If you come from Paris to Budapest, you think you are in Moscow;
If you go from Moscow to Budapest, you think you are in Paris.
-Gyorgy Ligeti
Albert’s salon.
36 tulips in our bedroom.
“Heidi” chocolate from Romania.
Szechenyi baths on a summer’s day.
Doner kebab on the Oktogon.
Fat-bellied ping-pong in the park.
Hungarian stews.
Lemon basil sorbet.
Alexandra’s ceiling.
Toby the dog.
Public photo paranoia.
Cute state-subsidy babies.
Toby the dog likes strawberries.
Hipsters in the ghetto.
Ruin bars.
Bed bug party-hostels.
Drunken British bachelor parties.
Chinese discount-store duffle bag.
Piano pyrotechnics dazzle at Liszt Institute.
There are no rules; just make it gold.
Surprising local wines.
Sour cream.
Facades worthy of an empire.
Italians, Russians, Americans, Koreans.
Dog shit.
Graffiti upgrades the neighborhood.
Ancient Andrassy subway.
Soviets, just here to help.
More sour cream, please.
Hip barbers–no ladies.
“Don’t take my picture”.
Alcoholics unanimous.
Cute dogs.
Old Commies.
Street food.
Queen of Spades amazes.
The Hungarian Radio Orchestra.
Transcendental Liszt.
92 steps up to Albert’s.
Brooklyn on the Danube.
Pigeons.
Dogs off leash.
Mazel Tov tapas.
Robotic car park.
Urine.
Cool sunglasses.
District 8 discovered.
Day trips rejected.
Rooster testicle goulash.
Sunday lunch post-concert at Menza.
Beet risotto, where have you been?
Soaring architecture.
Gellert baths on a winter’s day.
It feels like where I come from.
All photos taken on iPhone6S+
Click on any pic to ride the photo carousel:
