For some reason, Budapest has a special attraction to me. It isn’t that I have any connection to the city. I certainly have no feel for general Hungarian history. And the Hungarian language is obviously a mystery to me. But if I had to move to Budapest, I think I would immediately feel perfectly comfortable and at home. I have only been there twice, first in the early 1970s when Hungary was Communist, and once about 35 or so years later.

What, or who, is responsible for my feelings? I blame it on a number of Hungarian-Americans I met on a hydrofoil traveling down the Danube in 1974. Let me explain.

In my earlier years, I took a number of solo trips to Europe. A Moscow-Leningrad trip. A Spain-Portugal trip. A week in Florence trip. And a trip focused on Budapest and Prague.

In the early 1970s, few Americans were traveling behind the Iron Curtain. It was not considered “the thing to do”, logistics were difficult, and there was a fair amount of trepidation involved. But I had been told there was a travel agency in DC (its name will remain unknown to protect the guilty) which had connections and specialized in trips to Communist countries, so I went to see them for a trip that would take me first to Vienna (I had been there before), and then to Budapest and Prague, and finally (on my own) to Rome, Naples and Pompeii, where I had also been previously. Two or three weeks altogether.

The travel agency made my reservations from Vienna to Budapest by boat. I went to and from Prague by train. I am not sure who arranged for that. The agency made hotel reservations, three nights in Budapest and two in Prague, for me

I flew to Vienna. I don’t remember if I had hotel reservations there or if I found a place after I arrived. I probably had reservations (just one night) and probably the travel agency booked it for me as well. It was one of those European style hotels that actually occupied one floor of an office building or apartment house, and it was awful. It was on the dingy-spooky side, and the room I was given (the only one available) was so narrow that lying in the small bed, I think I could touch both walls. There was a dresser whose drawers could not be fully opened and a small window that looked into an air shaft. For the first and (so far) only time in my life, I suffered from acute claustrophobia.

It was in the old city of Vienna, inside the Ringstrasse, and I remember having a nice meal with a glass or two of good Austrian red wine at an old restaurant nearby that claimed to have been Franz Schubert’s favorite spot. I guess I was gullible back then, and remember wondering whether this was where Schubert ate his famous Unfinished Dinner. (Okay, I just now made up that last line.) But the restaurant was filled with Austrian gemütlichkeit, and my mind relaxed.

I went back to the hotel, went to bed if not to sleep, and lay there with the walls closing in on me, even in the dark.

At some ungodly hour, well after midnight, I got up, dressed and zipped my suitcase, left the hotel

I could stand no more, and wandered the streets. I think I found another and better place to spend four or five hours, but my mind is rather murky on that. I don’t remember sleeping on a park bench.

At any rate, the next day I made my way to the hydrofoil dock on the not very blue (and in Vienna not very attractive) Danube and boarded the boat (as I recall, a new contraption at the time) for my 6 or so hour trip to parts unknown.

It was a beautiful day, the sky was a bright blue. The boat was festive and crowded.

While that section of the Danube is not especially awe inspiring, it was a pleasant trip. I remember three things.

First, it was not that long after leaving Vienna that we had Czechoslovakia on our left and Hungary on our right. I could tell we weren’t in Kansas any more because, I think in both countries, there were armed guard towers at very regular intervals, obviously to make sure no one was going to dive into the river with the goal of escaping the country. Second, I remember passing by Bratislava and wondering what it would be like going into a second tier Communist city, one that then probably never saw Americans.

But third, I remember the Hungarian-Americans on the boat, most 20 or 30 years older than me. Many were going back to  Budapest for the first time since the aborted 1956 revolution, when they escaped the country. These folks were elated to be going back. They LOVED Budapest. It was the MOST AMAZING CITY IN THE WORLD. I was going to have the best time, eat the best food, meet the best people. Their excitement was more than contagious, it was all enveloping. I was hooked. I couldn’t wait.

Then…….

I now see that I have a full blog post thinking about Budapest, but only talking about Vienna and the trip down the Danube. Maybe, we will return to this thrilling tale of yesteryear tomorrow. There is quite a bit to say.