While stationed in West Germany in the United States Army, my wife, Rilda, and I traveled to twenty-eight countries, some repeatedly, on four continents during the three years we lived in Europe. We saw Paris, London, Rome, Turkey, Scandinavia, and Morocco. I could mention Yugoslavia, Austria, Hungary, Czechoslovakia, Switzerland, Belgium, The Netherlands, Luxembourg, Bulgaria and Poland, but I must elaborate about the Great Russian Adventure that took place in the former Soviet Union.
Rilda and I had brought one of our daughters, Pat, along on three-week journey that began in Budapest and ended in Helsinki.
Skirting Czechoslovakia to the south, the bus entered Hungary and drove past Gyor and Tatabanya to Budapest, Paris of Eastern Europe. The city consisted of the community of Buda on the elevated western bank of the Danube, and Pest spreading out on the eastern bank.
Rilda exclaimed jubilantly, “What a magnificent sight.”
Pat replied just as excitedly, “Never seen anything like it.”
We stood in the shadow of the Citadella, a fortress built by the Hapsburgs atop Buda overlooking the Danube River, able to see all of Pest.
“How about that Chain Bridge?” I asked. “One of the longest suspension bridges in Europe.”
“Don't forget about the fireworks planned for tonight,” Pat said. Then she said glibly, “And I think you're great, Dad, to arrange for us to be here on Hungary's Independence Day.”
I smiled smugly. “Think nothing of it, Pat. Anything for you.”
At Gundel's, waitresses in colorful gypsy dress served a typical Hungarian dinner, accompanied by lively Hungarian music supplied by strolling violinists. We stuffed ourselves with all the traditional paprika-laden dishes.
But the restaurant was on the eastern edge of Pest and we were late for the fireworks. I hailed a taxicab, explaining our problem to a young Hungarian, who replied, “Nooo problem,” in a Hungarian accent. With sreeching tires, the young Hungarian spurted to the west toward the Danube River and the Chain Bridge. I sat stiffly in the front passenger seat, squinting my eyes throughout the entire trip. Rilda and Pat huddled together in the rear seat and kept their eyes tightly closed. The young man drove 80 miles an hour through the streets of Pest, bumping up on sidewalks when at a stop light, and skirting cars with the horn blaring continuously. When I suggested we were not in that much of a hurry, the young man replied, “Nooo problem.”
With squealing brakes, the cab jolted to a stop at the edge of a crowd huddled before the Chain Bridge. I handed the driver a handful of Hungarian Forints and a pack of Marlboro cigarettes. The man ignored the money and stared lovingly at the American cigarettes. He must have said, “Thank you,” at least ten times.
The magnificent display of fireworks over Buda, as seen from the Chain Bridge, was indescribably fantastic. The dazzling explosions of color against the night sky over the Danube River reminded me of those over the Charles River in Boston on July 4th when Arthur Fiedler once conducted the Boston Pops Orchestra in the 1812 Overture.
The nice young Hungarian man patiently awaited them for the return trip. I explained to him, “Please. Do not drive so fast. We're in no hurry. You understand?”
He replied with, “Nooo problem.”
The return was smoother and slower, so when they arrived at the Hotel Mercure Korona, we waved to the driver and in unison said, “Goodnight.”
He waved his second pack of Marlboro cigarettes high in the air as he drove away and again shouted, “Thanks.”
The next morning our tour bus crossed the Great Alford and the Carpathian Mountains on its way to Uzhgorod on the Ukrainian border. I thought we would spend all three weeks in Uzhgorod where it took hours for Soviet border guards to search the bus and its passengers, count money, and inventory jewelry, film, tapes and videocassettes.
We purchased a few Soviet rubles at the state bank $1.50 per ruble. We had agonized for weeks prior to the trip about buying black market Soviet rubles. I finally said, “Too risky. Can't take the chance of being caught. We'll have to make do with the inflated exchange rate.”
Finally, we made it into the USSR,the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, the Soviet Union on our way across the Ukraine Mountains to Lvov. I was always perplexed when watching an international sports event, that a Soviet uniform was emblazoned with CCCP. I would ask myself, What the hell does it stand for? Why not USSR? During this trip to the USSR, I learned that in the Cyrillic alphabet, S=C and R=P. In Russian, the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics translated to Soyuz Sovetskykh Sotsialisticheskikh Respublic SSSR. I nodded and sighed, SSSR equates to CCCP.
