Whenever I come to my parents’ house, they welcome me. The piles of dictionaries and grammar books have shown me the wonders of language. They will always remind me of my first unsure steps with Russian and Hungarian. The collections of Dostoevsky, Kundera and Murakami greet me like an old friend. The chic lit books made me laugh once upon a time, whereas all those books on politics, psychology, international relations, political philosophy, decision-making, corruption and social trust inspired a thought or two. The stories told by Kertész, Márai, Kis, Capek and Milosz take me to the world that always intrigued me - Central and Eastern Europe. Pushkin and Bulgakov, Turgenev and Chekhov stand next to Sokholov, Solzhenitsyn, Lukyanenko, Marinina and Mayakovsky. Some of them are translated, some of them are not. They all speak to one of my deepest loves – the one for Russian language and literature.
Greek food, pasta, salads, food from the Balkans. Slow food and enjoying life through the taste buds. Training bibles and positive thinking. Guide books. It is all there. All those books, all that knowledge. I love it.
Greek food, pasta, salads, food from the Balkans. Slow food and enjoying life through the taste buds. Training bibles and positive thinking. Guide books. It is all there. All those books, all that knowledge. I love it.
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