Ferfy Ferfi

My wallet bulged with vacation cellulite.  Smudged receipts, unusable currency, ripped tickets from subways, planes, trains (speedy and milk), taxis (water and land), buses, catamarans, ferries, and trams.

In our last hotel room of the trip, I performed a little liposuction on my wallet and wondered if maybe I’d overplanned.

No matter.  Today was a day to relax.  A vacation from the vacation.

My trusty guide to Eastern Europe (“Experience the culture like a local!” says the disingenous and smug little cover) had a lot to say about the wonders of Hungarian baths.  I believe the phrases “best experience in Budapest” and “restorative” both appeared.  Enough for me. 

It was also what Alvin zeroed in on immediately when I allowed him to look at the guidebook for a few minutes.  Did I overplan?  Is this what happens after you live in Germany for two years?

So we went.  I didn’t learn a lot of Hungarian during our short stay in Budapest, but I did learn that you can end a phone call with the word “hello” and I learned the word “ferfi.”  Ferfi means “male,” or “men,” or “man,” or something similarly useful that can help you avoid spa situations where you half-open a door and hear a sudden bullet “no-no-no-no-no.”

I also learned that I could live without the roast beef and lobster feelings of saunas and steam rooms, but I could soak indefinitely in water that is one degree below body temperature.  All the ripped ticket tensions went away. 

Ah, vacation.  

Ferfi, by the way, is also a good word to describe the way your hands look after spending four hours in the baths.