We were seasoned travelers by the time we reached Budapest by overnight train. My daughter was much fresher than I was. She had slept for most of the ride from Salzburg, while stern-looking guards from B-list World War II movies burst into our compartment at each border, waking me to show our passports. I worked hard to re-settle my blood pressure and tried to banish the sound of their knuckles on the metal compartment door. The young Englishmen we shared the compartment with seemed to have no such struggle to resume sleep and my ten year old never heard a thing.
We gathered our stuff about us and entered a steamy Budapest. I let a taxi driver adopt us as soon as our feet touched the platform. He grabbed our bags and claimed to speak English. Actually, we didn’t do so badly between his few phrases of English, occasional bits of German and much hand-waving. The will to communicate is everything and Hungarians have plenty of that.
I sailed through lesson two of Language in Hungary when we met our hostess, an elderly woman who rented her bedroom very reasonably. We chatted about her arthritis, the doctor, the shot she got this morning, her late husband, her children, their education and languages, and best of all—the grandchildren—all those things two women can talk about for half an hour with only about ten common words between them.
After a shower and a nap, two great friends of the traveler, we set out to find dinner in our neighborhood, a local business area with few foreigners. This was perfect for our style of travel. Now, what can I suggest to a ten year old with a travel-lagged stomach? As we come to the busy street, I can see a bright blue and white border around the large doorway of a building a few blocks down. mm—perhaps a Greek restaurant?
“You like Greek food, Honey. Remember the lemon soup with little round noodles, moussaka, circles of squid?” I talk it up, the way one does when trying to keep a ten year old motoring forward instead of complaining. “Only another couple of blocks.”
Greek food sounds good. Now, just one more block. The blue and white tiles continue their promise of good familiar food. And we’re both ready now; we can almost smell it. The sign doesn’t help or hurt; it’s in Hungarian, an impermeable language.
A deep breath says… perchloroethylene, not olive oil. People stream out with pants and skirts on hangars. Oh no! It’s a dry cleaner. How could this be? What a disappointment!
“I’m so sorry, Honey. I’m hungry too. How about pizza?”
Language in Hungary is a bit of mystery. The pizza was great.