Roofs have clear purpose; they offer shelter against the atmospheric elements. This much we know, so when unusual residents are revealed topside, they are noteworthy. Ornaments are common to those partaking of certain architectural styles. Here in Budapest, there are a good number of buildings flashing colorful tiled peaks in the Moorish influence. Still others favor gargoyles typical of the Gothic style. So imagine my enjoyment to be among these decorative elements. My opportunity to see the evening world from above came when I went to a prestigious rooftop nightclub.
My friend Patrick led the way to the unassuming block of street on the Pest side. It was beyond the area where most of the nightlife was concentrated, but he was confident of the address. It was neither terribly early, nor overly late at night, and the nightcrawlers and Florence Nightingales of the world had yet to emerge. Most of the businesses had long ago closed their doors, swept away the day’s crumbs, and taken out a bedtime story. We took this closedness as an omen of misinformation and prepared to accept that we were lost in a foreign city. Thus, we were inordinately glad when we noticed two street vendors burning the midnight grease. The savory perfumes effervesced with tobacco and false hopes like a landing strip guiding a bumblebee to a florist’s clearance sale. Two doors down, the presence of a security detail outside an apparently innocuous threshold announced our arrival. Heavy doors opened on a winding staircase tagged by the multitudes that had previously made the ascent. The copious signatures practically hid the banal paint beneath. Moving higher, the volume became increasingly audible and palpable. Half a baker’s dozen stories up, the flight opened on a dance floor. One more climb, and we found ourselves outlooking over the sleeping city from the rooftop bar. As we had approached, I had been unable to see any figures on top of the building, so I knew those who walked the streets below me were unable to perceive my vantage point.
As I admired the starry zenith blanketing everything, the group assembled empty chairs and empty tables. We certainly lucked out with weather; the evening was cool without being cold or trendy and dry without being desiccating or monotonous. We toasted our good luck and the joy of being alive. Patrick thrives on the dance floor, so he soon insisted we adjourn to the floor below. The night appeared to be off to a slow start, but our group changed that by injecting the smoky room with energy and our killer steps. This may not be completely honest, but there is no denying that within a few minutes of our arrival, the room became significantly more congested with reveling of all types. Correlation or causation, I leave the decision up to you, kindly reader. The DJ was a reggae enthusiast fellow with something of a Jamaican accent. This was rather out of place among the Magyar patrons, but we were glad to encounter another English speaker. Much of the music was Hungarian funk - I kid you not. Still, some American top 40’s from the late nineties snuck into the setlist. It felt good to cut loose and I found it amusingly interesting to observe a new cross section of Hungarian anthropology usually not seen by the casual tourist. When we finally left, I brought the smoky fragrance and a new collection of roofside memories along with me. Until next time, keep your eyes up, dear friend.
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