In the Land of the Magyars

There's an old story about how some physicists at Los Alamos did a back-of-the-napkin estimate on how long it should take to colonize the galaxy, at sub-light speeds, using a land-settle-build-move on model. Their answer? Sixty million years. So the next obvious question was, "Where is everybody?" "They are here," replied Enrico Fermi, "and they are the Magyars."

Apocryphal, perhaps, but the jest was made in reference to the Hungarian language, which bears no resemblance to any other except maybe a variety of Finnish that was never written down and is no longer spoken. As usual, though, everyone speaks English and is happy to help. Unreadable, impenetrable, and nearly unpronounceable to one as tone deaf as me, I'm just happy to have learned hello, goodbye, yes, no, please and thank you. You know, the basics. Still can't count.

Speaking of counting, Hungary remains on its pre-Euro currency, the Forint, which is adorned with portraits of people resembling Vlad the Impaler (wrong country, I know), and trades at 225:1. So take off the last two digits, divide by four, and round down. Basic stuff is fairly inexpensive: a midrange bottle of wine at a midrange restaurant is about $18, and a pizza or donor kabab--both of which are ubiquitous to the point where they are arguably two of the Hungarian national food groups--goes for around $5.

There are still remnants of the Soviet era, mostly in statue form, like this sample outside the train station, and the occasional Trabant. Otherwise, it's typical European, with sleek, modern hotels, hot showers, and a Burger King every half mile or so. It's also hip in that Eurotrash couture kind of way, which means it's time to ditch my cargo pants for the skinny jeans. You know, so I blend in.