Endless pursuit of greener grass

I tottered along the cobbled pavements of Budapest, heels already pinching my feet and making them scream. On the quiet street there were no drunken stumbles, no base thumping with the beat of my heart and no queues of people filled with anticipation. Disguised, the façade looked like an ordinary house - I nearly walked straight past the potted flowers lazily hanging outside of Szimpla Kert.

The first bar of its kind, Szimpla Kert is set up in the Jewish Quarter of Budapest’s seventh district. It is the mecca of all ruin bars. The bar (quite literally) against which all other ruin bars are judged.

When walking through the inner courtyard it was hard not to feel like a hipster walking through the set of Macklemore’s ‘Thrift Shop’. We strolled from the quiet residential area into a hip, artsy and funky bar. Bizarre and eccentric pieces of artwork were fighting each other for the spotlight and our attention, hookah tables were adjacent to wine bars and abandoned hairdressing chairs were the prime location for selfies.

The atmosphere instantly charmed me as the twinkle of the fairy lights caught my eye, flirting ever so slightly. I resisted the urge to flirt back as Keely took my hand, my strawberry daiquiri taking the other. We pushed through the accents, thick in air, as we tried to find a seat.
Any seat would have done – a Trabant car, a lawn chair, an armchair – all plausible seating, and all taken up by loud hand gestures of excitable travellers and quiet whispers between lovers.

In search of somewhere to rest our feet we meandered through the maze of rooms. Our eyes met bicycles hanging by the stairs, lampshades fit for your grandmother’s boudoir, and a tub made for two. Everything in the bar gave the impression of having a past life, having secrets and a history that we had to tease out.

As we sat in the garden covered by a canopy, we soaked in the atmosphere the same way you would soak in the sun at the beach. The rooms that were once doomed for destruction and dereliction breathed life and laughter.

The ruin bar is a celebration of the quirky. Nothing and everything has its own place and the bar radiates perfection in the imperfections. The rejected furniture, kooky artwork, and weird antiques – all outcasts in a past life – are warmly accepted and loved by the eclectic people sat around. The retro and mismatched are embraced and encouraged.