Current mileage on
Mileage update for 7/18: 88327 on the odometer, for a grand total of 1,559 miles from Thames Ditton, Surrey UK to Deva, Romania @ 3:45pm local time, en route to Sibui, Romania campsite.
Blog for 7/17 & 7/18 will be posted ASAP…
Tuesday, July 16- Klenovy, Czech Republic to Magyarovar,
Hungary: we woke early in the morning, around 7:30am, to a relatively quiet
campsite despite celebrations lasting well into the early morning. A small village had formed around our tent while
we were socializing at the castle, and among our neighbors was a particularly
rambunctious pair; an Italian and a Spaniard.
They politely asked if they could pitch up next to us, then proceeded to
blast club music through their car stereo (actually it was "Get Lucky" on continuous loop) and dance on the hood.
Part of me was jealous, but mostly all I could think about was trying to
sleep through the night with that going on 5 feet away with nothing between my
head and the noise except for a thin nylon barrier. Before turning in we opted to move the tent
to a more secluded spot behind a stand of trees, which did the trick. Our plan was to drive down to Austria and cut
across to Hungary and the town of Gyor by around 7pm, and we departed before
the actual sendoff party. As much as we
hated to miss it, we wanted to make good time.
All was going well until the next major town, when I was flagged down by
a Czech policeman for going 64kph in a 50kph zone. This was all very flattering as I wasn’t
aware our Alto could travel at such fantastic speeds uphill, but his radar
setup seemed legit and I had no choice but to take him at his word. In broken German I managed to deduce that the
policeman was going to fine me 500 crowns, which came out to around $24
USD. We didn’t have any crowns on us and
he refused to accept anything but, and so he retained my drivers’ license and
passport so we could return to the center of town and obtain the necessary hard
currency. We returned about 45 minutes
later, and surprisingly he spend about 10 minutes filling out paperwork and a
receipt. He took great care to note the
amount and to show me that the documents he was returning to me were, in fact,
mine. Accepting that we had been pulled
over and fined first in an EU country and not in some eastern European nation,
we laughed and drove on. The trip
through Austria was again on small country roads to avoid tolls for using the
main highways, and to see more of the small towns and countryside we’d miss
otherwise. The experience was a pleasant
one, but we only passed through the outskirts of Vienna and weren’t able to
stop for any sight-seeing. When we
reached Hungary there was a definite change in everything, even more so than
from Germany to the Czech Republic. Use
of the English language was also rapidly diminishing and now we were presented
with signs that neither of us could properly read nor pronounce. There was occasional German in use, but only
on signage and I presume for the benefit of travelers from neighboring
Austria. One thing we’d managed to do on
the way was to seek out wifi during a lunch stop and research prospective
campsites in and around Gyor.
Shamelessly using the satellite navigation, we punched several of them
in as the evening wore on. In a curious
turn of events, however, we’d come to realize that camping seemed to be wildly
popular in Hungary and it was doubtful we’d even need the help of our GPS unit
to find a good spot. Signage indicating
nearby hotels, fuel, camping and dining locations were everywhere, even on the
rough country roads we were traveling.
It soon became obvious that we’d have missed any chance of finding a
campsite had we been on major thoroughfares, unless of course travelers on
those roads were equally well informed by signs. As we passed through the town
of Magyarovar we spotted several grocery stores, gas stations and then a very
nice looking campsite/restaurant nestled on a riverbank. Just 34km from our original destination of
Gyor, we figured that seeing was believing and opted to turn around and stay at
the campsite in Magyarovar. As we
arrived around 7pm, we had plenty of time to visit the local grocery store for
some cubed beef and to stop at an ATM for Hungarian currency to pay our
campsite bill. We cooked a nice dinner
and even ran into another rally team, two quiet Dutch gentleman who had filmed
the morning events at the castle. They
were kind enough to show them to us, so we hadn’t entirely missed out on all
the fun.
Monday, July 15- Chimay, Belgium to Klenovy, Czech Republic:
one of several revelations provided by our brief access to wifi was that we had
been mistaken regarding the date of the rally launch from the Czech
Republic. It was, in fact, the night of
the 15th rather than the 16th. We still planned to pass through Luxembourg
on the way, a small victory in the “driving through countries we’d never been
to” department but nevertheless a hollow one.
There would be precious little time for stops or side trips on our route
eastward. We would have to make
spectacular time to get to Klenovy, if
only to enjoy a free meal, and convenient to our predicament a vast and
gleaming ribbon of German highway lay before us. We passed into France once again and then to
Luxembourg, through several tunnels and finally into Germany. Again, there was a problem. The disappointing reality of our driving a 1.1
liter Suzuki Alto on this miracle of automotive transit pains me in ways I find
difficult to describe. Whatever joy I
might otherwise have derived from the experience was sapped away by the chore
of keeping our vehicle, traveling at around 70mph, from becoming a stationary
barrier to pretty much every other vehicle on the road. Sports cars, heavy trucks, Zambonis,
tractors, mule carts, they were all rocketing past us at speeds we could only
dream of. I made every effort to stay
out of their way despite any feelings of jealousy. I felt a modest swelling of pride as we entered
Baden-Württemberg and then passed a turnoff for Stuttgart, my grandmother’s
ancestral homeland and also that of Porsche.
I insisted on returning, not just to revisit the old country and explore
my ancestral roots but more importantly to do so in an absurdly fast car. For the moment we were hopelessly outgunned and
tried our best to make good time in our little economy car. Anger and frustration stirred as we passed one
significant landmark after another, a repeat of France, Belgium and the
Ardennes. Europe is beyond measure given
the historical perspective of an American, and we comforted ourselves with the
knowledge that it would take a lifetime to enjoy just a handful of what there
was to see. We would come back, of course. Nearing the Czech border we left the
frustrating reality of high-speed German highways behind, opting for the more
infrequently traveled country roads.
Just as in France we passed by rolling farmland and one picturesque
village after another, with one notable difference being the architecture of
the church steeple/bell tower. The sharp
Romanesque profile of French churches had been replaced by the Baroque,
onion-like domes of German ones. Again I
marveled at Europe, at its age and its determination to look and feel as solid
as the ground it was built upon. America
wasn’t without its own wonders but the newness and modernity of it all felt
hollow and fragile when compared to places like this. Everything was so old and traditional, so supremely
fashioned and solidly built that it had withstood centuries of the worst sorts
of chaos mankind could think to throw at it.
Well, perhaps not here, or at least I had to think so. No place could possibly look so serene were
it not in some sort of protective bubble.
Waldmuchen was our last stop on the German side, and we had to proceed
on a dirt road because of some construction.
Not long after we were back on pavement and then passed through yet
another unceremonious Eurozone border crossing, this time into the Czech
Republic. Here was another entirely
distinct language and culture in the distance it would take to travel from my
hometown in eastern Kentucky to Nashville, Tennessee. I remarked to Lisa that the transition was
actually not unlike the border with Kentucky and Virginia, aside from the fact
that language and nationality were only slightly more apparent here…..
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