The sun has almost not risen in Palma when we left for Budapest. The Hungarians, when traveling by air, have two habits you should know. They queue up for the gate upon arrival even if two hours are missing for the flight and even if the stewardess repeats several times that there is still much time until boarding, as was the case today. The other peculiarity is to burst into loud applause and cheering as the flight touches down, as if the pilot had made a dangerous acrobatic feat rather than a simple landing.

Before arriving at the Hungarian home I saw a touching picture under the veil of the late June rain improperly covering Budapest. It was like returning to childhood, but to a childhood lived in another site. In my home Palma they also used to put on the door the empty siphon bottles to be changed for full ones. But this was long, long time ago, when there were still guards roaming the streets at night, and I went to school in shorts all year round.

In our deepest inner happiness is called Budapest.

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