The Girls of Russia and the Iron Curtain Countries

If you are an enterprising young male, you may discover that the lands lying behind the relatively retractable Iron Curtain boast an uncommonly rich and assorted source of untapped femininity. From the vast Russian steppes to the rocky seacoast of Dalmatia, you will find, if you prove to be a persuasive and discerning voyager, the warmest of welcomes from a seemingly infinite variety of women whose only constants are a passionate fascination with all things American — regardless of East-West relations at the moment — and an admirably uncomplicated sense of their own femininity.

Today, any man who can afford to spend some $1500 can be his own jet-propelled Marco Polo anywhere this side of the Urals. In planning a tour of East Europe, however, bear in mind that the ease with which you will be able to meet girls is in almost direct relation to the varying degrees of personal freedom which prevail in each of the countries. There are, of course, common political and economic policies binding together the U. S. S. R., Poland, Hungary, Czechoslovakia, Yugoslavia, Romania and Bulgaria. However, you should no more expect to find a kind of supranational homogeneity in these countries than you would in Great Britain, France, Germany and Italy because of their partnership in the Western Alliance. Nevertheless, one rule of thumb does hold true for all countries in the Russian orbit: by and large, the girls take a visitor on his own individual merits and not as a representative of his country's foreign policies. There may be an occasional militant miss who wants to argue out affairs of state, but don't try to engage her in a political dialog unless you are sure of all your facts and figures. You can be certain she'll be (text continued on page 116)Girls of Russia(continued from page 106) sure of hers. Speaking of facts and figures, it is perhaps fitting to lead off our study of Eastern European girls with some data on the country containing the largest number: the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. Covering one sixth of the earth's land surface, with 208,826,000 people (20,000,000 more women than men), and with more than 60 separate nationalities, cultures and languages, there is a positive embarras du choix when it comes to girls. Even in the days of the czars, Russia was a singularly insular land — more so, indeed, than it is today — fearful of foreign visitors and loath to allow her subjects to venture abroad. In any case, as an American visitor you will discover, with a sense of pleasant surprise, that your exotic nationality produces prodigious attraction and curiosity on the part of Soviet girls — and conversely, their exotic charms will have the same effect upon you.

Moscow, with over 5,000,000 people, is the largest city in the U. S. S. R. Girls from all over the Soviet Union flock there for the same reason that American girls flock to New York: to take advantage of superior educational and professional opportunities; in short, to succeed. And because you may not have the time, money or requisite travel permits to savor the pulchritudinous representatives of the U. S. S. R.'s myriad national groups at first hand, it may be best for you to concentrate your time and energies in Moscow. There you will discover the slim, exquisite Tadzhikistant ballet student; the merry-eyed, beautifully proportioned Ukrainian actress; an olive-skinned Georgian high-fashion model; a flaxen-haired electronics engineer from Latvia. The image of the husky Stakhanovite lass who could drive a tractor as well as any man is fading fast in the U. S. S. R. Not because girls don't drive tractors anymore, but because today the inroads of make-up, perfume, beauty parlors, and uplift bras can be seen — and appreciated — everywhere. The blatant Victorianism of official Soviet sexual morality is more apparent than real. The Russian girl who, in public, is so crude as to allow her boyfriend to hold her tightly around the waist may incur hostile glances and even slurring remarks on the part of passers-by. Nevertheless, the basic sexual attitudes of Soviet women — and men, for that matter — are sensible and healthy mainly because sex education is, as in Scandinavian countries, an intrinsic part of the Russian curriculum. Moreover, birth-control information and service are available at free public clinics throughout the Soviet Union. In Russia, abortion is not the shady, dangerous and costly matter it is in the United States. Any woman who finds herself saddled with an unwanted pregnancy may have a legal abortion performed free and safely at a special clinic at the hands of justly famous Soviet physicians — 75 percent of whom are women.

Although you may encounter girls in such — by American standards — unfeminine occupations as ship captain, ditch digger, road builder, construction engineer or cosmonette, you will be agreeably surprised to find they all share a remarkable quality: soft, yielding womanliness. There is none of the edgy competitiveness of their American career-girl sisters. These girls may handle a rivet or a shovel all day, but when they look up meltingly into a man's eyes, there's no doubt as to who they think is the most.

Getting to know Moscow women is an ego-boosting, if somewhat stamina-challenging, experience. Russian girls probably possess the most soulful, expressive eyes of all womankind. They may be speaking to a man about the weather, but their eyes engage in an ancient and infinitely more interesting form of communication. By and large, however, Russian girls on the streets are not prone to give the eye to a stranger even if they find him attractive. As a matter of fact, you may get the uneasy feeling on the first day in Moscow that you're invisible. But your first words of actual conversation with a pretty Russian girl will prove how wrong you are. Although she may come to terms very rapidly with her own — and her new-found friend's — desires, she feels no relationship is complete unless wrapped in great clouds of passionate and romantic declarations, preferably poetic. She demands all the 19th Century trappings of romantic sentimentality. A Muscovite speaking of Russian love observed cynically, "A couple may know, and expect, that their affair isn't going to last more than two or three days, but both will carry on as if it's the passion of their lives. Tears, lengthy protestations of love, tears, lengthy discussions of why it can't last, more tears. When they do break up they promise to meet again to talk it all over — and they usually do, with lots of sobbing."

It is perhaps well for a visitor interested in a romantic checking out of Soviet womanhood to forego the picturesque charm of a subzero, snow-covered Moscow — first snows come in early October — as many a beautiful friendship has gone unconsummated purely on the "where can we be alone" question. Soviet society, despite (by Western standards) remarkably liberal laws on divorce and abortion, frowns on the casual encounter. No overnight visitors are permitted in guests' hotel rooms, and those trying to stay later than ten have often been expelled bodily by an indignant and husky female hall porter. The apartment situation for Muscovites and practically all other Russians, for that matter, is still extremely tight, and most girls share tiny flats with their large families. There are the big wooded parklands, but vigilant policemen patrol regularly to keep young couples from dalliance.

The one foolproof technique, operative only in the summer months, is the overnight boat trip up the Moscow Canal to the Volga River. Khimki, Moscow's port, links the capital with the White Sea, the Black Sea, the Caspian Sea, the Aral Sea and the Sea of Azov. For five dollars you can buy yourself and your female companion an admirably private, first-class stateroom with all appointments aboard a large, modern river steamer. Discreet, efficient room service brings vodka, caviar, iced borscht or chilled sweet Georgian champagne.

In Russia it is considered perfectly proper for a visitor to ask a woman to dance without an introduction. Remember this, especially, when you pay a visit to the official yet chic and popular Communist Youth Clubs, where, curious as it may seem, some of the best jazz bands and the most attractive girls can be found.

In keeping with the general Y.M.C.A. aura in Russia, all night life tends to come to a halt at the witching hour. Only on special occasions like film festivals or international youth events are all-night clubs opened up — nominally for the distinguished foreign visitors unaccustomed to the early-to-bed way of life.

A fine place to strike up an easy friendship is the huge modern outdoor Moskva swimming pool situated in a large green park with a fine view of the Kremlin's golden onion-topped turrets glinting in the sun. As the mercury often rises close to 100 degrees during the Moscow summer, the pool is an excellent spot to keep cool while deciding who will be your evening's companion.

An agreeable prelude to a late-evening stroll or midnight boat ride may be dinner at the Uzbekistan Restaurant. There, in a dimly lit garden by a softly bubbling fountain, the romantic, wailing strains of a native Uzbek orchestra furnish appropriate mood music. Sure to delight a Moscow girl is an invitation to dinner at the city's best restaurant, the Aragvi, where the cuisine is Georgian.

It is the proud boast of the Soviets that they have done away, once and for all, with that reprehensible concomitant of capitalism, the prostitute. By and large that is true, but the discerning visitor will note a small number of young women who ply their trade in the late evening near some of the large hotels in the vicinity of Red Square.

(continued on page 136)Girls of Russia(continued from page 116)

If time and pelf permit, take a trip to the lush, mountainous, subtropical vacation spots that dot the Black Sea area deep in the Soviet southland, just a few hours from Moscow by jet.

In the ancient streets of Tbilisi, the inland capital of the Georgian S. S. R., dark-eyed beauties flash their eyes in a far more direct and less sentimental way than their northern sisters. In this 2400-year-old city, you will find the girls heady, impetuous and outgoing. Their famous sense of humor is spontaneous and infectious: a Georgian woman considers it perfectly feminine and natural to communicate her high spirits in public as well as privately. The same outspoken and unashamed individuality is expressed by Georgian peachniks in their clothing, which they manage to tailor and wear so dramatically that the generally uninspired patterns and colors of Soviet mass-produced fabrics are overcome by sheer imagination. In the larger cities of Georgia, it is not at all uncommon to see women casually but chicly gotten up in a manner that is refreshingly reminiscent of Greenwich Village.

In the sun-soaked Black Sea resort of Sochi, just north of the Georgian Republic, the mountains tumble down to the almost tepid sea in one of the world's richest profusions of subtropical and temperate vegetation, making it a nature lovers' paradise. And since the girls of Sochi are ardent nature lovers, it would behoove you to do the natural thing: engage them in bikinied swims along the endless stretches of beach and, as the afternoon wanes, delight them with an invitation to take a romantic coastal romp into the colorful and beckoning mountain greenery; there, in Garden-of-Eden-like surroundings, you can be sure of a perfectly private picnic à deux. From that point on, the appropriate singing and swinging in the soft wilderness is up to you.

Farther north, on the Crimean Peninsula, lies the lovely, rather smallish and Mediterraneanlike port of Yalta. Unlike Sochi, which attracts vacationers from all over Russia, Yalta is less crowded and slower paced. Its famed beaches boast as many bikinis as St. Tropez, and the girls are as warm-blooded as their Gallic counterparts. The city and its girls have a distinct Southern European quality, which is a relaxing contrast to the collective grimness and sameness of many of the larger cities in Northern Russia.

Incidentally, for the pleasure-bent tourist, as opposed to the sociologically curious traveler, the capital cities of the Iron Curtain countries and their more cosmopolitan resorts are the places to go, since the hinterlands do not offer the customary amenities and the language barrier may prove nigh insurmountable.

The girls of Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania — those pre-World War II nations on the eastern shore of the Baltic Sea that, after the War, were incorporated into the Soviet Union — belong to several distinct ethnic groups. The inherited physical characteristics of their ancient Indo-European ancestors — firm, lithe bodies, brown hair and dark eyes — distinguish them from their more numerous Slavic sisters.

The lasses of pre-Christian Latvia and Lithuania are said to have practiced a rather suggestive variant of Old Norse nature worship. Their special deity was Agle (Aa-gley), the maiden queen of the garter snakes. Perhaps that explains why, should you visit those lands now, the young womenfolk may seem to possess a delightfully pagan quality, one that — thanks to centuries of myth and mysticism — is imbued with worship of nature and her phallic symbolisms.

Hundreds of years of successive invasions introduced another feminine prototype, however, seen in the Baltic states in large numbers: tall, long-legged, light-haired and azure-eyed girls impressive in their statuesque charm. These are the descendants of swashbuckling marauders from the north, Teutons and Scands of old who came, conquered and settled down.

In the eastern and northern areas of Latvia and Lithuania the girls are cast in a more earthy mold. There, the full-blown proportions of the peasant lass are in evidence. A striking example of those ample proportions may be gleaned from statistics released by the Latvian ladies undergarment industry. The sizes of mass-produced brassieres manufactured for home consumption run up to 58.

As you progress northeast along the Baltic the evidence of Scandinavian and Teutonic heritage diminishes; the girls are darker, not so tall and a bit more plump. By the time you reach Estonia, which lies just south of Finland, you will begin to notice that the women bear the Asiatic stamp of their racial forebears, the Finno-Ugrians.

On your northward journey, you can catch a microcosmic glimpse of the entire Baltic feminine spectrum by swimming or beachcombing anywhere along the ten miles of dappled strand that front the Gulf of Riga below Skulte. There, you will be delighted to find that the belles of the Baltic, whatever their origin, sport and sun on the clean, white stretches of sand with bikinied abandon.

Warsaw is only an hour and a half away from Moscow by jet, but it is much like entering another world. The Polish Communist regime is rather exceptional in that it allows for a considerable degree of intellectual independence. There are no concentration camps and political prisoners in Poland today, perhaps because the whole population, including the governmental apparatus, had its fill of such horrors, first under the Nazis, and then, after the War, until Stalin died in 1953. The present head of state, Gomulka, was himself a political prisoner during that period because of his relatively liberal, "deviationist" convictions.

The Polish girl, possibly the most vivid and attractive in all Europe, has taken full advantage of the political thaw: no matter from what section of the country she hails, basically she's from Missouri. She doesn't automatically buy the official party line and dogma any more than an American coed swallows the pious moral pronouncements of her dean of women. By temperament she is defiantly individualistic, colorful and explosive, quick to demand and exercise all the rights and privileges of feminine emancipation guaranteed her under the Polish constitution. For example, she may vote and hold political office; she may receive without cost as much of an education, in any professional area, as her intelligence and aptitude qualify her for; she may bear children, or not, as she chooses — birth-control clinics are state operated, as are abortion facilities. If she is pregnant and wants to work as well, she will receive a 12-week confinement vacation with full pay, and when she returns to her job her child will be cared for in a free nursery.

In any Polish city or town you will meet numerous girls whose svelte appearances seem to belie their depth of personality. But should you ask one of them to tell you about herself, she might begin in careful, well-accented English, "We Poles are all quite mad. We say and do what we please, and we even surprise ourselves."

But don't be too titillated by the fervor of her declaration, at least not yet. For if she senses that you detect the irony that underlies her rhetoric, she may continue in tones less extravagant and cocky, but more quiet and assured: "That's our romantic self-image, of course, and in the poetic sense, I suppose it's true. But the War forced us to come to our senses. We saw how much needless death and suffering was caused by indulging in one of our fond but tragically outmoded national delusions: the one that confused individual acts of defiance with real bravery. Too often, during the Resistance, we would throw ourselves blindly at the Nazis. We had to be shown the hard way that to practice such irresponsible heroics was simply self-destructive. Now we're trying to turn the passion behind that rage — our Polish madness, our imagination — to the realistic tasks we all face. We have learned to be more serious about matters of life and death."

The Polish girl you will run into will probably be an urbnik rather than a farmer's daughter. She will definitely not consider that Küche, Kinder und Kirche are the be-all and end-all of feminine existence. Anyone so Victorian and gauche as to suggest that such conditions of servitude are virtuous and proper, will witness just how quickly a pair of smoldering Polish eyes can explode with indignation. One could propose nothing more indecent to her than the prospect of spending the rest of her days slaving in a kitchen and for a spouse and progeny.

The best thing to do in the unlikely event that she brings up the subject is to gracefully cop out by inviting her to dinner, and later, to a club. In such surroundings, what will impress her the most about you—besides the intrinsically attractive fact that you're an American — is your cultural hipness. You'll certainly advance your cause of what might be termed more intimate cross-cultural interpersonal coexistence if you share her enthusiasm for, among other things, jazz, contemporary painting, literature and ideas. Concerning the latter, you will be delighted to know that her views on sexual freedom are apt to be as advanced as yours. That doesn't mean, however, that she's a pushover. However, if between drinks and dances you happen to speak to her about the latest riffs of Dizzy Gillespie and Ornette Coleman, the recent canvases of Francis Bacon and Pablo Picasso, and the plays, books and films of Edward Albee, William S. Burroughs, Ingmar Bergman, Jack Gelber and Stanley Kubrick, then your Drang nach Osten will be well under way.

The flavor and pacing of the rebuilt Warsaw, a city of a million, are urbane, sophisticated and cool. The latest in American jazz and Paris fashions often hit town faster than they do in any of the big Western European capitals. As a result, Polish girls, with few exceptions, seem chic and hip. The happy visitor standing in the middle of Nowy Swiat — New World Street — is apt to feel almost overcome at the sight of so much slim, spirited beauty moving about him. For the Polish girl makes no bones about it if she finds a stranger in town to her tastes. On the street, in a café or restaurant, her remarkably luminous eyes tell a man just what she is thinking. And most Polish girls can think of nothing finer than getting acquainted with an American. The opportunities for meeting are manifold. The pretty girls have a leisurely sort of program that makes it relatively simple to meet them. Although the Polish working day is from eight to three, somehow Poles always seem to be found in cafés at all hours holding forth on life and love. From one to three in the afternoon, the Warsaw beauties put in an appearance at PIW (pronounced PIFF) on Foksal Street, just off Nowy Swiat, a small bookshop cum espresso bar. A tall, graceful blonde fashion model may let the visitor buy her a small cup of bitter coffee. The tiny red-headed jazz pianist may suggest that you accompany her to the next stopping spot on the afternoon circuit, the café of the Hotel Europenjski, the newest Warsaw hostelry.

There, in a tea-for-two atmosphere (complete with a pianist tinkling out Tea for Two), you can decide to pursue your acquaintance, or else move across the street to the Bristol Café. After a few drinks — strong, sweet Polish tea — and cheesecake (the likes of which would put Lindy's to shame) or, if you choose, icy Polish vodka in fresh orange juice, you may decide to transfer your activities to one of the many cellar "caves" for dancing. You will find ambiance to spare, and a plethora of high Slavic cheekbones, aristocratically boned figures and inviting dark eyes.

For an even wider selection of eligible coeds and young career girls, you might stroll down from the Stare Miasto to the Studowa, a huge barn, behind the Senate Building, now a dance hall. In the gloaming, some three hundred or so young Poles twist, hully-gully and surf to relays of exuberant teenage bands. Even the Young Communists' Club, the Hybryde on Mokotowska Street, despite the possibly grim overtones of the organizers, is one of the swingingest places in town. The two-story building offers dancing with a jazz band that has toured the United States, a television lounge, a bar, an American jukebox and records, and a billiard room.

Although these three boites usually fold up at midnight, you need not fear your night is over, for Warsaw offers a fine selection of other clubs complete with vodka, live music and women. The Kameralya on Foksal is spirited, but here perhaps it is well to arrive with companion in hand. The Grand, Bristol and Europenjski night clubs, on the other hand, give you the opportunity of finding female friendship in the shank end of the night with little effort on your part.

The aristocratic tradition dies hard in Poland. After a few days in the Polish capital you may catch yourself beginning to give polite brief bows to girls you meet, and may even learn how to kiss a lady's hand with style. Even the most emancipated of Polish girls still appreciates the Old World treatment. But apart from this taste for tradition, the Polish miss is resolutely living in her age and has no patience for the sentimental trappings so dear to Russian hearts. There is perhaps but one somewhat theatrical detail you might bear in mind regarding the girls of Warsaw. In general, for an affair of the heart to really count for them, there must be some public furor — preferably a good row in a café in front of all her friends, winding up in her being slapped or slapping, tears, recriminations and storming off, to be followed, of course, by a tender reconciliation. Even the most even-tempered of girls may force themselves to provoke a good scene in public, lest they be considered too bland and uninteresting by their compatriots.

You may get the impression that all Polish girls know English, and you will be constantly reminded by them that the second largest Polish city is Chicago. Many girls have traveled to France, Italy and Great Britain, and speak at least one or more of those tongues reasonably well. The most thoughtful items you can bring along to promote a friendship here are a few copies of a fashion magazine, such as Mademoiselle or the Parisian Elle. The problem of finding a place to be alone with your companion is no more difficult to solve than it is in any of the Western European capitals. After a number of whirlwind days in Warsaw you may find yourself at the Orbis State Tourist offices extending your visa so you can continue your researches among Polish girls by going off for a ski week at Zakopane, high in the Tatra Mountains, or for a weekend's sailing on the Mazurian Lakes. Both resorts, in their respective seasons, offer the best possible selection of sportive young creatures.

Perhaps it would be appropriate to conclude our encomium for Polish womanhood with one recently written by Jan Brzechwa, a contemporary Polish writer who chose the women of Warsaw as his prototype:

"I have seen the women of almost all the European capitals: the Roman woman believes in a man's love only if he is ready to commit a crime for her, a Viennese demands madness, a Parisian — foolishness. Warsaw women do not ask me to commit crimes for them, or acts of madness or foolish things. They are satisfied with a bunch of violets and a bit of tenderness.

"I don't maintain that they are more beautiful, wiser or better than the women of other countries and cities. They are simply different. They have a difficult life, they are weighed down by a burden of duties, they have jobs, do their housework, bring up their children; and the men are only too ready to shift to their shoulders all the inconveniences of life. But despite this, nothing can deprive the Varsovienne of her feminine charm, attractiveness and elegance. And all this is achieved unnoticed, by the way, out of nothing. Simply — a bit of sunshine, a thimbleful of the sky, a pinch of sweetness, a few smiles and two lovely legs."

Poland is not the only freewheeling Iron Curtain country. Yugoslavia, land of the Slavs of the south, in many respects barely stays behind the Curtain. With two alphabets, three religions, four languages, five nationalities, six republics and a good ten minority groups, Yugoslavia is easily the most heterogeneous country in Europe. The marks of eight centuries of successive invasions and conquests by the Turks, Austrians, Germans, Hungarians, Bulgarians and Italians can be read in the faces of the people and the architecture of its cities.

Before World War II, it was unthinkable for "nice" Yugoslav girls to work and earn their own livings. Because of their enforced idleness, they were largely family-oriented and subject to severe sexual and social restrictions.

Today, the girls of Yugoslavia are much freer to go and do as they please, since most of them now work and support themselves. They tend to exercise their new-found freedom, with the knowledge that their liberated status is backed up by voting rights, liberal marriage and divorce laws, state-operated birth-control and abortion clinics, as well as free nurseries for working mothers. The girls indulge their right to travel, as well, either alone or in mixed groups. If you make it to such "in" Adriatic resorts as Opatija, near the Italian border, you will find them indoors in clubs, where striptease and roulette abound, and outdoors on the lovely, quiet, cliff-backed beaches, where they abound at their bikinied best.

For five dollars, you can fly from one end of the country to the other in less than two hours. But don't forget the stops in between: from the snowy St. Julian ski-resort mountains, to the Golden Rocks at Pula on the Istrian Peninsula, to trim, Hapsburgian Zagreb, to the exotic minarets of Montenegrin hamlets by the Albanian border, you will encounter extraordinarily hospitable, easy-to-meet girls. In fact, don't be surprised if a girl insists on paying for not only her own drink or meal but yours as well, at least the first time you go out together. It is not a question of suffragette mentality, but simply an example of the deep sense of hospitality that Yugoslavs traditionally display.

Just about all the girls you are apt to meet in cities like Zagreb or Belgrade will speak fairly fluent English. Zagreb, with its Austrian air, has the distinction of being the only city in the Soviet Bloc to offer strip acts, in the boite at the Hotel Esplanade. The girls of Zagreb dress with an elegance quite Italian, which comes from frequent trips across the nearby frontier into Italy. If you take your lunch on the terrace of the café across from the National Theater, you may soon find yourself in conversation with a buxom, sugar-spun blonde student from the nearby dramatic academy. In the evening you can join the student and young professional crowd that gathers atop Zagreb's one skyscraper, at the intersection of Ilica and Trg Republike, for a drink, dancing, and a marvelous view of the city. The tail end of the evening can be wound up on the terrace of the Hotel Esplanade. There, you need not tax yourself unduly, for both completely nonprofessional and professional girls, equally lovely, abound. Afterward, if you're still troubled by insomnia, try a slivovitz in the cellar bar for a late-late nightcap.

Belgrade, the country's capital, is much more reminiscent of the days of Turkish hegemony. The girls, accordingly, are rather shy, though not as shy as in Sarajevo, which is still largely Moslem. There, a man's attentive gaze will still cause a woman to draw a scarf about her face. Belgrade's Hotel Metropol, one of the finest inns of the country, offers an excellent opportunity to view, in a leisurely fashion, some of the less shy Balkan beauties on the terrace or in the bar. After an initial drink — the bar offers the best in Scotch, Russian and Polish vodka as well as the native, powerful slivovitz — you can invite the young lady for whom you have bought a drink to dine at the Venecija restaurant on a terrace projecting out over the rushing Sava River. There you will be served marvelously grilled fish marinated in herbs. For the night owl who has not hooked up with anyone earlier, there are always the resources of the Lotus Bar, a colorfully rowdy spot in the center of the city that stays open to dawn.

The beaches, and the film and music festivals that go on all through the summer on the country's coast, bring forth not merely the finest flower of Yugoslav girlhood, but an impressive gathering of the more adventurous girls from Germany, Great Britain, France, and Italy.

An hour by jet from Belgrade, neatly equidistant from London, Paris, Istanbul, Moscow and Stockholm, sits Budapest, dubbed Queen of the Danube. In the last few years, the city has regained much of its pre-War gaiety and flair for high living. If you stop at the elegant Gellert or Duna hotels, situated on opposite banks of the Danube, service will be impressively courtly and expeditious. Every meal — with some of the best cooking outside Paris — is served up to the accompaniment of whirling, passionate Gypsy violinists zooming among the tables. From the moment you land at Ferihegy airport you will make the delightful discovery that Hungarian girls firmly believe that the brassiere is a thoroughly undesirable article of dress — most of them, you will find, scorn it. It is a stimulating experience to sit on the pleasant terrace of Vörösmarty, the smartest pastry shop of Budapest, and watch lovely young women gently joggle past.

Like the Poles to the north, the Magyars produce a svelte and sophisticated breed of girls with, as an over-all generalization, the prettiest legs in Eastern Europe, bar none. Easy encounters are nearly limitless in Budapest, with its long history of the dedicated pursuit of pleasure. The Gellert Hotel offers the joint attractions of a large swimming pool, complete with hot springs and artificial waves, and an ample terrace fronting on the Danube. There, you are more than likely to meet a sprightly fashion model or pert strawberry-blonde dancer or a pale-lipsticked movie actress. The late afternoon holds much promise at two cozy cafés on the fashionable Vaci Utca on the Pest side of the Danube: the Anna and the Kedver boast a host of young ladies of a generally bohemian or beatnik turn who will be more than pleased if you ask them to dance.

As part of getting acquainted, take your date on a drive up to the Vörös Csillag Hotel atop Szabadsaghegy for dinner and dancing on a terrace overlooking Budapest and most of the adjoining countryside for 50 miles.

For night owls, Budapest has a collection of agreeable, cosily dim spots for a last drink and dance, like Pipacs, near the Duna Hotel, or the Club of the Gellert. Most of the hotel bars in the late hours have their share of unattached, eminently available girls.

One of the curiosities of Budapest is the singularity of the Hungarian language, unrelated to any of the Indo-European tongues. One of the effects of the language is the strange sensation of being in one of those make-believe Central European kingdoms dear to the hearts of 19th Century novelists and B-picture producers. Fortunately, since so few visitors can master Hungarian, most Hungarians speak English or French as a matter of course.

One of the more agreeable prospecting areas for the visitor is Margit-Sziget, St. Marguerite's Island, set in the middle of the Danube between Buda and Pest. In the island's big park is an open-air swimming pool which brings forth the trim bikinied figures of the daughters of the rulers of the New Class.

The capital of the ancient kingdom of Bohemia (Czechoslovakia) is Prague, less than a jet hour from Switzerland. It is generally considered a very close rival of Paris for the title of Europe's most beautiful city. Complete with a fairy-tale castle, palaces, gardens, winding cobble-stoned streets, low archways, and gaslit bridges, Prague immediately delights the eye and spirit. A strong Germanic flavor permeates life here, with feather beds, whipped cream, and heel-clicking promptitude in service. Until relatively recently, life here was more rigidly controlled than in any of the neighboring Curtain lands and the possibilities for conducting friendships were distinctly limited. Today, although all-night visitors are not permitted in a guest's hotel room, there are no difficulties about afternoon and early-evening visits, and Czechs now have no hesitation about inviting a visitor from abroad into their homes.

The average Czech miss is extremely direct, even frontal, in her approach, and may startle the visitor by taking the initiative all along the line. She feels it almost an obligation to make the most of her prime years — which she considers to be from 15 to 22 — before settling down to house and spouse. And a foreigner, particularly an American, rates very high as a partner for doing so.

If you go for peaches-and-cream looks, you will be in your element. Natural, opulent blondes abound, although there is the occasional exciting contrast of a Slovak lass with dusky locks and coloring. When you take your first promenade down Václavské Námestí, the Champs Élysées of Prague, you will find yourself the immediate object of frank, admiring looks. All you need to remember is to return the compliment, often the immediate lead-in to a conversation.

Prague is chock-full of cosy dark corners for pursuing a friendship. Tavern restaurants, dark-wooded, ancient and candlelighted, like the Mecenas or the U Trí Pstroso in the Mala Strana, offer steaming plates of the Czech national specialty: pork chops with sweet and sour cabbage and some of the world's finest Pilsen beer. In summer, a safe bet is to lead your young Czech friend, via cable car, to Petrín Hill, overlooking castles, gardens, palaces and river. There you can wine and woo her in a vast rose garden. In such surroundings, it shouldn't be hard to understand why and how Prague could inspire creative artists as different as Mozart and Franz Kafka to produce some of their finest works.

The tearooms of the Yalta and Alcron hotels in the late afternoon are fine hunting grounds for finding elegant young women about town who have dropped in for tea and a bit of prospecting of their own. The Luxor Café, on the main drag, is where the student and beatnik-fringe crowds hold court from lunchtime until midnight.

One of the most appealing places to wind up an evening — but only if you have found a companion — is the Opera Grill, just off the river. Since it seats only 20, reservations are mandatory. Every evening the Grill's elegant, witty, multilingual maître de greets a collection of fashionably turned out couples, the women mostly blonde beauties, ranging from ambassadors' daughters to leading callgirls.

Night clubs like the Barabara in the Stare Miasto and those of the big hotels include food, drink, floor shows and very decent bands all through the night. (A word of advice: If a Czech girl gently murmurs "Ahno" to a visitor, she is not turning him down politely. In Czech Ahno means Yes.)

In addition to the pleasures of making friends with the indigenous chickniks, travelers are reminded of American Embassy girls. They usually speak the language, know the country and have their own apartments. Also bear in mind that on your Eastern European jaunt you're sure to run into touring American girls who nearly always are charmed to find someone from home.

In general, knowledge of the local language, while it may help hasten an acquaintance, is far from necessary. The girls of East Europe, as the accompanying photos so convincingly show, are well worth the small effort it takes today to slip your chains and have a ball behind the Curtain.