Hongdae is just north of the river in central Seoul, and recently it’s overtaken its steroid-pumped comrade Gangnam to become the city’s major hive of electric creativity and night-time activity for locals and tourists.

Hongdae has recently overtaken its steroid-pumped comrade Gangnam to become the city’s major hive of electric creativity and night-time activity…

By day it’s a concoction of trend-conscious fashion stores selling variations of the same 90s cuts to a generation of image-obsessed Korean youth, endless street food stalls vending sauced and battered chicken, and the almost intimidatingly trendy rummaging through vintage basements. And when they’re not buying clothes or nibbling at deep fried tit-bits on sticks, these same youthful clientele are drinking coffee by the bucket load.

Hongdae is a start late finish late kind of neighbourhood. Chaotic mornings do not exist here; shops aren’t open until gone midday and don’t close until after midnight, so naturally everything is shifted into the night. Expect to see locals crammed into the hundreds of cafés sipping on an obscurely flavoured latte, or bustling around the streets with a takeaway cup in hand well into the twilight hours.

“We don’t really do bars in Hongdae, its cafes and food and then clubs,” a local told me.

What you shouldn’t expect in Hongdae is bars apparently: “we don’t really do bars in Hongdae, its cafes and food and then clubs,” a local told me after I inquired about their favourite haunts. Unsure of where our blurry night might start, never mind end, I followed what little know-how I had gleamed so far… to a graffiti-covered kids playground in the centre of Hongdae.

Pre-drinking in a Playground

A kids’ playground sounds like an unusual place to kick off your night out, but as we approached the dodgy looking park there were hoards of people standing around drinking the fluorescent green bottles of Soju – the Korean pre-drink of choice, rigs were set up and impromptu performances and rap battles were gearing everyone up for their Saturday night. Clearly this area was all about the social, so we followed suit and bought a huge bottle of CASS Korean beer and two small Sojus, paying homage to our younger days when a bottle of cider in the park was the only place you could actually drink.

…as we approached the dodgy looking park there were hoards of people standing around drinking the fluorescent green bottles of Soju… and impromptu performances and rap battles were gearing everyone up for their Saturday night.

As more people dropped by the park to kick start their night, we struggled to place the jumble of attendees. It seemed that we had tapped in on a demographic mash-up, including the favourites of the night; born and bread artists from Seoul JayC and R2, “…like star wars you know R2 D2!” Some things are universal despite a language barrier.

Once the alfresco beers were laid to rest, we decided to check out another type of live music performance popular in Korea – jazz.

Jazzing Up The Night

We found the dimly lit Club Evans up three flight of suspect stairs, oozing with booze fumes just a few streets down from the main drag of clubs. It was rammed and dark in that saloon style that jazz clubs often are, and there was a range of drinkers on display. The suited and booted, the young and trendy craft beer in hand, and the seasoned jazzers down the front at the small round tables. It was a hypnotic atmosphere of impressive riffs and shouts and woops from the audience. It was a top find but so far a world away from the Korean night out we had expected. Still the night was young. It was only 2am.

Onto the next… we chatted with a young Korean couple sat next to us, they recommended Bar 다. So from one dingy hide-away to another…

Secret Seoul

They had told us to walk down Hongdae Street and look for a dodgy staircase next to a chicken stand, easier said than done in between the stalls and night-time crowds, or maybe the extra bottle of Soju had something to do with it. We found it eventually, clambered up the white rickety stairs into an atmosphere that was so far removed from the neon-lit chaos outside we stayed for several – also thanks to the extensive selection of beers and whiskey. There’s a smoking balcony (more like a chopped in half fire escape, also a little rickety probably not for the nervous type) overlooking the madness of the shopping streets below. As much as the locals go crazy for a club crawl it was clear that hidden away spots like Bar 다 were for the slightly less outrageous – yet incredibly boozy – side to Hongdae.

If you’re after something different for the final venue of the night, you do have choices in Hongdae. Endless K-pop banger clubs like NB1 or NB2 are a favourite with the locals and tourists alike, hip-hop and R&B basement joints seemed a popular one too. If all else fails you can look around and see the Max Creamy Beer signs jutting out of restaurant walls, they serve pints and snacks well into the AM. Koreans love food, all day, all night.

But really you end where you begin in Hongdae. It’s gone 5am and the Koreans show absolutely no sign of slowing down, perhaps now we understand why they drink so much coffee. An attempt to balance out the their love for late nights and neat spirits? On a way home we detoured through the area for a last-leg people watch.

Perhaps the reason why they don’t do mornings is because they get absolutely legless, or “Koreeean drunk!!” as one of the wobbly ladies we were chatting to exclaimed.

Slightly blurry ourselves we wandered back through the streets, still full of soju-downers tripping over themselves onto the next stop. Perhaps the reason why they don’t do mornings is because they get absolutely legless, or “Koreeean drunk!!” as one of the wobbly ladies we were chatting to exclaimed. Hongdae is vibrant, full of drunk students yes but equally full of surprise spots to drink your night away, and it is 100% the place to go if you want a taste of alternative Korean nightlife – and a hangover.

The next day around 11am we headed to the bakery nursing a whiskey-induced headache… for coffee of course. There were cohorts of giggling drinkers stumbling about the morning-after-the-night-before streets, they definitely hadn’t made it to bed just yet.

Enjoyed this? Then check out what happened when Urban Travel Blog partied hard in Dubai, experienced the alternative side of Ljubljana and tried to keep pace with the Madrilenos in Spain. All our nightlife adventures here.

About Olivia Toye

Olivia is a London-based trainee journalist, currently spending a year in Hong Kong. A lover of curious people and obscure destinations, she is a serial people watcher, coffee and wine drinker. As well as travel she also writes on social issues.

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When our ever-smiling guide Elza, of Budapest Underguide, told us that the next bar we were heading to only opened last month, we felt privileged to be experiencing a new venture while it was still hot. But when she said the same for every venue she took us to, it quickly became clear that either a) she was a very good liar or that b) the Budapest nightlife scene was even more vibrant than we had imagined. During two separate visits to the Hungarian capital this year, I had plenty of opportunity to sample the city’s new wave of roof-top bars, which are currently providing stiff competition to the city’s already legendary ruin pubs as the hippest venues to be drinking in right now.

Here are my top five venues that are – quite literally – raising the bar in Budapest:

Gozsdu Sky Terrace

Gozsdu courtyard bristles with activity, both during the day at the Bazaar market held on a Sunday, and at night where a plethora of bars and restaurants vie for your attention. Hidden down a side alley is an elevator up to the Sky Terrace. The crowd is quite hip (although skinny jeans optional) with a mix of live music and sultry house beats creating a buzzing atmosphere. The Sky Terrace has an excellent bar, serving both local and foreign beers on tap, along with wood-fired pizza slices that were good enough even for my Italian companion. Best for… hitting the town with old friends, and meeting new ones.

360 bar

As the name suggests there are full circle views available at the 360 bar. This is the most high-end rooftop bar in Budapest, with an expansive wooden-decked terrace combined with comfy chairs and sofas. It gives particularly good views of the basilica lit up at night, and when the midnight chill comes you can warm up with a few shots of palinka and blankets provided by the bar staff. Best for… impressing friends or a date with a sky-high Aperol mojito.

Design Terminal

The Design Terminal is an ode to creative entrepreneurism first, with a rooftop bar thrown in for good measure. The building was converted from the former main bus terminal and retains its functional geometric features. It is situated just off Erzsébet Square, with a host of fashion and cultural events put on throughout the year. The terrace snakes all the way around the roof, with an outdoor cocktail bar overlooking the hustle and bustle below. Best for… feeling part of the Budapest creative industry scene.

Corvinteto

Since its opening in 2007 the rooftop bar at Corvinteto has quickly established itself as a local student institution. Situated just off Blaha Lujza square the open air terrace showcases classic movies throughout the summer, with a night club below keeping things going until the sun comes up. Best for… discussing movies with hip young locals.

Fisherman’s Bastion

Situated on the Buda side of the river within the turret of one of the Castle’s towers, Fisherman’s bastion is a timeless classic. The interior of the bar is just the original brickwork, with a large balcony giving views across the whole of the city. Whilst in peak season there can be a lot of tourists, it still makes for a spectacularly romantic setting. Best for… a glass of champagne and “popping the question”.

Ben travelled to the Hungarian capital to experience the Budapest Essentials festival, a trip supported and organised by the Hungarian Tourist Board and Budapest Underguide. For more visitor info on the city check out these stories, plus our weekend guide.

About Ben Rhodes

Bon vivant and amateur trumpet player, Ben likes to see as much of the world as possible, when he’s not busy saving it from behind his desk in London. Read more about Ben.

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If you have already travelled to the Hungarian capital, you will likely agree with my fellow Urban Travel Blogger Stuart Wadsworth that “Budapest is a city which demands your attention“, thanks to its delicious mix of old world elegance and rough-edged contemporary culture. Combine these year-round staple attractions with a heavy dose of eclectic DJs and bands, and shake vigorously with deals at the best pubs, cafés and restaurants in town, and you’ll be close to imagining the cocktail of experiences that make up the Budapest Essentials festival.

Budapest Essentials is an epic four day fiesta that takes place across the city (mainly on the “Pest” rather than “Buda” side of the river) in early June each year. You buy a wristband that gives you access to gigs, day tours, entry to the famous baths, and discounts at local bars and restaurants. Unlike many city festivals there is no ring-fenced areas where events are held, rather it happens throughout the city itself, encouraging you to take advantage of the vast array of day and night-time activities at your own pace. One local bar manager taking part in the event described the festival as “co-opetition”; cooperation and competition by small Budapest businesses that allows them to be greater than the sum of their parts for one weekend: for the benefit of themselves, the city and the festival goers.

Below are some of the personal highlights I experienced during the Essentials festival 2014, many of which in fact are on offer any time of the year. (For even more info, the festival’s official website has a mega montage video of what went down in twenty fourteen, and is of course also the best place to check out what will be happening in 2015 and subsequent years).

Exploring the City

An ever-increasing phenomenon in Budapest is worn-out architectural gems being reclaimed by the youthful city population, rather than being left to rot away unloved. The most obvious example is the trend for ruin pubs, which has been going on for well over a decade now, but there are also even more creative uses. For example Paloma has transformed the courtyard and first floor of Wagner house into a centre of contemporary arts and craft, where you can buy everything from handmade leather belts to vintage wedding planning or pop-art cushions, and was one of my favourite spots for a leisurely browse.

A more run-down, anarchic, creative commune centre is Muszi – you will have to find the decrepit door on Blaha Lujza, and make your way upstairs to the rag-doll combination of café, theatre, fusbol and even barbers! Budapest has also pioneered a new trend for “Escape Games” with the city’s ramshackle buildings an ideal location for spending the most thrilling hour of your life (full article coming soon on Urban Travel Blog… subscribe if you don’t want to miss it!).

Gastronomic Gratification

I found that the Jewish Quarter’s ramshackle streets, brimming with cafes and restaurants, was a great place to start a culinary expedition. Macesz Huszar offers a trip back in time to a 1950s Jewish grandma’s front room, serving up a plethora of traditional bean and stew dishes (although I’m not sure grandma would have served the gherkin and eggs pictured below in such a phallic manner!).

The Hungarian wines on offer at Innio are well worth trying, where the tasting menu expertly matches local Rieslings, Chardonnays and Sauternes with the savoury dishes. If you are down near the Danube try Kiosk for modern European food served in a vast bare-bricked warehouse with seating overlooking the river, or munch on some world-renowned gateaux at Gerbeaud patisserie.

Budapest is renowned for its ruin “garden” pubs (kerts), many of which have entertained more than one Urban Travel Blogger in the past. Since the editor penned this feature article on the ruin bars there have been a couple of developments to the scene. Just opened in 2014 is Farm, where the owner Jack has created a more refined, less “ruined”, kert that operates a sustainable ethos – all of the tasty tapas are sourced from local, organic ingredients and there is even a farmers’ market in the courtyard on Sunday mornings. The kerts have also branched out from being just pubs to nightclubs too, with Otkert pumping out crowdpleasers in its courtyard until the wee hours. Szimpla, the original and largest ruin pubs, is still a must-see for pub aficionados, as it has not lost any of its decrepit nook-and-cranny charm, even if it has now been discovered by stag parties as well as locals.

Music & Nightlife

Budapest Essentials really comes to life at night, with a smorgasbord of gigs and DJ sets dotted around the city. You are given a map as well as the website to help you plan your nights and squeeze in as much as possible. Below is a selection from UTB’s Saturday night, and it’s also worth checking out our post on the Top Five Rooftop Bars in Budapest (coming soon!).

Our Saturday evening started in the outdoor ampthitheatre at Aquarium nightclub, where our vivacious guide Dora tipped us off about a secret gig by the teenage troubadour George Ezra. Gorgeous George is most famous for his number 1 hit “Budapest” which he performed to a rapturous reception to his adoring fans, many of whom had joined him on an epic bus tour from the UK to Budapest (a city he admitted he had not been to despite the name of his chart topping song!). Not quite Frank Sinatra performing New York New York in Times Square, but a special moment all the same.

After George’s gentle crooning it was time to head somewhere a bit more upbeat, so we hopped onto the tram to the imposing Grand Central Market Hall. By day it is the largest indoor market in Budapest, but this night was transformed into the stage of an earth-shaking dubstep DJ set from the Gorillaz. Some canny market stalls were still open, selling over-sized vegetables as makeshift glo-sticks to the pumped up crowd.

Having moshed until our bones could take no more we met our guides at Hello Baby, where the club has a great outdoor yard that transforms into a latin-infused dancefloor after a few rounds of Hungary’s palinka (fruit brandy). And finally back to Aquarium, where the night was rounded off by a pumping set by 2ManyDJ’s. By this time there was only myself and a 50-year-old German doctor in philosophy left standing from our party, proof that age is no barrier to letting your hair down (even if you are both more follically challenged than your younger days…)

The next morning reminded me that being young isn’t all in the mind, as the body has to deal with the consequences of a youthful spirit. Fortunately two things brought me back to life: firstly the incomparable buffet breakfast served at the Nemzeti Hotel; and secondly the life-giving waters of Szechenyi Baths, which easily warrant the 10/10 rating awarded in our special feature on Budapest’s most famous baths.

All-in-all, if you are looking to discover one of the most dynamic cities in the world, combined with the excitement of a festival, minus the camping, then put Budapest Essentials in your diary for 2015.

Urban Travel Blog’s trip was kindly organised by the Hungarian Tourist Board in partnership with Budapest Underguide.

About Ben Rhodes

Bon vivant and amateur trumpet player, Ben likes to see as much of the world as possible, when he’s not busy saving it from behind his desk in London. Read more about Ben.

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What tastes of fire and cherry, is poured ready-mixed from a recycled plastic bottle and – according to Slovenian bar staff at least – is good for you? The answer is “Bear’s Blood”, and you can buy it in Yalla Yalla bar in the autonomous social centre of Metelkova in Ljubljana.

My fellow initiate in this alcoholic rite of passage is actually a local girl, whose real name shall remain unknown, but for the purpose of this article I will call Eva. Despite being as Slovenian as a Preseren fig praline, Eva is unimpressed.

“It’s disgusting, I can’t drink it,” she complains.

Maybe it’s a good thing. I’ve already succeeded in getting Eva quite drunk – not for any nefarious purpose you understand, but because each drink she has leads to a more and more telling confession of her youthful indiscretions, many of which took place right here in Metelkova. So far she has divulged the unfortunate time she stepped ankle-deep into a puddle of piss and then had to take a taxi home, recounted a separate occasion when she herself peed all over her favourite scarf, reminisced on the romantic night when she was fondled in the Metelkova tree house (which she later denies!), and happily recalled how she regularly used to skip school to smoke weed, back in the day.

I’ve already succeeded in getting Eva quite drunk…. because each drink she has leads to a more and more telling confession of her youthful indiscretions

As you can no doubt tell, Eva is fantastic company… but maybe it’s time I stopped force feeding her the booze. After all, someone might end up publishing all these stories! I take the half-filled shot glass from her hand, down the remains and feel my throat burning once more. Should get rid of that cold at least.

The truth is that, not only Eva, but almost anyone in Ljubljana between the ages of 20 and 40 has some similarly themed stories about Metelkova, a former military barracks that was squatted by artists in the mid 90s and then went on to become the city’s most important cultural centre, and a champion of contemporary arts, intellectual freedom and gay rights. This complex of buildings and open space is now considered an autonomous zone, in the manner of Copehagen’s Christiania or Vilnius’ Uzupis, and has been the centre of the city’s nightlife for nearly 20 years. So naturally the tales of mischief and mayhem that orbit it are nearly as numerous as the stars in the night sky over Slovenia.

This complex of buildings and open space is now considered an autonomous zone… and has been the centre of the city’s nightlife for nearly 20 years.

Whilst my memory of the zone’s exact layout is a bit hazy, Metelkova is a maybe the size of a football field, and consists of a number of barrack buildings and the open spaces in between them. Each former barrack is covered floor to gable with graffiti, which ranges from grotesque sculptures of mutant babies screeching at the sky, to rather beautiful trencadis-style wall decorations made of motifed tiles and a surprising amount of crockery. There’s also plenty of more standard “street” style graffiti, various random sculptures and – during my visit – a huge canvas banner supporting the Brazilian people against the footballing dictatorship of FIFA. On the ground floor of virtually every one of these buildings is a bar or club, whilst in the open spaces are Eva’s favourite tree house, some benches, and a sizeable amount of parked cars – including a number of camper vans, from which crusty-haired travellers and their dogs appear and disappear.

It’s a warm summer’s night tonight, so the majority of people are standing outside, either drinking beers bought from the bars, or in most cases, simply sipping from their own supply of cheap supermarket booze. I decide it’s time for another Slovenian lager and pop back into Yalla Yalla where three cans of Lasko (yes, I said “cans”!) are served to me by dreadlocked bar staff for the mammoth total of €5.40. We crack them open and join the rest of The Travel Mob, who are doing likewise, on some well-worn benches round the corner. There’s a waft of marijuana coming from a group of kids in the corner, a gangly black guy with a Coolio haircut is dancing wide-eyed all by himself, and a half-hearted local hen party are trying to have fun with a male blow up doll, but are too drunk and tired and soon give up and decide to go home instead.

Concerned that we’re behaving too much like the sensible ones at this jamboree, I grab Brian and persuade him it’s time to check out some of the clubs.

Concerned that we’re behaving too much like the sensible ones at this jamboree, I grab Brian (aka The Travel Vlogger) and persuade him it’s time to check out some of the clubs. We make our way to the nearest open door that turns out to be rock club, where a DJ is playing classic head bangers. We’re at least ten years older than the average punter in here, and, in our vaguely smart clothing (well mine at least, Brian is displaying a middle-aged American’s fashion sense), we stick out like a sore thumb. But that doesn’t stop us moshing out for a bit and chatting to a few random metallers, before moving on.

Next up is Gala Hala (not to be confused with Yalla Yalla) and from the pounding bass outside I think we’re onto something… we get our tickets from what looks like an car park attendant’s kiosk opposite and then make our way inside. Two DJs are spinning some fantastically eclectic beats and the crowd of good looking hipsters is, if not going wild, at least appreciating the music with a merited amount of vim and vigour. One of the turntablist duo can actually scratch and the room is filled with an action-packed ensemble of mashed up sounds… just how I like them. Just when I think things can’t get any better one of the tag team goes and drops a full-on drum and bass track. Naturally this is my cue to teach Ljubljana how to dance like you’re at Fabric on a Friday night, years 2001-2004. No one goes as far as saying so, but I’m pretty sure they appreciate the lesson.

…it’s not a fertile flirting market for heterosexual guys, but somehow I manoeuvre myself into conversation with a striking, tall blonde girl in a red dress, who turns out to be a Russian yoga instructor.

I could have stayed longer but it’s time to meet up with the other members of The Travel Mob and the guys from Luxury Slovenia at the legendary gay club, Tiffany’s, which is just next door. We pass through a corridor, featuring a painting of a cartoon sailor crying rainbows, and into a sweatbox of a room, where a legion of guys, some stripped off at the waist, are jumping up and down to kitsch pop tracks. We find the rest of The Mob in the covered garden out the back and promptly order a gin and tonic. As you might imagine, it’s not a fertile flirting market for heterosexual guys, but somehow I manoeuvre myself into conversation with a striking, tall blonde girl in a red dress, who turns out to be a Russian yoga instructor. I tell her that my lack of flexibility in my legs is due to my very tense hamstrings which in turn enable me to run faster and jump higher than normal humans. I think she’s impressed.

Someone suggests dancing (possibly to Shakira’s Hips Don’t Lie) and suddenly we’re monopolising half the dancefloor and podiums to ourselves… although that’s partly because by now the club is emptying out. The Russian yoga instructor leaves, forgetting somehow to ask for my number.

Finally, at around 5:15am we are politely asked to leave. The rest of The Travel Mob are ready for bed, but I kinda fancy staying up a little bit longer and head back to Gala Hala. I reveal my stamp to the bouncer but he insists the club is now closed, despite the fact that a) earlier he told me it wouldn’t close until 6am and b) the party is clearly still going on. Either I’m too drunk to be allowed back in, or he’s an asshole… or quite possibly both.

I figure somewhere else has to be open… and I’m right. Bizarnica pri Marici turns out to be quite a find. Grey-haired hippies are swinging like its 1969 to Susie Q on the makeshift dancefloor, old soaks in battered blazers are drinking whiskey and playing chess on a scattering of small tables, whilst a handful of younger folk are also joining in the fun, overindulging on something or other. One, a skinny lad of around 20, is laid out fast asleep across an entire sofa, still sporting his 80s wayfarer-style sunglasses. I nip to the toilets, where I get to admire some two-tone graphic art pornography (pictured above), then buy a Cockta soft drink and settle in a doorway by the dancefloor where I can rest up for five minutes and soak in the atmosphere. I am innocently tapping my feet to the beat, when from out of the crowd a dishevelled guy with saucer eyes and a rictus smile stumbles towards me. Taking hold of my wrist, he traces a finger down my exposed forearm from my elbow to the palm of my hand, then looks up at me. “Nice veins,” he cooes.

Taking hold of my wrist, he traces a finger down my exposed forearm from my elbow to the palm of my hand, then looks up at me. “Nice veins,” he cooes.

I am not still sure if this was some kind of proposition (to shoot up?), or a heartfelt ecstasy-induced compliment… or maybe he was simply a patriotic Slovene who could somehow sense the Bear’s Blood running through my arteries? But whatever the case, I sure as hell wasn’t hanging around to find out. I dashed out of there, grateful at least that he didn’t try to touch my Cockta.

Duncan travelled to Ljubljana as part of The Travel Mob blogtrip #TasteLjubljana, made possible by the awesome folk at Visit Ljubljana. Whilst he was there he also tried stand up paddling on the Ljubljanica river and enjoyed discovering the city from the saddle of the iconic Rog bike. If you’re coming to the Slovenian capital for a wild weekend, he recommends you stay at the Hotel Meksiko as it’s just five minutes walk from Metelkova… no taxi required!

About Duncan Rhodes

Duncan is the Editor-in-Chief of Urban Travel Blog, a born and bred city slicker who loves urban adventure, street art, killer bars and late night hotspots. More about Duncan here.

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My best friend I’ve known since kindergarten is having his 28th birthday at a bowling alley in Williamsburg called The Gutter. I’m not really a bowling person (or an anything person for that matter) so I’m skeptical about going. The other reason I’m reluctant to attend is because my high school girlfriend, with whom I got into a very heated argument with five years ago, will be there. We haven’t spoken since and the notion of her hurling bowling balls while being drunk and angry at me raises a few self-preservation alarms.

Still, Urban Travel Blog had asked me what goes on during a big night out in New York, and this seemed as good an opportunity as any…

Striking Out…

I arrive at the venue on North 14th and enter the main room. The entire theme of The Gutter is “Urban Rustic” which is coincidentally the name of a furniture store down the street. The walls are mostly adorned with vintage signs of defunct breweries and other taxidermy pieces which supersede irony on a quantum level. It’s very Minnesota in here. Ironically, Minnesota.

I give my usual ocular pat down of the patrons. Overall, it has the typical vibe of a Williamsburg haunt filled with twenty-somethings. To my left is a guy wearing a beanie texting in a corner next to a mini-hockey game.  Directly in front is a somewhat out of place family gathered around a pitcher of craft beer with their aging patriarch slumped in his chair wearing a fading brown bomber jacket. I say out of place only because they seem like the only people who actually fit the decor of The Gutter. To my right, sitting in a booth, are two familiar faces. It’s a friend from college named Brittany and her boyfriend.

“The Birthday Boy should be here soon,” says Brittany with a smile.

We discuss the holidays briefly before I excuse myself to head to the bar to drink rum and pineapples until the rest of the crew arrives. When they do, I give a celebratory cheer that’s a bit too loud for the time day.  It’s 4:45pm, and we have a long night ahead of us. Slow down, Duval.

We hit the lanes, or rather, they hit the lanes. I’m flush against the back wall of the alley drinking my third rum and pineapple with the old high school girlfriend a few feet away from me. We haven’t acknowledged each other in this small group although we’ve been here for about an hour now. I sigh internally and decide to simply say, “Hi, Taylor.”

She purses her lips and gives the most thinly veiled contemptuous “go f@ck yourself” smile I’ve ever seen in my entire life. God damn it, we. were. on. a. break.

I turn away from Taylor and glance at the other patrons. It seems like everyones getting strikes. Loud raucous Macho Man “Oh, YEAH!”‘s fill the air on a systematic basis… almost as if the venue plays these sound effects over the PA system to make people feel better about themselves.

When I turn my gaze back to Taylor she immediately hugs me and I don’t say or do anything other than hug her back. Over her shoulder, I see Brittany get a strike. No one notices and I furrow my brows.

We conclude our game and the girls begin to split off to different parts of the city like the Rebel Fleet at the end of The Empire Strikes Back. Taylor and I give each other one last hug and she takes off. It’s just the guys now.

Bratwurst With The Boys

We shuffle to Spritzenhaus, a beer and sausage spot down the block from The Gutter. This place is slightly more upscale with marble counters and copper finishing on anything your in hands reach of. It looks nice but the staff is notably disconnected. The bouncer looks like comedian Patrice O’Neal yet seems to be unfamiliar with the Human notion of sarcasm. We mount the empty bar and take note of the apathetic bartenders. They stand like cardboard cut outs and wait several distinctive beats before acknowledging us. When they grace us with their attention, the birthday boy orders a round of bratwurst topped with jalapeno-jicama coleslaw and 4.8% Gaffel Kölsch’s for the guys. This vital combination replenishes the fatigue that my earlier rum pineapple assault caused. I’m back in action.

Once we’ve feasted I set my eyes on a group of lively girls. I drift over to them and introduce myself. They tell me they’re visiting from Ireland and we begin talking about travel and what brings them to the States. Charmed by their cadence and I drift into what (in my mind) sounds like an Irish accent. It’s either so bad they don’t even bother acknowledging it or in my drunken stupor I actually managed to channel James Joyce himself. I’ll let you surmise which is a more probable.

I make a few lazy attempts at flirtation but their European toughness holds firm against the shameless advances of a Yank. I bid them farewell and return to my friends who are reclining against a fireplace partitioned only by a chain mail veil. When one of the employees aggressively stokes the fire behind us we collectively let out a yelp. The employee doesn’t respond to our cries and simply maintains his glare on the inferno.

Whats with this place?

Whiskey In The Jar

We all agree it’s time to seek debauchery elsewhere. We pay our tabs and hit the streets again for a honky tonk called Skinny Dennis over on Metropolitan Avenue. When we arrive it’s packed and a gentleman visiting from Israeli is the first wasted face I see.

He goes into a drunken monologue recounting some tale he recently experienced. I’m pretty inebriated at this point so I humor him for a while until he taps me on the crotch to illustrate a point of his story. When he does this again I immediately grab his lapel and politely tell him that he’s made a judgement error and should reassess his understanding of respecting peoples personal space. He relents after a few more choice words on my part and I send him to go harass someone else.

It is primordial in here. We’re going to need a strong drink to survive.

I dash for the bar with The Birthday Boy in tow who is a good man, a polite man. Impatient, I cut through the crowd, lock onto a bartender and ask for their special – a mason jar filled with bourbon and sweet tea in equal measures. I order two and we park at the bar watching the band sing “The Williamsburg Honky Tonk” which as a premise disgusts my philosophical sensibilities. Eventually, the band gets to singing about the J.F.K. assassination. Naturally.

More of our friends arrive. I’ve finished my first mason jar of whiskey and notice a frozen coffee drink being concocted behind the bar.

“What is that?” I ask the bartender.

“Our frozen coffee drink,” she replies.

Knew it! I nod in satisfaction and signal that I’d like two. They arrive and I spin around to find a squat girl of indeterminate ethnic origin staring up at me.  We talk for a while and she starts asking weird questions of a romantic nature. My friends are laughing at me and offer no assistance.

“I’m going to go to the bathroom,” I announce and scurry away from the bar.

I get to the line on the bathroom which has a few people waiting, but there are two doors. Some people forget you can utilize both, but when I go to ensure their occupancy a sassy blonde in queue barks, “There’s a line.”

“Whoaaaa…I was just making sure!” I exclaim.

We argue for a while until I see the squat girl from the bar gliding towards me like she’s a vampire on a dolly in an 80s horror film. The situation here is deteriorating rapidly.

Riding The L Train Home

About half an hour later I get an unexpected text from Taylor. The girl who hasn’t spoken to me in five years. I doubt my comrades can handle anymore birthday drinking anyhow, so I tell the team I’m heading off. Taylor lives in Manhattan so I make my way to the L train, which is packed full of fellow nightowls either switching venues or making their way home. Being a stand up comic who hasn’t gotten to an open mic in a while I take the opportunity to do my set for passengers of the train. However, in my compromised state I feel it necessary to record them confirming that they do not think I’m homeless. It was 50/50.

I disembark at Union Square and run into Wholefoods for an unappetizing pre-packaged sushi. I’m waiting on a line underneath a display that indicates when we can advance to the cashier. I glance over to the couple beside me and say, “Is this not the most Orwellian consumer experience in the world?” They nod sheepishly and a monotone female voice commands me to approach the register.

I’m back out on the street walking and eating the sushi which is very dry. When I pass a homeless man on the corner of 4th Avenue I offer him what I didn’t finish.

“It’s totally fine, I just didn’t want to finish it. I mean, it’s not great, but it’s totally edible.” I assuage.

His viciously cracked out female companion who’s pale skin is burning red and her eyes are clenched shut screams out, “Is this gonna kill us?!”

I think to myself, no. The sushi won’t.

I get to Taylor’s apartment a few blocks away which is the sort of place a 56-year-old woman of means would live. We go to her roof and reminisce about high school and a friend of ours that was recently featured in the paper for identity theft. I’d hated this town for a while. I’d felt it’d been lost to the gentrification and artisanal fare crowd. Still, as I looked from her rooftop up towards Times Square I realized you can fix anything. If you’re patient enough.

That’s it from Duval, for now. If you’re heading to New York, then check our city guide for more tips and advice on the Big Apple. For more nightlife adventures, check out other Blurry Nights around the world, as experienced by the Urban Travel Bloggers.

About Duval Culpepper

Duval Culpepper is a vagabond writer, comedian and actor from NYC. He loves the road and meeting people who challenge the status quo. Travel can never get strange enough for him.

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In one smooth sweeping motion, the bartender knocks down an archaic Pilsner tap over a tall frosty glass, delicately lifts up a small white dish and promptly delivers both food and drink squarely in front me, before she scurries off yelping rapidly in Spanish.

Perfecto. My night out in Madrid officially starts the way locals start theirs.

¡Vamos A Tapear!

I’m in the capital’s central Malasaña district where I plan to fill up on cervezas, wine and tapas… including Madrid’s most famous Spanish omelet, at Bodega de la Ardosa. The Bodega’s dimly-lit square room has few standing tables and, at this point of the evening, no elbow room whatsoever. An impressive beer bottle collection lines its walls and shares space with yellowing posters that may even date back to its opening in 1892. My group is snuggled at one end of the bar, lucky to have squeezed into a prime spot where we can comfortably reach for our Rioja filled wine glasses and share delicious tapas, the small snack-sized plates synonymous with eating out in Spain. I discover why the place gained tortilla de patatas fame: the eggs are scrambled up to perfection, oozing with creamy pockets of potatoes and onion.

Then, he catches my attention. Behind the bar, at eye-level, is a rectangular wall opening, revealing a talking head (see photo above!).  There’s a bald man casually sipping a beer behind the bar wall. No nearby doors are in sight. How many Riojas did I drink?

“Oh, that’s a secret dining room,” one of my compadres explains with a shrug. “They’ve got one of those.”

I ponder that strange fact but let it slide. I’m told awesome cocktails await us at Cock.

Cock… as in Cocktails

Upon arrival it’s clear that a team of dark suited waiters keep the fancy place in check. With its high wood-beamed cathedral-like ceiling, thick mahogany bar and carved wood central fireplace, it resembles a lovely room in an old English estate.

Somewhere between ordering a round of Kir Royales and figuring out our choice for a second round we find ourselves in friendly conversation with a group of Madrilenos from a neighboring table. They confirm that Cock is indeed an established and well-known haunt for top cocktails and star sightings.

“Like…” I immediately blurt out the name of the hottest Spanish actor I know. My excitement is met with shocked faces.

“Nobody in Madrid likes Javier Bardem,” states one Madrileno named Juan.

The group nods in agreement. A second later they all burst out in laughter and we tap our glasses with a chorus of salud and cheers.

“Yes, the famous come here. It can have a good crowd, but people of all ages rely on this place for a fancy, good drink,” says Jose, a schoolteacher who is dressed casually in jeans and a t-shirt. It’s what I’ve noticed most guys and gals wear out on the town. Even my cocktail dress seems overdone for place. Jose goes on to inform me: “It’s 12:30. Madrid nightlife starts now and ends, you know, at least at six, if you’re having a good time.”

“But it’s Thursday. Don’t you have to work?” I ask.

“At seven,” he shrugs his shoulders. “We all work but we all need to have fun too. Madrid is the place to live life, be with your friends and make new friends. You can do anything you like any night of the week.”

“So where would you go now to dance?” I’m curious to know.

The Madrilenos suggest a place around corner and that we should all go together. Why not?

I Wanna Take You To Gay Bar!

Turns out, that’s the name of the club.

We’re still in Chueca, which is Madrid’s gay district. Smoke wafts between me and the club’s metal door entrance where folks are puffing furiously on their cigs in the chilly spring night. We grab our tickets, which include the first drink and head down some dimly lit stairs. The beats of a super dance version of a Black Eyed Peas classic pound the air. This was gonna be a good night.

The club is a narrow tunnel-like room bordered on one side by a long, oak-paneled bar. Underneath a curved, classic tiled ceiling a sea of clubbers clash on the dance space in a happy haze. Had I been portaled into a secret Spanish speakeasy?  At that moment the DJ turns up Neneh Cherry and the now obvious man-man couples before me bring me back to modern day reality; I’m standing in one of the coolest little gay clubs in Madrid.

I easily chat it up and dance with the locals. Jaime, a medium-built gay guy with a closely-cropped beard, informs me of two fantastic things. The turquoise color of my dress compliments my skin and that the basement bar is Madrid’s best kept secret.

“No chance not to dance,” he croons.

Then, INXS blasts through the speakers and the crowd starts up again. With one hand Jaime delves deeper into the dance floor as he pumps his other hand furiously in the air, “I love this song!”

There’s love here among a fair share of hetero Madrilenos and Madrilenas too, like our new group of friends that lead us here in the first place and are easily losing themselves to the music.  How could anyone resist the free, fun and easy vibe?

Too Many D!cks On The Dancefloor

Back out in the streets, we pass some street vendors selling beers and drinks out of cardboard boxes as we return to Malasaña. There we come up on the club, BarCo which is complete with line that looks way too long to tolerate at 3:30am, one that takes up too much of the cobblestone street. I soon discover it’s just a bunch of smokers getting their nicotine fix. We shuffle past them and the four four beat of house music beckons us in. However, the tightly packed crowd, bathed in the random glow of bright blue lights, is like an ocean of locked bodies that has the sole purpose of preventing me to reach the bar a few meters away. A surprise ambush greets me as I make my first attempt.

A tall, blonde guy bends down to yell in my ear, “So nice to see girls.”

“Come again?” I ask, just as loud, tiptoeing to be heard. That’s a weird pick up line. I look around. A live music club in the early evening, BarCo transforms into pretty happening dance club for 20-30 somethings. I realize this night attracted a favorable ratio of young men – or unfavorable depending on your point of view. The immediate swoop at entrance is beginning to make sense. Turns out tall Tobias from Austria and his Canadian friend, Dan are expats working in Madrid.

“The nightlife here is unreal. You can get carried away though,” explains Dan nodding his head in disbelief. “It’s just that people in Madrid are so open and friendly. Life here is tireless… I mean it’s a weekday. I gotta wake up in a few hours but I don’t care!”

At some point, my heels start to dig, punishing my dancing feet. We ramble out of the still crowded BarCo to say our goodbyes. The crisp cold air refreshes me as I walk off from the group toward my rented apartment off Gran Via. The blue sky lightens up as I notice the lines of Madrilenos still puffing their smokes and continuing the party out in the narrow street, just out of reach from the taxis that inch by. The drivers crane their necks, searching for fares as the sun breaks through. After all, in Madrid, it’s just another night and morning out on the tiles.

On your way to Madrid? Check out Urban Travel Blog’s weekend guide to the Spanish capital. Meanwhile for more blurry nights in some of the world’s wildest cities check out the Editor’s nocturnal adventures in Vilnius, Ben Rhodes’ boozy brunch and all-night partying in Dubai, and James Pengelley’s random revelry in Bogota.

About Marissa Tejada

Marissa Tejada is an American journalist, travel writer and author living in Athens. She's a regular contributor to Forbes Travel, Wine Enthusiast, GQ and Urban Travel Blog. Full bio here.

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The post One Blurry Night in… Madrid appeared first on Urban Travel Blog.

“We’re going to a concert?” I repeat with barely disguised dismay. It’s my second night in Vilnius and I’ve arranged to go out with Lineta and Sarune, two Lithuanian friends of mine I met back in Barcelona. Normally I’d be more than happy to entrust my nightlife plans to two hip young locals, but a) I’m fucking starving and b) Italy are playing Germany in less than 1.5 hours in the semi finals of Euro 2012. And after all, what venue is so great that it hosts live music events, serves up cheap and delicious food and screens ridiculously important football matches?

Teacher’s House, as it turns out. And we’ve got a reservation.

Two steps into the courtyard of this romantic cultural / nightlife space and I’m in love. The pastel pink walls of this academic cloister are covered with clinging ivy, whilst a central stage is flanked with canopied lounge area and bar, and Vilnius’ cool kids are out in force to enjoy the free live music on this still bright Baltic summer evening. We shuffle over to our table reservation on the right of the stage and – keen to go local – I order a šaltibarščiai… which turns out to be a radioactive Lithuanian beetroot soup, served cold for good measure. It’s actually not too bad, but I can’t help but look enviously at the Australian couchsurfer who had the good sense to order a chicken sandwich.

I order a šaltibarščiai… which turns out to be a radioactive Lithuanian beetroot soup, served cold for good measure.

Encouraging me to eat up, Lineta tells me that šaltibarščiai is a staple dish at every good grandmother’s house and is “made from special Lithuanian cream. I think you can’t buy it in any other European countries, except maybe Ukraine and Poland.”

“Why is it special?”

“No it’s not special, you just don’t have it.” Well there you go.

As we tuck into our nosh washed down with a palatable Svyturys Ekstra beer, suddenly the crowd start singing along to the music. Lineta explains that the band, a husband and wife team called Ball and Chain, are belting out a classic Lithuanian crowdpleaser… which they promptly follow with a very decent cover of Rolling in the Deep. Just as I’m getting nervous that this concert is going to extend past kick off the band finish their set, the Bohemian section of the crowd disappear, and Sky Sports is projected on big screens around the courtyard.

As the German and Italian national anthems ring out, talk turns to national sports.

“You are crazy about football,” say Lineta. “But we are crazy about basketball. We are really looking forward to the Olympics. Basketball is like our second religion. Have you ever heard of the other Dream Team?”

“You are crazy about football,” say Lineta. “But we are crazy about basketball…. Basketball is like our second religion.”

I confess I haven’t, but as she goes on to explain in the 1992 Olympics (ie. the same Olympics when the American Dream Team of Magic Johnson and Michael Jordan won gold) the Lithuanian national team managed to break free of their Soviet identity and beat the Russians to a bronze medal (In fact they recently made a film commemorating the achievement), cementing the sport’s popularity in Lithuania’s hearts for all time.

By the time the Italians have booked their place in the Euro 2012 finals it’s decidedly nippy in the courtyard of Teacher’s House and Lineta and Sarune lead us to where the bars are most plentiful…

“This is the main nightlife street, which one year ago became really popular,” says Lineta. “The name is Island Street. It is a really short street but there are a lot of bars, and usually you are going to different places, having fun, meeting a lot of friends. We are going to one place that is like an international bar: you don’t need to have friends, you can go alone and you will have a conversation there… everybody is welcome there, it doesn’t matter how you look.”

This is in contrast to another nightspot on the same street called Buddha, which Lineta reliably informs me is a “fish market” for good looking girls and guys trying to buy their attention.

I fall in with a couple of Lithuanian dudes who are keen to extol the values of two of their nation’s greatest assets, starting with their local brews…

In Vilnius’ Piano Man bar the atmosphere on a Thursday night is rowdy. Lineta orders a fish-bowl-sized glass of Hoegarden, and I grab a tasteless Cuba Libra for 12 Lt. I fall in with a couple of Lithuanian dudes who are keen to extol the values of two of their nation’s greatest assets, starting with their local brews.

“Hoegarden is a woman’s beer,” asserts Darius. “You should try a Lithuanian beer like ‘Lighthouse’” he says giving the famous Svyturys brand its English name. “We also have a lot of really good small independent breweries in small towns. You can try some at Snekutis bar in Uzupis.” Quite a legend in Vilnius, Snekutis is a ramshackle bar that I’d happened to pass by day on by bike in the free district of Uzupis (think Lithuania’s very own Christiana). I make a mental note to go back sometime.

Meanwhile Ilya is keen to impress on me the virtues of the local girls – which naturally doesn’t interest me at all -but I indulgently listen.

“The Lithuanian girls are nice girls… Maybe there are 60% of women in clubs. For example I went to clubs in Rome and the majority of people were guys. I was shocked!”

“The Lithuanian girls are nice girls. They are not looking for rich guys, just normal guys… and it’s easy to meet them. Maybe there are 60% of women in clubs. For example I went to clubs in Rome and the majority of people were guys. I was shocked! In Lithuania all the time you enter a club you are in paradise. You are surrounded by beautiful girls. They are very nice, you can speak to them.”

Before I can add my own observations to this intellectual conversation Lineta grabs me… she wants to show me a nearby bar. But we are not going there by conventional means. We head out of the back of Piano Man into an internal courtyard, which seems to be the inside of a small shopping mall. We cross through it and arrive at the window of another bar.

“At night it’s much more fun to jump through the window,” says Lineta when I ask if we couldn’t have just walked around to the street entrance. “But if we’re doing it we should order two shots.” And so ushering the punters of Gringo out of the way of the window we clamber through – with some difficulty by now – and make our way to the counter. I order us two “Mad Dogs” and Lineta tells me about her time living in the UK… it isn’t long before she’s screeching a loud rendition of I’m Forever Blowing Bubbles. The bouncer doesn’t find this as entertaining as we do.

“Don’t worry he’s new. He doesn’t know the traditions of this bar,” she assures me, before collapsing out of her chair and sending us both crashing to the ground. No harm done.

“At night it’s much more fun to jump through the window,” says Lineta when I ask if we couldn’t have just walked around to the street entrance.

After repeating our Houdini window trick we’re back in Piano Man and unfortunately it’s time for Sarune and Lineta to go home. It is after all a Thursday night and they have to go to work tomorrow. As for me… maybe it’s the booze, or maybe it was all this talk of young approachable nice girls but I’m keen to make my blurry night just a fraction blurrier before turning in. So taking a tip from my friends I head off, Spy Map in hand, in search for Artistai, a famous student club and the one place guaranteed to be rocking late on a Thursday night in Vilnius. It’s closed.

So I back up to a bar I passed on the way, which may or may not have been called Brodvejus. A photo near the entrance of a toothless black grandpa smoking a fat cigar hints that this is supposed to be a Cuban bar, but right now it’s looking like an archetypical discotheque wreck: wall-mounted TVs are screening MTV videos, whilst the DJ is pumping out crap R’n’B music and a smoke machine belches out wisps of white vapours. There are no more twenty people in the place, most notably a group of trashy-looking Russian girls tottering around the dancefloor in high heel boots, two drunkards sitting in front of an empty, tripod-mounted ten litre beer glass and two very cute girls who appear incongruously sober and well-behaved given the hour and the surroundings. I wait for the drunkards to try their luck first, in the hopes of seeming attractive by comparison, and it’s not long before I’m at the bar with my new friends Eva and Indre, two cosmopolitan sisters of 24 and 27 years, drinking shots. I enlist their help in selecting a Lithuanian spirit.

I wait for the drunkards to try their luck first, in the hopes of seeming attractive by comparison, and it’s not long before I’m at the bar with my new friends Eva and Indre…

“Try 999,” says Eva. “It’s something of a mix between vodka and Jagermeister. It’s lovely, it’s delicious. You should do a live commentary.”

“Unfortunately my tastebuds are not very refined.”

“What kind of journalist are you?” they come back, refusing to let me off the hook. And so taking a sip I switch on my voice recorder and record my observation that “it’s very spirity.”

There’s a chorus of boos and Eva is forced to take over. “It’s sweet and it tastes of berries. It reminds me of a shady woodland… I can imagine a deer running in a forest at dawn, the sun is rising and the birds are chirping…”

“Can I use that in my article?”

“Try 999,” says Eva. “It’s something of a mix between vodka and Jagermeister. It’s lovely, it’s delicious. You should do a live commentary.”

The girls disappear to the bathrooms and I order another 999… it’s only 6 Lt after all. Meanwhile the music has gone a bit Shakira-esque, with a donk on it, which has somehow brought the dancefloor back to life. When my new friends return, I decide optimistically that it’s time to steer the conversation in a sexual direction. Noting the lack of great specimens in this particular bar, I ask them what they think of Lithuanian men?

“I don’t like them that much,” says Eva. “They are too macho.”

So far so good, I think to myself.

“Also, they drink a lot.”

I thought we were talking about their bad points!

“And a lot of them are sexist.”

I decide it’s time to speak up. “I am definitely not sexist. I’m a feminist,” I declare. “I always go down.”

Somehow this declaration of solidarity doesn’t earn me an invitation for a threesome which it clearly deserved, and – with the pub disco now on its last legs – we swap Facebook profiles and bid each other goodnight. It’s nearly 5am now and there’s plenty of light in the summer sky, which is always a sensible person’s cue for bedtime. Somehow or other though I manage to find myself chatting to two more friendly girls (Ilya was right, they’re everywhere!) on the way home who invite me to accompany them for breakfast at a 24 hour restaurant/bar nearby. It turns out to be a pretty upmarket traditional Lithuanian restaurant, decked out in a kind of medieval tavern style. As we three disco casualties tuck into some stomach settling cuisine we’re treated to an equally amusing and disturbing sideshow of two enormous drunk guys arm-wrestling on the table opposite. The fatter and hairier of the two decides to strip off his shirt, which was obviously impeding him, and I watch in fascination as this human bear fight goes on without a word from the staff… who wisely decide against intervening. My fellow breakfasters meanwhile munch away non-plussed. Clearly it’s just another blurry morning in Vilnius.

As we three disco casualties tuck into some stomach settling cuisine we’re treated to an equally amusing and disturbing sideshow of two enormous drunk guys arm-wrestling on the table opposite.

As we polish off our dumplings and soup I glance at my phone. It’s somehow nearly 7am. By now it really is time to go home. After all I’m meeting Sarune and Lineta again in just over 12 hours and they promised to take me on a big night out. Still, this was a good warm up…

Duncan would like to extend his heartfelt thanks to the Hostel Gate for accommodating him during his stay in Vilnius. Apart from the great staff, he enjoyed the heated bathroom floors and the use of their rental bikes to explore the city, and the location is perfect for stumbling home from any of the aforementioned bars/clubs. If you’re heading to Vilnius be sure to check out our weekend guide to the Lithuanian capital which has a tonne of great tips for exploring. 

For more vicarious nightlife stories, check out what happened when Ben Rhodes enjoyed big night out in Dubai and James Pengelley went partying in Bogota.

About Duncan Rhodes

Duncan is the Editor-in-Chief of Urban Travel Blog, a born and bred city slicker who loves urban adventure, street art, killer bars and late night hotspots. More about Duncan here.

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“OP OP OP OP OPPAN GANGNAM STYLE!” Dancing to the ubiquitous Korean hit on my own in front of a crowd of four hundred Filipinos with an Elton John lookalike and four lingerie models behind me wasn’t what I imagined the average night out in Dubai to entail. In fact, before I left for Dubai I was told that “you can only drink in hotels” which made me a tad sceptical about the possibility of a good night out at all, envisaging as I was a nightlife scene composed of sunburnt expats squeezed into Hilton lobby bars, with the Lighthouse Family or other muzak playing in the background. But, for better or worse, the city feels much more Western than you would imagine, with a plethora of pubs and bars masquerading as hotels set up for drunken decadence. The city has become particularly infamous for its brunches, a four-hour window to consume as much food and drink as you can for a set price.

With a soggy head from the previous night, we headed for brunch at “The Warehouse”, known for its debauchery rather than fine-dining. Yet before the consumption of anything greasy had even attempted to curtail the midday hangover, the shots had come out… accompanying the beer chaser… alongside the re-hydration Chardonnay. And with the combination of sunshine, BBQ’d meat and free-flowing booze, the atmosphere quickly became one of an animated, if not particularly Middle Eastern, party. It was a suitably heavy and delicious four hours spent at the table, leaving both the pork buffet and the bar staff decimated by the desperate expats. And then the music started and the tables quickly cleared as everyone streamed to the ‘club night’ in the upstairs bar. Perhaps it was one of the few places in Dubai where hands and tongues were allowed to be everywhere, but the occasional twitch of a curtain reminded you that it was 30 degrees, the sun was shining and it was still only 5pm.

Having suitably gorged ourselves all afternoon we headed to our main destination for the evening, that night’s Live@Atlantis gig, a semi-regular event held on the world famous Palm Jumeira with different acts headlining. On this occasion Noel Gallagher and Richard Ashcroft were playing, with Zane Lowe performing a DJ set. The evening suitably blurry by now, I had already lost the others and so found some fellow gig-goers to share a taxi.

“We’ve come all the way from Jordan to see Richard Ashcroft,” said the girl, providing me the refreshing surprise of discovering that 90s indie acts are still popular in the Middle East (rumour has it the Bluetones are still Number 1 in Kyrgyzstan). As we passed the opulent Atlantis hotel I marvelled at the architecture, built with a gaping hole in the middle. I also wondered whether the architects have missed a trick, as if they had tarmacked it over to build a car park we wouldn’t have had to walk so far from the drop off.

Live@Atlantis felt unerringly similar to a British festival set up (albeit V Festival rather than Glastonbury), with the added bonus of hot weather and a beach. There were drunken groups of lads swaying around, girls with dubious luminous make up and the waft of greasy food intermingling with the soundwaves. Richard Ashcroft was up first with an acoustic set which perhaps deserved a more intimate setting, yet there were a few classics that got the crowd mesmerised, with a stripped back version of Bittersweet Symphony providing a fitting end.

In between sets I looked around and it seemed a predominantly British crowd, though in our small group were a Canadian, an Indian Australian, French girls, two Filipino girls and a Palestinian, an indication of the cosmopolitan make-up of the city. “What brought you to Dubai?” was an obvious question I asked them all, and for most it was the lure of tax free earnings. What was interesting was the follow up from many of them: “I said that I would only stay for two years. That was five years ago”. Clearly the money is a big initial draw, but the weather, food and opulent lifestyle made it hard for people to leave.

As Noel and his High Flying Birds came on stage we bundled our way to the front. The set started off with some tub-thumping tunes from his new band, but you could sense the crowd were not here for the newbies and were waiting for some Oasis classics to kick in. We bopped along for a bit in anticipation and managed to hold on for “Digsy’s diner”, but soon our bladders got the better of us and we sloped to the toilets at the back, from where we could hear a boorish crowd chanting along to “Don’t look back in anger”. We picked up a few more ciders and sat on the water’s edge to share a shisha and people watch, before going all out to Zane Lowe’s dubstep session.

Just as we were realised that dad-dancing doesn’t work with dubstep, our two Filipino friends found us and said we should move on to a birthday party at a Filipino nightclub called Boracay. When they said there would be live music I wasn’t sure what to expect but a karaoke machine and drowning cat sprang to mind. In fact, it was an impressive set up, with a full band fronted by a small ginger Filipino guy (half Will.I.Am, half Elton John), and four girls dressed in white lingerie who were giving Whitney Houston-esque performances into the microphone. We settled down for some beers and Filipino food (fried pig skin, fried fish, fried squid) and some birthday cake to enjoy the show. Nobody seemed to be dancing apart from the band so I drunkenly tried to get the crowd going Gangnam style, with birthday cake still stuck in my beard. I think it went well if I interpreted the lack of handclapping correctly… a slightly bizarre experience, but if you are ever invited to a Filipino club anywhere in the world I would definitely advise accepting!

We were beginning to run out of steam but were still keen to sample some of the high life and so jumped into a taxi Downtown. At the base of the tallest building in the world is the Armani hotel, one of several designer hotel/bars where the beautiful people come to party. The club was as chic as you would imagine, with a sculpted white-neon wall reflecting on the primped and preened party-goers. It’s free to enter, but the price of drinks keep the riff raff out (expect to pay over a tenner for most drinks). Our friends escorted us through the bar to a circular table with a 2 litre bottle of vodka waiting for us. Whilst I wasn’t quite sure how we had bagged the best table in the house I wasn’t complaining, and was about to tuck in before a bouncer politely shuffled me along (it turns out there was a mix-up and that bottle of vodka was for someone who didn’t mind paying £1000 for the pleasure).

Wealth, rather the perception of wealth, is such a big deal to some Dubai residents that my local friends knew of people living in bedsit apartments so they could afford to regularly come to these designer clubs and show their financial muscle.  Given the fortunes that the Emirati have amassed and a large reason people move here is for tax free earnings, it shouldn’t come as a surprise that the display of wealth is a large part of Dubai nightlife. But there are plenty of less expensive and varied things to do if you hunt around for them (the next night we headed to Ravis, a Pakistani restaurant serving the best slap-up curry you could wish for under a fiver). It seems in Dubai that you are able to have your cake and eat it, just remember to wipe it out of your beard before dancing.

Noel Gallagher and Richard Ashcroft were playing as part of the Live @ Atlantis events. For future events with Arabic, Indian and European music artists check out their website. Atlantis also hosts one day Sandance festivals occasionally throughout the year, with Florence & the Machine headlining on 10th May 2013. Check out http://sandance.ae/ for more.

About Ben Rhodes

Bon vivant and amateur trumpet player, Ben likes to see as much of the world as possible, when he’s not busy saving it from behind his desk in London. Read more about Ben.

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You know you must have had a great weekend when Monday morning begins with the question from a colleague:

“Were you, at any stage of Saturday night, dancing like a gorilla?”

For a split second I desperately rack my brain for a conversation, a context – oddly enough, I can’t entirely rule out the possibility.

***

We have a busy night planned. A farewell party that is to include a Colombian nightlife rite of passage, a chiva tour, and we’re kicking things off from Chorro de Quevedo.

Chorro is in fact, the site of the foundation of the old city of Bogota during the 1500s. Today it is the bohemian heart of the colonial district of La Candelaria. Almost every night of the week students squirm along the tiny cobbled street that runs down the hill from the plaza to a small collection of pizza and empanada outlets on carrera 2 and calle 12c. You’d be unlucky if you didn’t see street artists, small groups of friends with a guitar or two sat around an open box of aguardiente (a clear anise liquor that comes in bottles, casks, or shots) or the odd open-air theatre performance on any given night.

Here, the beer is cheap, but the chicha (a South American fermented delight, usually made from fruit, with the consistency of smooth porridge and the tang of greek yogurt) is cheaper and comes in bowls, not glasses. Pokey bars and an enthusiastic energy trickle from corner to corner to the rhythms of reggaeton, salsa, and the occasional haven for glam-rock fans, trapped in the 70’s.

Una Club Colombia, porfa. I ask for one of the local beers.

The bar man looks confused. No hay, no tenemos.

Hay de Aguila? 

No, no hay. I begin to resign myself to a night on chicha. I swallow. Hard.

De Poker?

No, no hay. It was like living the nightmare of a pub with no beer.

Ok, una michelada.

Ok, con gusto.

Micheladas are Colombia’s solution to watery lager – just add salt and lime. The kind of thing that looks like it should taste like a margarita, but doesn’t. Just how our friend manages to make a michelada when he doesn’t have any beer confuses me. He explains that to make it, he’ll have to go outside, down the street and buy the Club Colombia from another vendor, which begs the question….

Glancing at my watch, I already have a sense of the evening running away –  the farewell chiva is booked for 9.

“Meet us at 7:30!” read the invitation. As I have a friend visiting from Australia who was due to be at the airport at 9, I ask if he can tag along for an hour. It’s then that Sam explains that the 7:30 part was merely for the benefit of our Colombian friends, to avoid delays and late arrivals. Cunning.

As the big hand passed 9:20, the congregation stumbled down carrera 3 to our meeting point just next to Las Aguas station. I remember our first day in the city and being warned by our Colombian friends.

“You have to be super careful in this area.” They caution. I realise now that there are two types of Bogotanos: those who go to the centre, and those who don’t. As resident of La Candelaria, I admit it’s not the world’s safest place, especially in the late hours of the weekend, but it’s certainly not the Armageddon that the non-centre-dwelling Bogotanos would have you believe.

Tonight the area around calle 19 is crawling with students. As we walk alongside the station entrance, a young boy is doing his best version of Carlos Valderrama, balancing a football on his forehead. Ahead, a gaggle of tightly jeaned (and I mean jeans a gringo wouldn’t fit in after the age of 9), high-heeled and lusciously haired colombianasare making their way out for the evening. The little fella lets of a wolf whistle. Before I realize the who or the what, I see three heads flick over shoulder, look me and my girlfriend straight in the eye, a giggle or two, and another flick of that dazzling latino hair. Cheeky fecker.

Colombian foreplay is a dance for the patient: many a maladroit gringo has been known to take his chances on the dance floor, succumbing to his insecurities about grinding it like a latino – with very mixed results, but the clear message I take from my friends – go with the flow, and sip your aguardiente slowly – it comes in boxes with little cups for a reason. It’s much more of a social thing than your average vodka shot, or cocksucking cowboy, so embrace the sharing process – you’ll be thankful in the morning.

After sitting on board for 15 minutes waiting for scragglers, and the one Colombian friend who was apparently “just around the corner”, the reggaeton suddenly bursts onto the stereo, and with a collective essssssoooo! we set off on our chiva adventure only 40 minutes behind schedule. Everyone is on their feet, tucked into the middle of the dance floor, hanging on the rails attached to the roof, and swinging with the rhythm as the chiva takes each successive corner. For the less rhythmically inclined (i.e. any of the gringos), there are benches around the perimeter of the dance floor. Any doubt as to whether we’ll actually all fit standing, clinging to someone or something that might be attached to the frame of the bus is instantly quelled by Don Omar’s Danza Kudra and like a bizarre game of twister on wheels I discover there is room, standing, dancing, bumping, grinding, for everyone. Only in Colombia.

A chiva is about as much fun as you should never have, and if you spend the first little while aboard thinking “this really is quite illegal” then, well, join the club. But then what would you expect from a bus with no windows, two poles that run the length of the roof, a pumping sound system and oppressive use of LED lighting?  Originally adapted from buses that serve public transport routes in rural Colombia and Ecuador, they are yet to evolve into a 7-foot Scandinavian stature-friendly version, but chance are you’ll be bumping and grinding and overly invested in trying not to fall over as it takes each corner, for this to worry you.

After 30 minutes of booty-shaking, we disembark at el mirador, half way up to La Calera for a quick pee stop (you won’t find toilets on a chiva!) and little more aguardiente from the tienda next to the mirador. In a city like Bogota, it is so easy to be resign yourself to the insular complacency of the district you live in and all the creature comforts and all the quirks that come with it. But from up atop la Calera, it is very hard not to be impressed by the force of life of a creature much, much bigger than me. The trail of Avenida Las Americas running away into the west, there isn’t a cloud in the sky and not a star to be seen, but for the countless streetlamps and headlights that stretch out in all direction before us. Bogota really is enormous.

We continue with our merry bump-grind-bang-apologise routine for another hour or so, descending into the depths of Bogota’s nightlife in Zona T at a tick before 11:30. Zona T has a life of its own – boutique shopping by day, highbrow ghetto by night. We decide to freshen up at the Bogota Beer Company, on calle 85 and Carrera 13, the bigger of the two outlets in the area and get stuck into some of the universe’s most spectacular fries and blue cheese dipping sauce.

The night is cool and dry and we huddle under a gas radiator on the patio as the clock ticks over to a new day, and the pints slowly sink away. The bell for last drinks rings, and, feeling like there is plenty of life left in the evening, we head for something a little more familiar.

“There’s only so much reggaeton and salsa you can take in one night!” Says a fellow foreigner, and we cram into a cab and head downtown to Radio Berlin. Electronica certainly isn’t mainstream Colombian fare, but those in the know are certainly tuned in to having a jolly old time. Tucked into a basement on Carrera 6 and cale 26, Radio Berlin is the most convenient clubbing smorgasbord in el centro. Two floors, each dedicated to reliably chunky house or a slightly more original salsa-meets-tango-meets-electro, and a very welcome rest area just inside the main door that occasionally catches a fresh breeze.

I lead the way downstairs to the main floor, charging through the crowd to set up shop on prime dance floor realty. My friend, having ignored my aguardiente warnings on the chiva through the early hours of the evening, clings to my arm for a little stability.

“You know,” she says, grinning lopsidedly. “You are awfully hairy.”

“I had to get a special leave of absence from the zoologico.” I give her a wink, but realise, given her current state of mind and curious, tilted frown, that I may have just crossed a very ambiguous line that bounds her reality.

By 5:45, the adrenaline is waning. We ask to leave, but have been under lock and key for over an hour now.

La policia. Says the doorman, gesturing outside. Prowling? Waiting? Searching for people who keep popping out to sneak nips from their bottles hidden in the bushes across the road, I suspect.

We return to the main entrance a little later and this time, the doorman smiles and obliges. The crackling sunshine of a new day confuses me, and the silence of a misty madrugada is welcoming, as we stumble home through parque de la Independencia, past plaza de toros de Santamaria – Bogota’s recently retired bullfighting ring in silence, and without a single gorilla in sight.

Chivas Tours have a range of deals and tours for the curious, the brave and the energetic. Most tours include a trip to La Calera and finish of at Zona T and some packages include a BBQ (una parrilla) and a bottle of rum or aguardiente. If you’re staying at a hostel, chances are you’ll have the opportunity to jump on board one of these bad boys during your stay anyway, just ask at reception.

For more Colombia travel adventures read James’ guide to Bogota here, check out his profile, or follow him on Twitter.

About James Pengelley

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“This place was a hill of shit,” explains Balázs Horváth, as he sweeps an arm across the courtyard of the fashionable Fogashaz bar, which he helped open in 2010. “There is still more work which needs doing and probably – for a foreigner like you – it’s just a ruin pub. But for us it’s a castle.”

Sipping a Sprite under a bright October sky in the very same courtyard – a ramshackle space decorated with potted plants and notably a bicycle suspended from a wooden balcony – it’s hard not share Balasz’ enthusiasm for his project; one that is ambitious even by the creative standards set by Budapest‘s other so-called ‘kerts’ or ‘ruin pubs’. As is typical with such bars, the courtyard forms the central nexus of Fogashaz, whilst the rooms that surround it fulfill a diverse range of purposes: lounges double as art galleries, there’s a Lomography store for analogue shutterbugs, a bike repair and rental shop, a ping pong hall, a mini cinema and even a theatre space. Above the bar, on the first floor, apartments have been converted into a series of artistic workshops, and indeed much of what is fashioned up here is later exhibited on the ground floor.

“This place was a hill of shit… and probably – for a foreigner like you – it’s just a ruin pub. But for us it’s a castle.”

Fogashaz means ‘Tooth House’ and Balazs explains to me a bit more about the history of the building and the conversion into its current incarnation. “Around the early ’50s there was a dental laboratory here and this was the house where different kinds of families lived. All of these places, on the ground floor, were different-sized flats, so we had to destroy the inbetween walls, and of course build the bars. This roof we built, with the help of some technical minded friends (Balazs gestures towards the convertible cover that keeps the courtyard dry and warm during winter, but rolls back the moment the sun puts his hat on). And because, when the last owners abandoned the building all the good stonework was stolen, we had to rebuild the balconies and fences.”

The work was well worth it, at least if Budapest’s young and trendy nightowls are any barometer to measure success by. Whilst at midday no more than a trickle of artsy students are loafing around drinking coffee, when I return by night I can barely get into the courtyard, for the hordes of hip 20-somethings shimmying to the DJ at one end of the patio and queuing up for a gin and tonic at the other.

Grandio’s enterprising owners have come up with the perfect remedy: Sunday sessions of goulash cooked over an open fire and washed down with vodka

If you haven’t guessed by now, I’m on a self-appointed mission to explore the best of Budapest’s kerts – aka ruin pubs, aka rubble bars – but literally meaning no more than ‘gardens’. Naturally I’ve checked myself into the only digs in town that also boast a kert on the very premises, the Grandio Party Hostel, whose leafy courtyard in a charming but run-down building harks back to the humble origins of the scene – when people would simply set up a bar in a disused space and invited the good folks of Budapest to while away the summer drinking beers in the sun. Sadly I’ve arrived in Hungary just as the weather turns nasty, but Grandio’s enterprising owners have come up with the perfect remedy: Sunday sessions of goulash cooked over an open fire and washed down with vodka. Well worth braving the cold for.

Just around the corner from Grandio is the bar that started it all, the granddaddy of the kerts, and one of the most famous venues in the whole of Budapest: Szimpla. Like so many before me, I fall in love with the place the minute I walk in. A huge warren of chambers, surreally decorated, opens up before me as I push through the industrial PVC strip curtains. Amongst the hotch-potch of modern art I find rooms lit by the kaleidoscopic glow of rainbow-coloured lightbulbs and walls adorned by Communist-era TVs playing psychedelic patterns on repeat, whilst the ‘kert’ itself is being used as an open air cinema to screen a black and white movie to two young lovers sitting in a converted car.

…an attractive girl appears with a bowl of giant carrots which she attempts to foist on us for 150 forints a piece.

The minute we settle down in the bar area which serves food (including hamburgers the size of your head), an attractive girl appears with a bowl of giant carrots which she attempts to foist on us for 150 forints a piece. I politely decline, but my friend and guide for the evening Dora, hands over her change and takes a bite out of the oversized veg., so I guess it’s not a tourist gimmick. When I go to the counter to order a round of Hungarian wines, walking past a bathtub re-fashioned as a sofa in the process, I find the bar’s mission statement displayed in the form of a dictionary definition:

szimpla / Szimpla / has been running since October 2001. We keep trying to find out whether it’s possible to support an alternative culture on a profit orientated basis, to survive seemingly endless construction, to have one of the best cuisines in town, to screen self distributed movies in our own open-air cinema, to organise animation festivals, and other such things. The answer so far seems to be: YES, IT IS POSSIBLE.

Modern bar owners like Balasz acknowledge their debt to Szimpla, which they themselves grew up frequenting, but if this place provided the blueprint, Budapest is full of bars which follow the same pattern – that of a complex of bars based around a courtyard – but which give their own twist or emphasis to proceedings. The following night I head out on a kert crawl with the kids from Grandio Hostel, during which I’m introduced to the swanky Doboz. There’s nothing ramshackle about this place: it’s central courtyard is dominated by a vast tree trunk being climbed by some kind of monster made from wooden-planks, behind which a glass-fronted dancefloor plays hip hop tunes and to either side of which lounge areas bustle with good-looking locals. I’m pleased to find Zubrowka behind the bar and order myself a tatanka before getting talking to a film crew who have just clocked off work. The vibe is part swanky nightclub, part rich stranger’s house party. And whilst I don’t want to appear fickle, it’s fair to say I’ve just discovered my new favourite Budapest boozer.

After calling back in on Fogashaz our kert crawl is running out of time so we make straight to the final destination, a nightclub called Instant. With 26 different rooms this place is the biggest of the lot so far, even if it doesn’t really feel like a kert as the courtyard is covered. No matter, there’s three different dancefloors, one playing techno (boring!), one playing indie and electro (too crowded) and a third one playing some kind of dance music I don’t recognise…

“It’s called GLITCH-HOP,” shouts the DJ, before elaborating with a technical definition that goes straight over my non-musical head.

“It’s called GLITCH-HOP,” shouts the DJ, before elaborating with a technical definition that goes straight over my non-musical head. Whatever it is, it’s nothing that my Justin Timberlake impression can’t be adapted too… and so the lucky people of Budapest experience a rare treat for the night. It’s the least I could do after they created some of the world’s best bars.

More Budapest Kerts

Holdudvar
Holdudvar was the first kert I ever visited, during my inaugural visit to Budapest in 2007… and I was instantly smitten. An open air venue on Margrit Island, the place is both glamorous and laidback, with a smooth-looking bar area and dancefloor, German-beer-festival-style benches and, further back, ping pong tables (for friends) and swinging sofas (for couples). www.holdudvar.net

Potkulc
It doesn’t get much more homely than the ‘Spare Key’. There’s a garden outside, but during my autumnal visit I had to content myself with the interior, which resembles the living room of an eccentric aunt. Think purple striped sofas and tawdry floral patterned table clothes. After press ganging a local into translating the Hungarian menu for me, I took his recommendation of brassoi (potato chunks and strips of meat in spicy tomato sauce) and ate it, only mildly bothered by the chain-smoking 30-something in a time-trapped paisley shirt. Authentic. Like any self-respecting kert, there’s a foosball table. www.potkulcs.hu

Durer

Durer is the one that got away. A large venue up by the City Park, it has all the ingredients of a classic kert, and I’m assured you can play table football, table tennis, petanque and even darts in its courtyard/garden, whilst there’s live music and/or DJs most nights. My nightlife senses are tingling on this one, and it’s top of my list for next time… maybe you’ll get there first!? www.durerkert.com

More Info & Tours…

For even more ruin pub recommendations check out the appropriately named www.ruinpubs.com a comprehensive and up-to-date resource on the scene. In fact the same team recently launched Budapest Flow, a project which offers you guided tours around some of the most hidden rubble bars and gardens and an insight into the alternative cultural life of the city.

Duncan stayed in Budapest as a guest of the Grandio Party Hostel, to whom he extends his thanks for both their generous hospitality and invaluable kert-related tips. He recommends only those with a complete disregard of their liver reserve a room there.

About Duncan Rhodes

Duncan is the Editor-in-Chief of Urban Travel Blog, a born and bred city slicker who loves urban adventure, street art, killer bars and late night hotspots. More about Duncan here.

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