Waiting...

14 hours until my first flight.

I'm packed, re-packed, checked, re-checked, and re-checked again.

To quote an old song from an illustrious unknown band, I feel right now like I'm being eaten by butterflies... and I know my nerves are walking...

Might stare at a Kusturica movie until bedtime, see if I can pay attention to anything.

This is the cusp of all I've been working towards for the past year.  New journeys, new writings, new people to meet, new stage to perform upon, new chapter to begin.  This is my analepsis from the illness of the previous few years.  I am ready.  Last May I said to the Universe at large, alright I've had enough, what else can you show me? and this is what has been presented:
A (now only) 44-day excursion through a land that has produced far more history than it could consume and I've been hungry for quite some time.  I'm more than willing to clean up a few table scraps.

In the next five days I'll be in or pass through four countries, including the first stop in a sequence of namesakes: Bela Crkva.  A soon-to-be-met-in-person acquaintance in Serbia has already nicknamed me to his friends: Crkva [that is, Sirk-wha, in simplest form].

These butterflies will settle down once I'm on the plane to Heathrow.  And I'll have all but forgotten them when I grab my backpack in the Budapest airport and begin the ground campaign.

I suspect I'll post here again on Wednesday or Thursday.




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