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I reached Budapest where I got a job working in a hostel for a few months to wait out the worst of winter and to replenish my rapidly depleting funds. Whilst there I paid a fleeting visit to a Countess, an old friend of my great-aunt.
On hearing that after traversing the Great Hungarian Plain I would reach Romania she took a sharp intake of breath. The gypsies there are very dangerous, only last week I was hearing about an old woman who was killed in her home by one who had broken in to rob her. I was 7 years old again, wary of the phantom Travellers but drawn to them out of sheer curiosity. As I only had a handful of experiences with the Romany Gypsies my assessment is perhaps romanticised.
I was able to view the community from a perspective of novelty and fascination. She was unmistakably Roma, wearing the clothes that has been their fashion for centuries: A colourful long homemade pleated skirt, a blouse and an abundance of heavy looking necklaces and rings. Sadly, my knee-jerk reaction was wariness. She spoke decent English and claimed that her companions and her needed help.
I peered over her shoulder to see a few similarly dressed old women sitting around in various stages of despondency and wondered what I could possibly do to help.
Something told me that, one way or another, it would end with my wallet getting lighter. I was caught between wanting to see what came of it and, on the other hand, detach myself quickly and tactfully before I was sucked into giving away a portion of what little I had.