Fathers and Daughters

Two months, two daughters in Europe.

A year ago, I was her father. Robyn and I were tutoring her in the ways of being a productive camp counselor, a self-sufficient community member suddenly dedicating her happiness to others on an island just off of Washington State. We lived out of teepees.

Yesterday, though, Michal and I were friends. I was the tour guide, she and her boyfriend Clark were the tourists, stopping in Budapest just long enough to catch their breath on a whirlwind seven-week post-graduation tour if Europe. Things are different now. We can toast her mother, of sorts, and Four Winds with palinka and stories.

They had they fair share of stories and adventures getting here. Midnight ticket collectors in Croatia, demanding 60 euros each, on the spot, because Eurail passes aren’t good in Slovenia or Croatia. They battled my Romanian “…and I almost died!” stories tit-for-tat.

Thursday, a late arrival to Keleti from Venice. A schnazzy new hostel, just down the street, catering to the artsy type. Laundry, lunch, the usual logistics. Then Szechenyi bath and the exquisite uncertainty of Hungary’s favored relaxative. I gave the usual, less-than-definitive history of Hungary in the shadow of the heroes that ring Hosoktere. Dinner, Fisherman’s bastion, then a nightcap above the blustery Corvinteto.

Friday, they met me at my office. After lunch and a long spiral up to the views at the crest of St. Istvan’s Bazilika, I sent them off the Terror Museum and Synagogue. Come quitting time, we raced back to Keleti, as all trips to train stations in Hungary must necessarily be rushed. We hurled their bags onto the rain, just seconds before it slowly rolled to Vienna. Hugs and handshakes were rushed, but firm.

I rather liked the company, as fleeting as it was. Michal’s off to Stanford come fall. Clark to Indiana. If he liked his taste of Hungary enough, and they said they certainly did, he could be plodding through Hungarian languages classes in just 6 weeks…