For Many Disabled People, This Is Tuesday

In 2007, I was invited to a puppetry festival in Pécs, Hungary.

I had been assured that many Hungarians spoke at least some English. I didn’t speak Hungarian, and as it turned out, very few of the people I met spoke English.

I was backpacking, with everything I needed for ten days strapped to my back. I landed at Budapest’s main international airport at around 8 p.m. I had never been to Hungary before, and I couldn’t find the taxi rank because, interestingly enough, all the signage was in Hungarian.

By close to ten o’clock, I had somehow managed to reach the main southbound rail station.

Like many English speakers, I had assumed I could get by with English alone. Instead, I found myself relying on my extensive knowledge of universal gestures to buy a ticket and find out when the train left for Pécs.

The ticket seller clearly understood that there was some urgency. Unfortunately, I did not.

He had obviously read the same book I had: The International Travel Gestures Book for Dummies. After much pointing, waving, and facial expression, I realized the train was about to leave.

Panic.

Then confusion set in. The sign on the front of the train did not say Pécs. It said the name of a Hungarian place I had never heard of.

A voice came over the loudspeaker. I guessed it was saying, in Hungarian, that the train would terminate somewhere else and that passengers for Pécs would need to change trains.

At least, I hoped that was what it said.

For a moment, I considered going back to the ticket seller. But while I was still standing in the aisle, trying to decide whether courage or common sense should win, the train began to move.

Too late.

After about an hour in a Soviet-style, hard-benched railway carriage, I found myself at 11 p.m. standing in the middle of a dark, multi-track junction station somewhere in Hungary.

There were twelve platforms. No staff. No one to ask. Barely any lighting.

Twenty minutes passed. No trains. No people.

My anxiety went through the roof.

Finally, a train pulled in. I took a leap of faith and got on, hoping it was bound for Pécs.

Luckily, I guessed correctly.

An hour later, I arrived at Pécs railway station. It was dark, silent, and almost empty.

Everyone who got off the train quickly disappeared, except for one young woman. I recognized her from the seat in front of me. She was waiting for her brother to pick her up.

Thankfully, she spoke enough English to understand my problem. She offered to call me a taxi.

Just then, her brother arrived. By the look on his face, he thought I looked extremely sketchy. They spoke in Hungarian, so I couldn’t tell whether he was saying, “Be careful, he looks suspicious,” or “Yes, he is definitely suspicious.”

However, calmer minds prevailed. They called me a taxi.

Once again, Hungarian came into play, accompanied by the now infamous International Travel Gestures. Instructions were given. Instructions were received. At least, I hoped they were.

For a brief moment, I wondered whether something she said might include an invitation to stay with them. One glance at her brother’s darkening expression told me it did not.

So we said goodbye, and the taxi headed off.

There was still one rather serious problem. I did not have the address of the theatre.

I could tell by the taxi driver’s face that he wasn’t sure what a puppet was, never mind a puppet theatre. As we drove around the hillier part of Pécs, I sat sweating in the back seat, watching the meter.

I had to keep one nervous eye on the fare in case I couldn’t afford it. The thought of explaining myself to Hungarian police at midnight was not appealing.

I was also worried the driver might take advantage of me. He didn’t, but I only knew that at the end of the trip.

After thirty minutes of wandering, several wrong turns, and some muttering in Hungarian, we miraculously found the theatre.

Of course, it was dark and locked up tight.

I had arrived more than two hours late for the arranged meeting with my host. I was alone, in a strange city, unable to speak the language, with nowhere to stay.

I walked back down the hill toward a pedestrian precinct, hoping to find a hotel.

Eventually, I came across an “American” bar. It was closed and almost completely dark, but two staff members were still cleaning up. Luckily, one of them spoke some English.

They told me they didn’t think anywhere would still be open, but I could try a small hotel nearby. It might have a night porter.

I found the hotel.

It did not.

At that point, I imagined myself sleeping on a park bench until morning. Once again, Hungarian policemen entered my thoughts.

I walked back into the street, close to tears from exhaustion, embarrassment, and stress.

Then, out of the darkness and mist, I saw two enormous dragons towering above me.

They were large parade puppets, being carried by two groups of people. I followed them.

I managed to stop one person and said the last name of the person I was supposed to meet. She didn’t know what I was talking about. She asked someone else.

Within moments, I was surrounded by people speaking Hungarian at me and shouting to each other.

Then, suddenly, I heard my name.

“Mr. Phil! Hello! I am Tamás. Welcome to Pécs!”

I almost cried with relief.

They had been rehearsing for the puppet parade the next day. By sheer luck, I had found the very person who had invited me.

All was well.

We walked back up the hill to the theatre. I was welcomed, my accommodation was arranged, and I was given clear directions. Armed with food coupons for the week, I finally got to bed at about 3 a.m.

I tell this story because, for a few hours in Hungary, I experienced dependence, uncertainty, fear, embarrassment, and the desperate hope that somebody kind would appear.

I didn't know if I was in danger. I was not being harmed. But I was vulnerable.

I could not read the signs. I could not ask for help properly. I could not explain where I needed to go. I could not control what happened next.

For many disabled people, this is not an unusual travel story.

It is everyday life.

It is depending on strangers.

It is hoping the instructions are clear.

It is wondering whether the building will be open, whether someone will understand, whether help will appear, and whether you will be treated with patience or suspicion.

For me, it lasted a few hours.

For many disabled people, this was not a travel story.

This was Tuesday.