changing odds

we thought to leave at 6.15.
we thought to leave at 7.00.
we thought to leave at 8.30 (which would not have worked: no bus).
we thought to leave at 10.xx.

but the x's were both zero—so when we arrived at the autobus station, it was a minute before the hour. the ticket woman told me just to go go go, and buy them en route, from the driver. however, the petty criminal guarding the wicket (not that kind) to where the buses swerve and the clamorers hoist themselves on board, failed to see it that way. in track 'n' field retrospect, i ought to have hurdled, but instead i ran (ran: it is for precisely this type of activity that i no longer do so in the mornings) back to the original woman and paraphrased the dilemma, only to discover that her ticket machine was broken (probably the reason she had shuffled me off in the first place; an unfortunate bit of knowledge, since i could have rested quietly in my momentary respite from misanthropy, under the alternate conclusion). by the time i made it to another (in the adjacent, differently doorwayed, building), that bus was no longer for sale, having been purchased for target practise—ahem—and having just screeched beneath the chain-gated entrance.

moment of uncharacteristic self-awareness: i hate being forced to rearrange travel plans for a later time. really. a lot.

with no choice, however, other than to take the 11.30 bus, we had loads of time to walk around deserted Beograd in writhing anger (which, upon further consideration, could have been a severe liability when confined to two seats in a crowded bus). that is to say: half of us did so, while the other half was busily observing the architecture, signage, and populace like a normal human being.

arrived at the border slightly before, and in the mountains just at dusk. the road ahead and below shone like a dark river, with snowy banks and wheeled boats. these villages i almost know, have seen through changes of season.

when Best Favourite awoke, we were making the final descent to Sarajevo from Pale (duplosyllabic former capital of Republika Srpska: the signs on the road heading east from Sarajevo read, arrowed and distanced, with nothing between: Pale. Beograd). the windows were fogged and dripping but, clearing them with a forearm, we reached an agreement: to hop off the bus along the roadside somewhere within the city limits if it stopped (so as to save the time of going to the Srpsko Sarajevo station, at the far west outskirts, only to return to the city "by another route"—so as to know that this [awesomnity] was possible). i heard the brakes, and thought i recognised the stretch of road. without pausing to be absolutely certain, i was off the bus; it's at moments like these wherein Best Favourite's immediate followage is greatly to his credit because, though mistakes are made (trains going in the wrong direction, roads only known in imagination), there are errors that would be much much worse if one involved party lagged behind the perfectly certain other.

picking our way through the slush on the side of Ulica Mladih Muslimana (Street of Young—yeh...), had only to find a way to cut down the hillside into the city. without a wrong turn—and with elation of a highly disproportionate degree—found the river and, walking along it, Randy and Amela's apartment. within a few moments, we even had a key thereto: the result of another dubious logistical plan, involving sending an SMS at the last possible moment before the border crossing/identity change, hoping it was received and that Nataša would be free at 20.00.

we thought to scavenge for food.
we thought to rig up a set of speakers.
we thought to decide, finally, on the matter of Bob and Judy.
we thought to sleep beneath mountains and the last muezzin call.

(and 3 for 4 is better than 0 for the same.)