I apologize for all my past rants with regard to “toward” vs. “towards.”

And I’ll even go a step further. As my misguided attempt at prescription called out my American English dialect, I might even start obeying my dictionary and use words like “color” and “specialize.”

Yes. Maybe.

It's midnight in George Bush Intercontinental Airport. Sam just returned from his fruitless search for food and has settled to watching YouTube lambastings of Dragon's Lair. Eight more hours until we board Continental Flight #1024 destined for la Ciudad de México.

We've slipped in to the dark night of the soul.

The plan is to overland southbound until the Darién Gap, learn Spanish, and— finally— cross into South America.

I'm giving up the Internet. So, don't waste any time sending me your address for a postcard!

I'll finish the travel blog. Later. From my journals.

It’s been a while since Vienna. Even longer since New Zealand. And, it will be even a while more until the Darién Gap.

I missed you.

This mixtape is a kind of love letter. After coming home, my most important task became reconnecting with my friends. Each of these songs hit rotation because I was enjoying them with someone.

Sadly, due to a hard drive crash, there was one very important track that went missing...<lj-embed id="2"/>

It was night when I finally arrived to Podgorica.

The SIM card that the Vodafone representative in Istanbul promised would work in Serbia and Montenegro didn&#x2019;t. So, I had been out of contact with Mira until one of the Grandmothers in the train loaned me her mobile. Not a smart idea for a random guy arriving in an unknown city.

Fortunately, ProMonte is on top of things and has Tourist SIMs for sale at every kiosk. I rang Mira in short order. She picked up (yay!), was with her boyfriend (yay!) and would pick me up in a half-hour or so (yay!).

I was totally unprepared for the grade of hospitality that I was about to be given.

My cabin-mates were a group of four Grandmothers and one surly looking young man. I sat in the line of fire of a social interaction that transcends cultures: a gossip circle. But, as my position became more awkward, I &#x201C;relented&#x201D; and offered to swap spots with adjacent lady in the window seat.

I&#x2019;m so gracious.

Of course, now I was a legitimate conversation topic and target. My Serbian was non-existent at this point, but one of the women spoke a few words of English. Between hand signs, small words, and my woeful but rapidly expanding phrasebook, we exchanged stories. The ladies were all returning from visiting their respective families. And, the woman who spoke some English had learned it to teach her son, who was now living abroad and doing well for himself&#x2014; in part&#x2014; thanks to her early tutoring.

Eventually, I stopped being interesting, and we resumed our former activities. The Grandmothers chatting over their knitwork. The surly young man and I watching the countryside descend into breathtaking mountain passes.

I alternated between dozing and counting tunnels. On their walls were white Charlie Brown zig-zag patterns. The base of the waves were inset cubbies I decided were for emergencies.

The Grandmothers were clearly veteran riders. Every couple hours, they would reach into their bags or stowed luggage to produce sandwiches. The first time, I took this as a reminder to munch on my own dwindling leftovers. But, I was surprised in short order by a proffered meal!

For the remainder of the trip, I was forcibly stuffed like a pi&#xF1;ata. My adopted family had decided I was too helpless to be left to fend for myself. And, after bidding farewell to each woman at her stop, the last and I disembarked and hugged partings at Podgorica.