All morning, I could hear the sound of shovels scraping the snow off the pavements in the street below, but whenever I look out of the window, fresh snowfall has already filled in the gaps. Traffic sounds are muffled and the tram bell at Oktogon sounds like a sick alarm clock. The sky is white and cold like a slab of marble, and the snowfall is constant, with occasional supplements as it gusts off the rooves. Roofs. Hmm.
I wrapped up and put on my clumpiest shoes, and walked along grinning from ear to ear, because I’m enjoying this cold, wet phenomenon immensely. It makes me brave enough to go into shops with my pidgin hungarian, and buy things like bandages (the current one is getting a bit grubby). I raised some money through a combination of exchanging my emergency sterling, and collecting all the 20 forint pieces that were lying around the flat. What I particularly enjoyed on this marvellously snowy day, was knowing enough to get by. I don’t know the word for bandage, but I can point to it and say I would like something like this, please (in hungarian, obviously); and I understand when I’m being asked if I want anything else, and if I have any smaller notes, and snatches of overheard conversation, like the girl in Rossman’s telling the dog outside that it was pretty. It wasn’t pretty, it was a dog, but I only claim to understand the words, not what goes on inside their heads.