One rainy evening in early October 2007, on a winding residential street in Budapest, Hungary, I got lost. I pulled out my notebook, squinting at the greying street signs as I tried to decipher something about my location. “Utca,” I mumbled, looking at the hastily written glossary I had begun building the day before: “Alma=apple. Gyorgy=health. Ut=street.” So “utca” must mean lane or little street.
I was illiterate, surrounded on all sides by new construction, hastily built stucco a…
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If you tell the truth you don’t have to remember anything. – Mark Twain
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