We are currently sitting on the border of Hungary and Serbia.
We started the morning by finding a cafe in the downtown area of Baja. Pastries were purchased for next to nothing. We ate in an alleyway on chairs that advertised Coca Cola.
After about twenty-five kilometers, we left the route to find rest in Dunafalva. Little did we know that the stop would consume the better part of the day.
After a lemonade, the three of us struck up a very broken conversation with Dr. Kovács Tamás Mártan. He had very little English and we had no Hungarian or German. No matter. He showed us the grave of Nick Walsh, a man who was somehow related to the Bee Gees (I think).
While I queued up "Stayin’ Alive" on my bicycle speaker, Dr. Mártan materialized with a plate of Hungarian liquor. After touching glasses, we looked each other in the eyes and drank. I felt the sensation of pepper in my nose.
One mention of billiards, and we were whisked away to the bar. I’m not sure how many games we played, I just know that Dr. Mártan had a supple wrist. Hugs were had all around before we mounted our machines and cycled south.
We’ve met with much random kindness and goodwill on this trip.
Before cycling into Hercegszántó, we rode by a lengthy string of military border patrol. My guess is that these troops were stationed to keep undocumented people out of the EU. I can’t say that I’ve passed by more armed guard in my life. This reality moved me from my usual dream state to a focused interest. The men were hard, but friendly.
In Hercegszántó, we ordered dinner from a small restaurant. I communicated what I wanted by taking a picture of the menu item on the outside board and showing it to the woman behind the counter. Later, after using the Google Translate application on my phone, I was able to ask if there was anyone in town who had accommodations for the night.
For those who haven’t used this app, you can type simple English and it will translate your words into Hungarian (or any other language). Phone technology really smooths the way in new places.
Sure enough, she put us in touch with a mother and her son who had fixed up an old train station into a hostel. Being on the border, and having security everywhere, we decided that it would be best to avoid wild camping and take the beds. Breakfast was offered for an extra five euros.
The washing machine presented the only inconvenience of the evening. The spin spin cycle wouldn’t work.
Maybe I’ll rotate clothes on the back end of my bike to dry...
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