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Feeling, strangely enough, at home

I’m in Budapest and I feel at home. Which is really strange, given that I’ve extirpated my roots and don’t feel at home absolutely anywhere, not even in my own house. I’ve only been here once, something like 20 years ago. I remember that it was the first time I got access to MTV (I remember watching Lenny Kravitz and Sinead O’Connor and a lot of Tears for Fears, instead of Cartoon Network or something similar). I used to stay at the Bulgarian embassy and to spend almost all day watching MTV and trying to break my neck, climbing the tree just outside on the street.
So why this sudden Hungarian well-being?
Is it because of the dirt? Two fingers of dust covering everything?
Is it because of the total improvisation in doing things? (nothing is ever fixed or rebuilt, everything is just repainted or covered with something else, like three layers of tiles on flat floors)
Is it because of the cuisine? Of this strange combination of oldness and newness, of inevitable youth and decadence, of bad taste and great freedom? Of my own river flowing? This is what I’ve seen:

Budapest, Szimpla

Budapest, Szimpla

What about Brahms

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Mi scopro con terrore nei connotati di queste persone

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