The Watchdog stepped out of the Budapest taxi and, while paying the fare, admired the bushy mustache of the driver. Pointing at the fellow’s mouth and then his own, the Watchdog smiled and declared “Great mustache!” He received an approving smile in return, and thus a kinship was established, what we might call the fraternity of the mustached.
Note we say “fraternity” rather than “siblingship,” not out of ignorance of correct political speak, but only because we have not yet encountered a female so benefited by upper lip follicles , the gender seemingly being disadvantaged in this regard.
Of course the Watchdog did not signal any disapproval of the driver being beardless. To do so might be misunderstood as suggesting a lesser degree of virility which in turn, if generalized, could be taken as a nationalist aspersion and evoke an international incident. No, better to let the bald face fact speak for itself!
Sitting on a third floor balcony overlooking Margaret Park situated in the middle of the Danube River which separates Pest from Buda, it is very pleasant to watch the children at play and young adults practicing sports and martial arts at afar. Other than being much less crowded, the surroundings could readily be mistaken for New York’s Central Park .
The weather is most pleasant, the sun is getting ready to set, and a draft beer, a salad and vegetarian pasta, all accompanied by Roma (Gypsy) music, await the Watchdog below.
It is good to be here, it is good to be alive, and it especially good to know that one fits in… if only in the fraternity of the mustached.
