Worst part of fishing is worm

I pretty much never talk to people on planes. But on the flight here I was too hung over to read The Economist anyway, so it was ok that my seatmate Laszlo was super chatty. He told me that a Red Sox fan could not possibly feel the pain of a Cubs fan. He told me about how he is Catholic and also atheist, and that the best part of fishing is the drinking. ("Worst part of fishing is worm. Putting the worm on the hook. I hate worm.") He also told me about how, at age 17, he smuggled himself out of Hungary rather than join the army. Some kind of forged passport that got him out through Belgrade and Ljubljana to an Italian refugee camp, where he promptly acquired a wife and baby ("nothing else to do"). A year later he came to New York with 18 years, $30, a wife, a baby, and no English. He took his $30 to the nearest bodega to get milk for his baby ("I know this one word, milk"), but didn't know enough other words to realize he was buying powdered milk, which he then had no idea what to do with. He's doing fine now, though, so we were allowed to laugh about it. He taught me how to say yes and no in Hungarian, so now I've got four words in my arsenal (including thank you and beer). He also taught me how to say fuck ("Did you know Hungarian has most curse words of any language?"), but then kept shushing me when I repeated it and now I forget how to say it. Joder.

So I made it to Budapest. And, based on a sample of two, Hungarians are pretty great.