It was late autumn, 04 Sept 2017. Cold enough to see your breath, but not yet snowing. The air smelled like roasted chestnuts. The buildings looked worn, almost tired, but proud. There was something unpolished about it  and I liked that. It didn’t try to impress. It just existed, quietly, confidently.

On my first tram ride (Tram Line #2 is my favorite!), I stared out the window like a wide-eyed tourist, then quickly looked down at my phone to not seem lost. I was. But in the best possible way.

It’s not always the grand moments. Sometimes it’s just a cheap coffee and a quiet bench.

I started building small routines. Morning walks across 

, where the rising sun reflected off the Danube like liquid gold. Afternoon study sessions at 

, where I’d pretend to read while secretly people-watching. Night trips to the nearest Aldi, SPAR or Tesco, where I’d buy 3 kg or rice packag and awkwardly say “köszönöm” with the wrong intonation.

 that became my escape spot. I’d go there after long days, sit in silence, and just breathe. No notifications. No noise. Just me, the city, and time slowing down.

It’s not just where you are — it’s who you share it with.

I met people who were nothing like me — and yet somehow felt familiar. A Pakistani roommate who made the best chicken biryani. A Hungarian classmate who taught me the word “szia” means both hello and goodbye. A professor who quoted Eastern European poets like they were pop lyrics.

We had dinners where languages overlapped and laughter filled the gaps. We had midnight talks about home, purpose, and whether it was okay to feel homesick and lucky at the same time.

Those connections weren’t transactional. They were real. And they made the city feel less like a backdrop, and more like a home.

What the City Taught Me Without Saying a Word

Budapest taught me that independence isn’t about proving you can do everything alone. It’s about being comfortable when you’re not in control.

I learned how to sit with silence. How to enjoy slow Sundays. How to romanticize everyday things, buying halal meat, cooking my own breakfast, walking to class, hanging laundry by the window. It was the first time I wasn’t rushing. And in that stillness, I got to meet myself.

The city didn’t fix me. But it held me, challenged me, and helped me grow into someone softer, sharper, and more whole.

Why It Still Feels Like Home Even After I Left

You don’t need a plane ticket to revisit a memory.

I eventually packed my bags and moved on. Back to reality. Back to deadlines and meetings and bigger responsibilities. But every once in a while, a smell or a sound or a photo brings me back.

Sometimes it’s the scent of paprika in my kitchen. Or the view of a river that isn’t the Danube but almost feels like it. Or just the way autumn light hits the floor and for a split second, I’m there again.

There are places you visit. And there are places that live in you.

Budapest wasn’t just a city I lived in. It’s a city that still lives in me.

Szia Hungary #1: A Place Where I Left Half of My Heart

Not as a student. Not with a suitcase full of books. Just as someone who needed closure.

In Spring 2018, I finally went. Not as a graduate student with a Dutch residence permit, but as a tourist with a warm coat and a backpack. I remember getting off the train in Leiden and taking a deep breath. The air felt different. Not colder. Just… heavy. With memory, with longing. The city was quiet, calm, beautiful in that understated way Dutch cities often are. But to me, it was more than that. It was a version of myself I never got to be.

A street with a certain name that I couldn’t ignore.

The street was why I came. “Sjahrirstraat.” I had searched for it out of curiosity, after my Mom told me about it. And now I was here. I didn’t expect it to be grand or special. And it wasn’t. Just a quiet residential street. But I stood there anyway. And smiled. I took a photo. Just like I had imagined, but different. I wasn’t holding books. I wasn’t running late to class. I was just someone trying to finish a story I had once written in my head. And somehow, being there was enough.

Not every ending needs a title. Sometimes “I went” is closure enough.

I think about it often. How I never got to study in Leiden. How that version of me didn’t happen. But I also think about how lucky I was to still go. To still stand in that city. To still say, “I made it here.” Life doesn’t always say yes. Sometimes it just says, “Not like that.” And that’s okay. Because not all dreams are meant to be fulfilled the way we expect. Sometimes, showing up even for five minutes on a quiet street is the most meaningful kind of success.

Tags in Europe

Szia Hungary #1: A Place Where I Left Half of My Heart

Van Oranje #1: When the Dream Changed Its Shape, but Not Its Meaning