---

BY NATALIE BOWLUS

In print | Published February 21, 2008

The first real trip I took last fall (excluding the obvious one that initially brought me across the Atlantic) was to Eger, a small town about three hours from Budapest by commuter train. To the extent that Eger is famous, it is known for its cathedral, its minaret (a dilapidated building that happens to be the northernmost exemplar of Turkish architecture in Europe), its modestly sized castle and its truly outstanding wine, although I was only clued into these many attractions after our language professor suggested we go there.

The trip was also my first exposure to last minute gonzo traveling sans plan. My family functions like a small army, albeit a poorly organized one, so the idea of showing up someplace without having found a place to stay or things to see was anathema to the first 20 years of my development.

That, however, did not stop three friends and me from buying tickets at the last minute, barely making the train, wandering aimlessly through several obligatory tourist stops and then wandering even more aimlessly for several hours while we tried to find a place to stay. My friend, attempting to explain that we needed a room for four, might actually have asked for four young boys.

Despite all the stupidity we could muster, we did find lodgings for the night, and Day Two dawned with a sense of purpose: we were going to find the Valley of Beautiful Women, home of Eger’s famed wine cellars.

The scope of our journey seemed reminiscent of Ponce de Leon’s quest for the fountain of youth, minus any altercations with the Natives. After wandering through Hungarian suburbia for several hours, the valley opened up before us, beckoning like K.B. Toys in the local mall.

What we had come to see consisted of maybe two dozen wine cellars built cheek-to-jaw in a ring, so exploring was as exotic as wandering from one door to the next. The interesting part, though, is that once there, you’re actually a stone’s throw away from the vineyards themselves.

After meandering up a short path, my female friend and I found ourselves face to face with scenery most frequently seen on Italian postcards: row upon row of vines adorned with turgid, alluring grapes, following the contours of the hillside out of sight. In the distance we could almost make out a cluster of pastel houses that might have been the city.

Following the same narrow, stony path, we wandered past two small, fenced-in houses with an orchard in between. A grizzled farmer hailed us from within and, when we responded with all the enthusiasm befitting college-age females exploring the countryside, he came out to meet us on the road.

Making full use of every noun we learned in our ten-day crash-course in Hungarian and copious amounts of impromptu sign language, we explained that we were American math students visiting from Budapest. He asked us many other questions, all of which were invariably outside of my minimal language skills. He can’t have minded too much, though, because he then asked us into his house for a drink.

The house consisted of a room with just enough space for two beds, several shelves and a trapdoor in the floor that looked as though it would accommodate a wine cask the size of William Howard Taft. We were joined by an equally grizzled farmer friend, who opened said wine cellar and brought out a two-liter plastic bottle of an unidentified local red wine. Our friend put out four small glasses, filled them up, and then we watched as the Hungarian farmers tossed wine back like Robitussin.

The first important lesson I learned while abroad was that any attempt to decline spirits from a Hungarian is doomed to failure.

We chattered for a while, by which I mean that they asked us questions we spent a lot of time trying to understand without success. Laughter seemed the most effective way of communicating. It must have been going well, though, because our friend excused himself for a moment, only to come back with an armload of assorted fruits.

Not to be outdone, his friend also left and returned with a comparable armload. Suddenly we found ourselves short on time but long on two kilos of delicious, ripe fruits of indeterminate species.

Unfortunately the train going back to Budapest waits for no man, woman or would-be wine connoisseurs, and we were forced to bid our fond farewells. The fruit was loaded into plastic bags and goodbyes were exchanged to the extent that we were able to say goodbye.

We had left the house and had pointed ourselves back in the direction of where we had come when once more we were summoned from within the compound – our friend was there with final parting gifts: two pears and two small, pink flowers.

Natalie is a senior. You can reach her at nbowlus1@swarthmore.edu.

---

« RETURN TO LIVING & ARTS

« PREV ARTICLE | NEXT ARTICLE »