Perhaps, if we don't count road trips to Crimea, I have never traveled anywhere as long as I did to my American destination – the tiny resort town of Bethany Beach on the East Coast of the States.

3 hours by car from my native Vitebsk to Minsk, 1 hour flight from Minsk airport to Moscow, a 6-hour layover at Sheremetyevo, a 9-hour flight to New York, an 8-hour wait for a transfer at JFK, and finally, 4 final hours – and I was there: the guys from E-Point delivered me right to the door of my new "home".

But (!) all these seemingly endless periods of waiting for "weather by the sea," honestly, were worth the two short takeoffs and landings of the plane.

I can wait indefinitely just to feel that funny numbness in my arms and legs again when the roaring giant rises into the air and smoothly descends onto the runway. You sit there, eyes squeezed shut, pressed into your seat, and your heart is pounding like crazy – you are completely seized by some whirlwind of anticipation for something new, a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach. What will it be like in an unfamiliar country? How will I be there? Will I manage? The stream of questions attacking the consciousness is endless. Favorite songs in my ears, in the backpack under my feet, a camera, a couple of books, a fresh Kinfolk, and a bag of coconut-covered nuts (you can only find those at home – it's a fact) – full "combat" readiness.

I have a favorite battered notebook with sketches, dialogues for oral practice classes, to-do lists, and some notes so I wouldn't forget – this thing has been with me for more than one year and more than one trip. On the first page, there is a clumsy inscription in pencil – my peculiar motto, my state of mind:

Wandering re-establishes the original harmony which once existed between man and the universe.

Because it really is so, Anatole France didn't lie, guys.

Only in travels do we find ourselves, so at any convenient opportunity – I pack my backpack and set off on the road. To meet everything.