She catches my eye, the old beggar woman. There are beggars everywhere of course. Beggars on the streets of Prague, in the parks of Paris, in the metro stations of Barcelona. But in Budapest they seem to carry a particular sadness. Like the young women cradling her son, a paper cup next to her dress, her stare distant and forlorn.
The old Hungarian women, or maybe she is from Russia or Poland, is hunched over, almost as though bowing at the passersby who walk past without so much as a glance. Her wrinkled face is half hidden under the traditional blue and white patterned scarf she wears over her head and tied under her chin. She is tucked into a big brown jacket. Behind her the two story tall polished windows show suits with price tags in the thousands. There she stands, in front of Hugo Boss, her small hand outstretched.
Maybe she is someone's grandma.
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