One goes on. And quite often, although not invariably the case, that one turns out to be me.
Let no one think that they've gotten an iota beyond Vladmir and Estragon. There are just different types of turnips to be sought and found.
Eavesdropping on Gershwin in St. Petersburg. The monoculture can be a bit surreal at times. It took me a bit at the Christmas fairs in the Balkans to realize that people weren't hearing the American carols and popular song as I was. They stand for something else in their minds. The distant ideal.
My motto for this peregrination -- Ovid's "Heu, quam vicina est ultima terra mihi." Written in the Balkans, incidentally. Sorrowful letters in exile.