N) Jucha v Hungary, Romania and Yugoslavia

My journey to Turkey started swimmingly. Two trains from Madrid to
Paris. Sixteen hours overnight. Lovely. A few hours at the station and
then a quick train to Munich. Nine hours. No Worries. Again, some hours
in Munich and then for the long haul. Forty-eight hours to
Istanbul.

I was in good spirits and looking forward to Turkey. I was fortunate
enough to sit next to a softly spoken Austrian whose name I could never
quite get, but anglicised in my mind to be Bruno. In the few hours we
shared, we discussed everything from world politics to sport to our
dreams and relationships. Bruno alighted in Vienna and we parted with
warmness that lulled me as the train worked its way out of
Austria.

I mused on my travels and started to wonder where the train actually
went. I mean, I knew that it went from Munich to Istanbul, but in my
haste I had given no thought to the bit in the middle. I reviewed my
map and timetable to learn that the train was to traverse Hungary,
Romania, Yugoslavia and Bulgaria. Then an awful thought entered my
mind...

Visas.

I knew I was fine for Turkey, but what about the rest?

At this point, I must make what I view to be a little confession. I
have carried one guidebook with me on my travels: Lonely Planet's
Eastern Europe, though I had never had any reason to consult it.
Szczecin does not rate a mention and Ljubljana's terrific tourist
office rendered it redundant. With my train speeding out of Austria and
into Hungary, I needed to consult it now. And fast!

I rummaged for the book and started flipping through it madly. I was
fine for Bulgaria, but before then came Hungary, Romania and
Yugoslavia. Here is what my book said:

"Australians still require visas" to enter Hungary and visas "are never
issued on trains". "All western visitors require a visa to enter
Romania". The same applies to Yugoslavia and it takes "at least six
weeks to get a visa... an impossible process."

I was toast.

I contemplated the border patrols. I felt I could scam my way through
one country, maybe even two, but three? Even if I managed it all the
way to Istanbul, I would have to do it all again on the way back. Over
eighty odd hours of hiding in toilets? I knew I would survive whatever
happened, but with my timetable so tight, I could not afford any
delays. I might risk missing the Final!

Bratwurst on toast.

I grabbed my pack and started running through the train. Just to run.
It was all I could do. I burst into a compartment full of conductors
and in panicked broken English tried to explain my dilemma. I
established that I was still in Austria. Just. The train was slowing
down for its last stop in the country. I had no other options. I leapt
off!

Welcome to Brock! A tiny town near the border with a few thousand
residents and not a single Internet cafe. With a six hour wait until
the next train back to Germany, there was only one thing for
it...

A pub crawl!

My first stop was a nameless little shack on the footpath. I sat on a
bench with a world-angry Austrian. I felt I already knew the man well.
He was burly, rugged and mulleted. Too smart for the world and too good
for me. My half of the bench might as well have been in Australia for
the acknowledgement I received. The poor fellow sat smoking, trying to
lob his butts in a drain. He missed every time. We sat in silence
draining our 'Ottakringers' and then I moved on.

An Irish pub next. 'The Crazy Sheep' of all things. How very Irish. I
sat in its pleasant beer garden, enjoying pleasant music and drinking a
pleasant 'Reininghous'. The place was so damned pleasant that one could
drink away all one's dreams there and I guess that was the general
idea. I did not want to forget my new dream of drinking my way around
the whole town, so I stayed a short while and then left.

At the 'Stadthalle', I enjoyed a 'Kaiser Beer' and a remarkable
conversation with an old gent about the evils of the Internet. Emailing
is not really communicating we agreed, him speaking only Austrian and
me only English. It was a marvellous chat and I floated away on the
irony all the way to my next venue.

In 'Rhodos Bierpub', I met a Hungarian woman who was born in the
States, wore Hilfiger jeans and spoke with the attitude and drawl of a
true New Yorker. We sat talking at length about her adventures in Las
Vegas (though not mine of course). I stopped there for a couple of
'Grossers' and felt that I could have been in anytown USA, until a
couple of Austrian soldiers walked in and marked the time for my
exit.

I ducked in to the 'Western Saloon Steak House' covered in American
flags, tack and crap. A jukebox played the lyrics "the world is a sad
place, a bad place, but I don't want to die". I did. I downed another
'Grosser' in record time and left wishing that I had never walked
in.

Things were getting a little blurry by now, but I am quite sure that I
next went to the 'Schewchater Bar' where I had a quick 'Zuick'. The bar
was run by a cocky young chump who displayed his phone, wallet and keys
on his belt like an overly proud tradesman. Perched at the head of a
table, he delighted in assuring me that there were no kangaroos around.
I sat directly opposite and did my best to command the table's
attention in tones that I judged were just low enough to exclude him. A
fun little game which I probably lost given that I crashed into some
pans on my way out.

I could not find any more places to drink and so marked my new mission
complete. I staggered somewhere to get something to eat and enjoyed
some splendid pasta and a glass of red wine.

Hungary, Romania and Yugoslavia the winners, Jucha the loser, having
conceded defeat. But I had a ball running amok around Bruck and made
the late train to be back in Germany for the first semi final. May it
be a great game...