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.