Travelling In Style

I arrive at breakfast to find the Italians checking out. This is accompanied by a huge amount of noise, to-ing and fro-ing from the hotel's only lift, which they have taken over, and "Ciao" repeated over and over. The African women are all wearing traditional dress and taking full advantage of the food the Italians are too preoccupied to bother with. I fight a stern looking Mother Superior with an eloborate headress for one of the last of two slices of cheese; while I'm distracted, a pair of innocent looking Sisters carry off the final portion of omlette to their communal table. I pick my way through mountains of suitcases stacked in the lobby by the departing Italians, and head downtown to Nyugati for my train to Eszergom.
I have an espresso at the booth beneath the station's elegantly curved roof and meet an elderly couple from London. He is in Budapest for dental treatment - much less expensive than in the UK - she a retired actress with Hungarian ancestry. They are warm, charming, well travelled people. We chat and laugh, discuss the beauty and absurdity of Budapest, where we have been and where we are going. They are slightly overwhelmed by the city - they are both in their 80's - but have been brave enough to book a ticket to the Great Hungarian Plain, and I offer them advice and tips about the platform for their train, the facilities onboard. Will I, or anyone I know, be that adventurous at that age? I wish them luck with a sincerity I rarely employ, and go to find my train.

The M61 is standing at the head of some coaches of 1950's vintage, with a full complement of doorhandles. I find an excellent spot in the brake coach where I can sit at the conductor's desk in a big old leather seat, the window open, my notebook in front of me, an espresso from the bufe balanced in the inkwell. The train tiptoes over the Danube on a rusty girder bridge that groans under it's weight, then the M61 opens up and we are soon in open countryside, hills and birch stands alongside the line, an old Wartburg stopped at some crossing gates.
At Piliscsaba I give the train conductor some Forints and he leads me to the M61's cab. I take the Secondman's seat on the left of the cab, and travel the rest of the way to Esztergom in the way I wish I could make all my journeys. The cab is hot and loud. The engine screams like a wounded animal when the driver opens the throttle, the airhorns are angled down between the twin windscrens and deafening, everything vibrates and rattles, and always, the thick smell of diesel fumes. I sit in the red velour seat and watch the driver adjust the bakelite power handle and make small, precise movements with the brake lever atop it's nest of airpipes. The wooden window frames are finished with chrome sills, there is a big, domestic-looking hotwater radiator beneath the windows, and the interior is painted in the familiar institutional green. Sometimes the driver takes his hands from the controls and folds his arms, gazing out of his side window as we coast along, like somebody who is bored by the television and waiting for the next programme. I ride the M61 back to Budapest, too. I have no invitation to do so, but just climb into my usual seat on the left of the cab, spotting signals for the driver, leaning back so he can see in the rearview mirror at station stops. I shake hands with the driver at Budapest and catch a tram to my hotel.
I have an early meal and go to bed. I am slightly deaf but content with my day, and must be at Keleti for the morning train to Miskolc. It will be pulled by one of the seemingly inummerable electrics, and my seat will be in a coach behind it.