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| Interior of Budapest's eastern railway station. Photo credit: BudapestZIN |
10 miles – Thursday, September 15
After periodic showers we packed and left for a slow ride,
taking in the sights before the late afternoon departure by train.
We coasted by the grand Parliament Building. Sentries
guarded all entry points. Later we pull up in front of another elaborate
structure because policemen and news station equipment captured our attention.
Consulting the pocket dictionary we decipher the building as a courthouse.
After yesterday’s debacle, we imagine political scams, officials on the take –
whatever might garner news coverage. Without time constraints, I enjoy stumbling
upon interesting scenes.
At the train station, police aimlessly walked the platforms,
overlooking the money changers and accommodation pushers that are a constant nuisance.
Andy wonders if they are on the take.
I watch the bicycles, a bit nervous, while my husband sets
off to figure out what to do with our bikes. It would take little to wrest
control of our gear. I cling to my can of mace. Andy comes and goes. He is
frustrated. There is no communication between Information and Baggage.
Fortunately, a man in line behind him overhears our predicament, and speaks
English. He discovers we’re supposed to load our own bikes. Finding the
platform number is different than what is printed on our tickets, we hustle to
another area. It’s a few minutes before departure.
We head towards the train, but an attendant halts us, waving
his arms and gesturing for us to remove the panniers. The front bags are easy
to detach, but the rear panniers require a tool to release the cinch strap and
push the O-rings off the rack struts. Andy patiently tries to explain that it’ll
take a few minute and pulls out his tool pouch. The official spouts an angry
barrage of Magyar. Andy turns red-faced. He waves a wrench, and – if I didn’t
know my husband well – it looked like he was ready to club the guy. Andy points
at the rear rack. Only then did the employee rescind and thrust his arms at the
open rail car. We took the hint. Under his leering gaze, we lug bikes and bags
onto the train.
Andy and I plop down in seats in a compartment with another
man. It takes us a while to stop fuming, but gradually we succumb to the
realization that we are lucky – despite the ordeal – to be on our way back to
Vienna. When dusk arrives and lights do not work, our car mate offers to speak
with someone about the problem. He returns, explaining the electric snag was
fixed by wedging a match in the wires. Andy and I shake our heads. We are
delighted he speaks English, though. During the three hour journey, he explains
how the Hungarians are dissatisfied with the newly elected government. High
taxes of 45% and rising have led some people to black market schemes – thus the
hustlers on Vaci Utca street. The
gentleman explains how his family left Hungary for Germany when he was a boy.
He finished school in Germany and still lives there, but his job frequently
takes him to Budapest. He shared some of his frustrations and the country’s
refusal to accept tourism. It’s an interesting concept as we thoroughly enjoyed
our visit, we explain, except for the train hassle. But the streets were often
dirty; the locals disrespected bicycle travelers; signage was poor, often only
understood by Hungarians. The business man confirms our observations.
Three hours later
we disembarked in Vienna at 9:30 p.m. It’s late. Rather than dealing with
accommodation and darkness, we decide to continue the overnight journey to
Innsbruck, expecting to catch a few winks in the process. This time ticketing
takes less than 5 minutes and they
load our bikes. For 1,400 Schilling
(120.00 USD) we travel three times the distance compared with 80.00 USD in
Budapest.
Friday, September 16
We arrive at 6 a.m. in Innsbruck for a 6 hour layover. It’s
a chilly 50F, yet we refuse to bundle up like the locals. I walk, hands sunk
deep into my pockets, head tilted skyward. Low clouds cling halfway up the
valley walls, teasing us with glimpses of the snow-covered mountains. Visiting
the Alps had been a dream of mine for many years, and Andy and I catch our
first views.
We head to the famed ski jump, amazed at the stadium of
seating lining the grassy slope. Two torches and Olympic rings are stark
against the cloudy sky. We follow the winding pathway to the monument. Medal winners of the 1964 and 1976 Winter
Games are engraved on dark plaques. We scan the list for names. I’m awestruck, picturing
the region covered in snow, torch flames licking the sky, cheering crowds. I recall
the year when I was fourteen and glued to the television, watching ski legend
Franz Klammer, U.S. skater Dorothy Hamel with her signature hair style, and fellow
Vermonter, cross country ski racer, Bill Koch.
Later we buy groceries, stay warm at two bakeries, consuming
coffee and apple strudel. We withdraw Swiss Francs and it’s noon. The temperature
remains the same. I break down and put on black fuzzy pants and we head back to
the train station. Moments of sunshine enhance our picnic of Camembert and
Tuscan bread.
A sleek green and gold trimmed train quietly enters the
station and comes to a halt. We marvel and stand because it’s the London to
Venice Orient Express. Lacy curtains adorn the dining car with individual lamps
at each table. There are no passengers exiting, but men trot to the side of the
train, hooking up hoses. We presume it’s a necessary stop to refuel and expel refuse.
A bit chilled still, we gawk and wonder what it’s be like to spend a week in comfort
and style, riding the rails. Not likely, with our bicycle budget. I stand, still
grinning, as The Orient Express, after only a few minutes, disappears down the
track.
We hop on our train. The weather clears as the cars bullets
up a long valley, eventually crossing the Swiss border. Border patrol men pass
through, checking passports. Then it’s a pleasant ride through picture perfect
Switzerland. Brown and white chalets cluster around an onion-like domed church;
the steeple is always darker than church walls. Pink and red flowers spill from
flower boxes. It’s green, green everywhere we look. Houses checker above village
centers, contrasting, yet complimenting steep hills. The effect is cleanliness
and cohesiveness. We stop at rail stations every 15 minutes; the cement platforms
are freshly painted, swept clean. It’s a refreshing change. I think I’m going
to like this country. Even the farmer’s haystacks are organized. Instead of one
massive building-sized pile, the Swiss version is a 5 foot mushroom-like proper
thing.
We arrive in Zurich, and initially have trouble locating the
bikes, but eventually we head out at 7 p.m. In light rain, we roll into the
nearest campground. We are cold and tired and pay the 20 Franc fee (25.00 USD.)
Immaculate Switzerland will come at a cost.
