Hours earlier, on a chilly January morning, I had hopped off the Bucharest-to-Budapest train, eager to spend the weekend in a place far from the usual tourist spots. Mezöberény was so off the radar that it wasn’t even listed in guidebooks or on TripAdvisor—quite the contrast to well-known destinations like Mbabara, Uganda, or Dalanzadgad, Mongolia. The only detail I had about the town came from its municipal website: a local man named József Halász had just celebrated his ninetieth birthday.
At first, I struggled with the language barrier. Hungarian is a Uralic language, and trying to decipher it felt like falling asleep on a keyboard. As soon as I rushed from the train to the restroom, I was faced with two signs: FÉRFI and NÖI. Apparently, the authorities saved some forints by skipping stick-figure signs.
The day was cold and gray as I wandered through town, taking in the pre-war, pre-Communist houses and waving at the occasional cyclist—there seemed to be more bikes than cars. But then, a light drizzle started, which quickly reduced the number of cyclists, leaving me as the sole wandering American visitor. A rainy travel day feels a bit like dropping a piece of chocolate on the floor: not as appealing, but I’m not going to waste it.
It was during this drizzle that I spotted a stenciled sign on a residential street. Behind a crumbling driveway, I saw a row of plastic barrels lined up like something from a sci-fi movie. In the distance stood a one-story L-shaped building. What was it? The sign read SZESZFÖZDE. But what did that mean?
After a moment of delay thanks to slow mobile service, I got my answer: DISTILLERY.
Really? I would have guessed PRIVATE PROPERTY or DANGER—STAY OUT! But a distillery? Excitement surged through me as a smile spread across my face.
Two rough-looking men emerged from the building—one older, smoking a cigarette, dressed in a sweater and worn trousers that felt like a throwback to 1986. I waved, pointed to the bulky camera around my neck, and gestured toward the building, using old-school Google Translate.
They welcomed me in and gave me a tour.
Inside the aging but operational distillery, the men let me take photos while they shared, in a mix of gestures and smartphone-translated Hungarian, how pálinka (Hungarian fruit brandy) is made. Those barrels I had seen outside were filled with fermenting pear, grape, and apple juices. Inside, a maze of pipes connected tin tanks, creating a scene that felt like a mad scientist’s lab adorned with retro linoleum flooring.
As they showed me around, I engaged in that essential travel experience: trying to understand a life so different from my own. What were their lives like? Had they traveled? What stories did their families hold? The language barrier didn’t stop me from wondering.
After soaking in every detail and the glimmer of pride in their tired eyes, I typed into Google Translate, “Come visit me in New York.” We all laughed, and then I stepped back into the drizzly streets of Mezöberény, feeling elated.
What made this moment so special? Sure, the distillery was a fun story for friends and a neat anecdote for my writing. But it was also just a humble place making local hooch in a town most Hungarians would likely consider off the map.
What made it remarkable was that I discovered it. Not a groundbreaking discovery, like a cure for a disease or a new species, but something entirely unexpected, genuine, and uniquely mine.
Travel used to be about discovery, especially for those of us who avoid tour buses and all-inclusive resorts. We’d set off with minimal knowledge—perhaps a few highlighted pages in a guidebook, some tips from well-traveled friends, or snippets of local history gleaned from novels. Beyond that, we were on our own.
Paper guidebooks, pamphlets, and maps guided us, as did conversations with locals. In the early 2000s, internet searches at cafés provided some help, but mostly, we relied on our own curiosity and willingness to connect with people. Tips came from fellow travelers’ stories at breakfast or simply following our noses toward something that smelled delicious.
Of course, that still happens today—but only if we make the effort. With nearly every place documented to death and all that information instantly accessible, we sometimes forget the joy of spontaneity. Sure, technology has its perks, but don’t we travel to break free from routine, to embrace the unexpected, and to let the world surprise us?
Instead, we often spend weeks poring over online reviews, meticulously planning every minute, and relying on GPS to guide us. We mean well; nobody wants a romantic dinner to go wrong or to get lost and miss out on a must-see attraction.
But isn’t this just a digital version of the old-fashioned group tour? The difference is, on a bus tour, you actually meet the person whose advice you’re following.
One of my travel rules is this: the number of visitors to a place is often inversely related to how nice the locals are to those visitors. Mezöberény, as far as I knew, had seen no foreign tourists at all. It was the anti-Paris, and that distillery was the anti-Louvre.
People in places that rarely see outsiders tend to be not just kinder but genuinely curious. It’s like the old saying about bears: they’re as scared of you as you are of them. In remote areas, people are just as intrigued by visitors as we are by them. The real question isn’t why the distillery workers invited me in; it’s why wouldn’t they? I imagine they thought, “What’s this curious foreigner doing outside our distillery with a camera? Let’s find out!”
More importantly, can stumbling upon a rustic distillery be just as exhilarating as touring a famous monument? Did the thrill I felt when I first read the word “distillery” match what I experienced gazing up at the Sistine Chapel?
Probably not, but the memory of that distillery moment sticks with me, while my feelings from the Sistine Chapel have faded. Why? Because although Michelangelo’s masterpieces are infinitely more beautiful than rusty pipes in a distillery, I had seen them in pictures, heard lectures, and read countless travel accounts.
That’s why I believe it’s time to rediscover the essence of travel and appreciate what an over-documented world has taken away: the joy of creating your own experiences.
