Take a Shower and Shine Your Shoes

The past few days, Budapest has been experiencing the withdrawal of the San Fran weather, replaced by a depressing drizzle/rain.

I spent the last three days inside for the most part, lulled into a warm cocoon of pathetic fallacy. Today I ventured out into the gray mist solely for the sake of staving off cabin fever, and the sadness that enveloped me from the week's events. I spent an hour and a half at California Coffee, nursing a hot chocolate and reading Only in America by Matt Frei (he recounts his experience of working as a BBC correspondent in DC under the Bush administration -- pretty entertaining, check it out). I could see the Bazilika through the window, and part of the Latin written above the neo-classical facade: "Ego Sum Via Veritas et Vita." "I am the Way, the Truth, and the Life." John 14:6.

When I was in San Francisco with Anna and Jackie, I would annoy them to no end by insisting on going into churches, spending at least twenty minutes in each one, walking around the perimeter, especially the sanctuary itself. Grace Cathedral particularly caught my breath. A peace filled the entire space, with the light coming through the wide, graceful windows, the creaking of feet on the wooden floorboards, the lingering smell of incense or perhaps old wood. The only time I felt this way was at the top of a waterfall in the Appalachians of Vermont. I still don't know how to define my idea of religion, or even the existence of God, but I know that if ever an edifice existed that could boast to be a House of God, this was it.

Today, hearing the bells of the six o'clock mass, I was seized by the desire to find that feeling again, to be surrounded by the peace that comes with believing in something greater than one's self. I walked into the church and stood at the back next to the "Tourist! Stop!" sign. Alongside me was a couple with their infant child, who looked like I felt, his face crumpled into a tearful grimace. The gray light poured down from the dome, clashing with the warmth of the candles, the red marble, and the gilded details. At the front, men who dedicated their lives to God were waving incense, and a woman knelt down by me, crossing herself. In spite of the large space, the mass felt intimate. I felt like a ragamuffin pressing up my nose against the frosted glass of a family's house. Chimney, snow, roast turkey, and all. I didn't belong, but at the same time, I felt myself included.

I shuffled out of the church after a few minutes (the sermon was in Hungarian, after all), and returned home.

For the first time in my life, I feel that I am truly pushing myself beyond my emotional comfort zone; beyond being scared shitless, I also know that I am making good, honest decisions. The future is, as always, obscure, but I have a head on my shoulders and the love of the best of friends to help me.