Budapest

Is there anything more mundane at home, yet utterly fascinating in another world, as grocery shopping? Who knew there were so many different ways to label something as simple as butter, or that are a thousand varieties of Lays; the juxtaposition of local delicacies crammed in tins next to universal comforts like Hershey's. The tiny corner store in Budapest offering a moment of solace after an unpleasant morning - we awoke to a knock at the door, Amy explaining that in the night someone had stolen all their valuables. Phones, credit cards, laptops disappeared. The traveller's worst nightmare (and a bit of a wake up call for me; I'm usually fairly lax about personal security). I offered to go find breakfast while the others called the banks and filed insurance claims, and Matt and I set off. After loading up on croissants and quiches at a packed French cafe, we crossed the street to a small shop intending to buy a bottle or two of juice. 

I could have spent hours combing the shelves, guessing as to what pickled vegetable hid in jars marked in Hungarian text. Or trying every flavour of crisps and chips ranging from the sweet to savoury to just plain odd. The apples were unusually large and there were probably as many bars of Milka as you could find in Switzerland. 

 Our trip to Budapest meant that we ate at some of the best restaurants in the city, breakfasted at the Jewish cafes, toured the markets and sampled the local delicacies. But next time I go back, I'll have to spend a bit more time in the grocery shops, a bag prepared for each arm.