Today, thankfully, looked like a calm day. No tall tusked accountants demanding receipts for crimes committed in parallel tax years. No bass-world where everyone communicates by techno music. Just a civilized plan: breakfast at the Ibis, yes, even after yesterday’s heroic overeating, then coffee, possibly coffees, lemonade, possibly lemonades, more food at Kava z Molokom, then Svit Kavy, then Kredens, because apparently my mission today was to prove that one man can become a walking café loyalty program. And while I sit here pretending this is a normal day, let me tell you about my roaming issues. I have many Earth SIM cards, collected through practical necessity and suspicious border decisions, and one of them is Bulgarian.
I began the morning at the Ibis breakfast buffet in Lviv with the kind of discipline normally associated with collapsing empires.
I am writing this from a laptop balanced on a table that is alive, mildly offended, and trying to crawl toward a sunny patch on the floor.
One of the more common complaints I receive, both from friends and from readers, is that I tend to disappear.
Back in Lviv.
I was sent to Lutsk for the weekend because, according to Clovis, there was “minor temporal leakage around a major medieval structure.”
Friday morning found me doing something extremely dangerous.
People keep imagining “first contact with a newly opened Earth” as sleek silver corridors, dramatic diplomatic speeches, me in some sort of fitted tactical coat looking mysterious against a sunset.
After my last post briefly mentioned the duck incident, many of you asked me to explain what actually happened, which is fair, because “duck incident” is not the kind of phrase a responsible organization should leave unexplained.