A Line To Nowhere

I leave my bag in a locker at the station. Obliged to leave the hotel by 10 o'clock, it is too heavy to carry around until my train leaves in the afternoon. I descend a flight of steps into the basement to use the toilet; it is a dingy and unattractive place: bare bulbs and cracked and stained tiling. The toilet attendant smiles broadly as I hand him the 60 Forint fee. I stand at a urinal, and suddenly he is next to me. "Tourist?", he asks, his eyes dropping to my open flies. He smiles again; "Sexy", he hisses in my ear, "you are sexy. I like you". I leave quickly, and almost run out of the station and across the platz into town.
My map has shown me a single track line which starts on the Danube bank, winding through the suburbs, then ending abruptly near a roadbridge, a seemingly arbitrary point. I set out to see what is left, if anything; the line is unconnected to any other, and very likely predates the mainlines: a long forgotten piece of history. The terminal on the river is buried under a building site, the rising concrete structure hiding any clues as to what was carried to or from the boats or barges that must once have moored there. The only trace I can find are the parallel rails set into the road, neatly cut off at the kerbs; they point the way to an overgrown green passage between the gardens of houses and bungalows across a piece of wasteland. I walk it's course for perhaps 1/4 of a mile, picking my way through the undergrowth where need be, walking sleeper to splintered sleeper where I can, hedgerows and trees rising either side of me. As I round a bend, I'm amazed to discover a boxcar in front of me; rusted solidly to the rails, it's faded and weathered body as light and pale as balsa. It has obviously been here for years. It sits between two suburban gardens, hidden by years of growth from it's neighbors, halfway down a line to nowhere, as if carelessly left behind by the last ever train. I feel like an explorer who has stumbled upon an ancient temple hidden in an unexplored jungle: absurd, I know. The line ends in a new industrial estate on the edge of town, between a builder's yard and a cash and carry; it is disappointing to find it's secrets will not be discovered here, either.
As a form of solitary entertainment, I have converted the Hungarian currency - the Forint - into actors, celebrities, and public figures. It started after noticing that the historic figure on the 1000ft note bears a striking resemblance to Alan Rickman in his role in Robin Hood. The 5000 note is quite clearly Johnny Depp as Jack Sparrow, while the 500 note is unmistakably Pat Butcher of Eastenders. The best I could come up with for the 10000 note was John Prescott - but I'm still not completely satisfied with this, and considering a further conversion to Elvis in his Vegas years.
I have a coffee at a street cafe in the square. I ask for the bill, and pay with a 2000ft note. The waitress smiles, thanks me, and disappears. I wait for several minutes for my change, but she seems to be avoiding me. The menu tells me the price is 400ft, expensive for an espresso. I eventually lose my patience and intercept her as she takes an order at another table.
"My change?" I demand.
"No change", she says airily," there is service charge". I am outraged.
"But that was a Yasser Arafat!" I protest.
The waitress and the couple she is serving stare at me in silence. People at other tables are turning round to stare, too. I cannot recover from this, any claim to credibility lost. I make my second hasty exit of the day.

The train to Veszprem is made up of two railbuses, with a coach tucked between. I have the centre coach entirely to myself; I have a toilet, a choice of 40 seats, and open every window. There are no connecting doors between the trailers, so once moving I smoke a forbidden cigarette, knowing the conductor is trapped in the leading car. It is a long, slow climb into the hills to Porva Csesznek before the descent into the hot, dry bowl that Veszprem lies in. I work out that it's average speed is barely 40kmh. The town can be seen a long way off across the plains of stubby, yellow grass, and looks deeply unattractive. The station is a long way from town, and a scorching wind blows dust along the platform. I decide to leave the moment I arrive, and pass an hour at the Bufe, drinking cold Dreher beer and beating the fine, red dust from my shirt. A local sits next to me on the Bufe's bench: he is drinking something that looks like my unknown Bus Pub beverage, and it is not his first. He is irritating me: he insists on making conversation, but speaks no English whatsoever. He babbles in Hungarian, bits of German, and something that might be Russian; he constantly taps my shoulder or forearm to gain my attention, even though I am ignoring him completely. I slam my empty bottle on the bench and say " Tsuss" to my unwanted companion.
I arrive at Szeckesfehervar and carry my bag in circles around town; the heat is crippling, and I can find no sign of a hotel. There is no TourInform office: there are no tourists. It is an ugly town that nobody would visit anyway. It is late in the day when I arrive back at the station, lathered in sweat, empty handed.
I find a railway map on the wall of the booking hall, and try to work out the best direction to head in. I hear the familiar "English?", and before I can turn around, a plump woman has wrapped her arms around my waist, her fingers fumbling at my zip. I try to wriggle out of her grasp, but she pulls me closer.
"Sex, sex, sex, sex" she promises."Big sex, grosse sex". I push her away, but she lunges for me again. I distract her by pointing at a completely innocent man who has just emerged from the bufe. "Him", I say,"he want big sex". While they look uncertainly at each other, I escape.
I take a train for Tapolca, and hopefully, a bed for the night.
The train is slow, and it is getting dark. It will take another two hours to get to Tapolca, and then the search for lodgings. I decide to take my chances, and get off the train at Balatonkenese; there is a Panzio across the road from the station, and a sign pointing to a hotel. The owner tells me the Panzio is closed for the season, and shrugs when I ask if there are any others nearby. I follow the sign to the hotel. It is a 4 star yachting club with it's own marina on the shore of Lake Balaton; it is the only option I have.
It is horrifically expensive, two days of my budget disappear in an instant. The bar is closed, but will open again next April, I'm told. I am the hotel's only guest. They open the restaurant briefly so that I can buy a drink, the only thing in the menu I can afford with the last of my Forints. There will be no dinner tonight. I drink my precious Pilsner on my private terrace overlooking the lake. The moon reflects from it's surface, and there is only the sound of insects, the odd startled bird, and the water lapping at the shore. The view and tranquility are almost worth the cost.