A pizza parlor rave

“Cinderella style.” “Cinderella style.” Incessantly and loudly, I proclaimed my plans to be in bed by midnight. A responsible athlete in anticipation for a 7 AM half marathon the next day, I was infallible to the temptations of any Budapest ruin bar. A spring race meant a Chicago winter training, which roughly translated to no training and hoping for the best. 

However, two glasses of wine at dinner and suddenly Cinderella style devolved into trashy American Abroad Style.

And thus we walked for miles in pursuit of this venue. As we reached it and as the night eeked hauntingly closer to 1, my heart sank: the line stretched around the block. I decided I could stand to be disappointed, but I could no longer stand to be so parched. 

And what started with the simple act of buying a water bottle turned into a transporting of worlds. Karma, is that you?`

We started at a run-down pizza parlor adjacent to the ruin bar, and yet beyond the stained checkered floor was a curtain that belied flashing lights and pumping music. 

We walked through the curtain as I had my Lion, Witch, and the Wardrobe moment. Except instead of encountering a mystical land and centaurs, I entered a labyrinth of tents and bars — and mostly just encountered coked out tourists and horny British men on Stag trips (granted the two aren’t mutually exclusive). 

And thus my new refrain began: “I can’t believe this is a pizza parlor!”

Plot twist: it wasn’t. 

As we finally left when it was pushing 4 AM, there in large letters was the name of the bar that we’d attempted to go to. We were there—it just never dawned on me that a run-down pizza parlor would not likely have this extensive of a bar set-up.

Turns out my karma would indeed come, but it wasn’t the free entrance: it was the consequences of the five mojitos that this free entrance allowed. 

But the Bus from Hell is its own horror I’m milking for further content.