There was nothing lighthearted or easy about our day today. It started off with clouds and some light rain. Tara chose her favorite vegetarian breakfast bistro, and the morning began with healthy food and interesting conversation with the yoga teacher who served us. He had lived in New York and had studied acting and then became an ashtanga yoga teacher and returned home to Budapest. He claimed that he left because he was tired of his 'bipolar roommates', and told us that Budapest was a very 'happening place' in comparison to provincial cities like Vienna. The neighbourhood was a quiet one, with mostly office buildings, the Hungarian National Treasury (which is an entertaining art nouveau building with all sorts of curlicue corners and decorations), and a few restaurants for local workers. It was perfect for us, just a few blocks from the cathedral and the main pedestrian zone on Pest. Our apartment was perfect for us, a little more space than a hotel, with the crucial element of a washing machine. We washed everything we could wash in the 36 hours we stayed, almost every item in my suitcase. So we left Budapest repacked, organized, ready for our next adventure.
From our conversations with Adam and Loni, we had made a decision to find our way to Donaujvaros, where the Richter wagons had crossed the Danube during their 1944 trek. The bridges across the Danube had been systematically bombed, and this was the only one that was accessible for the refugees, so it was a vital event in their flight from their home in Backi Brestovac to Unterolzing. They were separated far later, when a heavy rain had soaked the group and some had decided to forge ahead and 23 carts stayed behind to clean up and get organized and could not take the same route. Eva and Anna, and Nanibesel and Nicholas with their daughter, were not able to follow the next day and were diverted far northward, so the journey was 23 days for Adam and Loni and their parents and most of the group and almost a year for those left behind. Adam seemed so determined to tell us about this incident in the trip, so we decided to find the bridge. It was ultimately destroyed and rebuilt and is now called the Pentele bridge. The town of Dunaujvaros was a communist project and is entirely an industrial town, and rather unsightly from the east side of the river. It was originally called Dunafoltwar, and interestingly, the signs for the town were both in German and Hungarian, but the German word for the town stood above that of the Hungarian one. Our road took east along the river, but we saw little, because the rain worsened as we drove, until it was a downpour with thunder and lightening, and I could see nothing ahead or beside me. There were no drains in the roads and flooding occurred quickly. I was terrified. I imagined that this is what it was like when the Richters took their carts up the Danube, looking for a place to cross over, and of course, where they were separated later on.
The land was flat, with fields of sunflowers and wheat, hay, and corn in every direction, but trees were everywhere. We were on a country road and passed little towns and villages along the way. It was frightening to drive, and we found shelter at a gas station, and moved on when the rain lightened up a bit, and after I had a coffee with mostly whipped cream. We crossed the bridge in the downpour, and saw mostly rain. It was certainly a good exercise in what it may have been like in october 1944.
Unfortunately, we realized too late that there was an electronic toll on the bridge, and we are looking forward to a huge bill when we get back to Germany. Only afterward did we purchase a 'vignette' via the web to ensure that we would get no more tickets. A very frustrating experience. Many countries require a fee to drive on the main roads. We believed that we had avoided all main roads and therefore would not require the necessary paper, but we were across the bridge before we figured out (via frantic texting to Sam in London and Sam researching the information and ultimately buying the vignette for us) what was required of us. When we crossed the Rumanian border, we bought our vignetter for 3 euros immediately after passport control.
The rain eased up on the drive through lovely fields, flat in every direction across the Carpathian basin, with spectacular skies after the rain. We stopped in Szeged, which was important because my grandfather, Jakob, went to high school in Szeged, which is why he spoke Hungarian. Because he was fluent in the language, he was able to survive his time during and after the war. When he left the POW camp where he had been interred, he tried to return to his home in the Batschka, but was advised not to return to Ulmenau. Instead, he was able to stay with family in the Banat until he recovered from dysentery. His knowledge of the language no doubt helped him during this period of his life.
The town of Szeged was entirely flooded in the late 1879, so the inner city was rebuilt with beautiful buildings of several different styles and wide avenues. The Emperor Franz Joseph had promised to make the town better than ever, and kept his promise. The centre is a pedestrian zone, and absolutely lovely. The city is also famous for being the home of paprika, which is a spice made from dried powdered capsicum fruits. Fish goulasch is the specialty of the town, so we all tasted catfish goulash and it was surprisingly good! On our way back to our car, we encountered a troupe of folkloric dancers and they were as impressive as those we had seen last night. The colours and costumes are eye catching, and again, it was the men with their jumping, slapping and hopping that were most remarkable.
It was a disappointment to return to our car and find another ticket waiting for us. We had bought parking vouchers, but made an error in presenting them. Another visit to the post office to pay our second ticket in two days. The Hungarians are very efficient with their tickets!
The long drive to Timisoara, in the Banat, was hauntingly beautiful as the sun dipped over the horizon. The towns reminded me of the photos I have seen from Brestovac, with a grass area in front of the gate, an L shaped building with a courtyard and pillars along a veranda. The colors were yellow to sienna, and the streets between were wide and open. Stork nests above the telephone poles completed the picture. So incredibly delightful.
Crossing the border was not fun. Perhaps after the experience in the rain, and our parking tickets and the idea of entering even further to the east, and the late hour, we were anxious, and three women can feed on their hysteria and the air was electric with our intensity. Our papers were not in order, and the border patrol told us we could not enter Rumania with our car. There were kinder and less kind border patrol agents and it appeared that our passports and papers were exchanged many times. We were asked to wait at the side, while they further investigated us. We were asked to call Avis and confirm that we could enter Rumania, and when we said we were going to Serbia, the uniformed officer told us that was a very bad idea. I turned on my roaming and tried to call Germany but only got recordings. Tara tried to call Avis and did not get through. Thankfully, Karen discovered the papers that did in fact state that we could enter Rumania and Serbia. There was a booth immediately as we entered the country where we were able to buy our driving 'vignette'. Whew. And on we drove through the dark night, admiring the lovely Rumanian towns and the gorgeous fields of the Banat.
The centre of Timisoara was torn up and under construction, so more than an hour was required to find our hotel in the middle of the torn up inner city. It sounded lovely online, and the location would be lovely if there was no construction everywhere. Inside, the rooms are nondescript but functional and we are safe and in Rumania and watching Germany beat Brazil in the world cup. Rumainan sounds far more familiar than Hungarian, and so we are calming down. No energy to go out to eat, so we had leftover blueberries and poppy seed Strudel from a coffee shop in Budapest.
My heart rate is slowing down, I hope we are safe here, it has been an awfully difficult day.
From our conversations with Adam and Loni, we had made a decision to find our way to Donaujvaros, where the Richter wagons had crossed the Danube during their 1944 trek. The bridges across the Danube had been systematically bombed, and this was the only one that was accessible for the refugees, so it was a vital event in their flight from their home in Backi Brestovac to Unterolzing. They were separated far later, when a heavy rain had soaked the group and some had decided to forge ahead and 23 carts stayed behind to clean up and get organized and could not take the same route. Eva and Anna, and Nanibesel and Nicholas with their daughter, were not able to follow the next day and were diverted far northward, so the journey was 23 days for Adam and Loni and their parents and most of the group and almost a year for those left behind. Adam seemed so determined to tell us about this incident in the trip, so we decided to find the bridge. It was ultimately destroyed and rebuilt and is now called the Pentele bridge. The town of Dunaujvaros was a communist project and is entirely an industrial town, and rather unsightly from the east side of the river. It was originally called Dunafoltwar, and interestingly, the signs for the town were both in German and Hungarian, but the German word for the town stood above that of the Hungarian one. Our road took east along the river, but we saw little, because the rain worsened as we drove, until it was a downpour with thunder and lightening, and I could see nothing ahead or beside me. There were no drains in the roads and flooding occurred quickly. I was terrified. I imagined that this is what it was like when the Richters took their carts up the Danube, looking for a place to cross over, and of course, where they were separated later on.
The land was flat, with fields of sunflowers and wheat, hay, and corn in every direction, but trees were everywhere. We were on a country road and passed little towns and villages along the way. It was frightening to drive, and we found shelter at a gas station, and moved on when the rain lightened up a bit, and after I had a coffee with mostly whipped cream. We crossed the bridge in the downpour, and saw mostly rain. It was certainly a good exercise in what it may have been like in october 1944.
Unfortunately, we realized too late that there was an electronic toll on the bridge, and we are looking forward to a huge bill when we get back to Germany. Only afterward did we purchase a 'vignette' via the web to ensure that we would get no more tickets. A very frustrating experience. Many countries require a fee to drive on the main roads. We believed that we had avoided all main roads and therefore would not require the necessary paper, but we were across the bridge before we figured out (via frantic texting to Sam in London and Sam researching the information and ultimately buying the vignette for us) what was required of us. When we crossed the Rumanian border, we bought our vignetter for 3 euros immediately after passport control.
The rain eased up on the drive through lovely fields, flat in every direction across the Carpathian basin, with spectacular skies after the rain. We stopped in Szeged, which was important because my grandfather, Jakob, went to high school in Szeged, which is why he spoke Hungarian. Because he was fluent in the language, he was able to survive his time during and after the war. When he left the POW camp where he had been interred, he tried to return to his home in the Batschka, but was advised not to return to Ulmenau. Instead, he was able to stay with family in the Banat until he recovered from dysentery. His knowledge of the language no doubt helped him during this period of his life.
The town of Szeged was entirely flooded in the late 1879, so the inner city was rebuilt with beautiful buildings of several different styles and wide avenues. The Emperor Franz Joseph had promised to make the town better than ever, and kept his promise. The centre is a pedestrian zone, and absolutely lovely. The city is also famous for being the home of paprika, which is a spice made from dried powdered capsicum fruits. Fish goulasch is the specialty of the town, so we all tasted catfish goulash and it was surprisingly good! On our way back to our car, we encountered a troupe of folkloric dancers and they were as impressive as those we had seen last night. The colours and costumes are eye catching, and again, it was the men with their jumping, slapping and hopping that were most remarkable.
It was a disappointment to return to our car and find another ticket waiting for us. We had bought parking vouchers, but made an error in presenting them. Another visit to the post office to pay our second ticket in two days. The Hungarians are very efficient with their tickets!
The long drive to Timisoara, in the Banat, was hauntingly beautiful as the sun dipped over the horizon. The towns reminded me of the photos I have seen from Brestovac, with a grass area in front of the gate, an L shaped building with a courtyard and pillars along a veranda. The colors were yellow to sienna, and the streets between were wide and open. Stork nests above the telephone poles completed the picture. So incredibly delightful.
Crossing the border was not fun. Perhaps after the experience in the rain, and our parking tickets and the idea of entering even further to the east, and the late hour, we were anxious, and three women can feed on their hysteria and the air was electric with our intensity. Our papers were not in order, and the border patrol told us we could not enter Rumania with our car. There were kinder and less kind border patrol agents and it appeared that our passports and papers were exchanged many times. We were asked to wait at the side, while they further investigated us. We were asked to call Avis and confirm that we could enter Rumania, and when we said we were going to Serbia, the uniformed officer told us that was a very bad idea. I turned on my roaming and tried to call Germany but only got recordings. Tara tried to call Avis and did not get through. Thankfully, Karen discovered the papers that did in fact state that we could enter Rumania and Serbia. There was a booth immediately as we entered the country where we were able to buy our driving 'vignette'. Whew. And on we drove through the dark night, admiring the lovely Rumanian towns and the gorgeous fields of the Banat.
The centre of Timisoara was torn up and under construction, so more than an hour was required to find our hotel in the middle of the torn up inner city. It sounded lovely online, and the location would be lovely if there was no construction everywhere. Inside, the rooms are nondescript but functional and we are safe and in Rumania and watching Germany beat Brazil in the world cup. Rumainan sounds far more familiar than Hungarian, and so we are calming down. No energy to go out to eat, so we had leftover blueberries and poppy seed Strudel from a coffee shop in Budapest.
My heart rate is slowing down, I hope we are safe here, it has been an awfully difficult day.
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