my walk to the market and the post office

I just sipped on perhaps the most delicious cappuccino... in the world.  I was strolling through the neighborhood (after buying a box of Bravil Color "washing powder" at the local market, and miraculously purchasing stamps at the Posta after some extensive communication in a bizarre form of improv sign language... I was nearly pressed against the glass that separated us--myself and a kind, patient yet eager, magenta-ish short-haired Magyar woman--breathing fog circles and planting finger prints... pointing and shaking my head, smiling, frowning, wrinkling my eyebrows, saying "stamps for America," igen (yes), nem (no), waving my hands, cocking my head like a confused puppy, repeating "stamps for America," and did I mention I was breathing fog circles?) when I walked past (I apologize for that long-winded parenthesis pause) a little place that had a huge yellow sign shouting GYROS!  My tummy was rumbling just a bit, so I figured I would at least... check it out.  Well, turns out they have far more than just gyros.  They have pizza, eggs, sandwiches, pancakes, AND... espresso.  Could this be it?  The European Espresso Experience that I have been waiting for?

Yes.  Yes, it was.

Manasi, my roommate also from the UA, was with me.  We both agreed to give it a shot.  The espresso was only 210 forint... just more than $1 US.  I had a 200 forint bill on me, and scavenged through the zipper pouch of my wallet for change.  2 forint cent... 2 forint cent... 1 forint cent... 1 forint cent... 1 forint cent... "It's ok!" the friendly woman said, then continuing conversation in Magyar.  I smiled and said... "Koszonom (Thank you very much)."

The best cappuccino in the world pooled itself inside a small, wide, espresso-appropriate cut atop a little saucer where I lay a small packet which I thought was sugar but was actually a toothpick.  Well, hah, this cappuccino did not need any packet of sugar.  The best cappuccino in the world had a small blob of whipped cream bobbing in the coffee with sprinkled... chocolate? Cinnamon?  Some obscure seasoning that made this cappuccino the best cappuccino in the world?  I stirred it together with my spoon.

I sipped.

Mmmmmmmmm.

I sipped.

Mmmmmmmmm.

These "mmmmmmmmm's" were vocalized, hymning through my pursed lips, a sound of satisfaction coming from deep within me. 

And I sipped.

Mmmmmmmmm.

"Oh my god," Manasi gasped, "this is amazing."

"Mmmhhmmmmm," I agreed.

It was not hot, but warm.  It soothed my scratched throat (from coughing).  It was roasted, not burnt.  It was sweet, but how to describe this sweetness?  How do I describe the way the whipped cream dissolved into the coffee?  To become, yes... the best cappuccino in the world?

Manasi and I sat in silence, sipping our cappuccinos, and mmmmmmmm-ing.  We sat at a high counter, at the window, looking out onto the street.  When our cups were empty, I wasn't even sad.  It was just the right amount.

We thanked the woman who had just made us the best cappuccino in the world.  "It was VERY GOOD!" Manasi said, giving a thumbs-up.  I smiled and waved my hand slightly in agreement.

I walked onto the street and towards the intersection with that instant-gratification which espresso provides. 

And I saw the Purple Old Lady!

I saw her a couple days ago, at a bus stop where I was going to the city center.  She is an old lady.  And I mean wrinkly, probably deaf and blind, skinny, tiny, protruding witch-like jaw, and no teeth old lady.  She wears all purple.  A long purple cloak, a long purple scarf (striped with light purple against dark purple), a purple hat, AND LARGE PURPLE GLASSES.  The old lady kind of glasses that only old ladies wear.  Huge, circular magnifying glass lenses with a thick purple frame.  She looked like this two days ago, and looked like this again today. 

I really want to take a picture of her.

So, I decided, I must learn a few things in Magyar. "Can I take a picture of you?"  And, if she is offended, then, "Please?  I am from America, and, you are so cute."  Perhaps after that she would pose for me.  I doubt she would smile, but if she did, well, that would be awesome.  I am sure I will see her again.  Someone like her must walk around just to be seen... because, after all, she is the Purple Old Lady.