This is one hell of a central park; the island is a big buzzy green refuge in the middle of the Danube. A constant parade of joggers make use of the thin red rubbery path that circles the shore of the island, the path itself dotted with benches designed with one plank to precariously sit on, presumably to deter the people sleeping on them anyway.
Two techniques seem to work, both requiring a large bag as stabilizer. Off the end, head back and knees sideways. I take notes, just in case I ever need to sleep here. Islands are easy to defend from landlubbers.
A man plays violin in the woods behind me, just far enough away from the roar of the arteries on the far bank to provide his half of the perfect soundtrack, half classical pieces I should know were it not for my ignorance, half the sound of the city. That half, I do know. In a city, something’s always on fire, someone needs an ambulance, or the police have to rush to get somewhere, sirens the wailing top note, people’s conversation, shouts, laughter providing the middle, and the roar of machines - trams, cars and buses filling out the bottom. But wait, he has competition. Is that an orchestra playing just over there? Don’t be silly. It’s the old synchronised fountain ejaculating triumphantly to music trick. At least something round here is a teeny but Balkan. I was getting worried.