Another day, another country. One of the most incredible features of Europe is its compact size, especially appreciable after biking 1100 miles across Texas. Sometimes I wonder if Europe was actually created for American tourists like me; it really does feel like Disneyland sometimes. Today we passed from Slovakialand to Hungaryland. Sleepy Sturovo is the most relaxed border crossing we've seen in a long time. Immigration and customs officials from both Hungary and Slovakia share a dilapidated tin building and wander around casually among people wishing to cross or joke with the waitress in the nearby café. We practically had to wave our passports in front of the guards' faces to get them to take notice of us and motion us through.
Still, it took us much longer to get to Hungary proper than we had thought. Estergom and its enormous basilica (purportedly the fourth largest church in the world) loom over Slovakian Sturovo from across the Danube and look close enough to reach out and touch. Once upon a time a \"Friendship Bridge\" linked the two towns, but all that remains are pylons sticking out of the rushing brown water. The only way across now is by ferry. The operator of the small boat which plies the river seemingly constantly refused to let us take our heavy bikes on board, forcing us to wait an additional hour for the bigger car ferry.
We whiled away the time playing backgammon under the disapproving glares of the immigration officials and made a spectacle of ourselves by smearing sunscreen onto one another's backs; the weather was good enough to ride bareback, we decided, and we didn't have to impress anyone anymore now that we had already made it through immigration and customs. The bigger boat was really just a barge, pushed rather delicately through the raging brown waters by a tugboat and a tightly organized crew. Fred and I watched in wonderment as three strong men --one looking astonishing like Obelix of \"Asterix\" fame---manipulated the mooring cables.
When we finally made it across, we were greeted with a heartening sight: a bike path running right along the Danube, toward Budapest. \"Could it go all the way into town?\" we wondered giddily as we pumped against the wind, riding right alongside the majestic waterway far from any signs of motorized traffic. Alas, after ten or fifteen blissful kilometers, our path dumped us onto the highway. The road led us around what is known as the \"Danube Bend,\" a favorite weekend getaway spot for Budapestians and a place rich in history and natural beauty. We passed through ancient villages under dramatically steep, castle-topped hills.
In a little town called Visegrad we stopped for an early lunch at a snack bar type place by the side of the river. We thought we would eat outside, but when we went in to order, we got caught up in the hype of Princess Diana's funeral, being broadcast live with extensive commentary in Hungarian. Unaware that we'd be subjected to endless replays of the event on CNN, we munched on delicious sandwiches brought to us by the place's friendly owner, alternately transfixed by all the royal pomp and admiring the hat collection that covered every inch of the place's walls.
Our bellies full, we waddled outside to find a yuppyesque family admiring our bikes. The young couple explained in impeccable English that they were cycling enthusiasts from nearby Szententre and that they admired our machines. Even their two-year-old daughter --an avid cyclist herself---seemed enthralled. They insisted on giving us a map of the region with a recommended route, causing Fred and me to remark upon the friendliness of Hungarians. In less than a minute after leaving this generous family, we met up with a trio of friendly Hungarian cyclists heading in our direction. Victor, Attila and Josef have been friends since kindergarten and take day trips from Budapest at every opportunity.
Victor was the most proficient in English of the three and did most of the talking. Pedaling lackadaisically alongside us in the busy road, he explained that he was studying to be a lawyer, while cute young Attila was learning to repair electronic devices. We never learned much at all about Victor, who seemed painfully shy. The three of them provided a wind block and guide service all the way into town. We stopped a number of times --once in a little village where they knew of a cheap ice cream place up a cobbled street; a couple of times for water to quench our thirst and pour over our sweaty bods; and finally at a café on Elizabeth island for a farewell beer, where they gave us the names of some bike shops and told us to meet them again on Monday.
Our pre-outing goal for the evening was to put our numerous pages on Poland up on the Web. Finding a hotel that would accommodate this task wasn't as easy as it should have been, and we ended up in the ultra-glam Kempinski, lured by their weekend rate and reliable phone connection. I went out in search of supplies --a bag full of whoppers and more liquids than you can shake a stick at---while Fred set it up. Like many aspects of this trip, we have found a routine that works for us. It was just around midnight when we had finished all the HTML and headed out to Budapest's premier homo club, the Angel.
The attitude was so thick you could cut it with a knife. Only two boys seemed approachable at all, a couple from Dublin who told us all about being robbed in Prague. They invited us to join their table, where we were treated to an excellent view of what is probably the best drag show I have ever seen in the western world. The highlight was a tribute to \"Hair\", with expert choreography and excerpts from virtually all the show's songs --in Hungarian. It was refreshing to see drag performed without any lip-synching at all, and one girl's voice was so good it sent shivers up our spines.