Category: Kategória nélküli

There is no doubt that Budapest is gorgeous in the spring. Trees begin to bloom and streets fill up with life. During this time, even the Danube changes in color.

There’s something in the spring air that makes Hungarians unable to stay put. It’s as if all the frustration that built up during the winter disappeared with one deep breath, and after that there’s no stopping — the streets in Budapest are bustling, terraces are packed, and even the ones who are mad at the world throughout the whole year are smiling.

Because we’re not going out to drown our sorrow this time. We’re going out to connect. And that’s a huge difference.

Because when this kind of freedom is in the air — not loud and over the top, but the quieter, more human — an average Friday night can also be one to be remembered.

There’s no need for a big plan, or a special occasion. All you need is to step out the door, and to let down the walls you have built so carefully over the winter.

And then you’re standing at a bar with a drink in your hands, surrounded by strangers, and suddenly they are not really strangers anymore.

And then the moment comes when you realize:

It’s not the night that became better.
It’s us that became a bit more open towards each other.

And after this point, anything is possible…

There’s a moment when the lights dim, the music begins to pulse, and someone steps onto the center of the stage, barefoot or in high heels, hand resting on the metal pole they’ll be spinning around a few seconds later as if gravity had suddenly been switched off. Pole dance, as they once called it, has long since become more than an erotic stage trick: it’s a sport, an art form, a type of self-expression, and, not least, unbelievably hard physical work.

A Glimpse Into the Past – From the Pole to the Spotlight

Pole dancing has roots far older than most people would guess. It wasn’t born in Las Vegas, nor in a smoky American club. The whole story actually began in India hundreds of years ago with a traditional sport called Mallakhamb. Men performed acrobatic movements on wooden poles, strength, balance, and agility, with a fair dose of danger. In Chinese circus arts, athletes used a similar apparatus called the Chinese pole, jumping between two vertical poles like human fireworks.

Fast forward to the early 20th century: to traveling circuses and fairs, where alongside acrobats, dancers began appearing in the tent. They brought seduction into the movement, body language, playfulness, and the crowds loved it. From there, it was a straight path to the burlesque and cabaret stages of 1920s and ’30s America, where the pole finally claimed its place at centre stage.

Modern pole dance is a blend of ancient acrobatics and the celebration of the female body in motion. A bit of physics, a touch of eroticism, and a whole lot of muscle.

The Golden Age of the Clubs – When the Lights Burned Red

The true golden era of pole dancers arrived in the nightclubs of the ’70s and ’80s. Smoky haze, slow-moving spotlights, sweaty men at the bar, and the dancer who knew exactly how to lure and hold back at the same time. The pole wasn’t just a prop; it was a partner, someone to flirt with, fight with, and rest upon.

During this period, pole dance became inseparably linked with eroticism. But let’s not forget: it wasn’t just about seduction, but about control. The dancer was the one in charge, deciding what could be seen and what remained hidden. A good pole dancer didn’t need to strip completely, one movement in the light was enough for the audience’s imagination to do the rest.

Some despised it, some romanticized it, but the world of clubs always carried the scent of money, desire, and freedom around the pole.

A Sport That Muscled Its Way Up

Then came the big shift in the 2000s. Pole dance left the smoky bars behind and moved into fitness studios. Competitions were created, new names invented: pole fitness, pole sport, and suddenly everyone realized this wasn’t just sexy, but insanely difficult.

Professional athletes perform with incredible strength and flexibility: they use their entire bodies and cling to the pole as if magnetized. The sport version has no stilettos, no sensual swaying, only raw muscle work, physics, and pushing limits.

Yet even in the strictest competitions, something of the old magic remains. In every movement, there lingers a trace of elegance, bodily joy, and that subtle touch of “urban sin.”

Eroticism or Art? Maybe Both.
Today, two worlds exist side by side: the athletic pole dance dreamed of as an Olympic sport, and the erotic version that still belongs to the nightlife scene. One is about discipline and strength, the other about playfulness and embodied desire.

But if we’re being honest: both showcase the wonder of the human body. There are no tricks on the pole, everything is real. Muscle, balance, skin, friction, and fatigue all working together to create something spectacular.

Around the Pole, Everyone Is Equal

Interestingly, pole dance has become a form of self-expression. Women and men, young and old, athletes and artists, all find their own story in it. Some seek strength, some confidence, some simply freedom.

There are no taboos in pole dancing. There’s sweat, pain, pride. And whether you’re watching someone glow under nightclub lights on the steel pole, or seeing someone in a gym hanging upside down in perfect stillness, it’s essentially the same thing: the ancient dance between the human body and movement itself.

If there’s a month that makes most people pull their coat collars so high you’d think they never wanted to take them off again, it’s November. It’s that dark, gloomy, “please just leave me alone” kind of time, when it’s pitch black in the morning, pitch black in the evening, and at noon you’re still blinking around in a dim half-light as if someone simply forgot to turn up the sky’s brightness. Weeks pass without a single ray of sunshine, and people become more and more spiritless.

For me, November has always been a sort of grown-up Advent, except instead of opening little chocolate windows, I’m pushing open the entrance door of Marilyn Night Club. Because really, what else is there to do? Outside, the fog settles over the city like an enormous, sedated cat, but inside… well, inside, it’s a different world. Especially at Marilyn.

Marilyn is not exactly a club, nor a bar… it’s more like a warming hut for the soul. You know, one of those places where the moment you step in, the scent alone makes you feel like you’ve come home after a long, exhausting day. Except here no one asks you for anything, you have no more tasks, your only job is to enjoy yourself. And once you become a regular, you know exactly which stair creaks, which bartender girl you’ll end up chatting with, and what kind of music brings each dancer into her real flow.

And in November, all of this becomes even more pronounced. Because during this month the darkness isn’t just outside: it settles into people’s minds too. The year-end rush at work, the cold, the misty drizzle, the icy wind… everyone becomes a little sourer, a little quieter, and a little more inward-turned. Meanwhile, Marilyn feels like the city’s personal light therapy. The warm, golden lamps aren’t harsh or flashy; they’re exactly the kind of glow you feel you needed right then and there. Warm, soft, and comforting.

And you know what’s the most beautiful? That in November, everyone inside becomes more honest. I don’t know why. Maybe because of the darkness, maybe from all the tension piling up under too many layers of clothing, or maybe it’s the half-light, but people let themselves go so much more easily. No need for summer loudness, no need for spring romance, no need for the obligatory winter holiday smile.

In November, you just exist as you are: tired, quiet, a bit withdrawn, but somehow more genuine.

As soon as you sit at the bar, the bartender girl slides your “usual” in front of you without asking. She knows perfectly well that in November you order your drink a little stronger than usual. The lights play softly on the side of your glass, and the music floats somewhere between slow lounge and old-school funk. Not too loud, but just present enough to sweep your thoughts into the room’s own climate.

And when you look up, you see which girl steps onto the stage next. The November lights catch each of them differently. On the red-haired girl, it looks as if a fireplace is blazing behind her. On the tall, long-legged brunette, every curve of her body seems to emerge from the dark itself. In November they also move slower, more deliberately. No rushing, no exaggeration. Just movement, light, and rhythm. Like a slow-motion scene from a film you want to watch over and over again.

In November, the Marilyn feels like the city’s secret warm heart. Night after night the light dies outside, and somewhere inside, another one turns on. And whoever steps in forgets for a moment that the streets are soaked, that the cold has bitten their ears, and that the sun retired at four in the afternoon.

That’s why I love November. That’s why I love Marilyn. Because when the city looks its ugliest, grayest, and most miserable, this club still glows just as brightly as always, maybe even more. And when the door closes behind you, the darkness outside suddenly doesn’t bother you anymore. Because you know that inside the light, the atmosphere, the women’s laughter, the clinking glasses, and that special kind of warmth – not from a heater, but from somewhere much deeper – are waiting for you.

November may be the darkest month of the year, but somehow at the Marilyn it never is. There’s always a little light, a little story, a little movement, a little life. And sometimes that’s more than enough to get you through the cold.

Now, this isn’t something I read in a book; I experienced it myself. A few years ago, when I got the chance to go to the States, I figured, well, since I’m here, might as well see how they do striptease over there. You know, Vegas, neon lights, dollar bills flying, the big American dream, all that stuff we see in the movies. So, I thought, let’s see how real it actually is.

I walked into one of the more famous places: I won’t name it, but let’s just say there were more Bentleys in the parking lot than any other brand. The interior was jaw-dropping: full-on luxury, top-tier lighting, pulsing music, a massive stage, glitter everywhere. The girls were stunning, like they were born photoshopped – every move calculated, practiced, perfect. But somehow… it still felt empty. You know, that kind of beauty you can look at but never really feel. I was sitting there, my whiskey slowly disappearing, the music thundering, a girl spinning on the pole, and suddenly I realized I was staring blankly at my phone.

Not because the show wasn’t good, it was flawlessly choreographed. It just had no soul. Every movement screamed money. I had the feeling that every glance cost ten dollars, every smile twenty, every touch a hundred. And even when one of the dancers came over, I knew she wasn’t really looking at me, she was assessing my credit card limit.

Now, come with me back to Europe: here, striptease isn’t “business.” It’s an art form. In a good European club, the first thing that speaks isn’t the money, it’s the atmosphere. There’s no forced “Hi honey, wanna dance?” with a fake smile, but a natural, playful mood built through conversation, drinks, and good company. The girls aren’t robots: they’re real women. They know how to look, how to smile, and most importantly, they know that seduction doesn’t start when the top comes off, but the moment their eyes meet yours.

And the best part? They don’t rush you. They genuinely want you to relax and enjoy yourself.

And now let’s talk about Hungarian girls… honestly, they’re unmatched. I’ve been to places across Europe – Prague, Berlin, Barcelona – but when I come home and sit down in a Budapest club, it’s always different. Hungarian girls have something you can’t find anywhere else. That Eastern European charm, a little wild, a little mysterious, yet effortlessly natural. They don’t overact; they don’t try too hard. They just are. And before you know it, you’ve forgotten why you even came.

That kind of warmth, that’s priceless.

I remember one night years ago, in a small-town club, nothing fancy, just a dark corner, smoke, soft jazz in the background. A girl walked in, long black hair, moving like she knew every eye was on her, but she didn’t care. She moved slowly, unhurried, silent. She didn’t say a word, just glanced at my glass, then at me, and smiled. And in that one smile, there was more sensuality than in all the glittering bars of Vegas combined.

That’s what Americans will never understand. Over there, the show is about the body. Here in Europe, it’s about the mood. There, you throw your money. Here, you live. There, you watch. Here, you feel. And that’s a huge difference.

A Hungarian dancer doesn’t just undress, she enchants you. She doesn’t just dance, she plays with you. She knows exactly when to look at you, when to turn away, when to leave a moment of silence, just enough for your imagination to keep spinning.

In the end, when you pay for your drink and step out into the night, in Vegas, all you’re left with is an empty wallet. Sure, you get an experience for your money, but it’s all surface-level, pure spectacle. Nothing lasting.

In Hungary, when you leave a strip club, you carry with you a smile that pops back into your head days later,  and chances are, you’ll want to go back.

So, if someone asks me where striptease is better, well, I already know the answer. The real magic doesn’t live in neon lights. It lives in a glance, in the scent of whiskey. And when someone says Hungarian girls are the most beautiful in the world I just say: that’s not a myth. That’s a fact.

We like to say that Jäger isn’t really booze, but more like medicine.
That claim might even hold up… if everyone didn’t have at least one wild story featuring Jäger as the main culprit. There aren’t many crazy tales where medicine plays the villain, are there? So, let me share one of my own wild nights! But first, a little Jäger history.

Jägermeister is one of Germany’s most famous herbal liqueurs, first introduced in 1935 by Curt Mast, a liqueur maker from Braunschweig. The name literally means “Master Hunter,” a nod to German hunting traditions, also reflected in the stag with the glowing cross on the label, inspired by the legend of Saint Hubertus and his vision of a stag bearing a cross between its antlers. The recipe blends 56 herbs, spices, roots, and fruits, including cinnamon, ginger, star anise, and saffron. The mixture is first soaked in alcohol, then aged for months in oak barrels before bottling.
Originally intended as a digestive aid, Jägermeister became a cult party drink among young people in the 1970s and ’80s, especially thanks to the “Jägerbomb,” a cocktail mixing Jäger with an energy drink. Today, the brand maintains its traditional roots and bold, spicy flavour, while standing as a modern symbol of nightlife.
History lesson over. (I assume some of you skipped that paragraph, but I’m glad I wrote it anyway.)

I’ve got this friend who drinks only Jäger. Every single time. Never anything else. Even the chaser never changes, it’s always beer. Jäger and beer, always and everywhere, no matter the occasion or the setting. He’s the definition of brand loyalty: the kind of guy ads don’t even target, because he’ll never, ever switch to something new.

You probably know someone like that too… same haircut for 30 years, same barber, same car brand. The kind of person who never tries a new dish at a restaurant, who avoids anything unfamiliar like it’s contagious.

He’d just turned fifty, so we decided to throw him a surprise birthday party. He wasn’t thrilled. We were, because we thought it was time to drag him out of his comfort zone.
The plan: dinner at an Indian restaurant, followed by a distillery tour and tasting at the Zwack Unicum factory, and to finish the night: a strip club. We figured Unicum was close enough to Jäger in spirit, and he’d appreciate a new herbal mix to try. He didn’t. He’s not exactly the enthusiastic type.
He told us to go to hell in front of the Indian restaurant, but we convinced him to give new flavors a chance – “it’s time for your B-side,” we said. Eventually, he gave in.

At the Unicum tasting, he wasn’t sure whether to take it as a prank or not, but he actually said the plum-flavored one “wasn’t that bad” – which, coming from him, was practically high praise.

Finally, we headed to the Marilyn Night Club, the last stop of the night, which I had very deliberately scheduled for Jägermeister Night. (Seriously, keep an eye on their event calendar. You never know when a theme night will come in handy!)

That’s when Laci finally lit up. Not at the sight of the dancers, not at the strip show, not even at the 90s hits we’d requested especially for him… it was the Jäger. And the draft beer. Laci’s happiness is simple.

By that point, we were all relaxed and decided to rent out one of the big mirrored private rooms to continue the party, after all, it was a birthday. That’s exactly what those private rooms are made for.
We moved in with a few dancers (and more Jäger), and the show began. Everyone was having fun, except Laci, who looked pale and restless.

I don’t know how much time passed – time doesn’t really exist in that place – but suddenly we realized Laci was gone. Nobody was exactly sober by then, so it took us about half an hour to decide to look for him. The club was crowded, and a small crowd had gathered near the shower stage. That’s where we found him – showering happily, in his underwear, flanked by two dancers.

The rest of the night is a blur, but I clearly remember the moment Laci’s wife showed up.
Turns out he’d gotten sick from the Indian food-Unicum-Jäger-beer combo and had called his wife to come pick him up. After that, he’d gone to the bathroom, thrown up, rested a bit, felt better, and thought it would be a great idea to join the shower show.
He just… forgot about that phone call. And, apparently, for a while, that he was married.

Martini isn’t just a drink… it’s an era in a glass.
Elegance, confidence, and a touch of mystery in every sip. Its origins are somewhat unclear: some say it was born in mid-1800s California, when a gold miner ordered a cocktail called the “Martinez,” which later evolved into the martini. Others claim it was named after the famous vermouth producer Martini & Rossi. Whatever the truth, the martini quickly became the symbol of refined drinking.

The classic recipe is simple: gin and dry vermouth, stirred with ice, not shaken, at least before the James Bond era. In the 1920s and ’30s, it was the star of the jazz age and the speakeasy bars; the martini glass became forever immortalized in the hands of film noir heroes. Later came the variations: the vodka martini, the dirty martini with olive brine, and even modern sweeter twists. Martini is more than a drink: it’s a statement of style. In one glass, you have timeless coolness, refined taste, and that effortless something no other drink can imitate.

I remember my parents loved martinis when I was a kid. They’d take out the lead crystal glasses they’d gotten as a wedding gift, and I swear even their posture changed as they carefully prepared for martini night. They’d invite over Julika and her husband, Feri, from next door. Julika worked in some office, Feri was a simple factory worker.

My parents always made a big deal of it. Dressed up, laid out the lace tablecloth reserved for special occasions, and placed a deck of Hungarian playing cards in the centre. The table was lined with glasses and pastries, and whenever I tried to grab one, my mom would slap my hand away: “Those are for the guests. Eat the ones by the edge of the kitchen!”

We weren’t rich – just living in a small one-and-a-half-room apartment on the eighth floor – but my parents liked to create a bit of Dallas glamour on certain nights.

I loved it when guests came. Julika was always kind, convincing my mom to let me stay at the table to deal the cards. And Feri? He let me taste the martini.
“He’s a big boy now,” he told my disapproving father.
“Let him try it, this sweet crap won’t hurt him,” he said, with the blunt wisdom of a factory man.

And that’s how my martini career began.

Later, of course, I realized it wasn’t my drink at all… but back then, it made me feel elegant and special.

So, when the Marilyn Night Club announced a martini night, I felt a wave of nostalgia. I hadn’t touched that “sweet crap” in years, so I thought, why not? To my surprise, it tasted better than I remembered, maybe because this time, I was surrounded by luxury, beautiful dancers, and actual martini glasses.

The evening started slow, only a few regulars besides me – though I had arrived early. But soon, the place filled up. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one feeling nostalgic, because everyone seemed to order martinis.

Around midnight, the extra show began: two new dancers joined the Marilyn crew, and they were absolutely sensational.
It turned into one of those effortlessly pleasant nights – nothing dramatic happened, people came and went, and I just sat at the bar, soaking in the relaxed elegance of it all.

Maybe that’s the real secret of the martini: you sit down, take your time, and savor the night – one you don’t have to rush through.

The evening already felt promising at the entrance. A small Italian flag fluttered on Marilyn’s door, and as I stepped inside, the bartender greeted me with a cheerful “Buonasera”, as if I’d just walked into a Venetian café. Every guest was handed a glass of prosecco – “A gift from the house, signore” – while Italian tunes floated through the air. By the time the chorus came around, half the room was already singing along.

I sank into one of the dimly lit tables facing the stage, where a black-haired, olive-skinned girl was moving lazily – yet with just enough intent to keep every pair of eyes fixed on her. The regulars at the bar nodded to the beat as if Italian night was their weekly ritual – and I suspect it actually was.

The girl who later joined me came with a larger Portuguese group and introduced herself as Gina. A classic Mediterranean beauty: dark brown hair, almond-shaped eyes, and a smile that carried both “we’re here to have fun” and “careful, I might get you into trouble.”

“So, do you like these Italian nights?” she asked, sipping her prosecco.

“More than I probably should,” I grinned. “In Italy, something always happens that either makes me shake my head afterward… or smile for days.”

“Have you been there often?” she leaned in.

“Too often,” I laughed. “Though there was one trip that topped them all.”

Gina rested her chin on her hand, watching me with that look of someone who knew this wasn’t about a church visit. I leaned back, letting the prosecco and the music pull me into that old summer…

It all started when a few friends and I headed down near Rimini, staying in a little apartment. The first evening we just strolled along the seaside promenade, but the next night we ended up in a beach club. Every second track was Eros Ramazzotti, the rest were irresistible dance songs that pulled the girls straight onto the floor.

That’s where I met Laura – long, reddish-brown hair, green eyes, sun-kissed skin. I waited until she ordered an Aperol Spritz at the bar, then approached with a “Ciao bella.” She laughed, switched to English immediately – probably sensing my Italian vocabulary was about three words.

The night rushed by: dancing, laughter, drinks flowing, and that closeness where you stop hearing the music, only her voice. Later, when the crowd had scattered, we walked down to the beach together. The sand was still warm, the water lapping softly at our feet. We sat and talked about everything – favorite foods, movies, and of course, why Italian men adore Hungarian women… and the other way around.

Then she kissed me. Not tentative, not testing – but the kind of kiss that carries the whole Mediterranean summer with it. We stayed until dawn, and when I finally returned to the apartment, the guys just shook their heads:

“Wouldn’t be you if you didn’t vanish with a girl on every trip!”

I wanted to see her again, but the next day on the beach I spotted her with another man – and their body language left no doubt they hadn’t just met. Our eyes met once more, and that was it.

“So,” I finished, back in Marilyn’s half-light, “when I heard the Italian music here tonight, Laura and that summer instantly came back.”

Gina smiled and leaned closer.
“You know, I have a few stories like that too… but I’ll only tell them over another prosecco.”

“Then let’s get another,” I said, signaling to the bar.

The music had shifted into a lively Italian funk, a different girl now commanding the stage, but Gina stayed beside me. Glasses refilled, and we’d reached that moment of the night when you know there’s nowhere else you’d rather be.

At Marilyn’s Italian night, there was no need to travel all the way to Rimini – just a glass of prosecco, a beautiful woman, and the right song to relive every memory of a long-ago summer in Italy. And who knows… maybe a few years from now, I’ll be telling someone else about this night, just the same way.

Out of all the summer events, this one might have been my favorite. Anyone who followed the Marilyn Table Dance bar’s program calendar knows just how many fantastic shows and giveaways awaited guests every Thursday. And if you didn’t keep track – well, shame on you, or at least you should regret it a little, because you missed out on some truly amazing nights!

Now I’m talking to those of you who’ve never quite worked up the courage to visit Budapest’s most prestigious strip club.

What awaits you when you step inside?

First of all, you’ll find yourself in a luxuriously designed venue – however good you imagine it, multiply that by at least ten.

Here, music never stops. But not radio hits with ads, like in some mediocre café or restaurant. No! Every night, a live DJ plays the best tracks.

As you head toward the bar, you’ll pass the stage, where you can admire the pole dancers – usually one at a time, though it’s not uncommon to see two on stage together. That’s when you take a good look around and realize you’ve basically landed in heaven straight from Kálvin Square. The door to Marilyn feels like the wardrobe to Narnia – opening into a whole new world. You look around, and everywhere you see beautiful women. They smile, greet you, and make you feel better than you have anywhere else before.

On the right-hand side of the bar, you’ll spot comfortable sofas and low tables. Yes – these are the Table Dance spots, and trust me, you absolutely need to try it when you visit, because it’s truly an unforgettable experience.

Prefer a bit more privacy? That’s no problem either. Marilyn offers several private rooms where the show is just for you. The prices for private dances are displayed clearly – there’s no scam, no tricks, you get exactly what you asked for.

And what about the drinks – surely, they must be crazy expensive, right? Wrong! Brace yourself: the prices are totally average. In fact, compared to other Budapest venues, I’d even say they’re refreshingly reasonable. And what hasn’t changed in 32 years: here, half a decilitre is still half a decilitre. No ridiculous 2cl shots like most other places, where they don’t even bother to list it properly.

“But isn’t it weird to have an erotic dance from a stranger?” you might think. “Wouldn’t that feel soulless?” Again – no! The girls here are friendly, approachable, they chat with you, listen, entertain, and make you feel completely at ease in their company. They’re natural in any situation, and truly excellent hosts.

“What if the place is overcrowded?” you wonder. Well, yes – sometimes it is packed. But that’s actually good news: you’ll find yourself in parties unlike anything you’ve ever seen. You might stumble into a bachelor party where the atmosphere sweeps you along, and suddenly you’re clinking glasses with strangers, congratulating the groom, and dancing with them until dawn. And yes – I mean dawn. Marilyn doesn’t close at midnight like most clubs; it stays open until 4 a.m.

“Okay, but surely there aren’t any women in the audience,” you might argue. “Women don’t go to strip clubs, so it can’t be a place to meet people.” Wrong again. Female guests are quite common here! I’ve seen birthday girl squads, mixed groups of friends, even all-female crews who came by before heading out partying. Don’t think for a second that a high-end strip club like this attracts only men.

Still making excuses? “What if I want to bring a big group – like fifty people?” Relax. Marilyn can comfortably host up to a hundred guests at once.

Running out of excuses? Maybe you’re thinking, “But what if it’s too hot inside?” Don’t worry – the bar is fully air-conditioned. And if you’re still feeling hot, well… take a shower! Yes, really. On the shower stage, accompanied by a gorgeous dancer.

Worried your underwear might get wet? That’s covered too – you’ll get a brand-new, dry pair as a gift.

So seriously – what are you waiting for? Keep an eye on the events calendar: every Thursday has a theme night, and the fall program looks just as exciting! Believe me, if you want a carefree, unforgettable night out, there’s no need to think twice about where to go. Marilyn has everything it takes to become your go-to spot – just like it became mine. Trust me, and give it a try!

This was another one of Marilyn’s events – back in June! Celebrating freedom is always a good idea, no matter what kind of freedom we’re talking about. Although in this case, it was clearly about the summer, and the liberating feeling that comes with it. And of course, the kind of freedom that only a strip club can offer.

When was the last time you truly felt free?

For me, summer always brings back that feeling in a kind of magical way.

Once you’ve passed the big 5-0, memories start to catch up with you. They come like waves at Lake Balaton’s shore – sometimes just fragments, other times vivid and sharp, as if it all happened yesterday, even if it was 30 years ago. I think it depends on what brings the memory to life. Summer, in particular, is a deeply nostalgic time. One familiar song on the radio or a glass of wine on a terrace, and I’m instantly transported back to the mid-’90s, when hangovers didn’t exist yet – there were only nights, and the “here and now.”

It must’ve been around ’95. Summer was in full swing, and I was barely out of my first flat, living half-asleep, working part-time, figuring out the city life. But as soon as the first real hot weekend hit, there was no question: off to Balaton. It wasn’t a decision anyone had to make – it was just the norm. I know, these days it’s all about Croatia, but back then, for young people, the Hungarian Sea was the destination. You just went wherever you were invited and let things unfold from there.

We rented a little wooden cabin in Zamárdi with the guys. Nothing fancy – it barely kept the rain out. But nobody cared about the accommodation. What mattered was being close to the water, the girls, and the bar. You could rearrange that order however you liked.

The daily plan was simple: sleep until noon, spend the afternoon at the beach, maybe have a beer at the pier – but the real life began after dark. There was this place – I think it was called “Wave” or maybe “Seagull.” I don’t even remember clearly. What I do remember is that we ended up there every single night. There – and next to a certain Vivi, who… well, she was summer itself.

Vivi wasn’t your typical blonde bombshell. She was more the chatty, smiling, dangerously cute type, whose words hit you like a spritzer – feels light at first, then suddenly knocks you out. One night she literally bumped into me on the dance floor. I said something like, “This must be fate,” she laughed, and from that moment on, there was no stopping us.

That’s how it started – and that’s all it took. No weeks of texting before a date, which 90% of the time ends in disappointment. This was the good old offline world.

We danced through the night, sharing half of our life stories – the other half we left for the next day, though neither of us really kept that promise.

At dawn, we walked down to the lakeshore together. There was still some buzz – not like during the day, but a few couples on blankets, a few sleepy fishermen by the water. We sat on the dock with our feet in the lake, the air thick with the smell of fried fish. Then Vivi looked at me and said:

– “You know this is just one night, right?”

– “That’s exactly why it’ll be worth remembering thirty years from now,” I replied.

There was no drama the next day, no emotional goodbyes, no phone number exchange. There wasn’t any social media back then to look each other up later. All we had was the memory. But it stayed with me – just the way it should: perfectly.

Lake Balaton (or any waterfront in summer, really) hasn’t changed much since then. We have. I don’t jump in at 4 a.m. anymore – I’d rather sit on a bench, watch the sunset, and eat my lángos without cheese and sour cream, because my stomach can’t handle the extras these days. But whenever that real summer scent hits me – that inexplicable scent of summer – I think of that night (and a few others too), and how many summers there were when tomorrow simply didn’t exist.

These spontaneous weekend getaways are much rarer now. I’m not as impulsive as I used to be, and it’s not easy to round up a group of friends on short notice. People change. At fifty, going out for the weekend doesn’t necessarily mean you’re out to meet women. Not that it’s a problem if the night ends that way – and sometimes it still does. I don’t regret a second of how I spent my younger years. If I had a kid in their early twenties, I’d probably tell them the same thing: live those years freely, because they never come back.

Youth isn’t about your age – it’s about the feeling that anything is still possible. And what better way to define freedom than that?