubbles, swam through the silky warm water, and let the sulfates and magnesium do their thang.
***
By 3pm, it was time for our relaxation massage. We climbed up the staircase to the reception, ready to be shown to a dingy wooden massage room like we’d seen previously below, but instead we were told to sit in the large waiting room to be called. Actually, no, it wasn’t a waiting room. That makes it seem like a four-by-four meter white room with a clock on the wall that ticks so loud it syncs up with your heartbeat, and a large, carefully framed photo of a smiling beluga (or is that just at my dentist’s?). Anyway, this ‘waiting room’ we walked into was like we’d entered into a VIP section of a Caribbean resort’s Penthouse-only guests. We got freshly sliced fruit in cups served and made by a young, good looking Hungarian man who blushed when I asked if the fruit cups were really free, and even the tea? Free? Gratis? Oh good.
Unfortunately we had to devour the fruits fast as we sat on our plush bean bag chairs, because shortly after grabbing them, we were called to the massage rooms, which were also in the same area, behind a mysterious hung veil of white cloth. A male and a female masseuse came out to introduced themselves, and my heart jumped at the sight of the guy – I assumed Dyanne and Amalie wanted to be handled by women, as do I (no offence but it’s a little less awkward, I don’t know), but I figured, let’s try something new. My neck was particularly sore anyway from essay writing and perhaps I needed rougher hands.
He left the room while I undressed and I quickly threw my bikini top to the side, and laid flat on my stomach on a clean, white mattress on the floor, awkwardly trying to find a spot for my arms. I settled with them by my side, hiding any trace of side boob. I must have looked like a face-down unraveled mummy, until I realized that there was no fancy hole in the headrest to breathe, or even to hide my face while I giggled if he touched my feet, and so I had to turn my head to the side to avoid suffocation.
“Ready?” I heard the slightly rolled R in his accent through the veil.
“Yup!” I inhaled deeply and stuck my face into the mattress.
I heard the shuffle of his heavy feet by my right shoulder as he crouched down.
“Any pains? Soreness?”
I look up at his stern eyes, body still tensed, arms still by my side. “Yeah, like all over actually. Mostly my neck.” He simply nodded, and got to work.
I came for a relaxation massage, but I literally felt that this was not the case. I think he misinterpreted my body ache comment for `Yes sir, I’d absolutely love a deep tissue massage’. There was no time for self-consciousness anymore; it was game over after he pulled my arms back while his knees secured the bottom of my spine, naturally bending my body into a C shape. He was cracking me in places I never knew existed and untangled kinks in my back until they felt like they imploded. I cringed the entire 30 minutes as his rough hands tossed me around like a rag doll. I thought I was done for when he twisted my neck 90 degrees to crack it (I watch too much Vampire Diaries), and then poked his thumbs up the sides of my spine to my cerebellum until I felt numb. Then I giggled as my senses came back and he got closer to the end of my tailbone, which as we all know is located slightly lower than the opening to our BUTT CRACKS. Yes, there I said it. Then he gave me a glutes massage, which I found odd and hella ticklish until I looked it up online and it is in fact a legit part of a massage. This may all sound like pain and horror, but damn, when those 30 minutes of pain were over, I felt like I could fly and land on a light, fluffy cloud, and sleep through a thousand suns. All the pain I felt in my neck was gone. My body felt free.
I came out to Amalie’s euphoric smile, and we exchanged ‘how was it?!’s. It turned out that my massage was unique, and neither of the girls got any deep tissue going on. Well, good first impression with a male masseuse, that’s for sure.
Back in Le paradise waiting room, Amalie claimed a hammock, and Dyanne and I collapsed on the giant beanbag chairs, and we floated out of consciousness for a good hour. I woke up slightly confused as to where I was, if not heaven, until I slowly regained brain cells and we groggily got up and headed back to the hostel.
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| the walk home |
***
We quickly figured out the hostel was tiny, equipped with only three rooms and two ensuite bathrooms (a.k.a they have showers in them). This is an issue because what if I want to take a shower but someone’s taking a 30-minute dump? What if I just want to brush my teeth and wash my face but someone’s in the shower and locked the door? Patience and a compact mirror is key my friends.
Walking back to the hostel, we made plans to explore Budapest’s nightlife after our recent full-day of pampering. We had no excuse of being exhausted like the night before. We entered our room to an intoxicated Aussie lady in a black dress that hardly covered her derriere. Nice girl, but if you’re off your face at 4 in the afternoon, not sure if I want to go out with you. But alas, we did.
Later that night, we joined in on a pre-drink that was going on in the common room. I noticed several familiar faces: the passed out Aussie, and the Brit dude (who by the way, only came home from an all-nighter somewhere at 9 a.m that morning and murmured, ‘shit! I’m late for work!’ and bolted out the door as quick as he came). It turned out they hadn’t slept in three days and were catching up on some ZZZs when we first met them. I then recognize the receptionist dude from the other hostel we conversed with, and the two French receptionists from the day before. After being introduced to several others, we came to the conclusion that 95% of these people were employees of the hostels. Nothing against off-duty employees partying with us, but like, where were the other guests of the hostel? Oh well…
After a couple drinks, we went to Budapest’s seventh district, and entered the first Ruin pub Szimpla Kert, and it didn’t disappoint. Grungy interior with mismatched furniture, art hung on the caved walls, this place was COOL. A little bit on the Hipster side, I read how it came to be: it seems ruin pubs became popular after a couple of Hungarian dudes wanted to find cheap places to drink and so they found unused destroyed buildings from World War II that were never reconstructed. Voila. We pounded back Unicum shots at the bar, a typical Hungarian drink, and the aftertaste was awful.
Moving on, the large group we came with decided to go to Instant, a club that also happened to be on the same street as our hostel. We noticed some petty boy drama going on between some employees, and we caught on to the dynamic, work-family incest thing, one getting with the other one week, the next week it’s with someone else etc. Shit was hitting the roof when one girl felt particularly bad about herself when she watched the Aussie getting it on with another girl, when they had just hooked up the week before. Yes, we were mere spectators; front row seat to the drama of backpacking hostel worker’s lives, and all that was missing was the popcorn. It was like a live taping of Big Brother.
Another wild entertainment for us was one of the employees that was Italian established himself as the leader of the group, so when he yelled at everyone to keep up and to get out of the way of cars in his thick Italian accent, it was magnificent.
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| Our street |
“Crrrross de road!!!” He’d say to the intoxicated band of zombies following him.
“Attraversiamo?!?” I’d reiterate in Italian for shits.
“Yes, yes, we must cross naooo!” He was really serious about his self-given job.
***
After much dancing and discovering Amalie’s very real and intense hip hop dance moves at the club, our sweaty workout proved us worthy of a pizza on the way back to the hostel. We slowly crept into our hostel room post-pizza to find the Aussie guy stark naked, passed out in his usually-unoccupied bed and snoring louder than a train, and as still as a log. The beds were perpendicular so I had the pleasure of my head being right by his. Our bladders were feeling particularly heavy from the amassed alcohol from the night, so Amalie and I went to the bathroom (Don’t you remember girls go in pairs?). Anyway, the door was locked. Fine. We go to the other one. Also locked. As I started doing the pee-dance in front of the first bathroom for a couple minutes, we heard moaning and groaning coming through the door. Remember how I said there was a shower in there too? Oh yeah. It was on. We started hammering at the door, hoping to cause a quick walk of shame, cuz come on, but instead a British accent went: “We’re coming, five more minutes – oooooooooh!”
Hell, nah. We were laughing because we couldn’t believe the atrocity of getting rejected to use the bathroom for its true purpose, and then became hysterical because I was about to pee my pants. The other bathroom turned out to be under the same R-rated circumstance. Just as I was getting ready to pee in the kitchen sink, the girl who got rejected by the Aussie stood helplessly on the balcony and told us we could use the employees’ bathroom. We ran the dark stony stairs into a room that looked more like a cave with bunk beds, and checked out the bathroom. One glance into the pit of mold and shit stains on the wall was enough for us to retreat as fast as we ran down the staircase. Now, we were mad. We pounded the doors, yelled through the halls, until the culprits emerged, the Brit unashamed and smirking, while the Aussie girl, body still wrapped in that black tiny dress of three days and counting, had her wet tangled hair covering her guilty averted eyes, and they walked into our hostel room.
***
After that whole ordeal, we noticed the French receptionist slipped into the bed of the snoring log (is that even allowed?) and the couple from the bathroom attempting to get it on again in their bed. Seriously horndogs? I closed my eyes and put earplugs in, yet I could still here the chorus of snores seeping into my ear drums. It was like a snore choir – alto, baritones and sopranos all going at it at different paces. I couldn’t help but laugh. I peeled my earplugs out helplessly and looked over at Amalie. We gave each other a WTF stare, and eventually fell asleep.
Next morning, the drunk French receptionist picked up her clothes and dashed out of the room. The Aussie was still in the same position as we first saw him in. Poor guy, we could practically hear his liver failing with his intense, sharp inhales and deep snores.
***
That day, we went to Margaret’s island for another round of thermal baths, but this time, it wasn’t a spa, but more like public outdoor pools. My back was now sore from the massage, so it was nice to sit in the bubbles and just float in the current. Margaret’s island was so close to the city, yet a complete shift from city life – nature all around, bike paths and Langos kiosks, funny family pedal bikes to rent. It was a cute place for a family weekend getaway.
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| Langos was delish |
The public baths were so empty because it was a work day, so we got the entire place to ourselves for a while. At the end of our stay, we changed, and then in the corner of our eye, saw a water park. Wait….
“Oh my god. We have to do this. Please?” Dyanne’s eyes gleamed at the sight of the waterslides with no lineups. So were mine, really. My inner rebel was screaming, sketchy waterslides in a foreign country? Yeah!!
“Hell yes, let’s do it.”
We changed back into our bikinis and tested out all of the slides, while Amalie took videos of the catastrophes on her phone. It was well worth it, minus the inevitable wedgie after being catapulted out of the slide faster than we had time to scream.
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| Ok, so this slide I had to push myself on. |
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| That yellow one was higher than it looks |
Dyanne tried to get up too fast as she came flying down the yellow slide, and wiped out in the deep end with a giant splash, as I watched from above, waiting for my turn. I have to admit I laughed, but that made me not want to do it myself anymore. Nevertheless, I pulled myself together and hit the water like a mermaid. The second time down I was more like a walrus, flapping my arms into the water by accident. That hurt.
***
And so with minor unimportant details left out (our failed attempt to rent bikes, our trip to the mall, an obese old man convincing us that he could give us manicures), I think I’ve summed up our Budapest trip quite accurately.
Now you may be thinking about my opening statement, about employees getting fired and all that, well…
Safe to say this hostel was being trusted to several backpackers that took the boss’s trust for granted and got lazy. The reason we booked the hostel in the first place was because of the raving reviews about the staff, helpfulness etc. Innocent souls had the right to know the truth, so when Hostelworld sent me a jolly email about reviewing the hostel, I complied.
I basically had about 400 characters to express my dissatisfaction about the hostel workers. I was vague, but detailed enough to get to the point. I’m not one to make negative reviews, but everything I wrote was actually experienced, which is what HostelWorld told me to do. They also told me I’d remain anonymous, under the bracket of Female, age 18-24.
Two weeks later, I received an email from the owner of the Hostel. Very politely, she asked for more details about the bathroom incidents I wrote about. Well, thanks HostelWorld for my so-called anonymity. She also mentioned that because of my review, they hadn’t had anyone book the hostel since. Oh shit!
I gave her the details she needed, and about two days later she replied that the three culprits have been fired and the rest of the staff warned about their behaviour, and if I would kindly allow them to remove my review as the matter had been dealt with. Honouring her typed words, I let them remove my review. I did not intend on ruining any baskets because of a couple bad eggs, ya know?
Not two days later I see a new review posted, raving about the friendly-ness of the staff and how helpful and welcoming everyone is at the hostel. I looked at the anonymous who wrote it, and its bracket: 25-30, Male, Italy. Oh, I know who wrote that review….
Hope you enjoyed that 100% non-fabricated story of my trip to Beautiful Budapest. I truly had a great time, and now the hostel business is hilarious and good fun, but you know it’s messed up when I seriously considered peeing in a kitchen sink.
xox
Liz
A La Deriva 