Train across the border to Ptuj, Slovenia

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Our day of crossing over into the Slovenian sliver of this part of Europe was spent on a series of trains through the pleasant countryside of western Hungary. Unfortunately, the people we met were not very friendly to us, in stark contrast to everyone else we’ve encountered in Hungary. Plus we embarrassed ourselves one last time with the owner of our guesthouse in Balatongyörök. And finally, I tempted my two-day streak of good blood sugars with pizza and beers for dinner in Ptuj, Slovenia.

Quite a jam-packed day on the road for Masayo and I.

Final morning in Balatongyörök

At 9:00 am at the Villa Astoria in serene, lovely little Balatongyörök my blood sugar was 139. Having a good start to my diabetic day is getting more and more common. (After dinner remains my sore spot, with frequent upper-200 highs.)

We went down for the delicious buffet breakfast (again we were the only guests) and the super-attentive owner had adjusted the levels of each kind of food based on what we’d eaten and not eaten yesterday. And today we managed not to spill coffee everywhere.

But we would indeed irritate the owner one last time.

The owner offered us a lift to the train station, about 1.6 km from the Villa, which was very helpful. Masayo’s bag especially is quite heavy and she doesn’t like walking around with it. (I personally packed super light and can’t help but feel quietly smug about it whenever we have a hike through some town.)

We checked out, paid for our two nights, and climbed into the guy’s van. He dropped us off at the station beside Lake Balaton, and we waved a friendly goodbye as he turned his van around and motored back up the small road away from the lake.

The train was due in a few minutes and we took the opportunity to walk out, with all of our bags, along a pier that extended out over Lake Balaton. This would be our last view of Central Europe’s largest lake, and one of the most spectacular natural settings we’ve seen.

On the end of the pier was a tourist coin machine – you put in a few coins and the smallest gets crushed and embossed with a locally-relevant design. Masayo collects these whenever she sees one of these machines.

The problem today was that it needed, among others, a 5-forint coin and we only had 10-forint coins. Chivalrously I tossed my bags down on the pier and jogged back to the train station area. The station itself was closed but I didn’t have time to ponder the implications of that; I ducked into a tiny shop and they gave me change.

The train was due in four minutes.

I hoofed it back to Masayo and gave her the 5-forint piece, and she stuck the money in the machine, turned the crank, and got her souvenir coin. Success!

But the train was due in about three minutes.

With our big bags we walked briskly back down the pier and could see the train arriving ahead. We picked up the pace, still without tickets, and managed to jump on board just as the small two-car red and yellow coach was leaving.

Made it! Rare Balatongyörök coinage and all. We stumbled into some seats and panted, buying tickets from the staff that walked through the train.

As a lover of exotic place names I was pleased that this train was taking us to a place called Ukk. I’d visit a place called Ukk based on the name alone – it would be impossible to be disappointed by such a place. Just a photo of a sign saying “UKK” would make any trip a success.

Maybe I’m easy to please, but hey I’ll take that. Less stress = better blood sugar anyway.

My reverie was broken when I noticed that, in my pocket, I was still carrying the room key from Villa Astoria. D’oh! We’d messed up his tablecloth and used up all his washing machine energy yesterday – and now I’d stolen his key. Big d’oh!

I resolved to mail it back to him as soon as possible. In the next town, if there was time. Even so I had the feeling that Masayo and I had been a source of significant irritation for the poor guy. And we mean so well.

Through Ukk to Zalaegerszeg

We did indeed pull into Ukk and I got my photo. But we didn’t have time to poke around Ukk. (There’s a sentence you don’t hear too often.) We quickly got onto another train, bound for the larger transport hub of Zalaegerszeg. We’d have three hours to kill there before our train for Ptuj, Slovenia departed.

In Zalaegerszeg I got lucky: there was a post office right next to the station. They sold me a padded envelope, plus postage, for about $2 total. I got the address of Villa Astoria from my booking.com PDF I still had on my laptop, and the key was on its way back.

Nothing else around the station seemed to be open, unfortunately, and we were getting hungry. We walked around some of the streets in the station area, residential and rather inert, both of us with our big bags. (There were no lockers at the station.)

One thing we did try to do while waiting was buy our tickets for Slovenia – continuing our habit of crossing international borders with absolutely no advance preparation whatsoever until the last possible second. But the lady at the ticket window was profoundly disinterested in helping me. She appeared annoyed that I was trying to buy tickets from her. I told her the destination, Ptuj (pronounced “p-too-i”), and she angrily motioned off to her side. I had no idea what that meant; maybe I had to buy tickets on board? I smiled thanks and gave up.

Near the post office outside we found a small restaurant called Göcsej Palatinus, connected to a small hotel. We peeked in and they didn’t seem open, though employees were there and looked busy. We stood in the dark entrance expectantly, and when someone finally approached us they looked askance at our big backpacks. We remained friendly-faced and motioned that we hoped to sit down and consume food in exchange for money.

They allowed us two seats at a table in a small and window-bright side room, but didn’t seem particularly happy about it. Why were people in Zalaegerszeg so abrupt with us? I don’t know.

I didn’t really like this place anyway and wanted to hold out for a smaller, snack-type place. But Masayo was hungry and tired of walking around. We both ordered chocolate walnut crepes with water, and at the table I checked my blood sugar: 185. Still under 200; I’d take it.

We paid for the meal with a credit card and tipped the friendly (as it turns out) waitress with the last of our Hungarian money. We were now cashless. That cuts down the options somewhat when you have time to kill at a train station.

Masayo decided to stay in the station, sitting on a dingy little wooden bench, with our big bags while I walked around town some more. (We still had about two hours to wait.) Zalaegerszeg has a small downtown area that is nice, and there were a few shops and even friendly-looking people. At a Christmas market there was a guy singing through a microphone for a small crowd. I thought it might be traditional Hungarian songs. The gathered revelers applauded when he finished.

There wasn’t much to see, really. In a book store window I saw John Cleese’s new book which had been translated into Hungarian. It made me think of the Hungarian phrasebook sketch from Monty Python that he was in. Now things seem to have come full circle for Cleese and the Magyars.

Back at the train station, Masayo was knitting my new hat. I sat down to read my World War II book from Poland for a while, then went to try to buy tickets again. The same lady was still there but now there was a guy next to her, and I went to him. He didn’t seem much happier to see me, but he did in fact sell me tickets.

I don’t know why the staff here, or the restaurant outside, were so clearly annoyed at us. We hadn’t done anything to them. Everyone else was super nice. Maybe there’s some toxic gas leak in this part of Zalaegerszeg that makes people hateful.

As the train finally pulled into the station a little later, we bought some water from a kiosk with our credit card and got on board. Next stop, Slovenia!

Slovenia is, according to my research, more expensive than many of the other countries on this trip. But after crossing over the border and stopping at a few Slovenian train stations this didn’t seem to be the case: the platforms and station buildings were dark and dingy-looking and there were no lighted signs identifying the stops.

Oh well. Still fun to be in a new place.

Into Ptuj

It was dark when we got to our destination, Ptuj, at about 7:00 pm. Ptuj station wasn’t any nicer than the other Slovenian stations, but no matter. The town itself is quite majestic, and we found our new guesthouse (booked on booking.com as usual) without any trouble, behind a cheerful little restaurant on picturesque, small-town streets.

Bed and Breakfast Žiga is a quaint, back-street building that looks like a miniature hotel, with dull clinical hallways and small rooms, but great staff and a fantastic location.

As we checked in, the staff said that although we had opted for the included breakfast, there in fact wouldn’t be any because it was the off-season. We must have looked disappointed because she quickly relented and said she’d find us something to eat tomorrow morning. I hoped for a danish and coffee or something at least. I don’t have complicated needs.

After setting our bags down in our room, most of which was taken up with a large double bed with big soft blankets and pillows, Masayo and I walked around Ptuj. The winding streets curve around and over hills, between rows of low buildings, and under mazes of Christmas lights and strung-up decorations. This is the oldest town in all of Slovenia, and it seemed like it must be the most genial.

By a large Christmas tree in front of the town church tower I checked my blood sugar. The crepe back in Hungary had treated me well: I was 86. The excellence continues.

True to form we had a hankering for pizza for dinner, and lo and behold there was an Italian place right near the church. They must have been understaffed; the lady inside was rushing around crazily and told us that if we wanted pizza there’d be a 40-minute wait.

No problem with us. We ordered little personal pizzas (small for Masayo, regular for me) and sat to wait. I got a beer while we waited.

When the pizza came it was excellent, and thick – more like quiche than pizza. We ate it with a knife and fork. I was unable to guess the carbs – I always underestimate pizza and end up very high. So I was eating a lot, and I had a second beer while eating, so I took a large Humalog shot for it through my Bluff Works pants at the table.

Fat and happy we walked through the cold, deserted, well-lit town back to the guesthouse to end the day. At 11:00 pm though my BG was 110. That seemed too low for a post-pizza meal, and I drank some juice. I’m not sure why, exactly; the 110 just didn’t feel right. Call it diabetic’s intuition.

Half an hour later I checked again and was only 103. Good thing I’d had that juice or I might be in the 40s. BUT – was there still some pizza in my system, yet to be introduced into my bloodstream? Should I have even more juice?

I decided not to have anything else, but to remain awake and see how I felt for a while. All seemed ok and eventually I drifted off to sleep, believing I’d handled the pizza and insulin pretty well.

As I’d find out the next morning, I hadn’t done quite as well as I thought.

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