It’s sunny in Budapest, and the forecast for Tunisia is still grey. We have to fill most of the day before heading to the airport. I packed our case and he complained it was too heavy, as he does every single time, ever. I reassessed it; the heaviest item in it is his washbag, but I take out a few bits and pieces and he seems happy.
We wandered round a shopping centre, then stopped at a cafe on the körüt for beer/coffee. I stared at the passersby, wishing myself elsewhere, and he moaned about stuff, like people smoking nearby. I wondered how he would react if I told him now. If he would take it calmly, because he has to, because we have to spend the week together; or if I should continue for the next seven days to keep this distance between us, keep calm, and feel my stomach knotting up inside from impatience and anxiety, wanting the days to hurry past, so I can get on with my life.
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Well let’s see. The flight was okay, I cheered up a bit when they gave us food. My book is very depressing and that doesn’t help, except that it makes me seem very fortunate by comparison. It’s a holocaust tale, of a fourteen year old hungarian jew, and his description of Auschwitz is just chilling in its naivete.
I hate package tours. Every time I find myself on one, I swear that it is the last. At least this one is all in hungarian, which might make it more interesting. And at least the Tunisians speak french, so I don’t have to battle with an unfamiliar language after all. I might even enjoy that part, I like speaking french, I like the ease with which I can speak it. It reassures me after my completely hopeless attempt to learn hungarian.
I feel quite down, very irritable. I want to tell him, I want to get it over with, because I just can’t bear pretending. I want him to know.