I’m at my least favorite bus station at my favorite cafe for the fourth time this summer. I imagine myself as a local here but the only laugh I can get from the bartendersw is when I offer to move a keg, realize it’s full, and motion to the waitress to give me a hand. Then it’s nothing but laughter.

We offboarded the plane in Bratislava, climbed onto a bus, and waited fifteen minutes until it was full. Then we drove no less than 20 feet to the entrance.

Sometimes I just get onto a bus because I have a good feeling. This usually doesn’t work out. I’ve got to stop trusting my gut.

The front desk girl at the Slovakian hostel is booking a ticket a bus ticket for me. She tells me I can enter in my information or that I can give my credit card to her with the warning: “I will most likely try and steal all you money if you do.” I give her my card.

“We’re not Eastern Europe. You’re in Central Europe.” Sorry Sloviakian front desk girl.

My bag is full of kuna, American dollars, euros, forints, and leis. I feel very international.

“Is this bus heading to Romania?” I ask the lady.
“I know you!”
“You helped me a few weeks ago.”
“Did you make it to Romania.”
“We still don’t go to Cluj.”
“But you’re heading that direction.”
“Same deal as before. The bus stops outside of Cluj at three in the morning.”
“How far out?”
“3 kilometers.”
…and this is how I end up at three in the morning 14 kilometers away from Cluj standing on the side of a pitch black road.

My plane back to the United States leaves in eight hours from Barcelona. I’m sitting in Budapest at an outdoor cafe drinking beer. I’m not entirely sure how these two things are going to work out.

It says Internet Coffee Shop, but turns out after I order a coffee that the first part of that title isn’t true.

The light music playing in a Bratislavan supermarket: The Gambler by Kenny Rogers. Except it’s a cover and it’s all in Slovakian. Note to self — track down Slovakian Kenny Rogers. Become best friends. Die happy.

Slovakian customs agent: “You travel a lot.