Roadtripping with a Hungarian

I started the weekend with high hopes of meeting several of the nice men I'd been chatting to online. I ended my Saturday getting back late from an unprecedented roadtrip over the border, to another capital city, Vienna. Needless to say it was an entirely satisfactory alternative, and involved meeting one of the lovely men.

In the morning I did my yoga, weary as always of overstraining knee joints, breathing like a race horse after the Grand National (flaring, sweaty nostrils included) and trying not to make a bigger hole in my jogging bottoms. Fortunately I was doing it home alone, so could easily internalise all the shame. After my now routine breakfast of break with jam, I settled down with a book in the sunny living room. I say settled down, first I did a small furniture rearrangement for good measure - preparing the second bedroom for a new inhabitant (at some point), and reordering the resulting living room furniture. I didn't get very far into the book - a copy of Ovid my good friend Joel had given me before I left London - before I was sending off a couple of texts, querying arrangements for later that afternoon. No response. Attempt to read. No response. I decided to do the heavy pile of washing up weighing down the sink after just 5 days.

Feeling rejuvenated from the cleanliness, I again checked my mobile phone; one wonders what people did before mobile-phone checking - did the Victorians endlessly run in and out of their dove cotes in case a message had been retrieved from Mr Fotheringay? After a further attempt at the book, but still totally distracted, I did receive a message. He apologised for the belated response, having only just gotten up, and said he was going to Vienna that day. "Oh," I thought, "that sounds nice. I wonder what I'll do with my day." (insert thumb twiddle) Then, minutes later, he messaged on MSN Messenger, a further modern communication method that creates as much exacerbation as it solves. 'Would I like to come?'

We arranged a time for him to pick me up. He was an hour late. But then we were off. Before I left I loosely left open an invitation to meet someone in the evening, assured by my companion we'd be back by 7pm. The drive out of town was very enjoyable, and we got on famously. He did that classic Hungarian thing of apologising that his English was not perfect - it was very good indeed. No wonder Hungarians who speak no English hate me so, clearly it is deeply shaming to speak anything less than the English of the Queen or Jeremy Clarkson.

On the way we stopped at an 'out-of-town' discount shopping plaza. I was still holding to my budget, and had to resist buying dozens of Body Shop bottles at huge reductions. My reserve held, but was deeply tested. I told my companion we'd have to come back soon, and was chagrined when he said he might be moving to Madrid. Bargains are to a Tyson what insulin is to a diabetic. I felt like I might slip into a coma at the very idea of being denied a future excursion.

After another hour or so we slipped into Vienna. It had been snowing on the way, and Vienna looked beautiful for all the floating white specks. The city is very similar to Budapest, and yet infinitely different. Where Budapest is gently falling apart and in a state of elegant disrepair (similar to Havana), Vienna is crisp and clean and newly renovated. It must be said that the Austrians have a little gem here, even if their attitude is somewhat cold with it. Strolling through the white bespeckled streets was magical for a Brit, being so rarely allowed access to snow as we are. We stepped into St Stephen's Cathedral in the centre, which is truly beautiful, and lit a candle each for our departed loved ones.

After a fish supper at Norwegian seafood chain Nordsee, we headed homeward. In spite of tiredness we attempted to teach me 1 to 10 in Hungarian, with limited success, due largely to the complexity of the consonant sounds. Imagine speaking with a swollen tongue and a lisp and you're half way there. After that I sat back to relax, serenaded by the vocals of a Spanish Pop Idol star, who I begged to borrow the CD of when we got back.

We arrived home a little after half ten. Fortunately the little git I'd asked about meeting with at seven had decided not to even bother texting me. The unreliability of men worked in my favour once more. But I thanked my good graces for a truly wonderful day. It seemed I was working on one great day to every two more trying ones, a ratio that was deeply satisfactory. Settling back in the flat for the night, I wondered what joys I could expect in two days time...