It was summer, between semesters at my college, and I decided to follow in the path of my ancestors and do the European tour. I bought by Euro Pass and converted my Yankee dollars to Euros. I packed what I needed in my back pack; my needs were few in those days: a few clean sets of undergarments, two pairs of jeans, an odd assortment of my American logo t-shirts and a spare set of comfortable walking shoes. Of course, a map, a notebook and a camera completed my selection and off I went.
I was two months into my journey when I arrived at that ancient city, Budapest. It was a delightful place to tour and my feet, not quite in as good a shape as when I had departed America, found themselves wandering of their own accord about the city. My family, many generations ago, had come from this area so it was a familiar place to me deep inside my blood.
I had only been in the youth hostel there for two nights and was out wandering the city, looking for some sort of local entertainment to wile away the hours until I could sleep. I was walking down an old fashioned stone walk when I heard a cry, a feminine sounding cry, coming from a dark alley way to my right. I dashed down it and found a young woman prone on the stones there in the twilight, not quite dark yet but almost there. I asked if she needed assistance and her cry of "yes!" made me realize she was an American like me.
I extended my hand and helped her to her feet, noticing in the growing darkness a small cut above her right eye. I took my clean bandana from my pocket and pressed it to the cut. Taking her arm, I led her back down the alley way to a café I had spotted at the entrance. Once inside, I requested some ice and a cloth napkin of the waiter who led us to a quiet table in the corner. The ice delivered, I bundled it inside the napkin and made sure my patient held it to her forehead to prevent swelling.
The waiter brought us a pot of steaming tea and I poured a cup for each of us. She indicated she would take a bit of milk and I stirred it in for her before placing the cup before her.
She told me she had been jumped from behind by someone and she did not know why, for they did not attempt to take her purse which she still clung to tightly underneath her arm. I asked if she wished to report the incident to the authorities. She shook her head and whispered about being an American in a strange land. Then she smiled and it lit her face so lovely, I could not look away.
She had fair hair, long to her shoulders and a fair complexion. She wore a pale pink lipstick and very little makeup. She was very pretty and did not need it. I wondered what she thought of my swarthy complexion and dark eyes, my dark curly hair and my athletic build but I did not ask her.
We soon began to converse as old friends and she filled me in on her life. She was raised in the Midwest in a large catholic family. She had three sisters and two brothers and her father was a professor at a very well known college there. Her mother was a homemaker and freelance writer who often took her father's notes, made sense of them and got them published. I had heard of both of them and was pleased to meet their daughter Elena. She was attending classes, with no declared major, at the college her father taught at but found herself becoming apathetic. She told her parents she wished to see the world and, being the generous loving parents they were, they sent her with their blessings to Europe.
She had originally been traveling with a girlfriend but she was called home suddenly due to a family emergency and so Elena continued on alone. She had not been frightened, feeling very at home in this exciting country, until she had been attacked in the alleyway.
I told her of my own life, of my parents in New Jersey, of my own studies at the famous college in Manhattan. I told her of my liberal older sister, bent on saving the world. Every day, she packed sack lunches: peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, a granola bar, a box of juice and a $1 calling card she had specially printed with the large note "Call Home!" She took it upon herself to distribute them among the homeless of the city, making a point of reminding all who would listen that giving them money would not help them get off the street but undoubtedly only feed their addiction whatever it may be. She had the paper sacks she used printed special as well and on the outside was listed a number of shelters and agencies who could and would help those who genuinely wanted it. By day, my sister worked in the financial district and made a great deal of money but spent the majority of her income on helping the homeless.
