To be accurate, it was just Buda. Pest, I hear, is a whole ‘nother animal…

Mike and I loped down the dark street. We’d taken leave of the girls pajama partying it up in our Hungarian studio apartment. Call it a half loft…make it a fourth. They would snuggle up with the bottle of wine and the hunk of cheese.

Mike’s red hair crumpled down to his eyebrows, which were generally upturned. His slender frame allowed most shirts to hang like priest robes — he rolled up the sleeves continually. He smoked and talked rapidly — always doing something with his hands — demonstrative gestures and the long loping strides of Herr Sommer. I was dressing disctintively more European with my tight black jeans and slick shoes. My normally shortish hair had grown into a Ginobli deluxe.

The air had a bite — enough to subract two drinks, but there was no wind blowing down the main drag. I was hopping a bit between steps. I do this sometimes to help the mood. Mike paid no mind. His face was strained now; he kicked a pebble into the sewer.

“Let’s get high. Do you suppose that’s possible?”

He waved his cigarette around like a bad charades partner.

“We can’t just walk down this street like something’s gonna happen. Nothin’s gonna happen.”

Just then a man dressed from head to toe in Jamaican rastawear appeared from the alley up ahead.

Mike’s reddish complexion lit up like a kerosene lamp. There’s something funny about when a six-foot, five inch man gets giddy. His limbs fumbled about — broiling with pent up energy. Before I could discourage this brand of typecasting, he trot-jogged up the street. I caught up a few seconds later.

“Got any…?” He made a frantic toking gesture with a maniacal afterface — something out of Reefer Madness. I was half-lit, a bit embarassed, but intrigued — especially when he pulled out the balls of foil.

There were four in all and he showed no signs of discretion — not an inkling of paranoia. The three of us stood under a street light inspecting the furry green contents.

“Is it…good?” smiled Mike.

“Gooood shit, mon…from Poland.”

“What the fuck, Poland?” I mumbled.

Mike’s enthusiasm had not dimmed. He handed the man a few American dollars that he’d neglected to change at the airport. We were all smiling.

Headed to a joint called Blues Bar. People were filing in and out at a good pace. Inside, a few young, well-coifed twenty-somethings looked us up and down. They whispered a bit and one spoke.

“It be twenty dolla coavar.”

“They paid no cover!” I pointed to a score of people already on the dance floor.

“You heaaa thees musak? Whaat kind of musak?”

I looked at Mike; he shrugged.

“Disco.” I said.

They had a good chuckle.

“Eeees Russian techno. YOU PAY COVVAA!”

We walked out and avoided an impending incident. The beautiful blondes snickered at us, hiked up their skirts, and continued.

Down the street, we closed down what we deemed a true drinking establishment. The dark, thick, wonderous ale came cheap and often. Songs, camraderie, it felt like a good movie. Back in the alley, early in the morning, we smoked our Polish delight out of a coke can. Not wise, but fun.

The sun was up and the ladies were passed out on the floor like an anti-drug commercial. Smashed cheetos and McDonald’s wrappers decorated the floor. World’s largest McDonald’s just down the street. Ah, America the beautiful — world ambassador, true patron of complacency.