[填空题]After I left Debrecen I walked for days and put up my tent at night. An old couple driving a horse and cart stopped and spoke to me. I tried out my broken Hungarian and they laughed. But it was obvious they were offering me a lift, so I got up on the cart, with my backpack and tent. They offered me some fiery apricot liqueur, home-made by the look of it. We drank it from the bottle.
The land was fiat. You could see forever. You could see as far as the future. At first we could still see the Hortobagy River, brown in the weak sunshine, and carpets of sunflowers. But then, as we jolted along a track in the cart, there was just the puszta—the dry Great Plain of Hungary. It’s where the Hungarians grow their wheat and catch their wild horses.
A Hungarian poet once said that the earth and the sky are one in the puszta. I understand what he means. As far as you can see in every direction, the sky comes down and touches the land. This dry yellow land is not beautiful in the usual