Breakfast at the hotel in Budapest was fine, plenty of sausages and eggs, together or separate. Cheese and fruit, I had both, without the fruit and coffee. I checked out and was on the road before my OCD target of 9AM. With the phone fully charged and the sat-nav loaded, leaving Budapest was not half the chore arriving had been and within half an hour I was well beyond the boundaries of the city.
The drive to Gyula was simple and the roads quiet and well maintained. I stopped briefly at another massive Tesco hyper-mart to top up with toiletries, when I say top up I actually mean get some, I left everything at home.
The hotel was easy to find but the check in time was not until 3PM, it only just noon! I filled in (out?) the registration form, parked my car in the gloomy subterranean car-park then returned to reception to enquire about the buses. The helpful clerk suggested that I shouldn't gamble my life on public transport and immediately ordered me a taxi. Completely unprepared I stuffed the required electronics (I am building up a pathetic reliance on these devices an an aid to memoir) into my pockets, donned my fleece and was bundled into the awaiting car.
The 24 degree celsius exterior was somewhat warmer in the taxi and even with the window open I was sweating the whole way to Bekescsaba. After some initial confusion at the entrance I eventually managed to explain my request, to pay and get in, and was admitted with accompanying embarrassed smiles and nods.
I still had two hours to kill until my meeting with the organisers so I bimbled about taking in the ambience and photos in equal measure until, unbelievably I literally bumped into my old mate from the Turija sausage festival, Zoltan. He was very pleased to see me but, as he has no English and I have less than no Hungarian we babbled at each other for a while and both nodded as we promised to something or other, possibly, later, perhaps. I wandered off for a beer.
When the time came for the meeting with the organisers I followed the signs to the office, which I found and knocked, nothing. The door was a blank and opened into the main arena. I asked at the info point and was eventually, through my initial contact put in touch with two twenty something (if that) sisters, one a journalist for Radio One, Bekescsaba, the other acting as interpreter. We exchanged questions which ended at an awkward point when a sausage on a paper plate, complete with mustard and bread was produced. The awkwardness arose when I realised that the whole room was waitin and watching for me to polish of this monster banger. After a token slice or two I made my excuses, thanked everyone and wandered off, I did manage to finish the sausage.
Bearing in mind what Zoltan had perhaps said, coupled with the fact I may have recognised Istvan earlier, I returned to the sausage club tent where I witnesses the preparation and subsequent carving up of a full pig carcass earlier in the afternoon.
Istvan was indeed there as was Gyuri. The former somewhat sozzled and the later having no memory of meeting me in Turija. none of these guys had any English, an interpreter was frantically sought. In the end we ended up with:
A drunk Hungarian who liked to think he could speak English (think Crabtree with his French in 'Allo 'Allo)
A Hungarian who had some English
A Slovenian who had no Hungarian or English
A Hungarian who could speak Slovenian
A Hungarian who could speak Russian
Istvan who was struggling to speak
The Slovenian via many routes eventually explained that he was the President of the Slovenian Salami organisation and invited me to the National finals in March next year. Two minutes worth of words taking nearly an hour, and beer, and Palinka.
Will update with photos and a conclusion after dinner.
LOL!
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