February 23, 2017
So I sauntered into breakfast today to meet Naomi (actually this was yesterday at this point) all confident because we’d made the executive decision to just suck up the rude waiters and cross the street instead of trekking all over kingdom come for two hours looking for an egg. Or in my case, a Chinese noodle from the Shang dynasty. And I’ll have you know I looked that up to make sure I was specifically citing the earliest dynasty I could pronounce so I could be historically accurate in my disdain.
(Side note: I meant “kingdom come” literally, mind you, because we’re staying in the castle district. This means our hotel is 700 years old, has a coat of armor in the greeting vestibule, and all of our furniture has claw feet. Also, the wifi password is “dragon”! The Game of Thrones fangirl in me gave an excited Dothraki war cry when I first laid eyes on it all. As the knights of the round table sayeth(ed): castles are dope, y’all.
‘Course now that I’m typing this, I really want to know what “kingdom come” means so I’m looking that up for your research pleasure. Oh! That makes sense. It’s the short version of “thy kingdom come, thy will be done” from that “Our Father” prayer. And definitely not whatever Urban Dictionary says. End side note.)
Anyway, the waiters here greeted me at the register, lined up six across with the most withering collective look I’ve seen since the Mean Girls movie, and in no uncertain terms told me that my friend was not here and I should go away. It took some gumption-gathering to walk right back in, but holy moly was it the top decision of the trip so far. There are eggs here, prepared in a fancy French cheese concoction! There’s also a Parisian Johnny Cash crooning Folsom Prison songs in an absolutely non-bluesy slow jazz way, and I’m so pleased. This is how you start your day.
And then: baths. For this one, I really wanted to have a mud treatment because I jumped in a pit full of the estuary’s decomposing microorganisms during a field trip in Charleston in 2004 and my skin glowed for DAYS. Lukacz Medicinal Thermals was my choice because they supposedly did the dirty mud stuff.
Fail. Apparently you need a doctor’s note.
Still a good time, though. Lonely Planet describes it like this:
“The waters of the Lukács Baths are meant to cure just about everything — from spinal deformation and vertebral dislocation to calcium deficiency. Vibe: For serious spa fans only”
Right?
So as serious spa fans, we hoofed it another three miles to the Szechenyi Baths, which are (say this in your breathiest, most reverential voice) sooooooo mint. We passed this cool stuff on the way and then soaked for hours, nailing it so hard with the detox that we celebrated with retox at the local pub.
This did not go over quite as well as it should have: I vaguely remember a strenuous, grunting tug of war with the castle hook-and-eye locks which were meant to keep medieval doors fastened firmly to the floor (we each had one hook in both hands and were firmly braced with our fingers wrestling determinedly near the ground, feet braced widely for maximum strength, and thigh muscles taut and aquiver) then bolting when we heard an ominous screech and then-whoops- found a doorbell. Regardless, we tumbled happily into our clawfoot beds and satisfied, slurred it a night.
Budapest, I say to you: cheers!
Travels 