So having left the balkans and into Hungary and the Secheng region where border controls are no more, I reflected upon the native people I'd spoken to, those that were part of the former Yugoslavia and had witnessed the wars. The feeling I got was of passion and a belief that the way things were in the former Yuogslavia were of a better time.
Things weren't better now, the fractions still there, but the fighting had now stopped. With the war criminal Mladic and his atrosities going through the relevant channels, there were occasional protest and marches in Sarajevo, afterall it was 8,000 Bosnian men and boys he callously ordered genocide upon whilst England was preparing to host Euro 96. Why did this go on? Had we not learnt from previous evil dictators? With the crap in Syria going on, why are, the Democratic and very self righteous West, so slow to react? Why were things so bad to some, that the decades of unrest that follow were fought so violently for? Leaving the Balkans had left me with a feeling of happiness in the courageous and welcoming people I'd met, but sad that nothing was done to help the majority who actually didn't want massive change...
Into Hungary and Budapest our journey laid us upon 'Grandio Party Hostel'. I've been to several good hostels who party hard, but this was something else. The state of the place was terrible, the staff so hungover and decrepid it took an age to book in.
Once done, we embarked on a massive walking tour of Budapest, a lovely city that straddels the Danube, one side Buda, the other, Pest. We traversed both sides, crossing the gorgeous Chain bridge to get great views of the Parliament buildings and St. Stephen's Basilica, which we'd earlier climbed the heavy 308 steps to the top.
We carried on walking, but stopping for Goulash, when a military chopper came zooming over the Danube, low and fast performing some pretty sweet manouvers. We'd been told Die Hard 5 was being filmed in the city, and the several repeat flights, in conjunction with a support chopper swooping but always focusing on the military chopper, led me to guess this was more footage for Die Hard...
That night we went out on a bar crawl organised by the Hostel, it was OK, until Hutch and I got split and I was left on my own. I got back to the Hostel and had a beer or two, then hit the hay. Hutch, apparently, wasn't far behind me after his night managed to collide back with the crawl.
Next morning we got ready for the next and final stop on the Danube tour, to Bratislava, a casual 2 hour 40 minute journey. After some frantic rushing to get tickets, we cruised into Bratislava late. A small and quaint city with classically architechture, we did the main sights within a couple of hours, however the main sight for two fellows, was the quality of the female species.
Now, throughout the tour, there have been some lovely ladies, but the Slovaks are a different class. Tall, mainly brunette and with all the correct curves in the right places, these ladies were the highest quality seen so far!
The next stop was to the first host city, Wroclaw (pronounced 'vrats-whaf', don't ask!) The train journey took us through the Czech Republic, and we weren't supposed to stay long. However, the Czechs were in Wroclaw for the first day, and panic ensued in the train station with hundreds of people and our grip on Czech not great. We missed our connection, and ended up late into Wroclaw. We missed the first half of the Poland Greece game, the one notable bonus, seeing how empty the streets were as we made our way to the hostel as Poland played out a draw. We downed tools and headed to the fanzone, and started a few beers, seeing out the first game, preparing for Czech vs. Russia.
The atmosphere in the fanzone was tepid; the majority of fans were Czech and those boys took a thumping. We saw few Russia fans. Until we hit the hostel. We were essentially staying in mini Moskva! Rauchus Russians downing vodka like it was water was an enjoyable sight, their steely nature in conversation whetted my passion for Russia, I pushed on for conversation, eventually earning swigs of Vodka from the victourious Russians.
Upon going to bed, our room mate was in... a giant 6'10 Ukrainian, named Sas, who followed the motherland as his mother was Russian. His English poor, but his French much better. We conversed briefly in French, before all deciding enough was enough and bed beckoned. The still partying victorious vodka drinking Russians were still audiable, but the 12 hour journey and subsequent grog meant I was out for the count.
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