January 1st 2008

Spending New Year’s Eve in Budapest seemed like a great idea, and would have been, if I was prepared. My winter clothes consisted of nothing more that a coat and gloves.

When I arrived in show-covered Budapest with aerated trainers on my feet I could see this was a problem. Ever the cheap skate, I decided to push on with the running shoes. After all, it’s just a few days of snow.

On the evening of New Year’s Eve there was many street parties for me and my friend, Nick, to enjoy. I would just keep warm with the mulled wine. That’s how I preferred to stay warm at home. I don’t mean wine, I mean a hot drink. A big cup of tea would warm me from the inside out. My central heating, I called it. I wouldn’t need to pay for heating when I had a kettle and a thick jumper to wear. If any guests complained about the cold I’d give them ‘the guest jumper’.

Looking back, getting drunk on hot booze was not the safest way to stay to warm. Instead of an organised firework display, Budapest had street vendors selling fireworks to anyone. Between mulled wine stands I’d pass by people shoving firework rockets in between the street’s cobbled stones and light them up. I’d try to keep my distance, I avoided the teens with the rockets and headed towards a group of people huddled up and talking. When I got close they group ran leaving behind a firework with a lit fuse. Six feet away from an explosive taking off, I thought about how I’d forgotten to get travel insurance.

On New Year’s Day Nick and I went out to explore the city in four inches of snow at -4 C weather.  My silly trainers with their dynamic air wholes and all that sport science did not serve me at all. My feet were wet and ice-cold. It was too much. Just to keep warm we kept returning to the hostel for ten minutes of warmth before heading back out to the tourist sites. Each time seeing four American girls watching the same rolling news on CNN all day.

The hostel had put out some pork pastries for the guests to eat as eating pork on New Year’s Day is considered good luck. After munching more than my fair share I had an idea; I could stick my shoes in the tumble dryer and in twenty minutes I’d have toasty feet.

I threw the shoes into the hostel’s combo washer-dryer turned the dial to the dry symbol, pressed start, and the drum span. Genius.

As it came to the end of the cycle there was a click noise and everything was still. I tried to open the circular glass door but it wouldn’t release. Then the drum filled with water. The cycle started from the beginning. My shoes were now the wettest they’d ever been.

I tried turning the dial back to dry, but at the end of the cycle it repeated again. At this point I realised it wasn’t a washer-dryer at all. It was a washer and I’d put my shoes to spin. I tried turning it off, I tried unplugging it, but it remained locked. Every time I attempted to skip the cycle it would repeat a new cycle each time.

I waited until right after the click, the point when the cycle was finished to unplug the machine. It was still locked. I pulled at the plastic handle as hard as I could. The thing snapped off and pinged from wall to wall.

“Um, I don’t know what to do.” said Nick, who’d been watching the whole time. I sent Nick out to buy new shoes but all the shops were closed for the holiday.

After deciding my shoes would be released if I let the full cycle happen I sat and read for an hour. Hoping the owner didn’t come by and notice his broken washer. I wondered if the American girls, who probably heard me shouting and swearing at the machine, would tell on me. Then the cycle ended, the washer beeped, and my shoes were free.

My stomach was ready for dinner but any restaurant was a good 15 minute walk in the cold and snow. My feet wouldn’t survive in that. I remembered my dad telling me when he was a child and his shoe’s had wholes he would use plastic bags between two socks to keep his feet dry. The outer pair would get soaked, but the inner pair stayed dry thanks to the plastic.

I looked around for two plastic bags and went to work making my water-proof socks. Me and Nick walked across the bridge to the main street of restaurants with my feet cozy. Once we entered the restaurant I noticed each step I made created a rustle. A loud rustle. I couldn’t hear it outside as the snow and traffic made enough noise to cover.

Headed to the restaurant’s bathroom I’d get strange looks. If I were to see and hear this I would assume the man had plastic underwear and was incontinent. So I assume that’s what others thought. I wanted to point out I was headed to the bathroom, therefore I had urinary control. However, returning to my table was still a walk of shame.

The next morning with my shoes still wet and on a coach to Vienna, I held my shoes against a tiny radiator grill beneath the window seat. By the end of the four-hour drive the gentle warm air had dried my shoes. Although this was inconvenient I did get extra room as no one wanted to sit next to the guy with no shoes. Not even Nick.