As my time in Budapest came to an end, I stopped searching for paper clips. In fact, the only reason to stop looking for them was that I knew exactly where they would be found: In the street where I lived, between the copy shop and the university. Quite obvious and obviously boring. My last night (not to be confused with the last night before Christmas…) brought me a last paper clip though, at Szimpla. I was brought to Szimpla by a chain of unfortunate events. First and most gravely, WestBalkan was closed again due to a mass panic two nights before, in which three people died.  Secondly, it was a Monday and therefore the only day Instant is closed. Thus we landed at Szimpla, which is not the worst thing that could have happened.

As ever so often in Budapest, I decided to have one drink only and be home around 1am. As ever so often in Budapest, whenever we said that, we stayed until closing time. As never so often in Budapest, I found a paperclip, on the floor in front of the cinema chairs we sat on. It is unimportant who was there, and how long everyone was there. I remember feeling a bit like in Garden State, I just sat and watched people coming, saying hi, and going, saying bye, for the last time. At some point we were four people remaining and were shoved out of the first floor by the big, big bouncer with the black jumper jacket. Downstairs, we re-settled on the very old, very dusty red velvet sofa across the post-office, where Tim and I were almost led to buying ridiculously expensive Szimpla-Postcards and stamps to have them sent to our own homes. Instead, we ordered a water pipe. The smoke mixed with the dust and it smelled like dried out fruit tea and we barely saw the cigarette-stained table. Pretending this wasn’t goodbye, we laughed and learned Finnish from Leila, and Leila learned curse words in German, but all I remember is takk, which is not even Finnish but Swedish (sorry Leila). Kippis means cheers and that is Finnish but I’ve known that before that night. My knowledge of Hungarian is still embarrassingly rudimentary, but when the big, big bouncer came around the corner again, we decided it was time to go, and he seemed to strongly agree with us.

As I arrived in my parents’ place in Italy, where I first found paperclips, I was disappointed with all the paperclips laying around everywhere. EVERYWHERE. I’m led to believe that the ones I found in Budapest’s bars were left there by Italians.  

I found a paperclip in the snow a few weeks ago, and have since puzzled how to tell its story. Unlike with all other clips, I know this one’s story, or at least the end of it. I found it in the snow, picked it up and turned to my brother and sister, who were with me. They smiled, and we knew what the story was. It will not get better by letting time pass by, so here it goes.

It all started with the unexpected death of my Opa shortly before Christmas. My sister and I had been driving down to Ingolstadt for the funeral; my brother flew in from the States. We were allowed to stay at my other grandma’s empty apartment, a big moment for siblings who rarely see each other more than once a year. Our parents were with our grieving Oma, and generally, my brother and I stood out very much with red shirts that we had thoughtlessly been wearing for the journey. The three of us took advantage of the apartment to find out about a possible birthday present and memories re-awaking for my grandma, and we ravaged through boxes and boxes of old photographs. On an old desk, in a room that we assume is empty most days of the year, everything remains as it has been for years – except that I took away the lamp a few years ago. As we were getting ready for the funeral with an old fur jacket, a black tie that belonged to my grandfather, who died 21 years ago, and…my brother’s belt that did not fit. In the end, we looked both adequate but splendid. Before leaving, Andy walked to the old desk and grabbed a rusty paper clip. He fastened his belt with it and we were ready to go.

The paperclip witnessed the funeral pass by, and the next thing we know is that it was lying on the snow near the cemetery’s exit. It must have fallen off when we left the grave and went back to the car. Opa’s car, that we had to push out of a heap of snow with six persons. We found it the next day, when Andy, Tanja and I decided to pay another visit to his grave and we found it covered in frozen flowers and snow, close to an open field and under a tree. In a small pile of snow, rusty, twisted, a memory.