Going home – coming home?

A too-many-times repeated truth: good times do not necessarily make good tales.

Last weekend I went sailing on the lake with my friends. Does it not explain all? The sun, the swimming, the complete calm so far from the city, as well as the fun and the good company? I mean, I flew home for those two days.

Which were three; and, beyond the sailing, were enough to go home, enjoy the nightbus service in Budapest - including the show offered by fellow passengers -, arrive as if I'd been gone but for two days, get used to 35 degrees (now that wasn't any difficult), go to the dodgem with my sister and four-year-old nephew, greet my grandma on her 85th birthday, help harvesting the sour cherries (there weren't any raspberrie, thoughs) and get confused because going directly to the airport from my grandma's house in Agárd really does not feel right.

I lost count of the number of times when I let slip that "on Monday I'm going home", so –

I'm home now, still ground-sick*, and – what a surprise – it's raining. Cats and dogs, or almost.

Bruxelles, how I hate thee.


* that's the inverse of seasickness: feeling as the ground waves under your feet after you get off the boat.

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