The Disco

After staying up until 3, 4, or 5 AM for eight nights straight can wear down even the most robust traveler, but not me. Back home, my friends are hard-pressed to get me to stay out past midnight, but here in Budapest, I have discovered renewed energy, a longing to encounter adventures known to me only in novels or travel guides. Friday night, my last in Budapest, had to deliver. On the weekends, the discos are open, offering something a little different than the bars to which I had been visiting. Curious to do some people-watching and maybe even some dancing, I left the hotel at midnight and wandered about 1km down one of the side streets to the disco called Alterego. Now, maybe it's a cliche to name a gay disco alter ego, but I must admit, the place certainly worked some voodoo on me.

Arriving alone to any venue can cause fear and trepidation. Arriving alone to a gay venue absolutely increases these feelings, especially when most patrons show up in groups, and have already done a bit of pre-partying. Nonetheless, determined I was and found the spot easily. Surprised to find the place modern, clean, and friendly, I walked directly into the foyer. The entry is above ground - this is where they take the cover charge. A couple of German bear types preceeded me into the foyer. These guys were anything but attractive. While I stood behind them, I heard the doorman (well, doorboy) ask them for 3000 Ft. (about 18 USD). I thought that was a tad too steep myself, but was willing to pay. When my turn arrived, the cute kid smiled at me (probably because I was wearing a trendy, tight t-shirt) and only asked me for 1000 Ft. When my face gave away my surprise, he simply winked at me and took my money.

Down the stairs and into another basement I went. Below, again I was surprised to find the place quite nicely decorated and nothing like the bars I had seen thus far (above ground or otherwise). There were about 6 distinct sections to the basement - a dancefloor and stage area, a foyer room opposite the restrooms, two main long-bar type areas, and a couple of lounging spots. I did the customary lap around the place to get the lay of the land before I settled in the room where seats had been set-up in front of a small stage. A go-go boy danced extremely well to Madonna (who else, right) and the crowd watched and cheered him with praise. By American standards, this guy danced much better, but his overall appearance did not quite match the kind of beauty I routinely see in LA. Lights, smoke, and general commotion signaled a change in the show. The dancer disappered and an ABBA song screamed from the speakers. It was drag time in the disco now. Patrons poured into this section of the bar and brightly colored female impersonators, aka drag queeens danced and lip-synced their way through about four more ABBA songs before they disappeared. Quickly, the chairs disappeared and the place turned into a dance floor of about twenty feet by forty feet.

After doing a few more laps and feeling disappointed that everyone I attempted to talk to either ignored me completely or said "no English" and turned away to re-join conversation with friends, I found myself back at the dance floor. I had a decision to make - dance alone and just make the best of it, or leave and get a good night's rest before my journey to Prague (did I mention the blisters on my feet yet?). At 41, the sensible thing would have been to head home for some rest, but I threw conservative, logical assessment aside, and headed onto the dance floor. Now, when I say disco, I mean disco. They played old school American disco, and to my surprise (thanks mama for playing those songs so much while I was growing up in Indiana) I knew most of them and sang along while dancing among complete Hungarian strangers. After a few songs, I peeled off my shirt (another surprise) and continued to move. Back home, the sight of a shirtless man dancing at a disco or club would certainly not be the shocker that it was to these people. Too late, I realized that I was the only one without my shirt, except the go-go boy. At least I finally generated some attention, right? I must confess that I enjoyed the dancing much more than I probably should have. All the songs were English and I eagerly belted them out in American defiance to their disapproving stares over my shirtlessness.

Around 2:30 AM, tired and sweaty, not to mention my nose nearly clogged from smoke inhalation (forgot how cigarette smoke absolutely penetrates everything in a bar where smoking is still allowed inside - been a while since I experienced that), I called it quits and departed. Although I did not really meet anyone or have any real conversations at Alterego, I did, in fact, experience a different side of myself. That side of me that rarely escapes any longer - the one that throws caution to the proverbial wind. I have not danced for over two hours straight in over a decade. Mostly, I think, I have stopped dancing because it typically happens late at night and goes until all hours of the morning, causing me to compeletely waste the next day trying to recover. But, I forgot how liberating the experience can be for the soul and maybe that so-called wasted day is not really wasted? Dancing again after all these years reminded me that I am not enjoying myself enough in this life. I forgot how time passes and how much I feel, laugh, and recall from previous memories as I move to the music. Somewhere along the way, I got too serious for my own good. Dancing seemed a frivolous endeavor once I grew past 30. I am going to dance more.