Godspeed Bartók
Everything’s going to be okay. EGBOK.
That’s what I keep repeating while standing in the middle of my old apartment on Bartók Béla út, surrounded by boxes that used to be furniture and furniture that used to be dreams. The heart of the XI. district hums outside, trams sighing past the windows, the same sound that once told me I was home.
This was the place I built after the great reset, when everything I thought was permanent had dissolved. I moved in with very little except some courage and a playlist. I built it piece by piece. Designer furniture I’d always wanted but never dared to buy, the kind that makes guests go quiet for a second. A creative director friend painted one wall graphite so it instantly felt ten times cooler, like a small gallery no one had discovered yet. It became my fortress of taste and survival.
And I really did live there. With a three-year-old who’s now four, and whose laughter could fill a tram car. There were countless dinner parties and movie nights, half of which ended with sleeping on the sofa. There were dates, and hard conversations, and the hardest Christmas Eve I’ve ever had. And through it all, there was risotto. Perfect risotto. The best you’ve ever had, if you’d been lucky enough to be invited. No one knows risotto better than me.
That apartment saw everything. It saw my one-man digital product studio grow from an idea to something real. It saw the birth of this blog, late one night last December, when I decided writing was another way to rebuild. It saw friends who arrived with drills, paint, and laughter, each leaving a fingerprint on the walls.
Now I’m taking it all apart again. Moving is a strange kind of magic. Every piece of furniture that leaves the old space suddenly feels brand new, as if it was waiting its whole life for this. Even the coffee table looks surprised to be part of something new.
The new place is on a street named after a fruit, which already feels like good news. A good, happy fruit. The landlord signs messages with acronyms like EGBOK, which feels like destiny winking at me. The flat itself has Alpine light and Twin Peaks mood, all warm wood and hidden corners. There’s a funny neighbor lady who seems to exist purely to give the story texture. There are more rooms, more possibilities, and enough space for a four-year-old to build forts, and to learn new rules. The playgrounds are bigger in here.
And this time, it’s not just mine. The woman with very curly hair is here, and she makes everything glow. She has this effortless way of making a place feel like it’s already lived in. Her laugh travels through the rooms and rearranges the air. With her around, even chaos feels choreographed.
Moving is still chaos, though. You start with a plan and end up having a full emotional debate with the kithcen. But under all the clutter, something lovely is happening. Every box taped shut says thank you, and every one opened in the new place says hello.
Everything’s going to be okay. I can feel it.
Bartók Béla út will keep going on without me, humming its same familiar tune. Someone else will stand where I stood and wonder what to cook for dinner. Probably not risotto, but that’s fine. That kitchen’s earned its rest.
And I’ll be here, on a fruit-named street, unpacking a life that suddenly feels bigger. There’s love in the air, light in the windows, and the certain knowledge that everything really does have a meaning.
Godspeed, Bartók. You were my turning point. Now the next scene begins.
