Uncle Pista is right

He steps out from his worn-down little block that dates back a century or two. And with the same effort he adds a bit of his cig smoke to the urban air you wouldn't call clear anyhow. Along with him runs out his little poodle and lets out a little puddle right there on the sidewalk. As they cross the road the pet pumps out some dump, too.

Another elderly gentleman is riding his bicycle against me, but he steers away before we'd collide. I hear foreigners talking as I pass a doorway to what I guess is a kindergarten or a school. What strikes me is that their language sounds Arabic while this part of the city is right by the Jewish quarter. As a matter of fact we don't have that many Arabs here in Hungary... Anyhow I don't want to be rude, so decide not to turn and stare.

On my way further down on this long long street I see an old woman barely able to cross the little distance from the other side and relieved she enters the drugstore. Probably right from the doctor.

I'm turning out on the avenue. The little kiosk where there used to be a flower shop not so long ago, stands there empty with its windows smashed in. They turned the big clothing department on the corner into yet another pub. What we've been witnessing on the outskirts for a few years, has now started to happen here, too,

This half an hour walk makes me understand how much I'm still longing back to where once we lived for a short while, and what seems to disintegrate and turn into something else. Like everything else. Anywhere else.