Call Me Istvan



One of the first things we did when we returned to Hungary was to search for our milk truck. Not finding it in its accustomed spot the first couple of days we looked, we rationalized it as perhaps a vacation thing, but that sinking feeling of desolation and loss grew each passing day. Neighbors began wondering about the strange foreigner aimlessly riding the busz with an empty bottle in his hands. We were even forced to buy milk in a grocery store. (Gasp!)

Just when all seemed lost, a ray of hope pierced the gloom, and strangely enough, the healing began with this blog. Remembering that we had taken a picture of the milk truck for that long-ago post, we used it to pull up the company’s web site, and through the fog of our limited Hungarian and Google Translate we managed to discern that the fast-paced world of high finance in the Hungarian dairy markets had resulted in our supplier merging with another. Squinting in the glare of their shiny new branding campaign, we were able to see that our milk truck was not lost, it had just been repainted AND repositioned about three blocks to the southeast.

I type this in the wonderful reunion afterglow of a milkshake made with the same great — and still only 200 HUF/liter — milk we fell in love with months ago.


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