If you're going to go to Hungary, go on a whim. Someone else's, preferably. And do, if possible, fly with Hell's Angels.
They were adorable. They were heading for some Hell's Angels' Gathering (never join a group that's a bitch to apostrophise). Large and jolly and rather sweet - it was like a gay bears' outing, only with lady groupies who were lean-to-the-point-of-addled.
The Angels next to me would keep flexing their ballpoint-tattooed fists and saying "outrageous" things, like "Doug, I'm gonna get me a bloody mary. I will!" And then, when the stewardess arrived, would meekly ask for an orange juice.
Between then was squeezed a cardboard box, "It's the trophies, Doug. Well, they're awards really, but, you know, I'm uncomfortable with the idea of singling out individual achievement..."