I am in Serbia now.  One more day in Sofia was a good decision.  I visited the National Art Gallery and the Sofia City Art Gallery which I liked very much.  There was a very good video installation by Nadezhda Oleg Lyahova.

This morning.  I waited for the train very anxiously.  The moment I avoided yesterday finally came.  My departure from Sofia was not unwelcome, I was eager to go.  The exitement of getting on the train and on my way to Serbia was almost uncomfortable.  I guess it was easyer to stay one more day in Sofia with this haunting feeling.

Extracts from my diary with adapted tenses:

11:30

I sat on the floor at Platform 5 of Sofia Central Station.  All platforms were empty, almost empty.  Strange sight for a central station.  The few people around waited in silence for their train to arrive.  There was a calmness in the air, but not in me. Or maybe it was a calmness which I was not acquainted with.

14:50

I sat in my booth on the way to Nis with no idea how much time remained.  Just as the train departed from Sofia two railway workers in blue suits and hats came in my booth pretending they were customs, and I pretended not to speak any language but spanish.  They just wanted to take some money from me, but I didn’t let them.  The probably make a few coins from stupid Westerners.  But I am not stupid, and can hardly consider myself a Westerner (notice the capital W).

Later on, the border crossing took it’s time.  I was asked for my passport by 6 different people, all with different outfits.  One of them repeated himself for some reason I will never understand.  Some of these people were policemen.  They were searching for drugs in the train so they put appart every piece of it.  The roofs, the walls, the toilet, the seats and my luggage.  One of them asked me if I’d seen someone hidding something somewhere.  When I told him I didn’t he looked surprised.

The truth is, that earlier a Serbian guy came to my booth, introduced himself and asked if I wanted to smoke some marihuana.  I said no and he sat down to smoke.  We talked loosely and he told me he had a ‘cigarette business’ in Nis.  I guess he meant a kiosk.  I asked what he had gone to Sofia for and he said business.  I guess that he had ‘not just your regular corner shop’.  The ink in the tatoo on his right arm was fainted.  His right arm was scared and his hands seemed like the product of hard manual labour.  We talked some more and when it came to Argentina he was able to relate it to good marihuana, maradona (notice the small m) and good cocaine.  Then he said Istambul was a big city like Buenos Aires and with great cocaine.  After his joint he shook my hand and said it had been a pleasurable meeting.  I never saw him again.