Freezing with stodgy pasta

If someone suggested going to Budapest, I doubt this is the sort of image that would spring to mind. Even if they talked about Hungarian food, you'd probably imagine rich goulashes. My second night here, and supper consists of fried egg, bread, and a cup of tea. If I can get the oven to work I may even get some stodgy pasta. Here's hoping.

Early on Monday morning (3am) I headed out of my London flat with a large suitcase, large rucksack, and two smaller shoulder bags, heading for London transport. I thanked heaven it wasn't raining. Boarding the nightbus I began my journey for Budapest, where I had a job, and new life waiting. With less than a month's preparation, the realisation kept hitting me in big watery emotional waves.

Turned out easyjet didn't want my two big bags though, and plopped me with a £100 surcharge. Then they told me I could only take one carry-on through. I quickly undid my jacket, shoved several books in each pocket, and adjusted the strap so that it sat neatly under my jacket and beneath my rucksack. The guy at the escalator gave me a second look, but didn't stop me. Turning so I faced the boarding pass check got me through there. Security was tricky though. I had to fumble lots, so that I could shove the first bag through so it looked like it wasn't mine, then cover it with my coat when I went through the xray.

At Budapest airport, the weather was surprisingly mild. Waiting for my luggage I texted my sister and began to cry. I turned away from the people and used an old hanky to wipe the tears. Little did I know that in 24 hours I'd miss that soggy hanky, discovering the roughness of Eastern European toilet paper. Out of the airport I met Miklos, who was to be my guide briefly.

Miklos was the friend of the brother of the guy who was renting me his flat. Miklos' English was not great, and I was immediately pissed off that he didn't offer to carry my suitcase, instead cracking a joke that I had a rucksack on the front and back, instead of carrying one. [I should say I probably remember the aggravations more because of how things ended; I think he was at heart a very affable bloke] After taking the long way to the flat (turned out there was a 12minute bus instead of the 45minute one we took), where Miklos hardly spoke to me, we arrived. I was still trying to maintain high spirits, and the flat looked much like the pictures I'd seen. I quickly discovered though, that the promised bedding was nowhere to be seen (I discovered later that the previous tenants had scarpered with it), and was in for a very cold night.

Miklos took me out for lunch, and to get me set up with a phone and internet. He seemed to chat happily to othe Hungarians, people I was reasonably sure he'd never met before, which was nice. The language barrier meant he didn't speak much to me though, and I got a little frustrated when he spoke for ages to other people on the phone.

After a couple of failed attempts, we found a shop that would unlock my phone. They said it would take two hours, so we headed off. As we did so though, Miklos said something that sounded like it would cost more to just get a SIM than a new phone with SIM. Realising the illogicalness of spending money to unlock my phone AND paying more for just a SIM, I quickly tried to pass on the message to him. This involved saying loudly "old SIM", indicating with my outstretched left palm, and "new SIM", indicating with my outstretched right palm. He quickly sought some fellow Hungarian to translate, but eventually I got the message across, much to the detriment of our relationship. After that I think he considered me a burden.

In the phone shop, I watched blithely while he sold my life away to the man behind the counter. When a contract was produced I signed, and handed over a nominal sum for the SIM. I considered that if it ever proved to be a dodgy contract or I unknowingly broke it, I could claim complete ignorance. When we got back to the flat he set up my internet, demanded the rent money, and our ways parted.

Later that night I realised the flat was freezing, and with no bedding I was due to freeze to death. After scrambling together what rags I could in the flat, and constructing a makeshift duvet, I called Miklos, who seemed at a loss. Left to my own devices I quickly descended into tears, cursing all the horrors that awaited me in this godforsaken place (it's fair to overdramatise when you're shivering and your face is soggy). With the intuition God blessed me, I decided the best idea was to find the boiler. Once done all my problems were quickly sorted, and in hindsight I realise my short-lived idiocy. Checking the radiators every minute for the next quarter of an hour, I reassured myself they were heating up and ran back to my ragged covers.

The next day I awoke, dedicated to my tasks of finding bedding and food (I'd only had a slice of pizza the previous day). A phone call from one of my sisters in the morning was a happy distraction, but quickly led to floods of tears, which I choked back, because she didn't seem desirous to deal with them. She did however offer much positivity, and renewed my vigour. After popping into my new workplace to deal with some formalities I headed out to a couple of supermarkets. Reconnaissance on the first revealed suitable bedding, and I headed to the second to do a price comparison.

At the till I was met with yet another person who spoke no English. Somehow before I arrived it seemed I only internalised the various reassurances about the ease of setting up in Budapest; various myths were quickly dispelled on arrival, including this one about "everyone speaks English". It turned out I'd not weighed my fruit and got the price label for it, a fact conveyed to me by the checkout girl miming scales. Another of my sisters reassured me on the phone later that I was not mad, and she had had a similar issue in France. On the plus side, the supermarket was largely as one would expect, and I managed to get a reasonable shop done, including my first houseplant, who we shall call Hilde, in honour of my good friend.

Pleased with myself I went home and prepared to cook supper. Realising I didn't have any matches, I ran out to get some. On the street I checked my phrasebook for "matches" and went into the first shop I could find. Much to my surprise, the shopkeeper was a lovely Iraqi man, who spoke pretty good English, and said he'd been here since 1982. I told him I would come again.

Back at the flat, the difficulties of the usually simple task of cooking become apparent. I realised the gas hob on the stove seemed to turn off unless you held your finger on the knob, so I made fried eggs on a small sheet of metal, which I was not convinced was designed for the purpose, and boiled some water for tea. Both tasks I felt I could manage with my finger clamped to the button. The strange thing was that when I took my finger away the gas flame seemed to burn on. Confused I concluded I must have managed to turn something correctly, and attempted pasta.

Not long after I settled down to watch an episode of Seinfeld with my stodgy pasta, and my new bedding, reasonably content, but certain I would soon be able to do better.

[I learnt the next day from a work colleague that the oven was quite normal, and in working order. All that was required was to hold the button in for half a minute once lit, allowing it time to heat up. When first he said it, it was as though I was an idiot for not knowing, but later he confessed he himself had only learnt a month ago when his girlfriend showed him how.]