A long long time ago (well this is a rather disturbing way to start a
sentence, since it kind of implies I am ancient, which, related to the overall
age of the universe and such is of course utter nonsense), but, nevertheless, a
long long time ago I read one or two novels by Paulo Coelho with a certain
pleasure. Not a guilty one, mind you, I just simply found the Alchemist sort of
interesting in it’s slightly one track way.
And it can be applied to real life, no kidding, here is my alchemist’s tale
involving Darjeeling tea. Just last
month I was boring people who know me or by the result of some strange accident
happen to chance over my blog with how I cannot find proper Darjeeling tea
leaves in Budapest.
I actually thundered those lines down- well, okay, softly keyed them in,
since with the somewhat sad demise of typewriters you can’t really have a fit
of pure destructive rage over your keyboard anymore, in My Little Melbourne,
slurping my coffee while shouldering the pain of all existence and within it my
pointless miseries. Quite obviously, a few days later I happened to check a
shelf in a corner of the store I rarely look at, because it does not harbour
any elements relevant to my morning routine (meaning the pretzels aren’t there),
and indeed, there it was, Darjeeling, grown in the Himalayas and packed in
county Antrim.
So there it goes: what you’re looking for is right under your eyes. Except
when it isn’t, of course, and so as to be able to handle the mind bending
implications of these statements, here are some pretty shots of Budapest
inexorably hurtling towards winter.
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