Where do old statues go to die? It’s an interesting question, especially when you see historic footage of people hurling statues of Lenin and Stalin down from their podiums, or more recently, dismantling statues of Saddam Hussein. It’s a symbolic gesture, but what can be done with these testaments of a by-gone time?

While a lot of statues have been destroyed, discarded or re-used, others have been collected and displayed. In Lithuania, there is the controversial “Stalin World” (Grūtas Park) – which “unfortunately” I haven’t visited, but I’ve read that at its launch, creator Viliumas Malinauskas described it as combining the ‘charms of a Disneyland with the worst of the Soviet gulag prison camp.’  The launch date was an April 1st… ouch!

But I have been to the only Communist-era statue museum in Central Europe, Hungary’s Szoborpark. The collection of the Statue Park, located just of the outskirts of Budapest, is amazing to behold. Exhibited statues include Lenin, Marx and Engels, Dimitrov and Ostapenko as well as memorials to the Republic of Councils, the Communist Martyrs and the Soviet Soldier. All in all, there are 42 works on display – with half being large-scale works, and the rest, busts and memorials. There aren’t any images of Stalin, except for his boots, all that remained when Budapest’s sole Stalin statue was torn down and chopped up during the uprising of 1956.

I went there on a cold, grey day – many years ago now – but the memory remains fresh in my mind as the first winter snowflakes began to fall as I stood amongst the monolithic monuments.

It raises interesting questions of whether to destroy or preserve these works. Szoborpark was conceived of as early as 1991, and as such the statues were able to be collected off the streets and squares of Budapest. The park was opened on June 29, 1993, to mark the second anniversary of the Russian troop withdrawal from Hungarian territory. Grūtas Park, on the other hand, opened in 2001, so a lot of the collection had to be recovered from junkyards and extensively restored.

But as Lithuanian sculptor, Dr. Konstantinas Bogdanas, puts it: “You can’t reject those past 50 years because intelligent people made art and it’s still art, whatever its flaws are.” As well as the countless Lenins shaped in his career, the 75-year-old artist is more recently famed for creating the Vilnius city centre (a world first!) bust of whacky rocker Frank Zappa.

I’m very intrigued by global cultural traditions regarding bathing.

And not just a simple shower, but the birch-branch toxin-releasing slaps in a Russian banya or a sojourn in supposedly curative mineral waters. On this, I promise I will later elaborate, because like nineteenth-century Russian writer Mikhail Lermontov, I believe that ‘the air in Kislovodsk is conducive to love’ (love for Narzan mineral water and the Caucasus Mountains, as it was in my case, not for Georgian or Muscovite princesses).

But I’ve just been told by a friend about his visit to Budapest, which, scandalously, didn’t include a trip to the Turkish baths. My, my, my – I’m still reeling.

Stunning Budapest is located atop a network of warm thermal and cool mineral springs, and nothing beats a soak in her calcium, magnesium, sulphate and fluoride rich waters to ease away muscular aches and pains.

One is spoilt for choice in the public spas that function as meeting points for the locals of the Hungarian capital. There are genuine Turkish bathhouses that date from the 16th century Turkish occupation of Hungary, or fin de siècle Secession palaces, akin to ‘bathing in a cathedral.’

The Gellért Baths are the most renowned of Budapest’s baths. Built according to Belle Époque tastes, these extravagant tubs reveal a lot about Hungary’s imperial history. An attitude of elitism is maintained through a comparatively hefty price tag (the other baths in the capital receive government subsidies), so I settled for just having a peak in at the lobby.

Seeking solace in subsidised spa, the Király Baths are a far cry from the bright light and regal mosaics of the Gellért Baths. While this dark, damp and domed Turkish bathhouse may be on the opposite end of the Budapest bathing spectrum, it definitely provided one of my most memorable experiences in Hungary.

A small and unassuming bathhouse dating from 1565, the Király Baths are almost hidden from the view of the street. Once inside, visibility is minimised in the steamy darkness. Some light attempts to penetrate the thick steam through little holes in the cupola, but really, all there is to do is sit, relax and perhaps even marvel at the anatomical aesthetics of age. Everyone gets their kit off and soaks away their sorrows. The baths are open for both men and women, but on alternating days.

Inside, the building is revealed to be octagonal, and the main pool assumes this shape. There are also smaller pools containing either icy water for post-sauna dip or hot water to further fortify the experience. The only respite from the heat of the hammam steam bath is provided by condensation, cooled from the cupola and dripping back down in big, fat plopping drops. Something sprung to mind at the time about centuries of bacteria – but grubby, dark and damp is all part of the magic of Király Baths.

Another hostel memorable for its “close encounters” is in Budapest, Hungary. I can’t recall the name, although maybe for defamation purposes, it’s better that I don’t.

Budapest is another city in which I am quite happy to venture out of a morning at first light and not sit down until plonked upon my bed of an evening, about to take off shoes and socks and retire for the night. The Hungarian capital is divided by the river Danube into Buda and Pest, with Hapsburg imperial and belle époque influences abound.

But back to the hostel… if you could call it that for it was more of a two-bedroom apartment. In fact, that’s precisely what it was. One bedroom became the girl’s dorm, and the other, the boy’s dorm. The owners, a young goth couple, slept in the “hostel common room” (or lounge room) at night on a folding bed. There were even moments where the woman could be seen shaving her boyfriend’s back in the hostel bathroom. That provided an intimate bonding experience, to say the least…

My visit coincided with that of a particularly funny American lad, who was prone to flights of fanciful imagination, especially on seeing the girls/boys rooms which reminded him of childhood sleepovers. So, logically, we continued this train of thought to build huge forts with all the blankets in the hostel and then launch pillow attacks on the rival fiefdom.

We felt obliged towards such behaviour…

That trip also contains the golden memories of drinking large bottles of very cheap beer with the metro station bums (after ditching some others who had settled in a rather ritzy wine bar – one drink and we were out of there to see how the other half drank). Perched around a kiosk stand we chatted on in no mutually comprehensible language, except counting from one to ten in Russian and “Russell Crow… Gladiator” followed by repeated thumbs up.

An interesting evening had by all, I’d say.

I must explain why Eurolines was my key to surviving my first year in Europe, although really it’s very simple.  Accomodation.  I thanked my lucky stars the day I found that Eurolines had a two month unlimited travel pass, night buses, and a low-season discount.  What seemed perfectly appealing did have its drawbacks though.  The accommodation was a bus seat (although being able to sleep quite compactly, I could crawl up in foetal position and get a good night’s sleep if I had both seats to myself), and “low-season” meant “middle of winter”, so it was quite chilly for the numerous 4 and 5am arrivals.  But what I would do is spend 5 nights in the bus, waking and wandering the cities to which I had been spirited overnight, and then a few nights in a hostel for a shower and a proper bed.  I loved it.  If I couldn’t get a ticket to somewhere, I’d just go elsewhere.  I think my itinerary read something like: Budapest – Amsterdam – Dublin (as there weren’t any tickets to Stockholm when I first wanted to go, I spent the weekend in Ireland instead) – Amsterdam – Stockholm – Copenhagen – Paris – Madrid (rest, relax… shower…) – Andorra (a day of skiing in the

Pyrenees, why not?) – Barcelona (more time…) – Frankfurt – Warsaw – Krakow (even more time…) –

Prague.

  I’ve overcome my initial attention-span deficit and I am now able to stay in a place for longer than three weeks without getting itchy feet.  Maybe I can stretch it to four weeks now… 

But no, I was recently able to stay in the one place for a year and a half – however, as it was Russia, the biggest country in the world, I could quite contently “trot” at my own pace for vast distances and through diverse cultural and geographic regions without having to deal with the bureaucratic visa rigmarole of leaving Russia’s borders.  But more about that later…

An obvious side-effect of a Eurocentric education is an inkling to set forth across the continent, mapping out places where events from history books took place in Technicolor and not just in fine-print packed into paragraphs and henceforth crammed into young heads. This curiosity more often than not develops into the more serious condition of wanderlust, and then, as I’m lead to believe, into dromomania, a passion or uncontrollable impulse to wander or travel, a malady (or blessing) by which I’m seriously afflicted.

The first time I went alone to Europe was when I was 18. Having finished high school and saved my pocket money, I was determined to somehow stretch this meagre amount to last for a whole year without working. Thanks to numerous relatives, generous students willing to share their dormitories, Eurolines and Eastern Europe, this was possible. I was also lucky enough to have well-travelled parents, with well-travelled friends, who had sent their teenage sons and daughters to stay at my parents’ house, and thus the doors of Europe where open for me.

My favourite places in Europe – what I think of as the majestic golden triangle of Vienna, Budapest and Prague; countries of the former Yugoslavia, the Baltic states and Scandinavia, anywhere in Southern Europe blessed by an ocean, and most definitely anywhere with either a picturesque mountain range or a comprehensive recycling system or bicycles as a recognised and supported form of public transport. Have I covered it all yet?