I left Budapest by train. I had no idea of the amount of space between Budapest and Prague.  It is somewhat more than 300 miles, and the trip took most of the day on Communist era trains. And, to tell you the truth, nothing seen from the window was memorable.

I was in a compartment with only a middle-aged, well-dressed couple. Again, our mutual languages were limited, but over the course of the trip, I guess we spoke quite a bit. They were Hungarian. They were Jewish. They were party members. He was in the diplomatic service. They were stationed in Prague. He was the Hungarian Economic Minister to Czechoslovakia.

I told them my sad story with my reservation in Budapest. We all hoped that would not happen in Prague, but as a failsafe, they gave me their phone number, written on a now long-lost business card.

Arriving in Prague, I went to the then new Park Hotel, the pride of the city, only to find out that they, too, had never heard of me, and that they had a room for that night, but not the following night. There were two American men, probably in their 40s, checking in who expressed their sympathy.

I saw the two men an hour or so later when I went to the hotel restaurant and they invited me to join them. What an experience that was. They both were economists working for the United Nations labor office in Geneva. They were in Prague on business. They were both from New York, and one of them knew everything there was to know about any subject you could throw at him. At first, he told me more than The Encyclopedia Britannica could have about Czechoslovakia and the UN’s office in Geneva. But then it turned out he had an absolutely encyclopedic knowledge about baseball statistics over the last 50 years or so. And then opera – who sang what roles where and when, and what the critics thought. I was astounded. I had never met anyone like that.

For those who have been in Prague during the past 25 years or so, it is probably impossible to conceptualize how sad and depressing and lifeless it was in 1973. I saw the castle and the Old City and the Jewish quarter (synagogues and cemetery). It was about 5 years since the Prague Spring, and it looked like the city was wallowing in despair.

And I had no place to stay the next night. I found a pay phone and somehow figured out how to call my train companions for advice, and they (reluctantly, I am sure) gave me directions to their apartment. It must have been dangerous for them to invite an American to  stay.

I took a street car out of central Prague to an area of Soviet Era high rises, a large number of identical, dilapidated gray buildings with no landscaping, and found the right one. The elevator was broken, the lobby was very drab and unwelcoming. I remember little about the apartment itself. I had supper there with them. They were very friendly and accommodating.  I don’t even remember if they had a second bedroom or if I slept on a couch.

When I left the next morning on a train for Frankfort, they wished me well, but warned me not to try to send them a thank you note or anything. The evening, they said, never happened. Or at least that is what I think say said.

I was intrigued when the train stopped at Marienbad (I had seen the film and didn’t even know it was a real place) and at Pilsner, and I was ecstatic to get out of Czechoslovakia.

Deep breath. Frankfurt. Immediately change trains. Swiss Alps. Rome. Naples. Pompeii. More adventures. But you are tired of this trip.

I will tell you more if you ask. The exiled member of the Russian nobility. The young lady in Rome. The train strike in Naples and how I almost lost my life crossing the street. The drugged out American teenagers. Even the surprise visit from the FBI after I got back home.

But tomorrow – back to 2025.