Hungary's Huge Year in Sports

My new soccer hero, Hungarian goalkeeper Kiraly Gabor,
who always plays in sweat pants.

There are few sports fans who have lived with as much angst and despair as the Hungarians – especially their soccer fans. The angst and despair are all the harder because the country was once one of the best in the world.

The Magnificent Magyars, led by Ferenc Puskas, won gold in the 1952 Olympics and defeated Italy to win the 1953 Central European Championship. 

Later that year, in what is now called the Match of the Century, the Hungarian team played England in front of a 105,000-person crowd at Wembley Stadium and picked a heavily favoured English team apart 6-3. The next year, the English tried to get revenge, but managed just one goal, and lost 7-1 in Budapest. 

The Hungarians were now recognized as a soccer powerhouse and came into the 1954 World Cup as the favourite. They beat Brazil and cast aside the defending champions Uruguay. They faced West Germany in the Final, whom they had already beaten in the first round. It was a tougher game than expected. With six minutes left and the game tied 2-2, the West Germans scored the winning goal. Hungary lost the World Cup, in what the Germans would call the 'Miracle in Berne' and the Hungarians would dub the 'Disaster in Berne.'

The team still dominated international soccer, winning a few more international matches and seemed posed to win a championship until 1956. The team was abroad when the revolution erupted against the communist dictatorship in Budapest. After the Soviets invaded Hungary, the team stayed abroad, but eventually broke up. Some players returned to Hungary, while the rest scattered across West Europe. 

Over the next few years, the national team might occasionally break out of the first round of a tournament, only to be  defeated in the next round. Eventually the team stopped qualifying and faded into obscurity at international soccer's second tier.

When I sat down on Tuesday evening at a German beer garden with Kata and another Hungarian friend in town for business, you could say the mood about being at the Euro was "We're happy to be here."

The first half could have gone either way, but Austria seemed in control. In the second half, a Hungarian player in Austria's goal box looked as if he lost control of the ball but managed to slide-kick it into the goal before the Austrian goalkeeper could get to it. GOAL! 

We were on our feet. The rest of the beer garden didn't seem to be watching the game, except for a grumpy old German who grumbled something in German. On the TV, as the players jumped into the crowd, we heard how loud the crowd was at the stadium and they were chanting "Magyarok" or something like that. 

Now even Kata is paying attention as the Austrians tried to tie up the game. We saw a yellow card, a close Austrian attempt, a close Hungarian shot, and a brutally twisted ankle. Finally, Hungary scored the second one and the victory was confirmed to be no fluke.

The game ended. The grumpy old German at the next table grumbled and we watched the post-game analysis from German TV announcers. They didn't know what to say. They clearly prepared notes about Austria winning, but knew nothing about the Hungarian team, not even the pronunciation of their names. So they talked about what Austria didn't do during the game.

On the other hand, our social media feeds were filled with photos of Budapest streets brimming up with celebrating fans. Remember, it's been decades since something like this has happened.

Earlier this year, Hungary's hockey team participated in the World Championship in St. Petersburg. Aside from a brief appearance in 2009 this was their first appearance there since 1939. A massive contingent of Hungarian hockey fans followed their team there and sang the national anthem after every loss. 

In their final game, they scored five goals to Belarus' two and won their first game in 77 years. Look around online for video of fans after the game and try not to get a little emotional. 

If Hungary does well in water polo, it's like Canada wining gold at the World Junior Hockey Tournament, it's expected. But watching both their soccer and hockey team win their first game in eons is a huge thing. We're witnessing a huge year for Hungarian sports.

The Success of Dorf's Failed Terror Plot

Dusseldorf's Altstadt, during Christmas.

Dusseldorf has made headlines around the world for terror plot.

Four men were arrested on terrorist charges. Half planned to blow themselves up in Dusseldorf's Altstadt, while the other two would shot people in the ensuing confusion. The Altstadt is the centre of the Dorf's nightlife, so it could have been messy if it happened.

What we know is a Syrian man was arrested in France in March and confessed about the attack and his three accomplices, who were arrested after weeks of surveillance.

Kata expressed concern that the Islamic State was coming for Germany after the Paris and Brussels attacks. I shrugged it off; they have to find the Dorf before they can attack it.

Well, they found the Dorf.

It's called a failed plot, but it was successful. Some are thinking twice before going to the Altstadt. Others simply react like they would have been present if it happened – as if the attack would have occurred when they were in the Altstadt for their weekly shopping trip or night out.

But, that's why it's called terrorism: You fear for yourself so much you ignore the outsized odds of even witnessing an attack.

The plot's other success is a slower burn. At least two of the suspects came to Germany along the Migrant Route through Turkey and Greece and recent reports about sleeper cells in refugee camps only add fuel to the fire.

Germany is not France or Belgium, where immigrants are systemically ignored into powerty and extremism. Even before the so-called refugee crisis, Germany had one of Europe's most robust programs for registering migrants and providing them social welfare and language courses.

But that was a different time. 

We're a little more cynical now. We defend liberal ideals and Christian values but refuse to uphold them. We build fences. We elect nationalists. We cut deals with dictators to keep people in need away.

We think we live in dark times, that terrorists are taking advantage of our kindness, that people with the resolve to cross stormy seas and walk hundreds of miles will do nothing but collect welfare cheques when they arrive.

Times are not bad. The suspects were rounded up. We've never been safer from war, disease, and famine. UEFA Euro 2016 is just around the corner and it's the summer. We have so little to fear in the world that we shouldn't forget that now is the perfect time for a drink in the Altsadt.

In the Fast Lane Through Flanders

I worked for the NBA over a summer organizing 3-on-3 basketball tournaments across Canada. One of the many fun parts of the job was renting vehicles in almost every city with NBA money.

It was like a week-long test drive of a car you were never going to buy. I drove an SUV all over Vancouver, a PT Cruiser in Montreal, a speedy Mazda sedan in Edmonton, and a minivan in Winnipeg – which was fine because that stopover sucked. 

I wanted the same experience in Europe, just with my own money, so for a chunk of 2015 I fought with ServiceOntario to get my drivers' license renewed. It took innumerable phone calls, several formal letters – they would have preferred faxes – and an old fashioned cheque.

I finally got my Canadian drivers license in the fall, which allowed me to rent a truck for a film shoot in the UK countryside. This drive gave me the chance to teach myself how to drive on other side of the road in the middle of the night.

Belgium's border is just a hour away from the Dorf, so the country and its waffles and its beer and medieval churches and its old-timey bridges and canals was always on our radar. We had gone to Antwerp last spring and loved the city. This year we were eyeing Ghent and/or Bruges.

Getting to both cities on a long weekend is no easy feat by train, so with my shiny new drivers' license we booked a car rental.

Renting a car in Europe is not without its difficulties for me, a product of the North American suburbs. I can't drive a car with manual transmission, which discounts me from most available models. We lucked out and found an automatisch Mercedes C-class and booked it.

The next obstacle was finding our way to Ghent. This is not so easy when you're driving through Flanders, where all the signs are in Dutch. We opted for the GPS at the last minute at the pick-up desk, which meant no Mercedes for us. We got an Opel. We were going to Belgium like real, fiscally-responsible Germans!


On Zee Road!

The German stereotype of moving about in orderly lines turns out to be a half truth on the autobahn. Everyone keeps to the right lane because the left lane is for screaming past the right-lane slowpokes at 170km/h.

That's just the way it is. You can pop into the left lane to pass someone, but be prepared for a Rhenish soccer mom in a Porsche to approach from behind with high beams flashing and her front bumper inches from your rear bumper. And that's in our Opel with German plates. Who knows what they do when they see foreign plates.

We rode through the orderly craziness of Germany into sedate Netherlands, where people are so easygoing and so courteous on the highway that you feel like an asshole for getting close to the speed limit. From the Netherlands, you get into Flanders, which used to be in the Netherlands and where they drive like they're still in the Netherlands. 

We were debating where to stop for lunch. Kata wanted to stop in Brussels. I thought Brussels was too big, too busy, and too Brussels-y for a quick stop on the road. Kata didn't like that, but before she got hangry I took the next exit and said, "We'll just eat here at..." I looked for a sign. ...At Leuven!" 

Leuven's Town Hall.

What we saw while we ate our lunch.

The detail on Leuven's Town Hall is incredible.

We never heard of Leuven and never would have thought of visiting. The fast lane in Flanders opened up an incredible destination that we were happy to have visited. We easily parked close to the old town centre,  ate a healthy lunch at an outdoor cafe, wandered the streets, and saw all sorts of beautiful things.

We got back onto the road and approached Brussels. It's a bilingual enclave within Dutch-speaking Flanders and the signs were in Dutch and French. The style of driving went from friendly Flemish-style to French Fury Road-style. As we took the ring road around the city, cars jostled and tailgated for position. They cut each other off, swerved onto exits at the last minute, and avoided signalling before changing lanes. 

We survived the Brussels Circle Pit and made it to our Ghent Airbnb. Well, it was not that easy. The Airbnb was deep in the countryside, down a narrow road and tucked between a few farms and a nature preserve. Our GPS couldn't compute where it exactly was and, because I began trusting the computer over my own eyes, we drove past the place.

Our accommodation was a lovely renovated loft above a small, physiotherapy clinic. We got our own kitchen, which used to be an army camper trailer, and access to an indoor pool below. We'd go into Ghent and see the sights and walk along the canals and drink the beer out of fancy chalices before getting back into the countryside to relax and sleep.

It was a tranquil way of discovering the city – and it is a beautiful city – and very different than our Antwerp getaway last Spring, where we stayed in the city.

The Fish Market, which thankfully did not smell like a fish market.

Kata in a Church.

Guys, just get to Ghent. It's very pretty.

Ghent's Contemporary Art Museum, where else!

The gardens of St. Michael's Abbey in Ghent.

In – then out of – Bruges

The weekend went by quickly and we hit the road on Sunday for our final destination: Bruges. But before I get into all of that, let me write a bit about the GPS.

Our GPS didn't talk, which surprised me for the first few turns because I thought they all spoke in that... halting... voice. It would often silently tell me to turn after I read the signs and already taken the turn. It was also difficult to read while navigating around traffic circles, which are already a challenge for sheltered North American drivers.

I went to Traffic Circle School on the wrong side of the road in the UK, so I thought I could handle all the traffic circles the roads of Belgium, the Netherlands, and Germany could throw at me until I encountered a five-lane traffic circle outside of Ghent with stoplights.

This was the traffic circle to end all traffic circles. The GPS didn't help much either. With no sound, I'd look at the little screen, look at the winding road, look at the cars around me changing lanes, check the mirrors, all while trying to find the Dutch road signs that would lead us to Bruges. 

I am not ashamed to say that I went around a few times to get the correct exit. A first pass for reconnaissance. A second pass to make sure. Then we exited the circle on the third pass towards Bruges.

A F**king Fairytale Town

We figured Bruges was a tourist trap built around a beautiful well-preserved medieval town and always hesitated about doing an entire weekend there. We planned a brief afternoon stopover to walk along the canals and over the bridges and into a few churches, before driving across Belgium to return to the Dorf. A car made this plan feasible.

It's a beautiful town and for a history nerd and an art geek it had a lot to offer. We made good use of our limited time: We took a boat tour along the town's main canals, devoured a great Flemish lunch (meat stew for me, salmon for Kata), walked the cobblestone streets, and stuck our heads in as many old churches as we could.

There is so much packed into that medieval town that you can get the short version in a few hours, but you feel like you want to linger. One the slow return trip (It was the Sunday on a long weekend) we decided we will likely return – maybe once again with a car.

On a boat in Bruges.

There's a Michelangelo in this church.

More beautiful canals *yawn*

Bruges Bros.