We have two goals for my final day in Poland:
1. Visit Memento Park to see statues from communist Budapest.
2. Pilgrimage to the statue of a man punching a hydra.
We get up early, ten litres of beer from the night before still sloshing around in our bodies. Matt has damaged his toe by stubbing it on a rock. He has also chafed his balls from walking too far without underpants. Rule six: pants. Continue reading
The heat is ridiculous. Sweat pours down our bodies as we traipse across Budapest to our new hostel. By the time we arrive, we are sodden and exhausted.
The hostel man greets us. What’s that? The room we’re staying is on the other side of the city? By the train station? Where we just walked from…? Cuuuuuuuuuuuuurses…
We leave Hostel Relax three hours earlier than the day before and head straight for the baths.
The underground changing rooms are a teeming, squirming mass of humanity. We deposit our things in one of the rows upon row of lockers, linked by slippery walkways, and push our way up the stairs. Summoning up our courage, we step outside into the sunlight.
The baths greet us. They are…resplendent.
We wake up late, groggy from dreams. Damn this shaman tobacco!
Hostel Relax is deserted, apart from the owner. She gives us a tour – all the way to the local shop and back.
We need to get to the city, urgently. First, however, we must cross the White Bridge.
Our bus pulls into Budapest at 23:00. The bus station is a sea of blue and red lights. Riot police are everywhere.
We have no money, no map and no idea where our hostel is. Football fans flood the streets.
Gods, what have we done?
We awake in linen shirts, our heads pounding from wine and song.
We break out fast on preaches, plums and pastries. Yoghurt with honey compliments strong coffee. We mope and despair.
We are bohemians.
Breakfast involves a waffle covered in jam and punching the machine.
I still fail to break 900. My wrist feels shattered.
Arriving back in Krakow, we make a big decision. To be bohemians.
My eyes creak open and the world spins. My wrist throbs with a dull pain, born of over-punching.
After showering, we stalk the streets with one thing on our minds: feats of strength.
There is only one problem…the night before. A bottle of vodka and fifteen litres of beer may not have been the best preparation for a day of power.
We do not feel strong. Continue reading
Four hours after I head to bed, I wake up. My throat burns. The thirst is outrageous. The drinking will likely kill me.
Feverish sleep reclaims me. I dream of punching. Punching 900.
Suddenly, Matt is awake. Chaos descends. Next thing I know, my blade is in hand and I am swinging it about my head. TO WAAAR!
The bus station is refusing to sell us a bus ticket to Zakopane. Moments ago we had a bus ticket and a bus…now we have neither! How has this happened?!
Polaaaaaaaand!!
We have not travelled far, but reality is now a long way behind us.
Societal norms are distant memories. What it means to be As Man has changed forever. I fear we cannot return.
Nothing matters now. Nothing but the songs we will sing of these days. Nothing but ensuring every minute is sapped of all potential adventure.
We are as beasts. Singing beasts.
Equal parts terror and elation pulse through my soul with every passing minute. I stand on the very edge of something. I know this better than I know anything else in this moment.
I am not alone. I see it in their eyes as well – hysteria and trepidation. We gaze into the abyss and, as one, are drawn closer. Yet we have come too far; if one turns back now, the others are doomed to follow or fail.
What is right? What is wrong? Who can answer? Not I, Turisas. Not I.
We start the day with wine. A bottle each. This is life. This is pain. This is Poland.
Lunch involes pizza, pasta…and scallops James. What these are, we know not at all. But they are hot. So hot.
Simon burns his giant, alien hands. Scallps James…what hast thou doenst?
We are trapped in a square. How this happened – a mystery.
Apparently, we visited the castle. Oh yes, Simon is here. He is enormous. Continue reading
I am woken at some ungodly hour by Matt, jumping up and down. He deposits his phone on my chest and has it blare The Varangian Guard in my face. I feel like my brain has been dried, smoked and spread across Odin’s own toast. This is Day Two. Continue reading
Why we ever thought to meet hours away from our houses will forever be a mystery.
Yet this is how it all begins; by taxi, train and bus – all the way to Kingston Upon Thames. Yes, Kingston-Upon-Thames. What of it? Continue reading
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