Yes, that’s just another car here in Hungary. Or, is it? Actually, there’s a richer, more complex story here. If you’re a bit of a car buff, you might recognize this as a Russian-built Lada from the late 1970s or early ’80s. If you look closely, you’ll notice little bits of grass growing through the cobble stones around the car. It hasn’t been moved all the time we’ve lived here. I know that because it rests across the street from the #74 bus stop we frequent. It’s always there with its quiet, but happy, disposition.

You see, an elderly man, who lives on this block in Budapest, regularly comes down here and cares for his car, as if it was an old friend he meets at an agreed upon time on the same park bench. He methodically opens and closes the doors, checks inside the car, removes and then replaces a towel that covers the steering wheel and finally, he checks his trunk. Then as a manner of closure, he stands back a few meters and surmises the situation as if to say, “Everything seems fine with you today. You’re in good stead. I’ll soon be on my way.” It’s a fascinating ritual I watch from the bus stop. But the car itself never moves. I imagine this old Russian car occupies an important place in this man’s life. Does he have a partner, I wonder? Does he have other friends? A family perhaps? He does have this car, no doubt, a dutiful friend. And he has me watching and wondering from a bus stop across the street.