Post-Aletta Blues 1: Rachel’s pie.
Several times in my life I felt history close down on me like a black shroud. This happened last month in Budapest. Before the opening of a feminist conference in that city I walk around its Jewish quarter. It is an eerie, almost deserted, dilapidated neighbourhood which once must have been teeming with life, kosher restaurants and coffee houses, workshops, ateliers and thousands of people going around their daily lives.
