The Accidental Vandal

There is a goup of Christian African women in the hotel, and a delegation of volunteers from Italy attending some convention or other in the nearby sports arena. At breakfast, the African women are eating in solemn silence at one table, and the Italians have taken over the rest of the restaurant; they are shrill and overdressed, and one of their party is on permanent duty to harass the waiter, complaining about the coffee being too strong or not hot enough. They consume everything in sight, commandeering the platters of meat and cheese as soon as they appear from the kitchen, leaving the remaining scraps on the buffet table for the Christian women and me to pick over.
I catch the tram to Baross Ter and walk to the internet cafe. Four English men weave drunkenly through the slow moving traffic, swearing and gesturing to the drivers; without breaking his stride, one is sick down his shirt. They barge their way into a bar further along the street: it is not yet 11 o'clock.

I take a vintage railbus to the Vasuttorteneti Park. It is the biggest historic railway collection in Europe; I am the only passenger, and the park is deserted. The excursion seems rather sad for this, more so in the cultural and social setting of Budapest. Still, among the enormous steam engines, the minature railway, and the ice cream stands, I find the last operational M61 diesel. The Hungarians somehow managed to order a handful of these machines from Western Europe in the 1960s; any further attempts to buy more were met with "Nyet" from the Soviets, and the instruction to place orders for the Russian M62. All very well, but the Russians had never built a diesel locomotive before. When the first one emerged from the Oktober Revolution Locomotive Works in what is now The Ukraine, this was apparent. The Hungarians had persauded the Russian designers to at least seperate the drivers cab from the engine compartment, but all other suggestions had been ignored. Unacceptably loud, uneconomical, and shoddily built with poor quality components, it was a disaster. The Hungarians were forced to rebuild each one before they could use them.
Some steps have been rolled up to the cab door, and after a furtive glance around, I climb up to look inside a unique machine that survived behind the Iron Curtain. The door is stiff. I push as hard as I can and it moves a few inches. I pull it firmly back to try again, and the doorhandle breaks off in my hand. There is nobody around as I stand at the top of the steps, clutching a piece of history. I try pushing it back into place, but it falls off and clangs onto the metal steps. I am mortified. Should I own up - go and find someone to apologise to? Instead, I balance the broken handle at the top off the steps and slope off behind a line of vintage carriages, feeling thoroughly ashamed. I get on the railbus back to the station; as I look out of the window, a man in overalls is standing near the vintage carriages, scratching his head and looking around the park: he is holding something in his hand.
I find an Ettrem near Deak Ter and order an espresso. The entire Italian delegation from the hotel walks in. Within 15 minutes they have rearranged the furniture, run the waitress ragged with requests for every type of coffee from Iced to Latte, argued over the bill, annoyed everbody, and left: it is like the aftermath of a hurricane.
I take the underground from Vorosmarty Ter into the suburbs. The line dates from 1896 - the oldest underground in Europe - and has been elegantly restored. It isn't a true subway, simply a cut-and-cover: a trench with a roof, with a few steps down form street level. I change to a tram at Mexikoi Ut, and become completely lost. I have left my map at the hotel and there are none at the stops, just linear diagrams with unpronouncable names. I change trams 3 times in the next hour, and finally arrive back at Deli Palyaudvar, the city's Southern station. It reminds me of London Euston - a plain, ugly, 1960s piece of functionality ill at ease with the granduer of Keleti and Nyugati.
I stop at a small local bar on the way to my hotel. I order a bottle of beer. The barman takes it from an ancient fridge and takes my money wordlessly. I drink it standing at a table. This is the worst place I have ever seen. It is filthy, dingy, and the few customers have the desperate, broken look of terminal alcoholics. They are drinking something that the Bus Pub might serve, but the barman dilutes each glass with tap-water, and it costs almost nothing. I am the only person able to afford the bottled beer, and two more bottles is all that remains in the cooler. A grey, beaten Vietnamese man in rags wobbles out into the night; I sit on a bench at the table he has left, and feel dampness soaking through my clothes: too drunk to bother, too past caring, he has simply urinated where he sat.
I scrub myself under a blistering shower and wrap my clothes in layer after layer of plastic bags; I will give them to the maid to wash in the morning. I put them in the furthest corner of the room and go to bed, wondering if the M61 will be repaired by tomorrow; it is due to be hauling a special train to Esztergom, and I have a ticket.