Going back a couple of days, my last night in Bulgoslavia (and, frankly, the last time I wasn't sat at my desk, terrified) was brilliant.
I was supposed to be meeting up with Daniel the expert on International Relations (and when I say expert, I mean he was pretty good). Sadly, Coxx was closed ("Private Piss Party"). So, I ended up in Mystery Bar, and bumped into George the exciting Toronto skinhead and his student pals.
There were two good looking men, all over each other in the corner. "He's cute," I said to George. George tutted. "The man he's with - Rent."
This didn't make sense - but apparently a fair number of young Hungarian gays aren't that good at self-esteem. And why should you be, when it costs about 10 euros?
Sadly, I ignored the pretty man who'd hired love, and concetrated on getting smashed with George and his student friends. And then the bar staff brought over a bottle of spirits and some chocolate santas and got smashed with us.
At some point, a friend of George's turned up to give them lifts home. "Come with us," he said. "We'll show you the unseen Hungary."
George looked up and giggled, "He means the shitty bits."
So, we tore round the suburbs, rattling through wasteland past crumbling concrete blocks and abandoned cinemas.
"Hey!" yelled the driver, "You know speed bumps? We don't have them here..."
There was a sickening thud and a lurch as the car smashed across the road.
"We have pot holes."