Wet in Hungary, new in Slovenia

Honoring Tarkovsky, bless a link or two with your visit.

We’ve begun anew. Reborn I say, having gone straight through the Hungarian birthing canal, all slippery and wet, warm and slimy at times. What a rebirthing it has been. We call it the Hungarian silence, the deep night of soundless time, where movement is soft and slow and wet. Oh yes, so very very wet Hungary has been; lily pad wet in Heviz, salty radioactive wet in Zalakaros, weeping, ripping-hair-out wet in Nagikanisza. Oh dear Lord, never make me go back to the Nagasaki mall to shop again. I don’t think I could bear it. So Hungary is behind us like a strong tail wind that moves us forward towards the West, that wind filled with warm sulfur that crystalizes the air into elemental feeding for lungs and pores. It is on that wind that the swallows flutter about in crazy circles. Eating on the wing they say these swallows do. Tiny little things to go so fast at 50 – 60 km per hour. Where are their mothers?

Fueling up.

Well anyway, we’ve left Hungary behind us with its Hungarian beer that I must admit I never even tasted. I’m not the courageous one after all. F tried many strange things while I dispaired at not understanding a thing on the labels. After all, how can that label with a bull’s head just be beer? I mean couldn’t it have some other ingredient that would put hair on my chest and push horns out of my scalp? No chance baby. I stuck to the Austrian beer, the real stuff. And now, in Slovenia we’re almost at home. Food is real good. The air distinctly missing that sulfur smell.  It is good to come to Slovenia through Hungary. Everything changes tint that way. You see it through the eyes emptied by a week in the Hungarian countryside, the eyes lonely.


About wilhelminatunnels

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