Lag

Some words seem to hold inherent meaning. The mere sound of the word implies its definition, its signification. As the word rolls of the tongue and flows dramatically into a listener's ear, the sense of the word registers before the word itself.

Lag. This is the word I would choose to describe my performance in posting the continuance of the Whistlestop Wanderjahr series. Thanks to one perceptive reader, in particular, for calling me out on my neglect.

And now, with a slight burst of productivity, I give you the remainder of the journey, now out of Romania, through Hungary, Poland, and the Czech Republic. The conclusion, in Germany, shall be made available in the next couple days (read: whenever I get to it).