Remorse

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Dear Budapest,

I owe you a confession. I wish you were someone else. Let me explain. We have an agreement, an understanding. Ours was not love at first sight, but not even at second or third. You stank. You oozed. Your street (my street!) was an endless sight of bird droppings, cans and cigarette packs thrown away. There were screamings, mad ones and sad ones and ones I couldn’t understand at the time.

But I had village mom had come from, Bélapátfalva. It was green, peaceful, full of people I knew and loved. The well-known smell of the old cabinets, the special taste of that specific tap-water. We had dogs, and geese and rabbits (wabbits, as I could’ve said!). And after a week, or a weekend on this Isle of Peace, I had to come back for the early mornings, the washing-up, the high buildings (I never liked it, you know that).

But then something happened. We started to leave less and less. Found a new apartment, a new school. There were constructions and renovations. We walked a lot in the downtown further and further towards the outer areas. And I liked it.

And now, after all these years I wish you were someone else. I wish you were someone else, because I am ashamed about not trusting you, and I feel your pity. You helped me on my first date, at my exams, to make an impression on my friends and to learn how to drive. You’ve been with me.

Thank you.

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