BrunoParis

Our story began one year ago, the yellow streetcar moves slowly through the milky, overheated fog of this late summer afternoon. The traffic flows under the heatwave, scattering and spreading into the thousand corners of Budapest. The city stalls and children besiege the ice-cream vendors. The car passes in the distance, turns onto the main boulevards, skirts an avenue and emerges on the Elisabeth Bridge. Suspended in the void, acrobatic as the years and water pass by, the monument crosses the river in a majestic span, reestablishing the age-old link between the bourgeois city of Pest and the royal hills of Buda. A hydrofoil passes under the bridge, arriving from Vienna wrapped in a silver cocoon, billions of water droplets glistening in the overheated air, from which the Danube seagulls emerge, twirling.

The yellow streetcar moves slowly through the milky, overheated fog of this late summer afternoon. The traffic flows under the heatwave, scattering and spreading into the thousand corners of Budapest. The city stalls and children besiege the ice-cream vendors. The car passes in the distance, turns onto the main boulevards, skirts an avenue and emerges on the Elisabeth Bridge.

Suspended in the void, acrobatic as the years and water pass by, the monument crosses the river in a majestic span, reestablishing the age-old link between the bourgeois city of Pest and the royal hills of Buda. A hydrofoil passes under the bridge, arriving from Vienna wrapped in a silver cocoon, billions of water droplets glistening in the overheated air,