The New York Times May 23 , 2010 Frugal Europe , on Foot By MATT GROSS ONCE upon a time , a young man went for a walk . It was December 1933 , and an 18 - year - old Englishman named Patrick Leigh Fermor put on a pair of hobnail boots and a secondhand greatcoat , gathered up his rucksack and left London on a ship bound for Rotterdam , where he planned to travel 1 , 400 miles to Istanbul — on foot . He had virtually no money ; at best , he ’ d arrive in , say , Munich to find his mother had sent him £ 5 . But what he did have was an outgoing nature , a sense of adventure , an affinity for languages and a broad network of friends of friends . “ If I lived on bread and cheese and apples , ” he later wrote , “ jogging along on fifty pounds a year like Lord Durham with a few noughts knocked off , there would even be some cash left over for papers and pencils and an occasional mug of beer . A new life ! Freedom ! Something to write about ! ” Something to write about indeed ! The books he produced from the yearlong journey — “ A Time of Gifts ” and “ Between the Woods and the Water ” — are gorgeously rendered classics that have led many to call Mr . Leigh Fermor , now 95 , Britain ’ s greatest living travel writer . But to my mind , he ’ s always had another title : the original Frugal Traveler — the embodiment of that idea that , though a wanderer may be penniless , he doesn ’ t have to suffer . And Mr . Leigh Fermor never suffered , thanks to the miracle of human generosity . Peasants gave him baskets of eggs and swigs of raspberry schnapps . Small - town mayors found him beds . The lingering nobility of Europe put him up in their castles , invited him to balls and lent him their horses . When Mr . Leigh Fermor did sleep rough — in hayricks and barns or on the banks of his beloved Danube — he did it by choice , not because ( or not merely because ) poverty required it . He knew , even at 18 , that the world is an experience to be savored in all its multifarious incarnations . Could a young person ( is 35 still young ? ) with strong legs and little money find the same spirit of hospitality that Mr . Leigh Fermor encountered some 76 years ago ? At the end of March , I set out to find the answer . With only two weeks free , my plan was to walk from Vienna to Budapest , a 180 - mile route that would connect the old poles of the Austro - Hungarian Empire and track Mr . Leigh Fermor ’ s trail as closely as possible , taking me along the Danube to Bratislava , the Slovakian capital , and across the plains of Slovakia south to Hungary — through three countries whose languages , cultures and histories could not be more different , or more intertwined . It was tempting , the day I arrived in Vienna , to just walk east from the airport , but I couldn ’ t completely skip the Austrian capital , where Mr . Leigh Fermor had spent three weeks among the “ crooked lanes ” and “ facades of broken pediment and tiered shutter . ” And so I followed his lead , going into the imperial crypt , where the grandest members of the Hapsburg family lay entombed in elaborate sarcophagi , and into the museums , although I shied away from the most famous in favor of oddities like the International Esperanto Museum . And I luxuriated in storied places like Cafe Alt Wien and Cafe Bendl . But after two nights in Vienna , I was restless . So I crossed the Danube , put on my 45 - pound pack and took off down the Donauradweg , a well - kept biking trail that runs from the river ’ s source to its mouth at the Black Sea . To my right , the Danube , more green than blue , sparkled in the cool sunlight , and I encountered fishermen tending their rods , elderly sunbathers , nordic hikers poling along and cyclists speeding in both directions . This first day , I figured , I ’ d take it easy and do only 15 miles . Ideally , I ’ d need to hit 18 miles a day — about six hours of walking — to reach my goal . It seemed reasonable , especially with the terrain so uniformly flat . The path , sometimes dirt , sometimes paved , would often stretch so far and straight that I couldn ’ t imagine I ’ d ever reach the end , and then I ’ d finally hit a slight turn and face the same thing : an art - school lesson in perspective , complete with the first low foothills of the Carpathians at the vanishing point — and a scampering rabbit to remind me this was no still life . Even with such straightforward terrain , there were snags . An attempted shortcut through a fuel depot left me with minor scratches and an extra three miles . But such mistakes have a way of turning out for the best . Had I stayed on the trail , I would have never crossed paths , two hours later , at the edge of Donau - Auen National Park , with Jean - Marc and Marie , newlywed French cyclists who stopped to say hello when they saw a lone hiker in the middle of nowhere . They were taking an extended honeymoon : a two - year bicycle journey from their home in Paris — to Japan ! “ Do you know where you ’ re staying tonight ? ” I asked . They didn ’ t . I told them to meet me at Orth an der Donau , a small Austrian town a couple of miles farther down the Danube , where I had arranged for a place to stay via CouchSurfing . org . Maybe , I said , my host could find them somewhere to pitch their tent . THE host , Roland Hauser , whom we met in front of Orth ’ s impressive castle , did better than that . He invited them home to his dreamland of soft beds and hot showers . Roland , 26 , had traveled from California to Southeast Asia to New Zealand , and his German - accented English was peppered with words like “ sí ” and “ bueno . ” That evening , we cooked spaghetti Bolognese , nibbled Südtirolean ham and drank big bottles of beer . I went to sleep marveling at our extraordinary , Fermorian luck . In the morning , after coffee , I threw out my underwear . This was a strategy to lighten my load — bring old undies and get rid of them day by day . Frankly , I should have done that with everything , as the pack was needlessly heavy . Along with two weeks ’ worth of shirts , I had an ultralight down jacket , a waterproof shell and rain pants . A tent and sleeping bag . one pair of jeans and lightweight canvas shoes to change into at day ’ s end ; nothing worse than walking 20 miles and spending the evening in the same clothes . And I packed Mr . Leigh Fermor ’ s books and Claudio Magris ’ s “ Danube , ” which I never had time to read . And my computer and camera gear — work necessities , alas . When I set off , I was wearing my typical walking outfit : khaki pants by a company in Portland , Ore . , called Nau ; waterproof running sneakers by Lafuma ; good socks ( as important as good shoes ) ; and a long - sleeved cotton shirt . The walk began well . My feet were tender , but the flatness of the Marchfelddamm , a high berm that doubled as biking path and flood deterrent , ensured that I wasn ’ t struggling . This was the heart of the Donau - Auen National Park : forests of thin trees broken by occasional streams flowing to the Danube . At first , I appreciated the play of light on the water and between the trunks , but hour after plodding hour of unchanging scenery soon became mind - numbing , and I simply marched , putting one foot in front of the other and watching for kilometer markers . It would be 13 miles before I could stop for lunch , and another 10 before I reached my day ’ s goal : Bratislava . But there ’ s a funny thing about long walks . With patience , all those steps add up , and by 2 p . m . , I ’ d crossed a bridge over the Danube and settled into a cafe in the stately town of Hainburg , where an open - faced baguette pizza and glass of beer gave me the courage to face the miles ahead . And soon I found myself trudging along the shoulder of the small highway with cars flying past — and missing the monotonous near - silence of the forest . Not far off , I could see Bratislava ’ s hilltop castle — in Mr . Leigh Fermor ’ s era , a burned - out wreck worked by prostitutes but in the 1950 s rebuilt as a stately white - and - red palace — and it teased me with its apparent nearness . Still , I had far to go , past a derelict border post , and through three miles of snaking bike paths , before I crossed the Danube again and was in the heart of Bratislava ’ s old town , all cobblestones and tile roofs and sidewalk cafes . After checking into the Hotel Kyjev — a 1970 s tower turned budget boutique — I checked myself out : I wasn ’ t sore , out of breath or even tired . I did have blisters on my feet , but they were easily treated : puncture , drain , clean , bandage . My ankles , however , were terribly swollen , the peroneal tendons in particular , a result ( I think ) of how my body mechanics had altered with the weight on my back . I popped some ibuprofren , took a shower , then hobbled outside for dinner . It was the Friday during Passover , and like any wandering Jew , I wanted a Sabbath meal . And thanks to Chabad , the Hasidic Jewish outreach organization , I got one , at the home of the transplanted American rabbi Baruch Myers . He was only too willing to share his food ( cucumber salad , gefilte fish ) , his friendship and his family , including a battalion of adorable children who cheerily walked me through the Passover story . It wasn ’ t just this heartfelt welcome that got to me ; it was the very existence of a Jewish community in Bratislava . Back in his day , Mr . Leigh Fermor wrote , the Jews “ were numerous enough to give a pronounced character to the town . ” No longer . The Holocaust had reduced the Jewish population to , in Rabbi Myers ’ s estimate , 1 , 000 people . There was a synagogue , a few kosher restaurants , a Jewish museum and even a pension , but few visitors today would see in Bratislava a Jewish - inflected city . On Saturday , partly inspired by the rabbi and partly because of my feet , I rested and contemplated the future . I had walked 40 miles so far , and if my ankles were any indication , there was no way I ’ d make the remaining 140 . Unless . .. If I took a train a short way — say , 15 miles northeast — I could certainly walk another 10 miles . I ’ d be breaking my rules , but those rules were arbitrary . And so I caught an 8 - euro taxi to the central station , paid 1 . 18 euros for a ticket and boarded a train that took its time trundling through Bratislava ’ s outskirts . Frankly , I was glad I hadn ’ t had to walk through the urban sprawl , and when I arrived in Senec , a summer resort town on a lake , I ate a magnificent lunch of pork terrine , leg of lamb , roasted potatoes and white wine for 9 euros at the Hotel Koliba ’ s rustic restaurant . Then it was time to get walking . The windswept shores of Slnecne Lake turned into a lonely road next to a graffitied fence bounding farmland , and then that turned into Reca , a village so small I have no memory of it . All I remember is being buffeted by gusts from across the plains , and then crossing a tiny stream into Velky Grob , a village of neat postwar homes with tiled facades and backyard grapevines . It was late afternoon , and my ankles were screaming . The map I had saved on my iPhone put the next town 15 miles farther east . I needed to rest — but where ? As I marched down the sidewalk , I spotted a man and woman about my age , walking their little dog . In my best Slovak , I asked , “ Where is a campground ? ” They stared at me , confounded , then the woman — Katarina Synakova , I would later learn — said in English , “ Where are you from ? ” Fifteen minutes later , I was sitting across a kitchen table from Katarina ’ s grandfather , drinking his homemade white wine and eating confections that Katarina ’ s sister - in - law had just baked . Katarina ’ s cousins joined us . Both spoke English ; one was studying in Trieste and had brought her Lebanese boyfriend home for Easter . Soon the kitchen was a riot of English , Italian , Slovak and Hungarian , with French , German and Arabic thrown in . I went to sleep early — partly to give the family some privacy . In the morning , Katarina ’ s father gave me a flask of 1978 - vintage brandy , and I walked into the chilly rain . From Velky Grob , I marched 15 miles down trash - strewn roads and across desolate farmland , my shoes caked with mud , arriving in Sered , a gray town I instantly hated . It was Easter Monday , and everything in Sered and the entire country , it seemed , was closed except for one cafe , where a customer drove me two miles to an open pension . Why ? An American had helped him find a hotel in Rio de Janeiro , and now he could return the kindness . The next day , the pension ’ s owner gave me a lift a few miles to Strkovec , an estate where Mr . Leigh Fermor had stayed with Baron Philip Schey , one of his books ’ most colorful characters . Now it was a home for developmentally disabled adults , and the director welcomed me into her office , phoned her university - student daughter to come translate , showed me the grounds and fed me lunch . She even offered me a bed for the night , but I declined : I needed to walk — it was becoming a compulsion . Though walking hurt , it was also easy . Left foot , right foot , left foot , right foot . The weight of the pack disappeared , and the next two hours took me down the highway , past a weather - worn shrine , along a wooded river , then to a train that rolled 23 miles south to Nove Zamky , where a firefighter strolling the willow - shaded riverbanks with his children escorted me to the Hotel Korzo and apologized for not putting me up . Why , I often thought as I walked , would anyone do this ? I got a partial answer the next day when , after I ’ d taken a train 20 miles south from Nove Zamky to Gbelce , the landscape changed . Gone was the flat tedium . Instead , unbusy roads swerved gently up and around low hills studded with fruit trees yet to blossom . After two hours of walking , I rested near mud flats where waterfowl lurked , then walked two more hours , through the town of Kamenny Most , to Nana , a suburban town where I bought homemade red wine and three speckled apples that gave me enough energy to walk one more hour down to the Danube and over a bridge into Esztergom . At last , I had reached Hungary , and Budapest lay just 40 miles away . Two days ’ walk , if my ankles didn ’ t rebel . First , however , I had to tear myself away from Esztergom , the most beautiful town since Vienna . The town ’ s monumental basilica , its copper - green dome encircled by pillars , was everywhere visible from its hilltop perch — “ dramatic , mysterious , as improbable as a mirage , ” Mr . Leigh Fermor wrote — and its beauty trickled down into the ocher walls , red roofs and pink flowering trees of the city . I needed a full day to soak in the atmosphere ( and to rest ) before I felt ready to leave . When I set off down the riverside biking path that morning , I had an aching suspicion that the day ’ s walk — 15 miles to Visegrad — might be my last . My ankles were swollen but not too painful , and throughout the morning I enjoyed the scenery : the small mountains through which the Danube snaked before turning due south . But after three hours , I noticed , my ankles had become lightning rods of agony . I arrived in Visegrad in midafternoon and pitched my tent ( for the first time ) at a roadside campground , knowing that tomorrow , after visiting Visegrad ’ s mountaintop castle , where Hungary ’ s royal crown had once been sheltered , I ’ d board a bus for Budapest . And so my stroll came to a premature end . For 90 minutes the next afternoon , I rode along with a few dozen other commuters to Budapest , grateful that I hadn ’ t had to walk through the suburban doldrums and looking forward to enjoying the fruits of urban civilization ( coffee , art , mass transit ) . Was I disappointed I hadn ’ t walked the whole way ? Not really . I ’ d covered 110 miles on foot , and seen things no bus or train traveler could have . One memory stood out : Across the water from a Hungarian town called Szob , I had stopped for lunch . A thick tree near the bank had a crook just my size , and nestled within it I picnicked on radishes , spicy sausage , challah and the homemade wine from Nana . I watched the river . A barge ferried a truck over , then returned bearing cars and cyclists . The warm sun filtered through the leaves . I swigged more wine and , exactly as Mr . Leigh Fermor once had , “ I lay deep in one of those protracted moments of rapture which scatter this journey like asterisks . ” But then the compulsion took hold . I eased out of the tree and hurried off across fallow farmland . It was almost 3 o ’ clock , I had miles ahead of me , and I didn ’ t want to be late . IF YOU GO GETTING THERE Because of a tight schedule , I flew into Vienna and out of Budapest , which might cost more than simple round - trip fares from Kennedy Airport to Vienna ( which , according to a recent Web search , started at about $ 1 , 000 with one stop and about $ 1 , 500 nonstop in mid - June ) . A one - way train trip back to Vienna from Budapest starts at 19 euros , or about $ 24 at $ 1 . 25 to the euro , via OBB , the Austrian railways ( oebb . at ) . PLANNING Figuring out Patrick Leigh Fermor ’ s route was a challenge : the maps of Austria , Slovakia and Hungary have changed a lot since the 1930 s , and the names of some places have changed completely . But to my surprise Google Maps knew history . For example , when I searched for Kobolkut , where Mr . Leigh Fermor spent a night in 1934 , it turned up the Slovakian town of Gbelce . Still , when I arrived in Vienna , I bought a detailed map ( 9 . 95 euros ) at Freytag & Berndt ( Kohlmarkt 9 ; 43 - 1 - 5338 - 6850 ; freytagberndt . at ) , then left it on a rock the second day of my journey . Honestly , I didn ’ t miss it . To access Google Maps , I used my iPhone , and to avoid roaming charges , I loaded a day ’ s route when I had Wi - Fi and zoomed in to every step . The phone would cache the data for use when I no longer had Wi - Fi . SLEEPING In cities , I stayed in hotels : in Vienna , the sunny , cozy Hotel and Pension Arpi ( Kochgasse 15 / 9 ; 43 - 1 - 405 - 0033 ; hotelarpi . com ) ; in Bratislava , Slovakia , the Hotel Kyjev ( Rajska 2 ; 421 - 259 - 64 - 22 - 13 ; hotelkyjev . com ) ; in Nove Zamky , Slovakia , the Hotel Korzo ( Rakocziho 12 ; 421 - 35 - 6408 - 932 ; www . hotelkorzonz . sk ) ; and in Budapest , the jazzy Cotton House Hotel ( Jokai utca 26 ; 36 - 1 - 354 - 2600 ; cottonhouse . hu ) . Most good - size towns have at least one affordable pension . Near Sered , I stayed at the clean and modern Mlyn ( Dolna Streda 211 ; 421 - 31 - 7893 - 095 ; penzionmlyn . sk ) , and in Esztergom , Hungary , I had a huge room at Alabardos Panzio ( 49 Bajcsy - Zsilinszky Street ; 36 - 33 - 312 - 640 ; alabardospanzio . hu ) . Often , I wished I ’ d left my tent and sleeping bag at home , but they helped in two ways : If I really needed ( or wanted ) , I could camp , and carrying the tent made me appear self - sufficient . Many of my hosts might not have been so spontaneously generous had I not looked prepared to go it alone . When I did finally pitch my tent , it was at a campground connected to the Hotel Honti in Visegrad , Hungary ( 36 - 26 - 398 - 120 ; ohm . hotelhonti . hu ) . EATING AND DRINKING Whenever possible , I bought bread , sausage , cheese , fruit and wine from local markets , but I did sit down on occasion at the following places : Cafe Alt Wien ( Bäckerstrasse 9 ; 43 - 1 5125222 ) in Vienna . Cafe Bendl ( Landesgerichtsstrasse 6 ; 43 - 6 - 766263682 ; bendl . wordpress . com ) in Vienna . Verne Cafe ( Hviezdoslavovo nam ; 18 , 421 - 2 - 54430514 ) in Bratislava . Hotel Koliba ( 421 - 2 - 2020 - 0101 ; hotelkoliba . sk ) in Senec , Slovakia . Koleves , ( Dob utca 26 ; 36 - 6 - 20 - 213 - 5999 ; koleves . com ) in Budapest . Alexandra Bookhouse ( 39 Andrassy utca ; 36 - 1 48 - 48 - 000 ) in Budapest . SIGHTS When I wasn ’ t walking , I actually managed to see a few things along the way : Kaisergruft ( Tegetthoffstrasse 2 ; kaisergruft . at ) , Habsburg burial sites in Vienna . Admission 5 euros . International Esperanto Museum ( Palais Mollard , Herrengasse 9 ; 43 - 1 - 534 - 10 - 730 ; onb . ac . at / esperantomuseum ) in Vienna . Admission 3 euros . Galeria Umenia ( Bjornsonova 3226 / 1 ; 421 - 35 - 640 - 8440 - 1 - 2 ; galerianz . sk ) , an art gallery in Nove Zamky . Admission 1 . 32 euros . Hungarian National Gallery ( Buda Palace ; 36 - 20 - 4397 - 325 , www . mng . hu ) in Budapest . Admission : 900 Hungarian forints , or $ 4 . 25 at 211 forints to the dollar . MATT GROSS writes the Frugal Traveler blog , which appears every Wednesday at nytimes . com / frugaltraveler .