The Wheels on the Bus

Overall, it's great not having a car. I don't have to pay several hundred dollars a month (which is especially fortunate since I have yet to be paid and even then will not make much), I don't have to bother with filling up with gas, washing it (like I ever did anyway), getting the oil changed, or of course, dealing with the devil's car dealership, Clear Lake Volkswagen. Plus, Budapest has a very good, extensive system with trams, buses, and an underground, so you are never far from it.

But public transportation can be a bit scary at times. Like when the bar thingy that attaches to the electrical wire thingy overhead comes detached, and the bus driver gets out and bats it around with a long, hook-ended pole for a few minutes to realign it. Or when the bus just dies on the side of the highway, and you sit there a while, and then there is an announcement in Hungarian, and then you all get off the bus and start walking down the highway looking for another one. Or when you accidentally board the wrong night bus and drive out of the city at midnight, finally deciding it best to just get off when all you see are rows and rows and rows of Communist housing blocks.