Song and Dance

Once upon a time. Not so long ago.

Favorite moment of the first week back in Budapest:
A Saturday evening of make-shift fun.

Tommy used to work on the docks.

Janos was kind enough to host us at his favorite neighborhood bar, The Squirrel, if we translate away. An outdoor café spilled out of the wood-panelled interior, complete with a native group of young Hungarians who were kind enough to bring a guitar and sentimental enough to play Wonderwall. Liz would have made fun of me for faux British accents if she had been there. But as our conversation turned rowdier – as it has known to do – Janos ordered us on, lest we ruin his reputation with the help and regulars.

Union’s been on strike, he’s down on his luck.

A missed metro, the last of the night, left us wandering down a street we’d never wandered before, and likely will never wander again. Block after block of search for elusive night bus stops created inspiration or desperation, or some combination of the two. I was adamant that we take advantage of the first oasis of sorts that we stumbled upon. A sketchy karaoke bar.

It’s tough, so tough.

We ordered beers as two Hungarians battled their ways, surprisingly well, through Barbie Girl. When they reverted back to Hungarian favorites, I was nominated to kickstart the English.

Gina works the diner all day.

Harpswell handed the balding man behind the kareoke stand a request, a minute later he called Jeremos up to the front of the bar. that's when Bon Jovi's rhythm started to pulsate.

Working for her man, she brings home her pay for love.

I burst into song as Laura burst into dance. We were rockstars.

She says w'eve got to hold on to what we've got
cause it doesnt make a difference
If we make it or not
Weve got each other and thats a lot
For love - we'll give it a shot

Most impressed? The Hungarian lady who had sang Barbie Girl. She clapped wildly. She was digging me. By the end of the song, but voice was cracking and hoarse, but I managed a koszonom szepan as I handed the mic back. Walking back through smiles and high fives, the Barbie-singer jumped me. She thrust a new request sheet in my hand. A translator explained that she wanted to sing a duet with me. I didn't know the song written on the top, but i scribbled Jeremos down anyway.

Whooah, were half way there
Livin' on a prayer

But as I finished writing, scrawling myself into a contract of collaboration, she smiled. A bit of a smirk. Then the translator-du-jour told me why.

"She wants you to put your telephone nymber next to your name."

Take my hand and well make it - I swear
Livin' on a prayer...