And so we depart dear little Piran by bus, with several misadventures ahead of us. But for now, the ancient villages and fertile fields, vineyards, and olive groves of Istria pass by our window, until we’re stopped for an hour or so by a crash up ahead on the two-lane tree-lined rural road. We have no rigid schedule, so there’s nothing to do but wait. And it’s difficult to imagine a more bucolic setting to be delayed by an accident. It’s three cars in a rear-end accident with injuries, but the emergency crew soon has it cleared and we’re off again to catch a train leaving Koper for a tiny station named Hodoš, on the Hungarian border.
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While planning this whole trip months ago, my old Michelin map of Europe showed that Piran wasn’t all that far from Lake Balaton, in neighboring Hungary. We’d travel the length of Slovenia to the border, but it’s a small country, right? We could manage that trip somehow on the excellent trains and buses of Europe. And I left it to Carolyn to figure out the connections to our next stop because she’s good at those details.
So the plan was that we really didn’t have much of an actual plan until we got to Europe. And then we’d figure it out, like Europeans do, like we’ve done before. And that’s why we ended up trying to sleep through a chilly night on hard wooden slatted benches in a tiny town (population: 360) on the Slovenian-Hungarian border.
There are no direct trains or buses from Piran to Lake Balaton. It would be sort of a ‘backdoor entry’ into rural Hungary, far off the well-beaten tourist track, and with no facility in the various languages we would encounter. Just another fine adventure in a good life well lived, although not at all like that of a friend who once said her version of camping out was a hotel without room service. Clearly, it would be an adventure that few of our friends would undertake. At least willingly.
We would get some good seats aboard an afternoon Slovenian train for Hodoš, on the Hungarian border. Then we’d board another train or two and arrive at a nice place that Carolyn booked for us on the largest lake in Europe. No problem.
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But it was Sunday when we left for Koper and the train office was closed. The ticket machine just outside the building was only in Slovensko, and it didn’t seem to be working anyway. I walked out to the tracks and saw an older train that looked like it hadn’t been anywhere in a while. But I noticed a sliver of bright blue just beyond it, and took a few more steps to check it out. It was a very nice looking train and the signboard read, “Hodoš.” There was hope.
Several husky bike riders were lying about in the shade, and a couple of them boarded the bike carrier car at the back. I stepped in and asked, “English?” And I got a couple of guttural snorts that seemed to say, “Forget it, buddy.” And they ignored me.
So I went back inside the station and saw a young lady reading the schedule. I tried my “English?” question again, and she said, “A little.” She told me the ticket machine was broken and we could buy tickets on the train.
So we found some good seats in First Class with space to stash our luggage and settled in as the train began a scenic five hour trip to Hodoš. The train passed through rugged mountains and hidden villages and a stop in Ljubljana, the capital, which we recall fondly from a previous visit. (Ljubljana Dispatch link)
But nobody came to sell us tickets until we’d been on the train for about an hour. When the ticket man came by, he only spoke Slovensko so we had little idea what was happening, but the price was only €9.50. For both of us. We were more than pleased at the low cost, although we noticed he didn’t charge us for the first hour of travel. But later, a different ticket man said we had only paid for the Second Class section. He spoke no English, and said something about “Drei Classe,” and we knew just enough German to figure that out. But we looked bewildered and mumbled something in English and Spanish, so he shrugged his shoulders and left. A nice young lady across the aisle watched him depart and said, “It is ok, I think.” So we stayed in our seats and forgot about it.
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On our way to the border we had wondered if we might end up stuck sitting outside a closed and abandoned station in some remote corner of the Balkans, waiting all night for the next train, which was due at 6:13 a.m. Well, the prospect began to feel less romantic than we had thought earlier, as our suspicions began to look a lot like reality.
After night had fallen, all the remaining passengers got off the train at the next-to-last stop. Everybody but us.
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The train sped onward into the night, and we arrived alone at Hodoš. It was 9:30 p.m. The station remained open all night and we were the only passengers around. When the last few workers departed, only the night conductor was left in his office, emerging now and then to flag a late night freight train through.
After about three hours of lingering in the chilly quiet night, I lay down in a prone position on a hard bench of wooden slats to relax my complaining back muscles and maybe enjoy a few minutes of rest. Carolyn was resting fitfully curled up on another bench as best she could. And soon it’s time to rise again from my hard bed and await the sun. It’s 3:00 a.m.
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Yet the whole thing actually had a strange romantic feeling to it, like one of those old black and white noir flicks we used to watch at the local art movie house, or on late night TV. I expect Peter Lorre or Orson Welles to emerge furtively from the darkness in a trench coat and fedora, seeking refuge in this remote outpost while fleeing the Nazis. And is Kafka lurking somewhere nearby, silently taking notes?
Or perhaps we’ve been cast by Ionesco as Vladimir and Estragon waiting eternally for Godot. Who never arrives. It’s 4:00 a.m. now, and the mind conjures strange thoughts. The Nescafé vending machine grinds all night in the stillness. It took my 40 cents, and I got a very strong espresso. I think I need another espresso. An old passenger train, a Cold War leftover, appears at 4:30 a.m. From where? Maybe another dimension? And it sits waiting. A passenger opens a window and leans out to look down the tracks. For what? Soon it leaves.
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A faint grey tints the sky and a cock crows somewhere in the distance. It’s 5:00 a.m. In the dim light of dawn the station appears to be a small hotel, a nice way-station at the border. But all the rooms are empty of any furniture.
I like to be early for a train, a plane. I’d rather be an hour early than five minutes late. But nine hours early? We did an all-nighter once in Buenos Aires, and once in San Francisco. So whatever.
It’s 5:13 a.m. and the Koper train is departing once again for the sunny Dalmatian Coast. In an hour we’ll board a train for Zalaegerszeg. I have no idea how the Hungarians manage to pronounce names like that, but that’s what the sign says and it’s where we’ll look for the next train going to yet another station on the way to Lake Balaton. The almost, by now, mythical Lake Balaton.
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At 6:00 a.m. an odd single engine arrives from Hungary and the night conductor indicates that it’s our train. We clamber aboard with all our luggage and find a spot among the antique seats. It’s another Cold War relic, and we’re the only passengers. The ticket agent, a robust fellow with long and trailing dreadlocks, arrives and ‘the Dance of the Forints,’ the Hungarian currency, begins. We have a pocket full of Euros, but only forints are accepted on the train. For whatever reason, Hungary is not a full partner of the Euro system, and there was no ATM or other place at the tiny Hodoš station to acquire forints. The ticket agent speaks the most minimal of English, with bits of Italian, German and Russian tossed in – but no Spanish. He finally shrugs and asks our ages, then tells us we can ride for free. After he leaves, Carolyn looks up the Hungarian train system on her iPhone to see if we can pay online somehow and finds that Hungarians over the age of 65 can ride for free. We apparently looked just ‘Hungarian enough,’ and he gave us a pass.
The odd little single-car motorized train stops at the first village and a number of people climb aboard. Some of them depart at the next village and more come aboard. It’s Monday morning and we realize we’re on a rural ‘bus’ route that people use to get to work at the many small towns in western Hungary. They look like young teachers, truck drivers, clerks, and farm hands, and we wish we could strike up a conversation, but the language barrier is too great.
In a few hours we arrive at Zalaegerszeg, and we catch a train to Jánosháza. We pass many long and complicated town names and realize that the Magyar language will be a challenge.
At Jánosháza the station is closed and it starts to rain. We share the tiny shelter with a young man who is studying to be a priest and speaks a bit of English. He gets us on the right train, to Topolca. And that will be our last transfer, as we brazenly board the final train without tickets, on our way to Balatonfüred. As we leave the station and give our last 'no forints' spiel to the ticket agent, we start to relax and look forward to seeing Lake Balaton. We had found only one ATM along the way – and it wasn’t working. And since they can’t take our euros, we rode for free.
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Soon we’re rolling along the banks of broad Lake Balaton, a major summer playground for Central Europe, and past the acres of tents and caravans that line the shores, jammed into every empty space. And at last we arrive in Balatonfüred, a sizable town on the lake. We hop a taxi and first make our way to a Tesco supermarket to find a working ATM. It gave us a fistful of forints – tens of thousands, at 386 to the dollar!
We were finally legitimate. So after 28 hours of travel, on one bus and five different trains, several oat bars we had tucked away, some espressos, and various kindly ticket agents, we have finally arrived at a very nice place that Carolyn had booked for us. There would be a couple of other unexpected mishaps on the horizon just ahead, but we would deal with those soon enough.
Meanwhile, as George Peppard used to say on The A Team, “I just love it when a plan comes together.”
(NB: Later we figure out through Rome2Rio that we could have saved a lot of hours by switching trains at Ljubljana, but it would not have been such an interesting experience.)
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Getting to know Balatonfüred
We’re welcomed by the gracious host of the Villa Victoria, an elegant place on a quiet leafy street that looks just as good in person as it does in the pictures posted online. There’s a big lush bed, a nice balcony overlooking the grounds below, and the well-insulated outside door is triple-glazed to ensure a quiet night’s rest – and a warm house in winter. The three layers of glass make an artsy and bizarre triple reflection of my gnarled hand.
The very modern bathroom has under-vanity lighting to act as a nightlight. The towel rack is one of those great plug-in Euro wall heaters than also heats your towels in winter.
There’s a good shared kitchen with two small fridges to claim a shelf for your food. And the under-counter LED lighting is an excellent way to see what’s in each drawer.
But the first order of business is to collapse into that lush bed for a few minutes of rest.
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Then it’s time to explore a bit and find some excellent dinner to make up for the oat bars and espressos that sustained us on the journey. It’s a pleasant walk of about 6 blocks to the water, and the vibrant restaurant scene that stretches along ‘the Strand.’
The modernist Mangold, and its interesting Hungarian menu, catches our eye and we’re rewarded with some excellent local fare. Carolyn orders the goulash stew and I get the red pepper soup, an ample bowl of paprika topped with grilled small tomatoes, water cress, and an egg. And there’s a good Krušovice brew on tap – “The First Royal Czech Beer, Since 1581.” We follow that with a pistachio tart, nicely presented with kumquats, berries, and leaves, and a bold red Hungarian wine.
And then it’s finally time to wander back to a good night’s rest in our quiet abode.
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In the morning it’s a short walk to the local Aldi market for some supplies, and we pass a fine scarecrow on garden duty. We note that the cashiers in Europe have nice chairs to sit in and that seems very civilized, unlike in the more punitive US where they have to stand all day. We return to set out a table of cheeses, bread, fruit, and coffee to start the day. And a pastry or two. It’s nice to have our own little shared kitchen space for a while.
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We spend our first day writing and reading up on this interesting country. In the evening we head back to the Strand to enjoy the many sailing boats on the water, and we find that we’re in the middle of a big wine-tasting event. Plus there’s plenty of good food on offer.
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Many towns along the lake are called Balaton-something-or-other, so Carolyn looks up the meaning of ‘füred and finds it refers to a spa. Like ‘bad’ in German or ‘balneario’ in Spanish. And there are plenty of lakeside concessions and other opportunities to ’take the water.’
So after a few days to get an understanding of this fine lakeside town, we make plans for a day or two of hanging out in the water at one of the local concessions.
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And then I develop a deep cough. You may have noticed from our photos that the people we’ve encountered so far on this trip are not much inclined to wear masks, and we haven’t really worried about it either. But this cough makes us dig out the home tests we stashed in our bags. I have now come up positive for Covid.
We’ve each had both Moderna vax shots and two boosters to prepare for this trip, and we feel that we’ve done the best we could to stay protected. But I spend the next several days hanging out and coughing in our room, until our reservation runs out. We try to extend our stay, but this is a busy time at the lake and extra days are not available. And swimming in the lake is now out of the question. We also never got to Tihany, a charming village on the peninsula.
We decide to take a train, with plenty of large open windows and with our masks on, to Budapest where we already have a reservation, to rest up in preparation to catch a river cruise we’ve long had booked from Budapest to Bucharest.
And in Budapest we’ll soon learn that our river cruise has been cancelled due to low water in the Danube! So far – and it’s not at all the fault of the Hungarians – there’s little about our visit to Hungary that has gone as well as we’d hoped.
So join us in Budapest for the next part of this ongoing story, where we relearn the value of being flexible!
—PRW