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As I ride out of Budapest I wonder if due to my ignorance of the language I’ll have to die on the first day of my trip. (Newspaper headline: Foreign tourist perishes in tragic restaurant mishap – accidentally orders laundry detergent instead of schnitzel) For dinner I’ll have pizza, I decide. Pizza Margherita should be Pizza Margherita in Hungary, too.
My goal for the first day is Szeged, the largest town in southeastern Hungary. From there I want to cross into Romania the next day. At least finding my way to Szeged shouldn’t be too difficult. I just have to follow Highway 5. And there’s not much traffic, which makes for pleasant cycling. But then I see road signs I do not like at all. Horse carts, farm tractors and bicycles are banned on Highway 5. I consult my map. There is no alternative route to Szeged. I decide to cycle on and hope the police won’t open fire before they’ve asked the first question.
Then I notice an odd thing. An almost total absence of honking. In the course of the next eight hours, thousands of cars and trucks pass me. But only four or five drivers honk their horns at me for illegally riding my bike on a road where bikes are clearly banned (Those nasty road signs keep propping up every few kilometers)
Back home at least one in ten motorists would honk. Many German drivers have strong moral and didactic urges. They like to educate other people. The preferred honking style is one of sustained anger: Honnnnnk!
Italian drivers are expert honkers, too. They like to honk even when there’s no other vehicle in sight. The main intention seems to be rather philosophical in nature: Ascertain your existence in a world of uncertainties. Italian honking often resembles rapid bursts of machine gun fire: HonkHonkHonk!
Hungarian drivers are different. They don’t honk, they just mind their own business. I’m impressed. (IMHO this would be a worthy topic for a doctoral dissertation: The Sound Of Diversity – Patterns of Honking in the European Union).
However nice Hungarian drivers may be, the scenery is not. I begin to understand what Mr. Horvath meant when he said that Western Hungary was nicer. Because probably any part of the country is nicer than the so-called Great Plain where I’m cycling – called Puszta by the Hungarians. It’s flat, extremely flat, a vast expanse of corn and sunflower fields. Why anyone would call this great remains a mystery. And it’s hot. Very hot.
After two hours, I stop at the roadside to eat an apple. A dirt track leads into the fields. Suddenly I see a small Fiat approaching, a huge cloud of dust in its trail. A door opens. A young girl gets out. The Fiat drives off, a young man behind the steering wheel.
The girl starts talking to me. I don’t understand a word. She’s short and plump, wearing jeans and a T-shirt.
I found my smattering of German very useful here, indeed, I don’t know how I should be able to get on without it. (Jonathan Harker’s Diary)
Times have definitely changed, as the following encounter proved:
Tourist: Sorry. I don’t speak Hungarian. Do you speak English or German?
Hungarian Maiden: Sax.
Tourist: What do you mean? Sax?
Hungarian Maiden: SAX!
Tourist: (scared): Oh my God.
Hungarian Maiden: SAX!
Tourist: I’m sorry. I guess I don’t have time right now. (flees from the scene)
I had already read newspaper articles about the endemic of prostitution that has engulfed Eastern Europe in recent years. But somehow I hadn’t expected a personal encounter with a practitioner of the trade less than four hours after my arrival in the country. According to rough estimates several hundred thousand young women from Eastern Europe have been forced into a modern form of sexual slavery by criminal gangs. The usual trick seems to be to promise the girls a well-paid job in the West. Many work in Western European brothels, others remain in Hungary or the Czech Republic where incomes are lower than in Western Europe but still higher than in Belarus or Russia. On my way from Budapest to Szeged I counted at least three dozen roadside hookers waiting for customers (I lost track after a while, because there were so many of them) . They clearly cater to a local clientele, because there aren’t that many foreign cars on Highway 5.
Another thing I notice is that Hungarian cities, towns and villages are littered with a countless number of patriotic monuments commemorating military heroes of the past. For centuries, Hungary was sandwiched between two great empires – the Austrian Habsburgs to the west and the Turkish Ottomans to the east. The archetypical small nation that bigger countries tend to play ball with. Before falling under Austrian domination in the 18th century, the eastern half of Hungary was ruled for 100 years by the Ottomans. The military monuments seem a way of saying: Yes, we’re somebody, too. And we’re not as small and helpless as you might think.
In Szeged, I quickly find both a cheap hotel and a pizzeria. They do indeed have Pizza Margheretea on the menu, not to forget Pizza Szalamis. These are the only two items on the menu I can identify. I wonder what Pizza Tejfolos might be. Pizza Pulykahusos sounds delicious, too.

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