Somewhere between Hungary and Japan (or, the update I meant to write last year)

The last time I posted an update—well over a year ago—I said I’d be sharing stories from Japan, where I hoped to shake off the post-pandemic malaise of middle age. That didn’t happen as planned. But I did spend a good part of the summer in Central Europe.

I did a lot of photography while I was there—including AURA, a conceptual photo-text work made from images I shot in Vienna and ideas I worked through while living quietly in Hungary, reading Walter Benjamin and thinking about how we see and remember art.

I began a deep dive into Hungarian music—from medieval to modern—which I’ve never quite surfaced from.

I looked at art spanning millennia. I toured churches and palaces. So many palaces.

One of the standout exhibitions was on Hungarian American photographers.

Another favorite was an exhibition on the Kádár house, a humble architectural form from Hungary’s communist past. I’m fascinated by how a simple cubic structure can carry so much history and weight.

Then again, there’s power in simplicity, like the Stolpersteine.

The Danube shoes were one of the most moving things I saw.

I ate many wonderful desserts—ischler and dobos were favorites. I’ve had both since at the Hungarian Pastry Shop in NYC. Not quite the same, but still great.

The ice cream? Walnut, hands down. Haven’t been able to find that in New York.

I spent an afternoon boating on Lake Balaton. That same day, our car broke down, and some incredibly kind Hungarians helped push it down the road until it finally roared back to life.

Another day, I hiked to the top of Ság Mountain. Riding home that night through fields of corn and sunflowers, perched in the back of the truck with the wind roaring through my hair, I felt, for a moment, like I was back on the farm in Georgia. So far away, in a place so foreign—and yet, a sudden, unexpected sense of home.

And every morning, I woke to the sound of Eurasian birds—collard doves, blackbirds, blackcaps—outside my window. I miss them dearly, for you don’t often wake to the sound of birds in Manhattan.

There’s no real point or through line to any of this—I just wanted to share a bit of that quiet, restorative time. A summer spent looking inward while exploring new places, sights, sounds, and tastes. It helped me grow and transition into a new phase—shaped less by answers than by a new kind of listening, where silence carried weight and change began to feel like something I could carry.

When I got home, I began putting the finishing touches on a project that had been in the works for quite a while. I’ll have more to share about that soon.

For now, it’s a new year. I finally made it to Japan for the winter, a year later than intended. And spring is already giving way to summer again. Stay tuned.