Musings from Budapest

In limbo waiting for unpredictable Barnabas who's putting on a spontaneous exhibition. Also documentary updates.

Recovering from a rare night of seven drinks across two Christmas parties. Survived a packed social week, connected with Fulbright scholars, and met someone who had Bullet's one-hitter.

Blissful after connecting my type of peeps at a human rights Christmas party. Despite language barriers, found my people—shared hugs, broken English, broken Hungarian, and that special bond with those impacted by the justice system.

Tag along as I become a reluctant cameraman at an art opening: visited the gallery solo, then awkwardly drafted into filming an increasingly intoxicated friend for his Facebook. Made my strategic escape when he went for another glass of wine.

Running weekend errands with stupid anxiety (mild). I've never bought my own Christmas tree. But there was this one time in the late 70s when we snagged one for free from a neighbor's field... Also successfully navigating Gabor's five-lock door to water plants while contemplating holiday traditions.

Airing out my flat in two-degree weather while marveling at Budapest's relative safety. Regularly leave my door unlocked (sometimes ajar) without any real concerns—a stark contrast to the world I left behind.

Day three in Hungarian bureaucracy: Nearly finished registering myself with tax authorities and social security. My accountant has been my savior through this maze of government offices. All fears of language barriers unfounded, but still cautious about celebrating too early.

Day two of my Hungarian bureaucracy marathon: bought a printer to end my endless print-shop pilgrimages. Breezed through the tax office in 15 minutes only to discover I need a separate "film director tax number." Racing against a December 13th deadline with my accountant as lifeline, sipping free coffee at Hungary's Best Buy while waiting for thgeir system to unfreeze.

Freaking out over Hungarian bureaucracy as I prep for my government portal registration. Cramming vocabulary and rehearsing yes/no questions to avoid language meltdowns with officials. My anxiety-management strategy? Obsessive preparation and note cards.

Chopping onions for gulyás while plotting my creative jailbreak. Ditch the middlemen. Why let some suit decide if my stories matter when I could build my own platform? Hollywood kept my podcast in development purgatory for two years while my novel crawls toward completion. In 2025, I'm going rogue—building direct connections with people who actually give a damn about what I create. Duck fat makes everything better, and so does creative independence.