Hungarian Banking Fun

There are certain events in life that once we complete, we never wish to repeat.

That rhymes, and it’s also true.

Things that come to mind: 8am classes in college, eating a fish sandwich at McDonalds, trying ‘criadillas’ in Spain.

Until Tuesday, I would have said this was a pretty well-rounded list.  However, please allow me to add one more event — opening a Hungarian bank account.

As I've entered into my 30s, I've begun view ‘time’ as a much more valuable resource.  Unfortunately, this deep profound philosophy of Todd isn’t shared by the Hungarian banking system.  In fact, the festivities would last two days.

The Hungarian banking system feels like ‘death by papercuts’.

Not only to your patience, but also to your bank account balance, itself.  Fancy visited the bank on Monday and was able to open a bank account in her name, only after about an hour and half of applications, paperwork, initials, stamps, oh, lots of stamps, any many signatures.  This was accomplished only due to having a pre-assigned appointment, arranged by the school.  However, in order to add me (obviously I will be contributing significantly to our Hungarian bank account) we got greedy and showed up to a local bank without an appointment.  I got to experience and witness the complexity that is Hungarian banking system.

Since we have been removed from Budapest and we are living in a small village, we were commuting by bus.  If you can decipher the Hungarian bus schedule (in Hungarian) I don't think there's much in this world that you can't do.

We arrived at the bank and after pulling our number ticket at the front we were forced to wait for the only English speaking teller.  Our number was called, but only to greeted by a nice enough fellow that wasn't able to communicate in our broken Hungarian (I'm being generous).  We continued to wait another 15 minutes for Krisztina.

Bless this nice lady -- she’s had one appointment after another all week because she cursed herself by learning English.  Now, she is stuck assisting with each and every new teacher opening an account.  After we wait another 15 minutes, we observe she is wrapping up her previous appointment with another set of teachers from the school.  Without our number being called, we slide into the two seats in front of her desk; Budapest is no place for the meek and timid.

It starts innocently enough, “We’d like to add me to the account”.

Friendly enough, she turns to her computer, starts punching away.  Now, she seems pretty competent and surprising efficient.  She swiftly bounces between her desk and the printer, repeatedly printing documents, explaining documents, asking for signatures.  This occurred at least 12 times.  Her speed and efficiency confused us: I look down at my watch and it’s already been an hour and half.  Yes, I may have interjected with a question or five, but I’ve always said since I was young, “You better know your Hungarian bank account like the back of your hand”.

Let me just start by saying that the entire concept of “Free Checking” is non-existent.  Absolutely non-existent.  In fact, it’s completely the opposite.  The banks have actually made it normal to charge their customers for almost everything.  I don't intend to bash the banking system, but only to shed some light on the nuances of having a bank account in Budapest.  I will stop short of Venn Diagramming this situation, but I did compile a list of some of the more notable differences in banking.  But, as our house host explained in a moment of deep profoundness “we are all here for weird” — meaning, we all find pleasure in the fact that things are different from back home and that novelty is what keeps life interesting.

By Nancy’s school, we are required to have two bank account within the same bank.  One account is in the denomination of USD$ and another account in the local currency Hungarian forint (HUF).  Since Fancy is paid in US$ we are responsible for transferring all funds to the local currency.

Harmless enough.

Except there are fees for each transfer, of course.  We would quickly learn this pattern repeat itself in Hungarian banking.

Loads of paperwork.

Here are some rules and observations on the Hungarian banking system:

-Any cash withdrawal must occur at an ATM
-There are zero face-to-face withdrawal centers that we know.

-Until a couple months, Hungary offered no free way to withdrawal cash…the bank has your money and would charge you each and every time you make a withdrawal.  Recent legislation finally allow citizens the “right” to withdrawal cash twice per month for free.

-Debit transactions are free (the only thing)

-Fancy’s debit card costs $28

-My debit card (additionally) costs $40

-Annual fee $12

-Every bank-to-bank transfer incurs a fee

-Pretty much everything incurs a fee

Accessing our account online will be an entirely separately post because it deserves that much space, however it has included downloading two different browsers for our laptop, one smartphone app, getting a unique password each and every time, and creating new passwords each and every time we login to the account.

We love Hungarian banking. 

I was heart-broken my video was deleted of her stamping each and every page of these packets.  It was a hypnotizing trance of stamps.  She literally had to create, print, sign and stamp each and every page of these documents.  It was impressive to witness.

Rental Agreement Accepted...Finally!

We found out late last night that our offer was accepted.  The owner agreed to all of our “demands” which was essentially a complete repainting and refurnishing of the flat and that they should have the big stuff by our move-in date of August 19th and that they will get some of the smaller stuff by the end of the month.

It should feel more exciting, but I think we are just more relieved.

Unless a better opportunity comes along, Fancy and I agreed that we can be uncomfortable and unsettled for one more week here at the co-workers house.  Our second temporary living situation is an upgrade.  The home is a 3-bedroom house and while we will have to keep the ‘spreading out’ to a minimum, it’s a free place and we had a freshly-cooked dinner last night with Czech beer, so, there’s that.

Fancy has just informed me that we are heading to the bank today.

The Hungarian banking system is alleged to be Europe’s worst, so this should be interesting.

A Hungarian "rental agreement".

The never-ending saga that is finding a flat in Budapest entered its newest chapter today.

We met again with an agent for a property we liked in the city center.  The purpose of the second meeting was to determine if we did, in fact, like the apartment and what “terms” we would be interested to agree upon.

This was a unique case in the fact that we were essentially re-furnishing the entire flat with our requests.  Previously, the flat was used as a short-term rental as found on places like www.airnbnb.com.  The quality level of its previous furnishings were "city-outdated-functional".  

To begin, one must have a formal “rental agreement” with all of the details worked out.  In this case, it wasn’t as simply as making an offer for the existing flat.  We had to request exactly what furniture we would like, at what price we are willing to pay, and how to include the pesky “community fees” (similar to HOA) that are the bane of our existence as they always add yet another layer of expenses to the negotiation.

After a brief walk-through, we decided we wanted to move forward with making an offer.  Thus, began the painstaking inventory of moving from room to room to take note of what we wanted to remove, and what we wanted to replace.  All of this was entered into the “rental agreement” — imagine a short encyclopedia, as we all know Fancy can be quite detailed-oriented.  In this instance, it was very helpful.

We gave them our offer, what we would pay, what items we requested (which was about 1/3 of the entire IKEA store), repainting the entire flat, minor repairs, thorough cleaning, etc. Now we wait to see if the owner accepts.  If they accept, they will begin the purchases.

What made us uncomfortable with this surly Hungarian property manager was his insistence — that we must submit our security deposit with the offer (essentially, one month’s rent).  In Budapest, this process is claimed to be normal.  After verifying with our agent that ‘yes’ it is required to submit this refundable security deposit when submitting an offer, we warily agreed.

Next order of business was to get that cash money.  Because we didn’t feel comfortable walking around the streets of Budapest with hundreds of thousands of Hungarian forint (HUF) in our pockets, we showed up with nothing.  Mr. Sales Property Manager needed to print out our agreement and I was suckered into riding with him to the bank.

One failed bank withdrawal, one 6-minute collect call to Bank of America from my Hungarian cell phone (thankfully they accept charges) to sort out the matter, another ride to another bank with Mr. Sales Property Manager who is now growing quite skeptical about us having the funds.  We arrive at another intersection that literally has a bank on each of it’s four corners — people can be quite persistent when they want your money.

His face said “Check Mate” when we arrived at the bank-loaded intersection.  I needed to make two separate withdrawals in order to get the cash (I’m sure their are some red flags being set off in the Bank of America office somewhere).  Next thing I know, I’m walking around Budapest with multiple hundreds of thousands of HUF in my pocket.  I resisted the urge to through it all up in the air and “make it rain” and instead returned to the flat to quickly empty my pockets of said cash. We are hundred-thousandaires no longer.

If the terms are all accepted, we have a tentative move-in date of Tuesday, August 19th.  This would be a mere 19 days after landing in Budapest, but surely feels quite a bit longer than that, mainly due to our heat and lack of AC, but my ire is mainly directed to the fact that Bathtubs are evil and our doomsday short-term flat’s effect were lingering.

The wily Hungarian we negotiated with for our flat.

He represented the owner and was a sly little character. I would return the favor by making him take us on multiple trips to IKEA.

Yet another agent on the right.  Fancy on the left.  Ironing out all the finer points of the contract negotiations.  Se he can run off to drive me to an ATM and print out the contract from some random little print shop. I guess it's legit?

Sziget Music Festival -- Outkast / Calvin Harris

Sziget Music Festival 

'Sziget' is Hungarian for island.

Europe’s largest music festival takes place every year in Budapest, Hungary.  Named the "Island of Freedom" the festival is held on an island in the Danube River and lasts 7 consecutive days. For the entire week, the city is swarming with braclet-wearing, festivals goers. People rock their Sziget bracelets like girl scouts rock their badges.

The performers are spread across 8 different stages and features everyone from up-and-coming bands, random djs, to some of the most popular groups in the world.  Each day, the shows begin at 10am and the last show doesn’t stop until 5am in the morning — however, in my opinion, the super late shows are for the weirdo raver people.  It's usually a massive crowd at the main stage.

Tickets are sold by the day, for any of the 7 days. Or, you can purchase a weeklong ticket and camp on the island for the entire week.

What’s that?
This year's Sziget Festival just so happens to take place in our second week in Budapest?

Come again?
This year's Sziget Festival features Atlanta’s own rap group Outkast, who hasn’t performed in over 10 years?

We took that as the sign that it was.  We splurged and bought tickets for the final day of the festival, which featured a British band The Kooks, Calvin Harris and Outkast, among others. While many today are claiming they are a fan of Outkast, I am true fan.  Let me take you back to 1996, when I used to listen to ATLiens while cruising on the riding lawnmover while cutting the yard at my parent's house.  I may or may not have even tried to memorize all of the lyrics (I decided it was impossible, for the record). 

Needless to say, Fancy and I were both excited for the chance to see some Atlanta in Budapest.

For anyone that has ever attended a festival, you know the type of people they attract.  In the past, I’ve always prided myself for being adaptable, easy and go-with-the-flow.  On the other hand, I’ve also begun to notice a few moments where I'm slowly transforming into a cankerous old man.  For example, last summer at the beach when I see a car full of girls drive by, hanging perilously out of the window, I still have the instinct to shout at them, but now it sounds more “you really shouldn’t hang out of the car like that, you might fall and get hurt!!”

All of this is to say, it was difficult to really enjoy the “atmosphere” of the 7th and final day of a music festival that’s been taking place on an island where the majority of the concert-goes have been camping out all week.

I think we can all agree that Europeans have a stereotype for winning in the body odor department.  But damn.  This festival would cement their place in my heart forever.

Most of the guys weren’t wearing shirts (yeah, I used to be able to do that, too).  Many dressed up in hopes of garnering attention like the guy dressed up in a full giraffe suit with some piece of plant that I’m sure he plucked from the island tucked into his mouth, carrying a sign that says “Giraffe Eat Weed”.  I mean, that’s not even grammatically correct.

On the island, I realized I've officially passed the time in my life where I can enjoy all of this as ‘part of the experience’.  My idea of fun is no longer bouncing around, elbow-to-elbow while everyone rages their faces off.  Send me to the VIP area, with air-conditioning, ice in my drinks, a toilet that flushes, please.

Not impressed.

I had to include this poor chap.

We navigated the entrance early and found our way to the main stage.



The long walk was lined with smaller stages, food vendors, but the mass of bodies lounging around, recovering from the night before and gearing up for their final ragefest.  It was somewhat surprising since it was already 4pm.  We arrived just in time for the beginning of the first of the three main acts, The Kooks.  There wasn’t much of a crowd and we were able to get relatively close.  At the end of each show on the main stage, there are a sea of people that drop back to the food trucks, mobile bars, bathrooms, etc. to make use of the 45 minute break and simultaneously there are a sea of people that push forward to get closer to the stage, willing to sacrifice 45 minutes of standing in order get closer to the stage.  I shouted "YOLO" and we rushed forward.  I’m kidding, I will never shout that, but we did move forward.

We got really, really close.  The problem was so did everyone else.  Before we knew it, we were engulfed in a sea of people where the idea of individual’s space or a personal bubble ceased to exist.

“Oh, it’s just festival” the girl that keeps ‘accidentally’ bumping into offers as a quasi-apology.

As Outkast finally comes on, I was a little nostalgic seeing the US flag on the stage, while surrounded by a bunch of smelly euros.  Of course, we were sure to let everyone around us know that Outkast hails from our same hometown of Atlanta, GA as if we both grew up on the same street.

I’ll leave the rest for pictures, but it was an hour and a half of being a human pinball, while listening to really good rap music.  For the record, we did try multiple times to throw up the “A-town” sign with our hand, to no response. It was incredible to experience the energy of the show so closely.  We would only realize how large the crowd was after we backtracked to watch Calvin Harris from afar.

Fancy snappin' away.

Left: Big Boi Right: Andre3000

Yes, that's really their names.

We raged to Calvin Harris from a safe distance.

An elevated 12-person bar you can reserve to watch the show.

Removed. From Budapest to a small, Hungarian village.

Life in a small Hungarian village, Not Budapest.

About 30 minutes after Nancy departed for school on Monday, I receive a frantic phone call.

"There’s been a miscommunication and the flat that we have been letting for the previous 10 days (American translation: apartment we are renting) has new tenants moving into the flat in a matter of hours and, ready or not, it's time for us to check-out."

This is the gist of the conversation.

Well, this is news and I definitely haven't had my coffee yet.

It wasn't that we wanted to stay in this smelly studio flat, but the not-having-another-place-to-live created a problem.   More importantly, Fancy had used our entire studio as her walk-in closet she's always dreamed of and spread out her entire wardrobe on the floor, chair, couch, bed, etc. etc. etc.

I’m instructed that a car will be outside our building in 30 minutes to collect me and our belongings.  Fancy informs me that she has been able to align a temporary housing solution for us with one of the other teachers at her school.  She tells me the house is on the Buda side, which can mean a lot of things in terms of proximity to the city center.  She also lets me know that “Peter” is coming to pick me up and “Peter” doesn’t speak English.

No coffee (no way I'm trying making instant coffee) and this guy doesn’t speak English — this should be interesting.

After a quick scan of the flat, I negotiate with Fancy for 60 minutes of packing time — we all know the size of Fancy’s wardrobe.  I quickly get to work dumping and collecting our belongings into bags, luggage, wherever it will fit.

Forty-five minutes later, the bags are packed, I give one unceremoniously salute to the Evil Bathtub and a ‘good riddance’ crosses my mind on my way out the door.  

I watch Peter call me from outside the door and in perfect English says, “Hello, I’m Peter, I’m here to pick you up”.

Well, maybe this won’t be so bad, after all.

I’m not sure if Nancy asked the school to bring the big bus, but they brought out the big guns.  Let’s keep in mind they are picking up one person and luggage yet they felt it necessary to drive the school van, which fits about 12 people and luggage.

I hasten to add, thank goodness for the big bus.  These Euro-sized cars simply aren’t suited for Fancy’s closet.

As we load up and get into the car, out of habit, I try to strike up a conversation.

Twice, I am shut down in near-perfect English, “Sorry, I don’t speak English”.  I resist the urge to shout “gotcha” — clearly he does speak English based on the words coming out of his mouth.  Alright, Peter, if silence is what you want, silence is what you get.  I sulk quietly in the passenger seat for the remainder of the ride.

The time passes and the familiarity of Budapest fades.  As I lose track of anything familiar or any sense of direction, the thought crosses my mind that this is actually very similar to a kidnapping.  I have no idea where I’m going.  Despite Peter apparently speaking in Tongues, he doesn’t speak English and I don’t speak Hungarian.  It’s a good 35 minutes out of the city by car, and I lose any hope of the returning to the city today.  

We pull up to a house in a quaint little village and he points to the house.  Well, I can’t really disagree so I climb out and begin to remove our bags.

And then I see them…

Stairs.
Lots and lots of stairs.

At this point, I’m already a sweaty mess from the frantic move-out, so we pile the luggage in the driveway and I lug all of our luggage bag-by-bag up two separate flights of stairs to the bedroom that will be our new, temporary home.

Welcome to the village...

...the contents of the luggage might explode at any moment due to overpacking.

One final view of our Danube River view -- the studio's only redeeming quality.

Thank goodness they called in the big bus.

My driver Peter -- "I'm sorry, I don't speak English"

I have arrived -- but, I'm not exactly sure where that is.

Saying Goodbye to the Studio Flat.

One final 'good ridance' to this dungeon of a kitchen. Gross.  The unique waft of this kitchen makes you want to do anything but cook.

Studio Flat in Budapest.

Getting fancy with the 'pano' feature on my iPhone.

The Doomed Budapest Elevator Ride.

Hungarian elevators are small.

Hungarian elevators are very small.

For anyone that’s travelled to Europe, you may be familiar with these outdated things they call elevators that seem to fit two people (uncomfortably).  These are a far cry from the Texas-sized, let’s play hide-and-go-seek inside, elevator.  Typically, the elevators in Hungary are leftover from the Communist-era (and look just as you would imagine) but we are always assured they have "frequent inspections".

The architecture in Hungary has been intriguing.  We have a lot to learn, but it appears that the majority of the buildings in the city center were built over a 100 years ago and many have received limited or no updates to the exteriors.  While the interior may have received a full renovation, the exterior will still have a decayed, and let’s just use correct adjectives…ugly, crumbling, ‘I think that's going to fall down’ exteriors.

On day three of our home search we planned to meet up with a contact from Fancy’s school, a lovely local employee from the school, Szuszi.  After really enjoying our other agents, for some reason, both of us were planning to meet a typical Hungarian woman, large, brash, loud and large (that's a double large).  Instead, we were greeted by yet another skinny, friendly, cheerful lady.

“Let’s go look at this next flat” Szuszi instructs us.  As we approach the building, we are greeted by the epitome of the Hungarian-woman (large, brash, loud and large). "Finally!" I think to myself with a small inward cheer.

As we enter the building we are greeted by a friendly old man.  He makes six in our group, which I hasten to add this important detail.

The Hungarian salesmen are in full charming mode as he explains the charming, renovated lobby.  We could park our bikes over there, do something else with that space over here, etc. "And over here is a brand, new, elevator."  It’s almost a right of passage for Fancy and I to ride in the building's elevator as it allows them to show it off, like their favorite toy.

We pile into the elevator.  One, two, three, four, five … and then just before the door closes, the friendly older gentleman squeezes into the last remaining semi-spot.  It seemed a bit snug for my liking, but we’ve used multiple sketchy elevators before without problem.

I kid you not, as the door shuts our guide Szuszi says with a smile, there’s a saying in Hungary: "you can fit a lot of friendly people into a small space.”  I think to myself, 'thanks to Old Man H. we’ve definitely done that'.

The last thing I remember before the story truly begins is looking at a sign in the corner that says 6 people / 450 kg.  I’m confident we didn’t surpass either of those limits, but that surely didn't seem to matter.

It’a about 1.2 seconds after the elevator begins to climb that we hear a screeching noise and elevator comes to halt.  Now, we’ve heard some weird noises in elevators, but nothing beyond that.  Now, it's important to remember how small this elevator actually is — very small.  I would guess approximately 3ft x 5ft (about 1m x 1.5m for any Euros reading this, of which there are probably one).  This metal box is now more relatable (and will henceforth be referred to) as a vertical deathbox.

As the elevator grinds to a halt, everyone of course looks around at each other…Is this normal?

(Stage One: Recognition)

We wait for two seconds, hoping that it will simply restart.  No one speaks.

Ten seconds.

Twenty seconds.

We are definitely stuck.

(Stage Two: Acceptance)

Our situation is concerning. We are six full-sized adults crammed into this sardine box, and it is t-i-g-h-t. You really have to go out of your way not to touch another person.

I swear at myself for being chubby.

Stage Three: Options

Of course, the three Hungarian’s start to speak to one another and the three Americans have absolutely no idea what is going on.

There are three buttons:  One is for the Thyssen Krupp Company (wtf?). Two is to the ‘open door’ button (don’t you dare even ask if we tried it).  Three is the ‘alarm’ which gets pushed…and nothing.  Pushed again…nothing.  Finally, Old Man H. holds the button down and we hear a faint response over the speak.  Someone is speaking back.  We’ve never been so happy to hear the sweet Hungarian, impossible to decipher, language.  Of course, we have no idea what is communicated.

All of sudden, we all become very conscious of the heat.  Six adults stuck in a metal box gets warm.  I notice the condensation on the walls begin to accumulate.  About the same time a bead of sweat falls from the back of the head of Old Man H.  For me, a nice round sweat spot forms on my stomach.  Well, that didn't take long.  I make a note to get in better shape, but first, let's escape this death trap.

Now, for anyone that hasn’t found themselves in a similar situation, it’s difficult to empathize with the passing of time, with each cruel second, into minute after minute.  By the end of this experience, I was fully convinced there are more than 60 seconds in every minute.

I will try to be as forthright as possible with the reactions of each person but it was difficult to remember and see other’s actions due to my own mental anguish and the sweat falling into my eyes.  Fortunately, no one had a full-on panic attack.  Ain’t nobody got time for that and seriously, there was no room for that, anyways.

Nancy remained calm and quiet (but later explained she was in full prayer mode).  The calmest person in the elvator makes a joke that the heat reminded her of the her time in Singapore.  I hope I survive to find out for myself.

Szuszi looks at me and then looks at the transparent plexi-glass (or some other impenetrable material) and then returns her eyes to me and asks, “well, we could always break this if we became desperate.  Right Todd?"

Always the people-pleaser I respond with a typically American, over-confident “yeah.......probably”.  But it came out a lot like a whimper.  The back wall of the elevator was made of some plexiglass material that she and I both knew I wouldn’t be able to be break.  But, given the desperate situation, we pretended I'd be capable of some super-human feat, if needed.

Taking action, I see a little light in the top corner of the door and think that maybe we can pry the door open.  I stick my impossibly large fingers into the corner and not only achieve no result, I received a visual hand-slap from Old Man H. and he goes on to explain that if we try to open the door, it can literally slice our hand in half.  I seriously contemplate the validity of his statement for about 2 seconds and decide it’s not worth the risk.

I don’t mean to overemphasize it here, but the elevator continued to get hot ... really, really hot.

Old Man H’s wife (remember her dimensions) is sweating — a lot.  I think we all tried to avoid eye contact.  She seems to be slumped over now.  I’m not sure if she’s more annoyed with being stuck in an elevator, sweating profusely, or the fact that she’s almost certainly lost this prospective sale.

The condensation continues to build on the walls and beads of perspiration actually begin to drip down the wall.

I had two more thoughts at this point.  One, as the sweat continues to show through my shirt, I realize the color light grey is a poor choice for hiding perspiration (I’m really sweating).  Two, I think about playing some music on my iPhone to relax the tension in the room (vertical deathbox) but I can’t decide which song to play with three Americans and three Hungarians so I simply put the phone back in my pocket.

The sad face of our final minutes together.

Now, the one taking control is Old Man H…sort of.  He’s spoken briefly with the the alarm speaker but the three American’s have no idea what was said.  Somehow this guy seems to have a smile on his face, which I’m in no mood for smiles at the moment.  He’s quick to remind us all (in broken English) “the very importance of remaining…not panic”.  Fair enough.  

He makes a quick joke about how nice it is that no one is hungry.  Speak for yourself, buddy. 

Obviously, I’m writing this note from not inside the elevator so (spoiler alert) we got out, but it’s funny to think back about the thoughts that race through your head.

-Oh my gosh, is it actually possible for six people to die in an elevator?

-Is there enough oxygen to last until the end of this ordeal?

-Does this happen often?

-Why did Old Man H. have to get on the elevator?
-How can we punish him?

I wouldn’t be as dramatic to say my ‘life flashed before my eyes’ but you do have some interesting introspective thoughts that I would like to avoid in the near future.

Things started to get a little heated (pun intended) when Old Man H. appears to have a friendly, convivial conversation with someone on his cell phone without letting us know what the hell is going on.  

Thankfully, I had read our “Welcome to Budapest” packet the previous night.  This packet informed us that by dialing “112” anywhere in Europe you receive an English-speaking emergency operator.  By this point, we’ve been inside this elevator for way longer than we care to remember and we want out.  Old Man H. doesn’t seem to be treating this as the emergency that others, including myself, seem to feel it warrants.

He reminds us again that “to panic does nobodies any good”.

His broken English doesn't help the situation.

It’s difficult to describe the dense coat of condensation that has begun to build up along on the walls.  In a moment of levity, thinking “If we survive, this will be a great blog post” I draw the word “Stuck” on the metal door which everybody seems to think is funny, except the Hungarian lady and Old Man H.

This distraction ends and I’m back to contemplating the end of our lives.

Now, there are presumably building tenants that try to get on the elevator and I loudly bang on the door to let them know we are stuck but quickly realize I have no idea what Hungarian words to use, so I lower my hands and stare.  The Hungarians yell something.

At this point, it seems like hours have passed and instead of messing around with ‘Maintenance’ or some dude’s buddy in the building the probability of us not surviving is increasing by the minute in my mind.  I don’t understand why we haven’t at least called the emergency phone number and it finally appears that Szuszi our Hungarian friend agrees with me that things are escalating.  Old Man H.’s reassurances that “maintenance is coming” aren’t doing us any good.

Meanwhile, my light gray shirt and has transformed itself into a dark charcoal — more sweat.

Szuszi finally whips out her phone and calls the emergency number.  She begins to tell the Hungarian Fire Department that it is really hot…very hot…so very hot.  I actually remember thinking how impressive it was that no one (very much including myself) has had a full-blown meltdown inside the elevator.

“All I want is that we treat this as the emergency that it is…yes, I agree not to panic but let’s get the hell out of this godforsaken elevator.”

We finally pry out of this old man that maintenance is “on their way”...

That’s it.  I’m about to lose it.

What does this even mean?

How far away are they?

When will they arrive?

All of these questions I expect answered but instead I just look at Fancy and decide I’m going to smile and take a selfie.  At least if we are going down, there will be a photo timeline.  It seemed natural at the time.

We learn that the "help" is 5km away.  It seems that this could be quick, or it could be quite awhile...no telling in Hungary.  It’s definitely not getting any cooler in this place.

We finally hear something outside the door.  My hand instinctively smacks the door for no good reason, at all.  Metal noises and the door opens.

I consider myself to be a thankful person, but I’ve reached a new level of mind and body and soul thankfulness with this angelic repairman.  I kid you not, he actually looks at us with disgust when he opens the door as if “what were you thinking?”  It phases me not.  I want to run outside and cheer, maybe a fist pump but instead have to gather myself and exit calmly.  

Each person slowly jumps down the approximate 2 feet we traveled off the ground.  The 2 foot leap, lacking danger, felt somewhat anticlimactic in it’s ending but alas we were free.

Old Man H. chimes in, “The sauna was free of charge”.

I'm not amused.
But those Hungarians sure love their sauna humor.

Ironically, this is the newest elevator we've been inside so far. Never again. Never. Again.