After some enlightenment about Soviet nationalities policies in Tajikistan, I took a break and limped over to Széchenyi Bridge for some pictures to appease the tourist in me. And for Danielle, after promising photos and details for days (the latter forthcoming, I promise again). The sun was setting, the river calm, everything pink and peaceful and beautiful.
Per a thousand recommendations, I’m reading The Bridge on the Drina and entertaining a mild preoccupation with bridges. Luckily, Budapest humors me back. Each bridge, to boot, has a few stories (both real and mythical) to tell. Historical gossip will have you believe that their sculptor of the Széchenyi lions omitted to give them tongues and was ridiculed so much that he threw himself into the river.