It’s been more than three weeks since we returned from Hungary and we are just about recovered from the rigors of the trip. I was pleased that Miklos could be so easily persuaded to ask for a wheelchair. Once he saw how quickly we went through security, he decided that it was a really good idea after all. However, some of my fears materialized quickly. The departure lounges for many of the international flights at SFO are below the main floor area, and there are no restrooms on that lower level. After we were deposited in the front row and the assistant left, Miklos decided he needed the go to the restroom. He got disoriented and couldn’t remember that he needed to come down the elevator. Fortunately, he had the presence of mind to call me, and I happened to see him by the railing and could direct him back.

When we arrived in Amsterdam, he was again reluctant to have the wheelchair, but after we rode for twenty minutes on a little cart to get to the connecting gate, he was glad. I think it would have taken us an hour to walk that distance at his usual pace.

Oddly, many of the city-hoppers, as KLM names their connecting flights, are at gates a bus ride away from the main terminal, and without jetways. You have to board the old-fashioned way by climbing stairs. We were seated with the other passengers who needed assistance and there were quite a few. Too many, in fact, to fit into the special van that lifts passengers to the plane door without using stairs. The assistant had to ask the spouses who could easily climb the stairs to take the regular bus. Miklos rebelled. He insisted that he would not board the plane without me, and that he could easily climb the stairs. I had to put my foot down and was embarrassed about making a scene. By the time I got to our seats, Miklos was comfortably settled and satisfied again.

The first days in Budapest were really difficult. Miklos slept even more than usual, ate almost nothing, and complained almost constantly. Miklos: “I’m in pain.” I went to the pharmacy for Aleve. Miklos: “I’m constipated.” I went to the pharmacy for Dulcolax. Miklos: “I have diarrhea.” I went to the pharmacy for Imodium. Miklos: “I shouldn’t have come. I’m too old to travel. I should just be dead.” I left the room and went to the lounge for a cocktail.

We have made reservations for our 58th wedding anniversary at Gundel’s, a Budapest establishment for more than a hundred years. Generations of his family have eaten there. I cancelled the reservation. We had reservations for Nanci Nene, another Budapest landmark where we had dined in 1999. I cancelled the reservation. When I was able to reschedule the reservation for Gundel’s, I ordered a four course prix fixe menu with wine pairing. Miklos ordeded a bowl of chicken soup, and ate about three bites.

The other members of our party were yet to arrive. In the first week in Budapest, I have taken walks by myself, too often to the pharmacist, and Miklos had left the hotel only two times. It was certainly not an auspicious start to our adventure, and we had weeks more before our return to the US.