Tibor and Metallica

Since I can’t tell you precisely how to get to a Metallica show at an ice hockey arena somewhere in the middle of Slovakia, the tale of how I almost got there will have to suffice.

With a few weeks to kill between semesters, and having heard stories about the beautiful landscape (and the even more beautiful women) of Eastern Europe, I decided to hook up with a friend of mine out backpacking in Hungary one summer a few years back. My friend loves to travel and, as he had been out that way before, I knew he could help me sample the local flavor.

We connected on the border between Austria and Hungary – I, with my overstuffed backpack, and he in a tiny car already packed with three other guys.

“You must have one hell of a backpack to need a car to help you carry it,” I said, confused and expecting a long hike through some beautiful yet eerie countryside ala American Werewolf in London.

“Toss your bag in the trunk, man,” he grinned, “we’re going to a metal concert.”

I felt my stomach churn ever so slightly as I surveyed the vehicle I was about to squeeze into, and became lost in thought reflecting on the rich history and model diversity of the cars forged by the American automotive industry. Even a few years ago commercials for American cars touted high-tech security systems, computer-enhanced engines and navigation by satellite. Looking at this car, I envisioned its commercial trumpeting “windows” as standard features.

Additionally, craftsmanship aside, EACH of the doors of the car I was about to get into was a different color. Now it might be perfectly normal around these parts, I guessed, to roll around in a pack of Skittles, but, coming from America, a car with even one different colored door gave cause for concern. We’ve all seen that red car in the city sporting some orange or white-ish door, and have held our children just a little bit closer as it drifted by, knowing that it was either coming from, or on its way to, some serious shit.

Undeterred, and ready for adventure, I shoehorned my way in anyway.

The inside of the vehicle turned out to be just as colorful as the outside. Spare, and seemingly unnecessary, parts were soldered to the body, and, aside from my friend in his typical gray jacket and jeans, my fellow travelers all donned some of the freshest, vibrant gear the 80's and 90's had to offer. Incidentally, I actually think Cross Colors jeans make even the pastiest of skin pop! One guy was rocking that logo t-shirt from the first Batman movie while the driver, a man I would come to know, and love, named Tibor, sat in the cockpit with one hand on the wheel and the other tucked deep inside a box of BooBerry cereal.

 (the Eastern Europe of today is the America of yesteryear)

After introductions, my friend revealed that we were on our way to Slovakia to see Metallica. Those guys were clearly bigger fans than I, but I was excited about the adventure and the concert nonetheless. Everyone looked cheerful as we took off.

We got through the border of Slovakia without much hassle and, like magic, some herb appeared in the back seat. Though I didn’t partake, I might as well have considering the contact high I was buzzing from. I immediately wondered about cops on the roads, as I knew absolutely nothing about the country I had just entered, and asked if we were cool. Tibor reassured me that all was fine in his thickly accented English and we got back to our discussion about James Hetfield’s “totally cool” sunglasses.

About five minutes later, just as my early-onset paranoia was beginning to fade, we came around a bend to discover a police car on the side of the road off in the distance. The greenery went out the window and the mood in the vehicle became a little less light. Tibor ventured that if we drove really fast, we might pass by undetected. He was vetoed, fortunately, by my friend who cautioned against being dumb. In the end, we slowed down and approached the police the way all kids doing something they probably shouldn’t be doing do – sitting up, looking straight ahead and smiling.

Nearly upon the parked car, the tension crescendoed as the cops standing beside their vehicle waved us over. Tibor wiped the red from his eyes and decided he’d simply talk with them. He pulled over behind their car, assured us we’d be on our way in no time, and walked over to the waiting officers. We sat in the car for a few minutes as Tibor worked his magic on the police, praying we weren’t headed for some forced labor camp.

When he returned, it was simply to report, luckily, that their car had broken down and that they could use a tow to the nearest station. It was one of those times where it was both nice, and not so nice, to know that the police were rolling in even shittier cars than the general population. I was to learn later that their car was a Lada, a make notorious for giving out on owners. We all breathed a deep sigh of relief as Tibor pulled his car up in front of the cops to hitch the two cars together.

 (A natural habitat on its Lada)

We began driving again at a snail’s pace. It was only a few miles to the closest gas station and it would take over an hour to get there. We inched along at around 5 mph, joined together looking like Voltron after a few rounds with a trash compactor. The mood was happy again in Tibor’s car and everyone’s high began to reappear. Tibor reveled in how smoothly he had dealt with the police and promised to get us all to the concert on time. Everyone sat quietly, watching the scenery, while Tibor hummed some old Britney Spears.

All was cake, for the first few minutes or so, until, all of a sudden, Tibor, having returned to the floating world he'd been snapped out of only minutes earlier, looked up into the rear-view mirror.

“Oh shit!” he yelled, “The police are right on us!!!”

Frightened, he hammered down on the gas. “They won’t catch me!” he vowed, angrily, kicking off the oddest “high-speed” case I’ve ever had the displeasure of being party to.

The rest of us went whiter. It was the first time in my life that I was in a situation I could actually describe, truly, as folly. Believe me when I say that two minutes of madness can really feel like an hour. The police looked equally dumbfounded, waving their arms like mad and trying to stop their car. We hollered at Tibor to wake the fuck up and finally convinced him to ease off the gas just as the chain linking the cars was about to fail.

“I have an unpaid parking ticket,” he said, plainly, coming back to Earth.

“You got that in New York, dumbass!!” my friend shouted.

We slowed back to a crawl as the police hit their lights, and towed the cops back over to the shoulder. Calm as a cucumber, Tibor got out and explained, simply, that his car had malfunctioned. The cops let us continue towing them and were thankful to be unhitched when we reached the gas station. Tibor smiled and waved goodbye to the public servants as we pulled back onto the road.

Probably jarred from the experience, he remembered that the concert we were en route to was not for another week.

“Pass me the BooBerry,” I said, exhausted. “That was enough adventure for one day anyway.”