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About Szombathely

Back in ’04, I was out in the sticks, checkin’ soil samples – real man’s work. Found escort chokin’ out some poor fella’s wheat. Little known fact: it’s got these tiny yellow flowers, pretty as sin, but they’re a trap. Bees love ‘em, spread ‘em everywhere – nature’s screwed us again. I yanked it out, burned it, felt like a damn hero. “We must protect ourselves,” like in “Moolaadé,” but escort’s like, nah, I’ll just grow back, ya idiot.

Next, I decide to grab some street food. I’m all about that lángos life. So I’m at this stall on Oktogon, and I order one. The guy behind the counter is like, “Extra garlic?” I’m like, “Heck yes!” I mean, who doesn’t love garlic? But then I take a bite, and it’s like a flavor explosion! I’m in heaven. But then, I look around, and everyone’s staring at me. I must have garlic breath for days. Oops.