Wine Importing in the Time of Covid: Part Two

Part Two

It is no secret that August is the worst month of the year in the wine business.  The big distributors don't even waste their breath - they close shop for the entire month.  Tourists are scarce, and New Yorkers flee to the Hamptons, the Jersey Shore, upstate, Budapest - basically anywhere but here.  

So you can imagine my surprise when August 2020 started to unfold as one of my best months ever.  Part of it was the new wine I was finally able to afford.  The March container arrived in June, with several of our well-priced favorites that I hardly needed to show around town to sell.  I had also blown through a line of excitingly-labeled natural wines that were not cheap; several shops bought them without even tasting them.  It was an honor that they trusted my judgment, perhaps, but I think they mostly just bought them because they looked cool.  Such a practice felt consistent with the greater collective 2020 ethos that perception was literally all that mattered.  I tried not to get too cynical; as long as consumers got an authentic, high-quality product, I need not worry about the whys or hows.  

As the busy month wore on, I realized I was running out of wine - and I still wasn't sure what wines I wanted for the fall.  Restaurants remained closed, and retailers were looking for decently-priced, well-labeled bottles that they could sell on price point and/or looks.  I decided it might be time to book a trip to Hungary.  Was it possible to finagle a trip, risks and all?

The Hungarian Consulate in New York gave me good news -- Americans were currently permitted to travel to Hungary, subject to a 14-day quarantine or two Covid tests upon arrival.  But, the attache told me over the phone, you need to go as soon as possible.  There was not a fixed date for when the border would close, but there had been whisperings. It was coming soon.  So we booked tickets for two weeks later, departing on August 30, for a 3-1/2 week stay in Hungary.

She was right; the border closed on September 1.  We landed in Budapest on Sunday night, about 28 hours before the doors would shut indefinitely.  The airport police waited until everyone else disembarked before addressing us.  We were the only Americans on the plane.  Countries had been divided into three categories in terms of Covid-transmission risk: green, yellow and red.  Green countries were members of the European Union; yellow countries were "moderately risky" countries, including Canada, Ukraine, Serbia, Russia, China, and, inexplicably, the high-risk United States; and a red designation characterized everywhere else.  Red country residents were outright prohibited, and green residents were welcome with no checks; the yellows were the ones that created some chaos at the border.  There were a few people from other "yellow" countries besides us, but they had managed to acquire two Covid tests, at least two days apart, within five days of their arrival in Hungary.  Hearing of wait times up to three weeks in New York, we didn't even try for that.  We figured we'd opt for the more expensive and annoying option of doing our testing in Hungary, and quarantining until we received our results.

I didn't address the airport policewoman in Hungarian, thinking I might benefit from their reticence (or inability) to speak English.  But then I heard the second guard approach, asking what was going on.  "They're from America," she told the new guard.

"But why are they here?" she asked impatiently.  Her demeanor made me nervous; this new guard, nametagged Hajnalka, seemed like she meant business.  I intervened in Hungarian, telling them that I'm a wine importer specializing in Hungarian wine, which I assumed they would like.  "I'm here for business, to meet winemakers and taste new wines," I said.

"Ahh," said Hajnalka, shoving the nice colleague as she elbowed her way towards me.  A tall meathead guard also wandered over, his still-pubescent face spotted with whiteheads.  

"So do you import upscale wines like Bock?” the woman asked.  

"Sort of like that," I responded.

"Tokaji?" asked the meathead. 

"Yes, Tokaj" I said, smiling.

"Villányi?"

"Boglár?"

"Borakori?"  

Although I had never heard of Borakori and was quite sure it didn't exist, I kept on nodding.  "Wines like these, you could say," I replied, nervously eyeing my passport in Hajnalka's hands.  

"Well, you speak a lovely Hungarian," she said, filling in my details.  

"Thank you," I said.  "I studied here about ten years ago."

"Where did you study?"

"CEU."

"Ohhhhhh, C-E-U!" The young meathead was fired up.  He shot the female guard a glance.  I knew telling them my alma mater might cause some drama; the Government had forced the school to close in 2018.  It had been founded in 1991 as Central Europe’s premiere institute of independent higher learning by Orbán's number one enemy of the state, George Soros.

"You know that it's closed now," said Hajnalka, turning to me.

"I know." I was trying to impart an innocent neutrality.

She waited a beat before diving into what she really wanted to know.

"You like Trump?" she asked.

"No."

She was legitimately stunned.  "Really?  Why not?  You're DEMOCRATS?"

I nodded nervously, an awkward smile on my face. 

There was another pause.  "Well, that's not good for your business," she said, eyeing over my papers. 

I didn't reply and tried to impart what I hoped was a "let's agree to disagree" look of bemused skepticism, wondering when this would be over.  (I also briefly considered trying to explain the 25% tariff Trump's government had levied on most imported Hungarian products last fall, but I let it go.) 

Soon thereafter they let us through.  She gave us our paperwork along with two threatening-looking red sticker placards for the door.  "DO NOT ENTER - QUARANTINE!" was written in urgent lettering.  The meathead snapped last-minute photos of our passports on his iPhone. I still wonder where those photos ended up.  

She pointed at my boyfriend Alex.

"And what will your partner do, since he speaks no Hungarian?  Just sit there, silently?" 

I glanced back at Alex, blissfully ignorant to this exchange - although he had made out the word Trump, and was no doubt excited to hear what that was all about.

"I suppose so?" I said.  "But you know, a lot of people speak English, even at the wineries."

"Hmm.  So, silent."  She nodded deeply, looking into my eyes.  She paused as if to think, shook her head and let us through.  She wished us a good trip without irony.

We were in.