The flight from Vienna to Washington was a bit long, but other than that the trip went well. Looked after my mother, as we said our last to my father. Relatives, old friends of the family were around and pious and caring. There was excellent food and heavy wines and much poetry. A lot of poetry. Scratch a Hungarian and he bleeds poetry. Their revolutions always begin at the foot of a poet’s statute! Give them half a chance and they recite from memory, and do it well. Reading poetry is good for any occasion, and it is always done in perfect pitch. The Hungarians, by the way, are better off and happier than ever, the change in their disposition and habits since the old regime is palpable, entirely to their advantage. Gone is the bleak and dour predeliction you found under the tyranny; there is, rather, a visible charm and energy that is heartening to one who wishes them well. The habits of commerce and citizenship have been established. Walking around, save for the language and some architectual oddities it is almost impossible to tell if you are in Austria, Spain, or the land of the Magyars. This is not to say that their politics are simply just and reasonable and moderate (socialists are in power at the moment, for example) but it does mean that fear and oppression and the greyness of life is in the past, and buried.