Attempting to acquire the ticket itself was bad enough – as soon as I saw the huge open room of Budapest’s main train station dedicated to the purchasing of international tickets, I knew I was in for a long, frustrating afternoon. Every available seat (there were about five), box and windowsill was occupied by sleepy-looking backpackers, a bit dazed and clutching a small numbered ticket. Those travellers not lucky enough to get a seat were sprawled in various uncomfortable positions across the floor of the room.

My wife Molly and I had been walking the damp streets of London all day and decided it was time for a well deserved pint. We found a crowded corner pub in Earl's Court and quickly ducked in out of the rain. The room was wall-to-wall with people but we quickly snagged a newly vacant high-top table and two stools in the center of floor. We ordered our pints and leaned in over the table to discuss the events of our day. On all sides of us were more high-top tables and stools, all smashed together in an uncomfortable, claustrophobic cluster. Next to us sat a real bruiser of a guy. Muscular, with a tattered All Blacks rugby jersey, shaved head, and one swollen black eye. In our peripheral vision we could see that he was eavesdropping on our conversation.