4. Sopron the Serious

We heard a couple of other Australians today, but no Americans.
A lot of people speak a few words of English,
especially the younger half of the population,
so I guess we’re not the first here.
I am to find out later that many learnt it from television.
Most people in the street here don’t look at you as you pass by.
The older ones look seriously grim, still.
I mistakenly refer to Sopron as Shockem.

Their uprising against the Russians was in 1956, the year of the Melbourne Olympics, with the Russian/Hungarian water polo bloodbath. 51 years ago.
We also find out later that about 60% of the population is over 50. Most of the population was young back then!
The uprising was one thing.
The occupation was another, and went on until 1991.
That’s only sixteen years to recover from all the different kinds of damage, and such scarring can last generations.
There seems to be almost no regular entertainment here. The concert Hall is advertising a Liszt concert next month, and we see one swing jazz courtyard on Saturday nights.
Unfortunately, we’re too tired to go out on Saturday night, ‘cause it was twenty four hours after arrival, and we made the mistake of lying down for a rest at 5.30. Now our body clocks are as confused as my mind, but we’re in love, so who cares?
Last night on our return to Sopron we went looking for a restaurant. I ordered broccoli and vegetables (an interesting description), which was broccoli and cauliflower “breaded” with rice and very cheap Tartare Sauce. I ordered a glass of white wine from the menu, and surreptitiously observed the waitress come out from the kitchen area with a huge two litre bottle, which had a bit of wine in the bottom.
She sniffed it suspiciously. In fact, she put her nose right on it! She passed it to the other also-sniffing-it waitress, who very carefully measured exactly 250 mls into a glass, twice. The glass was then full. She could have simply poured it in. Maybe she was looking for sediment. I was on guard. I took a sip and spluttered. It was cloudy, and tasted like my home made Mango wine. Yes, THAT bad! She bought a glass of water and a smile to ease my coughing. I indicated it had gone down the wrong way. When I recovered I took one more tiny sip, and decided not to drink it. They didn’t charge for it. I won’t be back.

On the way back to our pension I notice the cigarette buts. I had noticed this in Italy previously. They are everywhere on the footpaths. Literally one every step in every direction all over the place, except where shopkeepers sweep them into the gutter. Earlier in the day I had noticed the toilet attendant at the bus terminus sweeping them into the gutter with an old straw broom shaped like an uncut horse’s tail which looked pre-uprising. It must have swept millions and millions of buts into the city’s drains by now. I wonder how they process all this? Or if they do?
on to 5. A Day in the Forest
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