Let's be an Eastern European city!

I am the local liquor. I am made by straining an old boot through gasoline. Or at least I taste that way.

The traditional way to drink me is to take four consecutive shots and then light your belch aflame while singing the National Anthem.

I am a quaint peasant dance involving 17 virgins, a nose flute and the pepper harvest.

I am Soviet-era architecture. To look upon my meaty trimmings is to suddenly understand why so much of South Brooklyn looks like a wedding cake threw up.

I'm consonants!

I am the noted national poet Igryr Vkrytqyuprnmx. My best-known poem "Klln derf Yudn" is still popular with beer garden crowds.

I'm fermented fish heads served on a bowl of cold oatmeal.

I am the spectacular subway stations. Because the one train is usually about an hour late so you might as well have nice surroundings.

I am Bratislava! Come visit me this winter! We have many foods consisting of cabbage and sausage. Don't ask what sausage is made of. Better not to know. Also, do not worry if cabbage glows a little. It is normal, for sure. Many times we sing the song of the glowing cabbage which totally existed before new chemical plant collapsed into river.

I’m the absence of Jews.

I'm the black per--

[R9] Ironically, I am the presence of levels of antisemitism that would make a Klan member blush

I am soot. Sometimes I am grit on the window. Sometimes I am a dessert topping.

I am the grand department store KVVDRAV, fronting People's Plaza Square. I am full of old boots for the local liquor.

I wouldn’t call it ironic, R11.

I am tasty wiener.

I am a nightclub in a basement. I consist of 62 dented folding chairs and a phonograph record.

I am the one third of the city that has never rebuilt and bears the scars of bombing 75 years ago. The new city built around me as I was too expensive to restore.

I am lace curtains.

I'm the bulwark against invading muslim hordes in the middle ages and the reason Western Europe still exists.

I am peasant girl in red dress bearing gift of ample plums.

I am the opera house shaped like a cement waffle iron.

I am new skyscraper built by the local blood-drinking oligarch. I am made of brightly colored plastic chrome. I contain luxury hotel and casino. Also? Severed head and limbs of former business partner, cleverly concealed in foundation.

I am a variant of Turkish coffee that is one of the remaining cultural influences from decades of Islamic rule.

I'll knock your dick in the dirt.

I'm the perfectly legal homophobia and gay-bashing.

I'm the refreshing lack of negroes.

I'm the level of hatred for black people so profound you'd think Hitler was Nigerian.

I am an ancient babushka wearing a babushka and bringing home my dinner in a cloth bag made from a second babushka.

I am Vlad the Unseated. I was the ancient ruler of this realm. My reign involved atrocities beyond the telling of them. I have inspired three shitty death metal bands and a terrorist movement.

I'm still nicer than almost any US city with better looking and healthier young people.

I am the beloved local candy, KRAK. I am made by combining molasses with roofing tar.

I am Google Earth.

I am the easiest way to prove that R29 is wrong.

I am where Bel Ami gets its twinks.

Hey - sucking dick means protein calories.

I'm the hooker working the streets who made it BIG time in the U.S. of A.

I'm a bag of potatoes.

I'm fat fingered Americans trying to order a Miller Lite at the bar.

I'm these shoes, worn by the hotel maids (working in a hotel that hasn't been renovated since 1985).

I am the People's Boulevard. I am essentially a thirty-lane road cut through the oldest part of the city and lined with housing made out of leftover yams.

I am the Baroque cathedral. I am either alone and unloved or hastily restored by the local fascists.

I’m the burgeoning art scene in the ugly, desolate new town. I was mentioned in a “48 hours in....” article. When you go there, you will find a local photography studio (closed that day) and a tiny hipster cafe run by a guy who lived in Berlin for a few years.

I'm now an EU member and can live and work in 27 diverse countries.

I am the local pop diva. I am essentially a slightly dumpy call girl wearing clothes mafia housewives would think a little tacky.

I sing in English as I'm hoping for crossover appeal with a currently (and to remain so) non-existent American fan base, but my grasp of the language would be exceeded by the average Japanese T-shirt.

My new single, "Kaka for Love Bug" is due next month!

R40 Not the UK soon.

I'm the murder rate much lower than any US city of comparable size.

I'm Boris, seething with rage.

Hi Boris!

Hi [R43]!

I'm the fact that between the concentration camps, the power plant meltdown and the brain drain, there's nobody left to kill.

I am the Soviet-era sardine-canning factory. For 50 years I made sardine cans.

If we ever see a sardine, boy will we be ready!

America keeps killing transwomen and sex workers and Datalounge doesn't care.

I’m the old lady who punched Lindsey Lohan when she tried to kidnap my son.

Gee Boris, you seem to be short-circuiting there! You okay?

Putin give you a cup of tea recently?

No SJW's here. Feel free to joke and laugh.

I'm a Central European city often mistaken for Eastern European.

I'm the person who doesn't know that most EE countries don't like Russia and Russia doesn't like them.

I am the local musical instrument a variation of the bagpipes.

When I am played, I sound like someone is blowing lava up a donkey's asshole.

And I am never not being played.

I am the local posh restaurant. I am the scene of many a shootout between warring organized crime factions. I blame the local thugs' fascination with "The Godfather".

I am one cubic ton of chandelier.

I am the virulent contempt with which the locals treat every single person they encounter every single fucking day of their lives, whether visitor or fellow citizen.

I'm 80s hair.

Thanks, I'm doing really well!

Hi everyone, I'm [R27].

When I said I was an ancient babushka wearing a babushka and bringing home my dinner in a cloth bag made from a second babushka, I didn't mean to imply the cloth bag was made from a second old lady, only dead. No, the cloth bag is made from a second head scarf. My lunch is the second old lady, only dead.

I found her in the elevator. Bit of a blast from the past. We used to call it Leningrad pork.

I'm Braaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaszil...

Where hearts were entertained in June...

I am the truth and it was the Soviets and USians who bombed most of Eastern Europe.

R48 That was in Paris and I was from the Middle East!

I’m disappointed, as I came here to sample the prized local hog maw or knoblewurst.

I am the swastika-painted, kicked-over stones in the Jewish cemetery.

I'm a middle-aged, porcine, 4/10 American beta male who hasn't been laid since the 1980s without paying for it. I came here to find a mail order bride.

[R64] President Trump! So good of you to stop by!

I'm the Holocaust memorial that leaves out the fact that it was the local homegrown fascists who actually did much of the rounding up.

I'm the opposition press. I've been put out of commission by the current "populist" regime but since there are multiple brands of cola for sale, as well as what appear to be election posters, American visitors will report that all that talk of a fascist revival is overblown.

I am the tour of the Old Jewish Quarter.

Every American Jewish tourist who has ancestors from this part of the world will book me, thus guaranteeing a steady stream of income. And now that some hedge fund manager from Westchester has pledged money to restore the Great Synagogue, we should be able to ride this gravy train till our retirement.

I am cement. Everything is made of me - mattresses, breakfast, toilet paper, the local currency.

Watch me crumble under the onslaught of minus 35F.

We're the male order brides! Also known as "the entire female population, God willing."

We love you short time.

I am the fact that despite the twee pre-war architecture and occasional facsimile of a decent pastry shop, I have never been anything but a crude backwater inhabited by hobgoblins.

I am a vast pile of horseshit, otherwise known as [R60].

I'm the myth used by the local dictator to fan the flames of hate.

I'm the honorable judges, investigative journalists, novelist-philosophers and academics who have either fled the country recently or met with several unexpected tragic accidents.

I'm the glamorous nightlife. I consist of getting drunker than one normally does during the glamorous daylife.

I am a surviving descendant of the local barony. I have returned to restore the castle on the hill. My presence casts a shadow over the city below not unlike that of Vlad Dracule. There is a reason for this that you will find out very, very shortly.

I am snow. I am eight feet deep.

I'm the 7 drunk guys from Manchester in the town's Irish pub. We're here on a stag weekend and we chose Plovdiv because it was the cheapest Ryanair flight available. We don't know or care what country we are in.

If you do some blocking you will see that three posters are making up the bulk of responses in this thread.

I am the unintelligible gibberish that is the local language.

I'm the sad, shabby dilapidated formerly communist housing building, with dirty windows.

I bring sadness to tourists who thought this way of life was completely over and just a stereotype.

[R78] What of it?

I am Jackie Sparkles, show director at onliest gay bar in town. I do lip-syncing featuring anonymoose pop diva at R41, as well as superstar like such as Cserháti Zsuzsa, Kelly Marie, Penny McLean, and Shelley Brassey.

I'm r60 with his "USians" bullshit that will never catch on.

I am the overall creepiness of the woods surrounding me. Some of the more fanciful tourists attribute this to Nazi atrocities - "You can still feel it, can't you." In reality, it just toxic waste for the sardine factory. And, yes, you can feel and … smell it.

I'm a perfect phone call, perfect I tell you, as perfect as the tiny little fingers that dialed me.

I am Olga Ooh-la-la, beautiful Soviet spy.

Or at least I was back in 1943.

Now I sit at the back of a bar with a glass of absinthe before me all day.

The locals call me whore.

I'm the Soviet jet airliner from the '60s turned into a diner.

I'm Melania, taking a break.

I'm a recruiter for BateBait, a porn company based out of Encino, CA. Searching for new gay4pay talent in the alleys of Butfukistania.

I'm an eye-catching Art Nouveau shopfront with an intact "whiplash" interior. I was once a fashionable coffee shop where the city's demi-monde gathered. I am now either the same crap as every other dingy place or a nasty "high-end" cocktail bar catering to unbearable and overdressed American, German, Russian and Chinese visitors.

I'm a vast Utopian Soviet mural done in bold colors and geometric shapes. I was intended to usher in a new era of fraternity, plenty and order.

I am a farty little dented kiddie-car that passes for the taxi service. I was made out of the box a Mercedes comes in.

At first the stench of smegma was overwhelming, but I'm getting used to it.

I'm a brain-dead Seven Sisters junior on her JYA, skipping about completely fascinated by the few last shreds of 18th century opulence and marveling at how real and noncommercial everything is. I wonder why everywhere can't be this way. Ooh, look! Cobblestones!

We are Magenta Malocclusions, local musical act competing of Eurovision Song Contest. Please be listening to winning entry, "Our Hams Grow Lovely by the Bay"!

(P.S.: We eject R41 for being really fat whore!)

R83 I read Usians a lot in the local paper, maybe it will never catch on in the US but it has already caught on in other countries.

It is a good way to seperate the US from the rest of the American countries. Canadians, Usians, Mexicans, etc.

But those other countries aren’t called America.

I'm a stray dog. If you make eye contact with me, I will follow you for blocks

I’m Candie’s shoes of 1980s vintage, worn by the more fashion-forward ladies.

I'm 1993, the year many DLers last set foot in Eastern Europe.

They will be horrified to learn I happened almost 30 years ago!

But don't worry-- I look like I happened 20 years ago. (Or that's what everyone tells me.)

I'm the Ticketing Officer ready to pounce when you've inadvertently forgotten to validate your train ticket

I am the local language which consists entirely of consonants and overprinted symbols that creat more consonants. We have no vowels, no sub vocalizing. It’s entirely buzzing, trilling and making an odd coughing noise.

Printed, I look like two cats mated on a keyboard.

I’m the slice of pizza bought at the train station and eaten with a generous squirt of ketchup.

I am the living room walls painted chartreuse and the dining room walls painted lavender in four different apartments* shown to me, a prospective tenant, by a rental agent.

*in four entirely different buildings

I am the restaurant wine glass styled after a beaker in a lab since customers will order wine by the milliliter.

I'm the faded, ugly wallpaper.

I'm bullet holes from the last student protest.

I'm diesel exhaust.

Drink deep!

I'm an astounding Constructivist/Art Deco/Bauhaus mish-mash dreamed up in 1922 by a beautiful but fevered revolutionary architect who died young in 1923. Although I am easily the best building in the entire city I am treated with indifference by the general public and sheer hatred by the corrupt developers, who wish to see me replaced with a bright pink apartment complex containing many, many, many white marble living rooms.

I’m B.O., beer guts, hairy warts and hairy armpits and no jawline. I populate the male and female population generously.

I am also a track suit. I am worn to all special occasions.

I'm a popular cable access program called "Gypsy's Kitchen".

I am the animated statues of two guys pissing in front of the Kafka house.

[quote]I am the local language which consists entirely of consonants and overprinted symbols that creat more consonants. We have no vowels,

I am the Finnish envoy, sent by my government to negotiate a bi-lateral trade agreement under which we would export our surplus vowels in exchange for some much needed consonants

That was very funny R113

Comments like that are what makes DL special

I am the city’s one gay club that’s only open on Saturdays. I am on a basement, pitch black, with a smattering of pale sour shrieking twinks, and music so deafening the landlord is suing for brick cracking.

^post Industrial chic

I'm the Australian tourists. Somehow we can walk into any of the local bars and giant cans of Foster's Lager magically appear.

I’m the ennui.

I have free health care, Europe wide passport free travel, and don't have to deal with black people.

I'm black people. I don't have to deal with that cracker cunt [R119].

Sometimes it's the little things in life.

I'm the vast decaying bathhouse used as a porno set. In the film I am full of glistening, moaning, interwoven twink flesh. In reality I am full of foot-rot and copper stains and the ugliest, hairiest, angriest straight men you ever saw.

I'm licorice tea.

I am a costly lace handkerchief that - vell, yah, yah, it is in her style - but it is not hers. I know my lady's things.

I'm the scenic 18th century bridge spanning a tributary of the Danube. One of the last remaining examples of East European rococo. The grime on me dates from that time and is the reason I have not collapsed.

Tourists are advised to wear gas masks when crossing and not to look over the railing.

Enjoy Bratislava!

I’m the bored Gypsy woman who’s begging for coins yet is scrolling away on a smart phone.

I'm the fragrant frowsy middle-aged female travel writer on yet another sponsored freebie. I couldn't score an Emirates trip to gush about the romance of despotic desert kingdom air-conditioned malls, so I'm having to dredge up tosh about this soul sink. Last night at my wits end I allowed myself to be ravaged by a lumpenslav. It was the size of a cucumber. The breath smelt of gerkins and generational depression. This is what I, Freeda, the female Hemingway of airline journals, has been reduced to.