Call me Lydia.  Some moons ago — on the eve of the Thirteenth day in May, the year Two Thousand and Nine — having little or no plans and nothing of particular interest to me on this side of the pond, I decided to set sail on the African Queen to a drizzly and damp part of the world.  Upon setting sail I once knew, that to London I was due. And in Venda my journey will end, wherein my summer I will spend.
– to the man who methodically knocks people’s hats off

My anxiety over this trip, mainly my project in Venda, had been building for months.  It’s been a long time coming, and while I wanted to get this show on the road, I had this nagging feeling that I was forgetting something.  The car ride to the airport confirmed my worries when five miles down the road I realized I had left my wallet on the kitchen counter.

Once on the road again, I took deep breaths, which I had been accustomed to doing as of late to prevent nervous breakdowns over every snafu.  While concentrating on my breathing pattern helped, my ADD inevitably ended up distracting my concentration causing my thoughts to wander back to various aspects of my research project.  So much for breathing meditations.

Anyway, in line at Dulles I ran into a familiar face, a student from UVA. I recognized him, Niaz, from Runk dining hall, where I had once borrowed salt and pepper shakers from his table.   He and I immediately became BFFs and got seats next to each other on the plane to London. We also made plans for a rendez-vous at Trafalgar Square upon our arrival. While waiting to board Niaz noticed the name tagged on our plane…African Queen.  It was a message from the gods, an omen, a sign of good things to come.

there she goes...

there she goes...