Monday, March 07, 2005


I cross my bridge. The border patrol knows about my function but has to check my passport anyway. When Bush was in the neighbourhood the Slovak guards even scanned it every time I passed. I told them they should send all the copies to Bush when he would be safe again in his White House. It would make a nice wallpaper. And he would like the fact they are taking all this effort for him.

It hasn’t become ordinary to walk the bridge. How could it ever be? Walking over this massive but elegant construction, the Danube flowing under my feet, Hungarian hills to the left and right and in the middle the impressive Esztergom basilica. The moment your left foot is already in Hungary while the right one is still in the Slovak Republic. The sound of wind and water and moaning iron.

I go left and walk along the bank. More than thirty swans accompany me for a while. It makes me feel like a heroine from an old Greek tale. The Danube wind is treacherous. The more photos I take, the less feeling I have in my fingers. I pass strange round buildings, presumably out of use border crossingpoints, no need to sneak over the border secretly any more. The grey shells in the sand grow bigger and bigger. The wind gets colder and colder. In the distance a big house in hanging in the air. I trie to reach it but the water bars my way. Might it be a fata morgana? Did my fingers freeze, am I hallucinating? I am on the other side now. Everything is possible.

When I walk back I’m being followed by sixty six hungry swans. Some of them proudly wear a yellow plastic necklace. At a nearby supermarket I buy a head of lettuce. When I cross the bridge again I throw it over the railing. The sound of swan wings is one of the most beautiful sounds I know.


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