German train, maybe from Munich, slowed with a exasperated squeal into a dusty dark soot colored station labeled Budapest. I don’t remember if I paused but soon I was standing in a small room below high black boards watching a blur of yellow letters, listening to the click of unfamiliar cities. It was early night and I was struggling not to feel scared, or maybe struggling to scare myself into believing I was on a genuine adventure and not just a poorly planned vacation. What if no one was there when I arrived? Where was I going? I had never heard of Miskolc until one fateful night in Paris.

Summer of 92. Illuminated, two towers of Notre Dame stared with a cold face. I joined a leisurely flow of tourists at the far side of the plaza who milled along, absorbing shades of grey and green. My fatigue boredom and curiosity led me to pause when I noticed a man sitting an uncomfortable distance from a woman. Their body language was awkward, as if in a disagreement. I reached a hand down to feel the unmistakable rough chill of granite and then sat down no more than twenty meters from them. I was drawn to look beside me and saw the woman had a kind but empty, longing stare very unlike those you might find on a faithful gargoyle observing above. The man spoke broken English. Too far to make out the conversation, I still surmised they were strangers. He harassed her as she tried to enjoy a peaceful evening alone.