Miskolc Miskonnection

This is a short story from my travels in Europe, summer 2013.


I’d just had a treat of a weekend with the lead singer of a punk band in Eger, Hungary. This came as much of a respite after the confusion of the capital city, where I’d met the singer, Robert, at a free concert. Rob’d promised me there was much more to Hungary, and we’d delighted in the history of the Magyar people while gorging on “bachelor-snatching” soup in his hometown. Now, if you really wanna hear about some uncomfortable shit, talk to someone in a punk rock band. Emboldened by my host, I decided to make Slovakia my next destination.

So here I am at the Miskolc train station at the last major stop in Hungary with a backpack that’s way too big. I’d just gotten off a payphone where I wasted more than a fair share of pocket change trying to figure out how to call my grandparents. I’m starting to lose patience. Approaching the ticket counter, the timetable above makes no more sense to me than when I’d arrived. I slam down my overweight bag on the ground, take a breath, and try to look presentable to the wary lady behind the counter.

“Excuse me, when does the next train depart?”

The lady returns fire in her own language, marking the barrier between us to be more than plexiglass.

Luckily, I’m a well-seasoned international adventurer. We have ways of bridging such divides.

I point to my watch. “WHEN…?”
I start chugging my arms like a locomotive. “… TRAIN… ?”
I snap my finger northwards. “… GO?”

The lady is very obviously impressed. She points her own finger. At me.

This isn’t going as I’d hoped.

“Uh, yes, me. I want to go to Slovakia. Please.”

She gives me an exasperated look and points her finger harder. “Gibbledy gobbledy gook,” she says.

Not only am I widely traveled, I’m also culturally sensitive. That’s why I’m shocked at how rude this lady is being. It’s pretty poor manners to point your finger at someone, especially if they’re a foreigner and they’re lost.

Then it dawns on me. In movies, the train blows a whistle before it departs. At the last major station in Hungary, they just close their doors. And that’s what the train behind me is doing now.

No time for pleasantries. With a heave, my bag is up and I’m huffing as fast as I can to the platform. It’s only after the fact that I remember that running over train tracks is frowned upon. So is banging my fist on the wrong side of the train. Someone opens the door to have a word with me.

I get on. I have no idea where I’m going.