“Gallop apace, ye fiery-footed steeds. . .” the words raced through my mind as we boarded the plane in Victoria for the first leg of our east-bound journey around the world. Well yes, we were perhaps moving in the wrong direction to be accompanying Apollo, but poetic licence, don’t you know, might be allowed on such a momentous occasion. And the fiery-footed steeds were certainly galloping apace—ten hours later we were in England, where, since it was mid-morning on November 11, the escalator transporting us downstairs at Heathrow froze for the 2-minute silence promptly at 11 a.m. Dear old England.
Our granddaughter was waiting for us at the foot of the escalator, and the next two days were spent in her company as we made contact with other more distant relatives. It was good to spend time with two ancient aunts and a number of cousins—one of whom has since died, thus confirming the timeliness of this leave-taking.
From England we took a short flight to Munich, where we spent four days viewing museums, galleries, parks and castles, and such environs as the charming hill town of Szentendre. The Englisher Garden was particularly attractive, and there we saw water-sports in progress on a man-made torrent. Our hotel was pleasant, but being close to the airport it was also a long way out of town—at the city limit, so we needed to take a train into the city each day.
Munich Town Hall
old town Budapest
English Garden
Munich Art Gallery
From Munich we proceeded east to Budapest for what we expected would be more of the same kind of museum/gallery investigation, except that Alan became sick on our second day and thereafter spent two of our remaining three days in bed. This was very difficult, because we were in a strictly B & B establishment where English was barely understood, much less spoken, and despite having bought travel cards which were supposed to take us anywhere in the city at no cost, I found the four different transit systems interlocked in (to me) totally illogical ways so that I had to take a bus, then a trolley, then a tram, to reach—after walking a half mile through filthy streets—the market where I was intent on finding and buying some broth for the invalid. Here the crowning insult was being frisked by a gun-toting policeman who appeared behind me at the check-out demanding that I upend my handbag. Apparently any shopper who fails to pick up a basket at the store-entry is treated thus. My bag contained quantities of tourist material for my grim captor to scrutinize, but only one item from the shelves—a tiny packet of (paid-for) Maggi bouillon cubes, which I duly, after another 45 minutes of diverse vehicular transport, was able to make into broth with the help of an understanding (if unilingual) housekeeper back at our pension.
The result of all this, plus the Hungarian penchant for piling garbage at street corners and scavenging for it with trolleys day and night, was that we found Budapest better to contemplate from a guide book than it was to explore at first hand.
Budapest: Gallery,
Museum,
Budapest at night
Szentendre
But I have to report one redeeming feature. There was a bright angelic visitation on our first night there when a gracious sixty-ish woman approached us as I was weeping in frustration (“Alan, I cannot walk another step!”) and asked in good English if she could be of assistance. Apparently she had worked in an Ottawa office twenty years before, and had nothing but good to say about Canadians. What an angel she indeed proved to be, going out of her way to take us to the various tramcars and buses we needed to make our circuitous trip back to our lodging, watching us safely inside after having pointed our way to a good neighbourhood café for dinner, and giving us helpful hints about venturing downtown again on the morrow. Without her encouragement I never would have found the famous bouillon, or even had the courage to go foraging for it on my own.
Now, where shall we go next?
