Crash

I’m sitting, like many nights before it, on Jaro’s couch listening to the convoluted conversations erupting around me. English and Hungarian intermix, but I’ve stopped listening to the people around me. I’ve just heard a loud bang outside, and my ears are perked up.

Car accident.

Jaro is listening too. Did you hear that?

Yeah.

We both run to the window at the same time, knocking people over unlucky enough to be in our way.

It’s like that Dane Cook joke: ‘You’re sitting around and you hear a car screech on its breaks – SCREEEEAAAAAAAARRRCCCCHHHHH – and then, Damnit! So close!’

People love car accidents. Just a fact of life.

We’re leaning out the window, searching for the culprit. I don’t see any debris. But there’s a car idling at the end of the street, Pál útca, just sitting there. It looks like a nice car. Black. Sleek. New. Renault? I can’t tell the make. This is a first.

The passenger door opens. A guy in shorts and t-shirt jumps out and inspects the front end quickly. He looks at the driver’s side, shrugs, and jumps back into the car. The door slams shut and the car takes a sharp right, jumping the curb, and driving up the sidewalk, out of sight behind the opposite building.

What the hell was that?

Did he just make his getaway on the sidewalk?!?

We’re both in hysterics, because of the sheer stupidity (genius?) of the events around us.

Only in Hungary, dude! Only in Hungary!