Turkey, Bulgaria, Serbia, Hungary, Croatia, Slovenia, Austria, Slovakia, and Romania
A boyhood in rural Vermont wasn’t bad preparation for family vacation road trips through countries with questionable driving records. My training as a future Turkish driver began on our family’s farm at ten years old-old enough to reach the foot throttle on the logging winch, to be precise. From this early training, I experienced quite a few not-so tame accidents moving the John Deere tractor down our woods roads. Little wonder that Mom would bundle up my little brother into our Buick station wagon late at night and go looking for us when we weren’t home on time. On those occasions, we’d always meet her somewhere along the way with one last load of logs or firewood.
Dad is an expert on the roadway, his conduct guided by a career trucking propane and over fifty years volunteering for the local fire department. He collected war stories of his adventures and heroics along the way: the one where he spun backwards down Hillcrest Terrace with 2500 gallons of fuel in his bulk tank (the road has been closed every winter since); or the one where he wrecked a brand new fire truck trying to rescue folks during a snow storm (days after the department had deemed the engine “Robert Grace Engine Company” in tribute to his long tenure).
Dad taught me how to drive in every conceivable weather and road condition. Having the wit and courage to steer into the slide on an icy road when every bit of you wants to steer the other way, is a requirement in Vermont after all. Later I graduated into skidding logs up long hills in the pouring rain, because with my Pops, we always had time for one more load.
While posted to Ankara, I quickly experienced the relentless and unforgiving roads of the region. In such terrain there’s not a road or traffic “laws” in the ordinary sense such as lanes or right of way. Whoever gets there first cuts the track so to say. “If you can drive in Turkey, you can drive anywhere in the world,” folks would say at the Embassy. I used to laugh when I heard that phrase, but once I learned how to drive, I knew exactly what they meant. If you have ever dreamed of being a race car driver, loved playing bumper cars at the fun parks and enjoyed playing tag as a kid, driving in Turkey is the three games rolled in to one crazy experience. It’s common to see cars driving the wrong way, running red lights, and zigzagging across wide roads without the slightest regard to lane markings.
Properly prepared, road trips quickly become our preferred holiday. There’s something cool about driving a car in a different country and exploring places off the beaten track. Then when a family and friends reunion at a castle in Tét, Hungary materialized, the car became our only logical choice for the adventure. However, while a Turkey to Hungary road trip along single cliff-top roads, highways without any barriers, and the steepest turns you could imagine can be incredibly beautiful and exciting to drive on, soon after everyone had piled into the car we were harshly reminded of the dangers as well.
From around the road’s bend: a shriek of metal, a cloud of smoke, a bus came careening at our car head on. We swerve madly for a near miss. Then I see the accident: a jacked up truck in pieces. Jennilou must have sensed my silent tantrum because she turned around to look at me. “Is everything OK,” she murmured before drifting back to sleep. Awaken by the veer; I searched the girls’ eyes for any indication of fear or pain. I only see a kind confusion, which turned my exasperation to compassion at their naivety.
“Hi Mom.”
“Hi honey! We’re so glad you called – we’ve been worried sick about you guys,” she cooed from the other end of the scratchy connection. Scrunched into a tiny pizza joint in Belfast, I didn’t forget for a moment that we were speaking from opposite edges of the earth.
“We board our flight to Budapest in a few minutes. Will you guys be there to greet us?” came an enthusiastic query.
“You bet Mom” It took me a second to get used to thinking in US time, “when do you arrive again?”
“When was it again Jonny? Right…10:30pm.”
I pictured the terminal in Burlington, Vermont and thought about the two employees working there: one who sat at the counter stacking tickets into elaborate structures while avoiding eye contact with anyone resembling a customer, the other marching in and out of the solo jet way door as if it would disappear if left unattended for two minutes. “Of course, Mom, we will be there”
There was a long pause. I struggled between a million stories, tried to grasp something that she could picture: toothless street vendors selling buckets of oranges, mountains of flowers and home-baked bread in the town squares, boys kicking old soccer balls in abandoned basketball courts at the foot of mountains.
“How are you guys doing?” she asked.
“Right on schedule”, I reported. “Just one more border crossing and we are finally to Hungary.”
“That’s wonderful!” she sounded positively delighted, “I don’t know why you do such crazy things sometimes.”
“Kath! He saved $500 bucks!” retorted my father aggravated.
“You guys have any trouble along the way?” she probed as if to prove this hadn’t been the greatest idea my Dad and I seemed to make it out as.
“No. Actually …” I shouldn’t tell her.
“Really? That’s fantastic Jeffrey.”
Don’t tell her.
Pause. “Well this truck….”
Idiot.
“Actually, Mom, don’t worry about it.”
“No, I want to know.”
“It’s okay. I’ve actually got to go. I’ll see you soon ma …”
Click.
We ended our journey at a crescent-shaped lip parking lot outside our AirBnb in a quiet Budapest neighborhood. I rested my right foot on the gloriously still ground, and peeled my reluctant fingers from their desperate steering wheel clench. My eyes wandered off the jutted edge, and a wave of beauty pummeled my unprepared eyes as the girls sprang from the car excited to see their grandparents for the first time in over a year. That wasn’t so bad, I thought. The physical toll of long hours driving in strange territory is terrific: In the course of two weeks and nine countries, thirty five new hairs turned gray forever. Driving those long hours left me with tightness in my back that lingered long after I returned home. When it finally cleared, though, I was a bit sad to feel it go. The psychological effects of completing our trip have lasted even longer. Navigating those unfamiliar roads has left me restless for unusual territory, and gave me the fortitude to give it go. We have driven many places in the region since. But on that day, on a winding mountain road in rural Bulgaria, a blue truck was crushed and a driver was killed instantly. Every now and then, I still see that smoking truck hurtling at me in dreams, but after our trip, the accident has became less of a nightmare and more of an inspiration and reminder to cherish the time we do have. After all, a pack of Graces had lived another day to reunite together half way around the world.
