Home | Hungary | Biharkeresztes

Looking up at the sky, I was pleased that there were only a few clouds in sight. A pleasant day is what I needed, and what I had. I found myself at the eastern frontier of Hungary, bordering Romania. My intentions were to reach nearby Oradea, Romania as soon as I could.

I had taken the last train from Puspokladany, near the eastern edge of Hungary, and the run terminated in Biharkeresztes, still in Hungary. Not having a map, and not knowing exactly where I was, I met a young fellow with whom I could converse in German, my second language. He told me I was 5 kilometers from the border, that there was no bus service available, and my only options were to walk or hitchhike. Using hand signals, I indicated that I might be shot. He did his best to assure me it would not happen here. So, I decided that I would take both of his options. Drawing a map in the dirt, and pointing, he gave me directions to the center of town and the main highway to Romania.

Accidently, I had discovered that my destination went by two names: Nagyvarad and Oradea. The city had been the prize of previous wars between Hungary and Romania, and was now in Romanian hands. If in Hungary, it was best to call it Nagyvarad; however, when in Romania, it should be referenced as Oradea.

Also, the region I was entering was named Transylvania. I am sure that we all know who purportedly lurked there, and maybe still does.

The journey was pleasant enough. I walked on the gravel shoulder of the side road to town. Ahead of me, I could see the church steeple and a few other buildings rise above the houses lining both sides of the road. The homes were rugged looking, yards were well-kept, and few people were stirring outside. No doubt I stuck out, and that had me worried.

After traipsing for 15 minutes or so, I came to an intersection. I could continue straight ahead and into town, or take the wide highway to my left and proceed directly into Romania. Everything was as my guide had indicated earlier.

I turned left, walked a short distance, and decided I would try sticking my thumb out to get a ride. It wasn't easy. The first car to approach me was a sports car, with very little room inside for me. It sped past, the breeze produced in its wake cooling me for only a moment. Many different cars followed, with similar results.

The monotony was relieved a bit when a local, riding atop a horse-pulled wagon, approached. Was this to be my transportation, I thought to myself. As the possible ride neared, I tried to draw the attention of the driver, but to no avail. I was getting desperate, but wasn't quite certain this suited my needs. Haste was one of them now. Lucky for me, I guess, he continued on past me with barely a nod as I waved to him.

Looking about the area, I imagined people were hiding behind their curtains, staring at me, wondering who might this intruder be. It was just too quiet to suit me. As time wore on, I wanted to get going.

Finally, at long last--maybe an hour and one-half had passed--when a fellow pulled over in his new station wagon and allowed me to get inside. Relief came in the form of a middle-aged man, who spoke several languages, two of which were German and English. I coudn't have asked for better service than this.

He asked me where I was going and told me where he was heading. Luckily, for me, the two coincided. Our conversation was very enjoyable. He was in the export-import business, and his office was in Oradea, Romania, exactly where I wanted to go.

Soon, the land became barren and brown in coloration. We were nearing the border. As we reached it, the number of people increased. I could see them standing about, some with Stalinist-era, burp guns slung over a shoulder. The circular, canister-shaped clip attached to their weapon held around 100 rounds of ammunition or so. A wrong move by me could be drastic.

Our car was stopped by the Hungarians, dressed in their dark-green, military uniforms. They were grim-faced and somewhat intimidating. My driver asked me to give him my passport, which I did. He also told me to stay in the car, because he would have to get out and open the trunk, let the guards check the car interior, etc. Everything proceeded well, until the guard asked my driver a question. The next thing I knew, the owner of the car was showing the paper money in his large billfold to the guard. I wondered to myself if bribery was taking place. Not so! In addition, I kept muttering the word "Nagyvarad" in case I was asked my intended destination.

A few minutes later, and we were off to meet the Romanian guards. We pulled up to a telephone-booth-sized structure, and the guard, seated inside, slid open a glass window. Apparently, he asked for the passports, which were promptly provided. We went through all of the same procedures for these fellows, even flashing the money. The only difference was the color of the uniforms they wore. I was neither questioned nor bothered by them.

The entire border procedure consumed about 20 minutes of time. I was eager to get going and was happy when we were underway again. The sun, now midway between its zenith and nadir, indicated that time was fleeting.

Inside Romania, we passed through a small town called Bors, then a few more on the way to Oradea. At each, I was worried lest my friend stop his car and tell me this was the end of the line for him. Fortunately, this did not happen.

Soon enough, we were at the outskirts of the large city for which I was aiming. I was expecting that any minute now, I would be out walking again, but not so. He insisted on giving me a tour of his city. All of that took 30 minutes and I was fascinated. I took many pictures with my camera, using an entire roll of film, as he pointed out landmarks, tourist sites, and all.

I asked him to show me the train station, and he did. Driving a bit farther, it was beginning to get dark, so I asked him if I could get out. He didn't have a very favorable expression on his face now. At this point, I felt a little bit trapped. Luckily for me, he did stop, near a pedestrian walkway. As I exited, I thanked him profusely. I also asked him how to say "train station" in the Romanian language. "Gare," he stated. With that, I waved good-bye.

Looking up at the sky, I breathed a long sigh of relief. The few clouds were still present, as before. It was beautiful outside, and I couldn't have asked for a better outcome than what I had just experienced. It was a trip I would remember for a long time. I felt very lucky, indeed.

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