While in the village of Ibeju-Lekki (Nigeria) doing some outreach work, I stumbled upon the scene below of two little boys scuffling in a school yard that took me right back to my own less-than-stellar childhood fights. After assessing that it was nothing more than friendly wrestling similar to puppies or kittens, I picked up my camera and started snapping…

Until they noticed me snapping away and instantly turned into model kids once more…

Cryptic Magyar text etched on aging brown walls and modern signposts guide us down stony narrow paths that snake through Belváros in Pesti. We meander in search of dinner, following sweet-smelling Viennese pastries, salty cheese-laden aromas of baking pizzas, and whiffs of slow grilled Kebab meats down dark alleys. Dining choices seem endless even at this near witching hour as one scent distracts us from the next with luring hints of spices.

Seated at candlelit windows, others dine with minds made up yet we press on, still certain we will find the epitome of late night chow. We stroll along the river, the Danube herself now a still dark mirror reflecting sparkling lights of the Buda district high above us.

Now one scent remains distinct; a mixture of chili and basil. We gravitate towards a dimly-lit Thai restaurant, pushing open glass double doors to the chiming of bells. Rows of chairs upholstered with plush velvet seats and dark mahogany wooden tables stand empty, save for one table. Seated around it are six men dressed in casual attire. They talk technology with a mix of American, British, and Australian accents over plates of half-eaten fried rice and stir-fries.

We make our way to the counter where an older Thai man in his fifties chats on the phone.

“Hellosztok!” another voice greeting us in Hungarian emerges from behind the counter and we crane over to find its source. Within a split second, she’s standing at my side and peering up at us through dark eyes. The mix of Anglo-Saxon accents negotiating business becomes muffled background noise.

“Where you from?” she demands before an order attempt. “Sweden,” my husband answers.

Nigeria by way of America, I reply.

“Ha! I live in New York, you know” she switches into American English tinted with a Thai accent. “I spend a month here every year.” While we process her information about living in New York, she continues. “I am Sue! How did you two meet?” Before we answer, she inquires about our order for the night.

She scribbles down cursive Thai symbols and passes the note over to the engaged man. He disappears into the backroom.

For sixteen years her family has run this place, Sue tells us, through tight-fisted communist regimes to present-day parliamentary ruling. Theirs was among the pioneering set of ethnic restaurants now dotting Budapest. Permanently living in Budapest didn’t seem an option to Sue. This freedom she had, to roam the world and move seamlessly between cultures, was something she held on to for dear life.

Barely ten minutes later, the man returns with two oil-stained brown paper bags. He hands them over without a word and continues back to his spot by the phone.

Sue walks us to the door and before we leave, I turn to her.

“Köszönöm szépen,” I attempt a thank-you, my delivery inelegant. She lets out a high-pitched laugh.

“Pleeease!” she says, placing her hand on my back. “16 years and I still can’t speak Hungarian.”

This post has been entered into the Grantourismo and HomeAway Holiday-Rentals travel blogging competition.

Currently typing aboard a classic wooden sailboat called La Vela anchored within open waters in the Red Sea. I’m traveling around Egypt this week to often more remote desert locations so internet access will be limited.

The photograph above is of our Bedouin drivers sitting atop a 2,000 year old well out in the middle of the desert….way out in the middle of nowhere.