Whilst scooting around eastern Europe on a
summer holiday sampling the decline of communism through the
bottom of a beer glass, a few weird and interesting things
took place: -
1. Meeting teenage Texas feminists demanding the right to
carry a handgun - "That Clinton has gone and stolen my
birth right. I want a gun!"
2. American college kids on vacation who thought New Zealand
was a type of cheese produced in Wisconsin.
After flying down the Danube
in a hydro foil from Vienna, the ancient and absolutely fucked
up city of Budapest appears all around you - fucked up because
in the last 300 years the place has been demolished by invading
armies; the Turks, the Austrians twice, the Nazis and the
Russians have all had a go at poking the pilgrim in the eye.
What this city lacks in architectural wonder it makes up for
in the style, panache and utter beauty of its female inhabitants.
There is something about the
local Budapest crew that sets them apart sitting in a piazza
having a few quiets on a Saturday afternoon, you are just
surrounded by utter beauty, which is very hard to take when
the
camel club is fast approaching!
In fact, gone past along some time ago. So when some seppo
suggested a trip to valley of the beautiful women, I jumped
at the chance. This so called valley of chicks from hell is
in the middle of the Bordeaux of Hungary, acres and acres
of vine yards line the country side, row by row all neat and
straight but not so white. I don't know where the name comes
from but the idea of hanging out there seemed a good place
to have a camel race. Next stop, the continental train to
the valley, but alas it was booked out! Nothing but first
class, so I figured that I should do it in style for the Woodley
readers and join the assortment of dingo's and seppos who
were to join myself on this journey to paradise.
The Valley is situated just
out of the town of Eger, 138 km east of Budapest, which is
an easy cruise on the locomotive made all the more easier
by the generosity of the traveling carpet salesman from Morocco.
Hungarians like to visit Eger because it was here that their
ancestors fended off the Turks for the first time during the
170 years of Turkish occupation.
Fields whizzing by with peasants
doing peasant things and sheep starting to tremble with the
knowledge that a graduate from Lincoln is coming to town.
I soon got some digs sussed out at the Tuliman Camping ground
above the valley of Courtney Cox, which is a fairly handy
locale. Rooms where a mere pittance - about the price of a
Bloody Mary on spaced out Sunday. There is also swimming pool
and a restaurant available. Anyway the real reason for being
here was to go down to the valley and try and find the next
superbabe.
At the first shop/cave we
came across a prune walking with the aid of a stick, who invited
us in to her cellar and suggested we try some of the Egri
Bikaver (bulls blood). We then got a small talk on the way
to find that mystery girl, there are some 75 cellars in the
valley belonging to families who have been making a piss since
way before James Speight got the idea. The way to attack the
valley is to visit as many as cellars as possible and see
what happens, some let you in others tell you to piss of and
there is always an annoying old man playing bad yukelele trying
to sing whatever national anthem suits your demeanor.
After cellar #25 (about 10 refused to serve us for various
reasons) certain powers of sight were starting to come to
me the old gypsy women collecting pee money at the loo in
village green bore more than a passing resemblance to bikini
clad baywatch beauty. The dingo lost the plot completely and
went wondering through the vineyards chased by a blind jock
who was sure that the world was flat and everyone from downunder
was suspended to the equator to stop us from falling of the
planet.
|
Fred Morse