“Hypothetically, if I had my baton what do you think they would do?” I asked one of my classmates.

 

I went to Budapest as part of an immersive learning class at Ball State University. Nine students, including myself, got to spend spring break in Hungary exploring the city and countryside.

 

It wasn’t really a hypothetical question; my baton really was in my bag. I had been walking by myself last night and, well, it was creepy.

 

But walking into the Hungarian Parliament building wasn’t the best time to remember there was a weapon in my bag. I took a bit of comfort in the fact that its picture wasn’t up next to knives and baseball bats on the list of weapons you couldn’t take in.

 

Batons, or as I like to call it my collapsible tire iron, are legal in the United States. Indiana has no laws prohibiting citizens from carrying one for self-defense, so I do. It’s not something I think about anymore. On the Ball State campus, I had a half-hour walk home between midnight and 1 in the morning through a dark neighborhood last year, and it was terrifying. So I bought a baton and carry it with me when I know I’ll be walking alone.

 

Bottom line, when I walk alone at night, I like to have my baton. For whatever reason, I thought it was smart to bring it to Budapest, Hungary, with me.

 

However, I got to find out firsthand just how different weapon laws are in Hungary.

 

“There is metal in your bag,” the guard said to my classmate Jack.

 

“It’s just camera lenses,” Jack said.

 

“That’s my bag,” I said pulling out the baton. I was honestly convinced the worst that would happen was they would confiscate it until the end of the tour.

 

The first guard regarded the collapsed weapon with confusion and handed it to his partner. They debated back and fourth for a few moments, ignoring me as I tried to show them how to open it. Before long, he figured out how to open it. I should have known by the look on his face that I was in more trouble than I had thought.

 

“You can’t have this here,” the guard said.

 

“Can I have it back at the end of the tour?” I asked.

 

"You can’t have this here,” the guard said again.

 

“Can you mail it to me?” I asked.

 

It took a while for me to understand “here” didn’t mean Parliament, it meant Hungary. Batons are illegal in Hungary. Since coming home, I’ve learned that batons are illegal throughout most of Europe.

 

“Can you just throw it away?” I asked.

 

“We have to call the police,” another guard said.

 

The police, wonderful, I’ve never even gotten a parking ticket. What if I get arrested or deported? What if, what if, what if? A never-ending stream of questions flew through my brain, but I couldn’t ask them mostly because I don’t speak Hungarian but partly because the Parliament guards didn’t know the answers.

 

The tour was starting, and I couldn’t go with my classmates. One of my classmates, Yorgo Douramacos, stayed with me, and we watched the rest of the class climb the stairs as they followed the tour guide.

 

The wait was the most interesting wait I’ve ever had. I spent half the time terrified that I would be deported and kicked out of my class. Oddly enough, jail time never really crossed my mind.

 

After about 10 minutes, it became obvious I was in no real trouble. Guards from different parts of Parliament would come in to see my baton. The guard who first figured out how to open it became an instant celebrity and would jump at the chance to show his colleagues how the new weapon worked.

 

They never did quite understand that they are not supposed to close the baton by slamming it into your hand. It had to hurt. Batons are meant to be closed by slamming them into the ground.

 

At one point, when I was worried about being deported again, two guards came in and picked up the baton. They stayed on the other side of security where there was a bit of an open area. One flipped it open and played at stabbing his friend in the stomach. His friend grabbed the baton from him trying not to laugh.

 

Yorgo and I smiled and laughed quietly.

 

“I wish I could video this,” Yorgo said.

 

“Right! I keep wanting to interview people,” I said. Not only for a story I knew I would write, but I seriously wanted to know what was going to happen to me.

 

“We have to call the sergeant,” a guard informed Yorgo. “They are unsure of the rules.”

 

“OK,” Yorgo and I said in unison.

 

Apparently it’s not every day people try to take banned weapons into a government building.

 

“Whose is it?” the guard asked.

 

“It’s mine,” I said.

 

“Yours?” the guard asked. I got a look I would come to know very well over the next 20 minutes. One that said, “It belongs to a little girl?”

 

I got that look from every guard that walked in after it was explained to them that the weapon belonged to the little girl standing off to the side, not Yorgo who stands more than 6 feet tall.

 

A translator from Parliament floated in and out. He made sure we were OK and had a vague idea of what was going on. Yorgo had done most of the talking and then explained things to me.

 

Two officers arrived, one with brown hair and a beard and the other with blond hair. They both wore blue shirts and pants with neon yellow vests that said police on the back. They both wore red hats.

 

The phone calls had gone up the chain past the sergeant, and at one point, they had considered just mailing my baton back to me.

 

The translator was back, and the officer asked for things such as my mother’s maiden name, my birthday and place of birth, country of residence and, of course, if batons were legal in the states.

 

Only one of the officers spoke English. The blond officer would smile and shake his head when I tried to ask him questions.

 

***

 

I was escorted out of Parliament, not in handcuffs, but with me between two officers. They said Yorgo wasn’t allowed in the police car with me, but he was told he could walk to the station, which was only a few blocks away. We passed my professor, Sheryl Swingley, and her friend, Natasha, who lives in Hungary. Sheryl, Natasha and Yorgo followed us to the police car, where they were given directions to the police station.

 

Natasha, who speaks Russian, English and Hungarian, offered to be my translator so she was allowed to ride in the police car with me.

 

Natasha sat in the front with the officer who spoke English, and I sat in the back with the blond officer who did not.

 

It was a quiet ride, and when we arrived at the police station, everyone got out. I looked around. No one told me to stay in the car so I tried the door handle. They had put on the child safety lock.

 

“No,” the blond officer said laughing. I think this was the point they both realized they were by no means dealing with a hardened criminal. Honestly, I’d never been in a police car before.

 

At the police station, Natasha and I were told we could sit in any of the chairs in the lobby. I watched a group of two police officers and what looked like two parents argue quietly while a woman my age sat on the bench on the other side of the lobby. I wanted to know what she did.

 

The blond officer who spoke no English was assigned to watch over me. You know, to make sure I didn’t run. He leaned against the wall filling out paperwork, giving Natasha and me the occasional glance.

 

I have never wished I spoke Hungarian more in my life. I wanted to question people, ask what they were doing, how to pronounce their names, simple stuff that would just be fun to know.

 

I had my camera with me, but pulling it out to randomly take photos in the middle of a police station didn’t seem like a great idea. So I watched.

 

When the blond officer finished his paperwork, he glanced at us and walked into the office where the other officer had disappeared. After about five minutes, he appeared in the door again and finished his conversation from there as if he was worried I would get up and walk out.

 

He brought the paperwork back and had me sign it. Natasha told me it was the police report documenting what had happened in Parliament.

 

A few moments later, the brown haired officer came out of an office with the last piece of paper work.

 

“Sign here please,” he said handing me a pen.

 

“What does it say?” I asked as I leaned over to sign it on the hard surface of the chair next to me. All it said was that I had only been held in the station for 25 minutes, and the officers had not been mean to me.

 

As I was sighing, a female officer came out of the office and said something in Hungarian to my officers.

 

“Uh-oh,” the brown haired officer said.

 

“Uh-oh. What uh-oh?” I asked.

 

My stomach has never dropped so fast in my life. I thought they were about to let me leave.

 

“Not you,” The officer said smiling. They had just spent the last half hour laughing at me. It seemed only fair they get one more joke in before I left.

 

“Good, you had me worried,” I said.

 

After that, I got a copy of the paperwork they had filled out, and I was free to go.

 

Natasha and I walked down to the end of the block. She called me a cab and we waited.