It rolls onto the embankment at 18:47 sharp, as if the sun itself schedules the sunset around its timetable. Yellow like fresh paprika straight from the sack at the Central Market.
In the first car: a grandma with Matyó embroidery in her bag and a ticket she punches with her teeth (hands full of chimney cakes for the grandkids).
In the second: a tourist from Tokyo snapping the Danube, but someone’s selfie stick keeps photobombing. In the third: me, with Tokaj jazz in my ears even though Ed Sheeran is actually playing.
The tram dings like it’s laughing at traffic. Under the Chain Bridge it slows—not out of courtesy, but so the stone lions can wink. Parliament in the water looks like a giant gothic cake, and you want to shout, “Who ordered neo-Gothic with extra frosting?!”
At the Gellért Hill curve the car sways, and every passenger grabs the rail at once—our silent Hungarian dance, no music, perfect rhythm.
The conductor—moustache like a hussar—hands out a ticket and winks: “Következő megálló: a legszebb kilátás a világon.” (Next stop: the most beautiful view in the world.)
He’s not lying.
P.S. When you step off at the last stop, don’t forget: the yellow tram leaves, but it trails the scent of hot lángos and a promise to return. Tomorrow. 18:47.
“Yellow Express #2”
© AI photo generator, 2025