A Night in Budapest in 1989

A backpacker's peek into Eastern Europe in the pivotal year of 1989

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Roberto Argentina is a public school U.S. history teacher in Houston.  Born in southern Italy, he is in the process of writing the 500 year history of his family in the same town, using a collection of family documents that reach back to 1466.  Each generation and its historical context will be explored through the documents.  Essays are published monthly on his Substack,

A Southern Italian History

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In East Berlin, in the evening hours of November 9, 1989, a press conference sputtered on when party press officer Gunter Schabowski began to deliver the official daily statements of the Socialist Unity Party. The conference was being broadcast live on television as was customary, and usually a dull affair. The foreign press was present, which was also customary, and in hope of some real news instead of the dreadfully boring proceedings they typically covered. Recently, shedding past fears, East German citizens had been demonstrating for their version of Glasnost and Perestroika. How would the government react to unprecedented public protest? Schabowski had barely had time to go over his papers containing party lines, memoranda, and new  information to communicate. On a handwritten note to himself, he had circled the last item he  wished to comment on: travel ban changes. 

After about an hour of nothing consequential, an Italian journalist asked about the  proposed changes and Schabowski, though had planned to talk about it, looked flustered as he fumbled through his papers. He read what he was learning himself for the first time on live television which seemed to indicate that all travel restrictions had been removed. When stunned journalists pressed him further asking him when the new rules would be enacted, a tired and frustrated Schabowski mumbled erroneously: “effective immediately”. And that was that; that’s how the Wall came down. 

The Party’s intention was to enact the rules the next day so they could be communicated  to all pertinent officials and protocols prepared for every level of administration all the way  down to the border guards. But the news hit the airwaves immediately. East Berliners started calling each other, Western media declared the Berlin Wall open, and people started pouring into  the streets of East Berlin walking festively towards the monument of division. Border guards seemed at a loss for what to do. They had heard some of the news but received no official  instructions or orders, an unfortunate situation for soldiers faced with an imminent and  consequential course of action to take. The crowd started numbering in the hundreds and then thousands. With no directives, the guards were left to assess and decide; they opened the gates  and watched the euphoria of East Berliners walking into West Berlin to the welcoming embraces  of their past and future compatriots. Tears flowed. People came back. They just wanted to step into West Berlin, have a beer or five, feel joy and freedom, hug strangers, and be part of a special night. 

During the year of 1989, which became one of those pivotal years in European history, I was traveling through Europe for a few months with nothing more than a backpack, a Eurail  pass, and some American Express Traveler Checks, and those of us traveling through Western  Europe knew that changes were afoot. You could feel it in the air, in the coffee shops, in conversations with strangers on trains. 

What had gotten my attention about Hungary was the news that on June 27, when I was already in Europe, the foreign ministers of Hungary and Austria had met for a de-electrifying of  the barbed wire between the two countries and a symbolic cutting of a portion of the fence. The picture in a newspaper in some train station in Italy, or France, or maybe Germany, had caught  my eye, and soon I thought to myself: “I want to do that. I want to go to Hungary. Effective immediately”. There was no reason I could not. I had no specific travel plans, but I did have a  Eurail Pass, and that would get me to Vienna for free. Inexpensive Eurail passes were the best  travel invention I could have hoped for. I paid for a three-month rail pass and went anywhere, anytime, on any train all over Europe. Limitations consisted of no first-class riding, no  reservations in overnight cabins, and no Great Britain, because…well…because in Europe, they are special. If, on any given week, I blew up my youth hostel budget, I would just ride trains at night and get my sleep on the move. One night I slept on an eight-hour overnight train from wherever I was to Koln, got coffee and strudel, visited the cathedral, got a beer and sausage, got back on the train and off to wherever I came from or chose to go to. 

So…Hungary. There was still a mystique about it. Soviet Bloc. An undecipherable  language whose closest relative is Finnish. A forbidden land that became suddenly available. In reality, as I found later, they had had no problems with me and my dollars going in, it was the getting out for the Hungarians that had been forbidden. Regardless, it still exuded mystery and adventure, and most fellow travellers I talked to in hostels, bars, and trains all over Europe had not gone there. So, I went. I may have had to get a VISA in Vienna, or not, I cannot remember. I do remember that there was a slight chaotic feel to it. No one would change my dollars or shillings into forints, they told me no one would take them in Budapest anyway, they wanted  Western currency. Trains were not frequent but I found one going into Budapest from Vienna. It’s only 130 miles but it took forever. It stopped at the border for hours. Soldiers came in and  soldiers went out, they searched this, and they searched that, but did not seem so sure about their  exact task. 

The train arrived in Budapest after midnight, and I stepped onto a darkish train station  that quickly became empty beside a few bored soldiers. There were no growling dogs, Kalashnikovs, or soldiers yelling orders I could not understand. I made my way outside the station onto the street, and I was in Eastern Europe. It did not feel unsafe.

People approached to offer rides and places to stay in their homes. The Hostel on Fiumei Ut, a long avenue that began to the left of the station was located a little far for a night stroll and it was likely already closed, and so was not an option. I was not Grand Hotel material. I looked around. Straight out in a  westerly direction was a gorgeous boulevard, Rakoczy Ut, on which I would walk often the next  few days. It is a straight mile and half shot to the Danube, the bridges, and the castle on the other  side. I had no guidebook for a night like this. The people outside the station wanted to go home, hopefully with one of their rooms rented, and were making their offers in shillings and dollars. For the first time that summer I felt like I had gotten myself into more than I could handle. I followed this man home and he showed me the apartment where his family was already asleep. Something made me worry and I turned him down. He was disappointed but polite.

I meandered around the station thinking maybe I would stay up all night and walk to the hostel first thing, but I was really tired. The man resumed his place by the station and set around smoking with other men. There must have been one more train that night. Something about their casual demeanour reassured me and sheepishly I approached the only Hungarian person I  knew and, in half German, half hand gestures, I accepted his room. He gave me a look that I think in English translated into: “Seriously? We could both have been asleep by now”. But he was polite and gracious. I crashed on the bed of an extra room in his apartment. The next morning his wife graciously shared the family’s breakfast with me. I moved on after I paid a small sum in shillings.

I felt terrible. These were very nice people, and I had doubted them. I still feel bad, and I wish I could tell them now how grateful I am for my first warm welcome in Budapest. I would love to invite my Hungarian hosts for dinner and be able to talk to them. Thank them. Catch up as if we were old friends. I know it was a transactional exchange, but once I let go of my doubts, I felt from them an honesty, kindness, and warmth that today I value as more precious than any other currency.