Margit Island (Margaret Island) is located between Buda and Pest — the main parts that make up the city. It’s called that because Margaret’s father, King Béla IV, gave away his last (the 9th child), unneeded daughter to the nuns. Shoved her into a convent straight from infancy. He did it to butter up the Lord, begging Him to spare them from the Mongol invasion. The Hungarians drove these guys out, and the king quickly changed his mind. Too late! By that time the daughter had completely lost her mind and decided to dedicate her life to religion. And not just casually, but hardcore: she wore a hairshirt and a belt for the mortification of the flesh. From such an unhealthy lifestyle, she ended up dying at 28. On the bright side, she’s revered as a saint, and see, they named the island in her honor. A questionable bonus.
We chilled in a cafe, where we learned about the existence of a national dish called lángos (langosh?). It's something like a pizza, only the dough is deep-fried in oil. They didn't used to make it this way, but now it's the most popular option. The toppings can be highly varied, but the classic is sour cream + garlic or cheese. For some of us the lángos hit the spot, for others not so much, but nobody experienced the wild ecstasy that travel bloggers do.
After the grub we hoofed it further across the island. We spaced out staring at the musical fountain, the animals, the flower beds, and the massive trees, which were all still green. Lovely. Along the edges of the island there are promenades, and at the ends — two bridges. A nice road runs right through the island with a bus line, so it’s easy to get to. We saw groups of trendy road cyclists there. It's tough living in the city; there are barely any places to train.
We walked around until dark and found out it was impossible to call a cab — they were busy the whole time. Makes sense with such low prices. We caught a bus back to our neighborhood. It’s packed with restaurants, bars, casinos, strip clubs, karaoke joints, fake drug dealers (scammers), and hookah lounges. The weekend partying goes on until five in the morning and beyond. We were trying to actually sleep at night instead of partying, so we had a rough time. Even though my room had double-pane windows and I had earplugs in my ears, I could still feel the bass from the disco, and at times even the hollering and noise from the party animals. Not everyone was so lucky — the living room-studio only has single-pane windows, and my tsvargi really suffered from the noise.
Still, you could feel that life was bubbling, pretty positive vibes.
