It's 8am, and Christine Ann Hurd is awake.
I know.
I could really make the blog post just about the fact that this 20 year-old night-owl eccentric is up before it's acceptable to start drinking. But there's something more interesting than my Wildean sleep schedule going on at 8am on the streets of Budapest.
The only store open on the street is a small flower stand attended by an old woman who looks as if her face fell in love with the word 'persnickety.' She potters and putzes, flaying water on daffodils with the satisfyingly onomato-poetic 'KER-CHUNK' of a plastic spritzer.
I think to myself, 'What a Wonderful World!' Look at this intrepid business person going about her entreprenuerial ablutions. Actually, I just kind of grunt as I walk past--hopefully it sounded approving.
As I returned from a long day of sowing my research-writing seed, the same woman was there. At 2am. At this point, I briefly contemplate that there's some type of Godfather operation going on:
"Meet at the Flower Shop. The passcode is Black-Eyed Joey."
"Nah, man. I thought it was Forget-me-not-Fink."
"Nah, that was last week's."
But apparently this is A Thing in Budapest. Obviously, when I awake at 4am to take care of some pre-morning ablutions, I DEMAND SOME FLOWERS. They are obviously something that needs to be within a two-minute walk of any building. You might get the whim to propose, or perhaps you need to attend a wake, or even you might be starring in a stage production of Beauty and the Beast, and by God, you need an ever-fading rose.
So, if you're in this Danube-sliced city, buy yourself a bouquet. Right now. You have no excuse. Literally. None. Go.