The weather is here. Wish you were beautiful.
—Henny Youngman

Warning! This post is huge. I’ve got time on my hands.

Sometimes it’s easy to find a place for the night, sometimes hard. As the sun sinks and evening comes, I evaluate my prospects with increasing scrutiny. Rule of thumb: when in doubt, press on. Down the road may prove to be less doubtful. It has worked so far, unless I count the time in France I nearly froze before finding shelter at ten PM, three hours after sunset.

So, as I left Istanbul one late afternoon and headed east, I wasn’t too concerned that the map showed fifteen miles of dense urban streets before the suburbs and eventual countryside. Surely I would either reach camping territory or find lodging.

When I took shelter from a rain shower in a gas station, I still had two hours of daylight left. The gas jockeys had a comfy employee lounge, with a kitchen, tea samovar, bathroom, and a little room with rugs for prayer time. The shower turned into the biggest storm Istanbul has had in a decade: hail piled up in the gutters and, as I found out later, there was flooding downtown; cars submerged, streets washed out and food stalls floating. By the time the rain stopped it was dark. The boys offered to let me stay there, and I should have accepted. But I had found cheap accommodations the night before, and they told me that there were hotels in the direction I was headed. I was still in Istanbul proper but, traffic notwithstanding, I don’t mind riding at night with an effective lighting system.

Ahmed says,”No problem!”

I found the hotels, $200 a night Hiltons and such. I’d rather ride all night, I said to myself, and pressed on. Navigation was difficult, progress was slow. I spent some time under awnings and bridges as the rain came and went. The neighborhoods changed character, and soon my surroundings resembled the bombed-out projects in the worst sections of the Bronx. Streets were confusing, potholed and poorly lit. By now it was midnight. A bunch of young toughs tried to flag me down; the next bunch tried to block my way. One grabbed a handful of my shirt, and I almost went down. Whatever they had in mind, it definitely wasn’t friendly. I must admit to feeling some anxiety on the next few uphills.

A half-hour later the slums gave way to the outskirts—industry, car dealerships, strip malls and truck stops. At a gas station I was advised that the next hotels were twenty miles away, and another storm was coming in from the sea.

When in doubt, push on. At 1:00AM I saw a guy standing outside a sporting goods store—hunting, fishing, canoes and such. No English, but I made sign language for sleeping, tent. It started to rain. He got it, and motioned me to follow him. He led me to a big, steel-framed canvas storage tent, unlocked a padlock and lifted a flap. It was full of retail detritus: racks, mannequins, old life vests and paddles, boxes of disorganized junk. My bike just fit in. He shrugged and tied the flap.

I found an old camp cot and dusted it off, chuckling at my good fortune as I got into my sleeping bag and listened to the rain on the roof. I was exhausted and hungry, but warm and dry and thankful.

Then, just as the storm was starting to pick up, I heard a shout outside the tent. There was Atilla, my host, with an elegant tray of food on china dishes, great spicy soup, stuffed grape leaves, French bread, cake, yoghurt, and a glass of water. I thanked him in amazement. He just closed his eyes, put his hand on his heart, bowed his head and left. After my ordeal, exhausted as I was, it was overwhelming. I got all choked up.

Atilla and I had tea next morning.

The storm shook that tent but I stayed dry. I woke to bright sunshine, steam rising from the wet streets, and the call to prayer from a nearby mosque. I didn’t go. Next door was a gas station where I cleaned up. When I emerged from the bathroom the gas attendant, Mustafa, held out a glass of hot tea on a saucer, with two sugar cubes and a little spoon. “Hello!” he said, “Where you from?” They turned out to be his only English phrases.

Mustafa and crew

In the days since, the generosity and hospitality showed by Atilla and Mustafa has proved to be the norm in Turkey. I stayed in a couple of small beach resort towns, where the accommodations (including a generous breakfast) were so inexpensive I couldn’t be bothered camping. Waiters, clerks and strangers behaved as if my satisfaction was their highest priority. Between towns were mountains with short but steep passes, and surprisingly green forests, farmland and apricot orchards. Food joints at the top of mountain passes offered grilled meat, corn on the cob, hot tea and cold beer.

Chai?

Kandira, away from the coast, was a farming and trading center with extensive markets but no tourism and just one pricey downtown hotel. I asked a cabbie, “Otel?” (Some Turkish is easy.) He pointed toward the downtown hotel but I made sign language for “too expensive”. He understood, bid me to wait, and fetched two men with cell phones. They made calls while the cabbie made gestures of reassurance and a young man kept repeating, “No problem, no problem.”

Soon, judging from their expressions, the solution emerged, although it couldn’t be communicated to me. A teenager was dispatched to guide me to an address. On a side street a set of stairs led to a second-story balcony with a few men sitting outside drinking tea (they do that a lot here).

Luckily, a man named Erol had some English. He explained that it was a “Pensionne”. I first ran into these in Belgium. They are dormitory-and-cafeteria style accommodations for out-of-town workers, usually rented by the week and often paid for by employers. This one is run by a school district and intended for teachers. Some retired bachelor teachers, including Erol, live there permanently. It appeared to be run by middle-aged Moslem women. With Erol’s help they fixed me up with a five-bed dorm room, all to myself, with wi-fi and breakfast, for about $9.00. Erol brought me to dinner at a bohemian place, an apartment where the rooms were furnished as lounges and food came from the tiny kitchen with no menu; you got whatever was ready next from the teenaged waitress. We were served, in a hot pan, something like a pizza with everything, but without the crust. A basket of good bread was provided, with which we scooped the hot, spicy, cheesey stuff; it was quite delicious. Young people, Erol’s former students, popped in a couple of times for a warm, two-kiss greeting and a short visit. After a smoke on the back porch with the young owner, we were halfway down the stairs before we remembered to go back up and pay.

Erol, Ismail, Turan

After breakfast with Erol and his policeman friend Ismail, it was another day’s ride from the next beach resort town. At lunch beneath a roadside oak tree a farmer took a break from his work, walked straight over to me and shook hands. Then he sat down three feet away and quietly joined me, as natural as can be. Although he refused bread and cheese and cookies, his face lit up at the strawberries and he had a few. Through sign language we learned a bit about each other’s lives.

You can say a lot with sign language. It’s important to speak in your own language as you do it, to convey meaning with tone of voice. Nodding or shaking the head are universal. Pointer fingers held together parallel; married? If the answer is single, a pointer finger indicates “one” as the thumb points to the chest. Divorce is like married, then quickly point in two different directions. Hold your hand at various heights, palm down, say “Children?” and you will be understood. Make the gesture nearer to the ground for grandchildren. (At this point, with gentlemen, the phones come out with photos of the grandchildren. But not with simple farmers, peasants or Gypsies.) Numbers are easy, and with a few gestures I am often asked my age. Make a shoveling or hammering motion, then rub the tips of the fingers together for the familiar “money” gesture, and that means, “What is your job?”

Which reminds me. For most of my life when asked my profession I have struggled for an answer. Not content with my livelihood for long, and changing careers so many times, I would often respond with an awkward list or a joke or a half-truth like writer or musician. This year I have started responding, “Christmas trees!” I wasn’t always proud of it, wishing for a more dignified profession. But in recent years I have come to understand that I enjoy it, I am good at it, and there’s nothing undignified about it; it’s honest work. I have become proud of it after all. And I receive a positive reaction from everyone, even in Moslem Turkey, where it takes some explaining.

Also, after finding that I’m an American, many people ask where in America I am from. I’m very proud to be a Vermonter, but answering, “Vermont” just gets puzzled looks in most places. Answering, “New York City” gets an instant reaction, oohs and aahs. And since I’ve lived there for two years over the last twenty-four years (a month at a time), and I love New York and my friends there so much, that’s my short answer. Much more than a half-truth.

But where was I? Between Kandira and the next beach town, Karasu. The hilly farmlands with orchards, hayfields, and patches of woods; the villages, tractor traffic, old cemeteries, streams and roadside springs; and most of all the hilltop vistas with tall pointed minarets marking the village mosques, all reminded me of my beloved New England’s green hills and church steeples. At times on these hilltops I could hear the call to prayer from several village mosques; first one starts, then another, then a third. Many times, bicycling Vermont’s back roads at midday, I have been treated to a similar symphony, of church bells tolling the noon hour.

In the late afternoon a shady farm road beckoned me, and I followed it through a patch of woods to an apricot orchard. A sunny meadow and a cool breeze lulled me into lingering. Karasu, with beach hotels and restaurants and tea houses, was only a few downhill miles away. But I stayed, playing mandolin until sunset, and pitched my tent. I enjoyed a fine dinner (if I may compliment my own cooking) and read yesterday’s New York Times on my phone.

Distant thunder. Wind. I added four stakes and guy lines to the tent and got back inside just in time. What a downpour! The storm passed right over my camp, with lightning and thunder so close it scared me. Wind shook the walls of the tent, and the rain was so hard that when I put my palm on the wall, it felt like I was slapping five with an angry Thor. My gear and I stayed dry, though, even through a couple of encores. It rained on and off through the night. In the morning, sunny skies. By nine the tent was dry and packed, and I was on the road.

My morning cleanup at a gas station was again followed by complimentary tea from the attendants. Are there friendlier people anywhere on earth? In the villages, men gathered at shaded tables to drink tea don’t just wave, they wave me in, serve me tea and cookies, and ask for a mandolin tune (all sign language except for “Hey-low!” and “Where you from?” and “No problem!”). Farmers, construction crews, schoolchildren—they all stop, shout greetings, and wave their hats until I’m out of sight. More than half of the cars, and all of trucks and busses, toot friendly toots, wave, shout, and give thumbs up. Fruit vendors, after my strawberries are weighed and paid for, slip a few more into the bag, and maybe an apricot or two, with a smile and a twinkle. A Turkish lira, $.54, buys a pound of fresh strawberries, and I’m never far from a roadside stand.

Even at this Internet cafe, a teenage boy greeted me with, “Hallo! Where you from?” Within a few seconds, friendship established, he brought me a tea.

I carry a pack of cigarettes with me, Marlboros or Lucky Strikes, and some hard candies, in my handlebar bag. The Gypsies always shout when I go by their camps, and I like to stop for a minute. They crowd around me, men, women and children. Here in Turkey they really are camps, tents and tarps and very few permanent structures, none by western standards. I don’t have to offer: the kids come up with their hands out, and within a few minutes after shaking hands, the men make smoking-cigarette sign language.

I want to understand these people, but it’s hard. Their habit of remaining dirty, even filthy, when often there is a hose or a river nearby, and their open dishonesty (an oxymoron?) and shamelessness, puzzle and fascinate me. Grown men will reach into my handlebar bag to grab something, then smile sheepishly when I slap their hand away. As I leave, they say in English, “Wait! Stop! Money! Give me money!” not in desperation but with smiles, as if to say, “Come on, man, I’m your pal!”

I often see a teen or two who is clearly different from the rest, with clean clothes and a more civilized demeanor, always hanging back but staring intently, as if trying to communicate. I wonder, will they escape their siblings’ fate? Do they suffer for their “rebellion”? Are they ashamed of their living conditions, their families, their kinsmen?

As elsewhere, the local people despise the Gypsies, although I see them putting coins in their cups as they go from table to table at cafés, wordlessly begging. Only the women beg this way, often with a baby in her arms or a toddler in tow, and an imploring, desperate face. Gypsy kids from five to ten find places to beg, performing services like returning your cart in supermarket parking lots, or lifting the lid on trash cans for you. One tiny girl in Istanbul would press the signal button for pedestrians at a crosswalk with an upturned palm and a heartbreaking smile. In cities the Gypsy women and teens do their recycling, waiting as merchants empty boxes, then breaking them down and piling them high on hand carts. I never see the men outside the camps, where they disassemble appliances, autos and computers for recycling, and squat on their haunches under shade in groups.

You can count on another post from Turkey, since I have another week here. I feel very relaxed and contented here, but at the same time eager to make progress toward my goals.

This two-week detour to Turkey is somewhat like a “vacation” from my expedition. I’m resting up for the challenges ahead. Soon I’ll have my Russian passport. Then I’ll be slogging across flat, agricultural European Russia, crossing the Ural mountains, and pushing eastward for two months through Siberian forests. Happily, my knee pain has mostly disappeared in the last week, sunburn is under control, and my mind is at ease. I miss my friends and offspring, and the English language, but not much else. From my position as the luckiest man in the world, I can only hope, sincerely, that you all slay all your dragons and enjoy the victory. Peace and love.

Here I am back in Odessa. It happened this way…

After sending my Russian visa application and passport to Washington, DC, I left Odessa somewhat sadly and slowly. The skateboard boys staged a going-away party the night before, a big one, a late one. I spent four days riding through flat agricultural land and sandy pine forests, camping in nice places and enjoying some smooth roads for a change. Towns and small cities were busy because of a Russian holiday, and I made pleasant noontime stops each day to check e-mail and have a beer or a snack at an outdoor cafe. The weather was very fine, sunny and hot in the daytime with cool nights.

Just after I entered Crimea I got an e-mail from my friends in Odessa informing me that my mail had bounced back. It is illegal in Ukraine to mail passports, and I got caught. That is, we got caught, because I had used Andrey’s address in the “from” section on the shipping form. I took an overnight train back to Odessa, got us off the hook without too much trouble, and found myself back where I was a week earlier, without a Russian visa. The American Embassy in Kiev was no help, suggesting that I fly to Washington with the passport myself, and hinting that they had more important issues to deal with.

After an evening of head scratching and Internet research I was still stumped. Russian visas are only issued in the passport holder’s country. Even if I sneaked my passport through the Ukrainian mail, there was no assurance that I could get it back again. And the clock was ticking: after my Western European delays, some hard pushing through Eastern Europe had put me within reach of my originally planned June 1 entry into Russia. Now I was losing days. For a while I considered skipping Russia altogether and changing the plan to Turkey (which I always wanted to visit anyway), Armenia, Azerbaijan, Turkmenistan, Uzbekistan and Tajikistan. But I was discouraged from that after reading about the complicated visa application processes for four of those six countries.

I considered returning to Romania, where my friends Florentina and Andrei in Constanta would surely help. But as close as it is, a couple of hundred miles, the connections by rail, bus, taxi and ferry (including walking a few kilometers through Moldova, which has no rail, bus, or taxi connections in that area) are ridiculously complicated, expensive and slow.

In the morning I came up with a plan. I will travel by boat across the Black Sea to Istanbul, Turkey, where I can mail my passport and visa application to Washington, go cycling through the countryside for a couple of weeks while waiting for the visa and passport to return, then steam back to Odessa to resume my eastward path toward Russia. I’ll get to see some of Turkey, and the boat ride will be fun. It is early in the season for the cruise ships and luxury ferries, and they are expensive. But I found a cargo vessel that takes passengers in the few crew bunks that were freed up when technology reduced the number of crewmen needed on board. The ticket is cheap, no frills; I will bunk and eat with the crew. It will stop in Bulgaria for a day, so I can visit there. The whole process, including the time I have lost already in Odessa, will put me about ten days behind my June 1 target for Russia. I’m sure I can make it up on the 2500 kilometers of flat farmland between Odessa and the foothills of the Ural Mountains.

Waiting for my boat, I spent the day at the beach with Andrey and two new friends, Sergey and Volya (sorry about the spelling, boys).

The semi-crowded city beach has clean sand, clean water, small waves and busy ship traffic on the horizon. The people-watching was unforgettable. Sorry fellas, I didnt bring my camera, but here’s one Sergey took.

In the meantime, here are some random notes from my recent ride down to the Crimea.

Like the western part of Ukraine, there is a big contrast between the countryside with its peasant culture and small, underdeveloped, decaying villages, and the bigger towns and cities, where the centers are busy with modern shops and streets busy with well-dressed shoppers. Here the road surfaces are better, and the highways more often go through the cities instead of around them. I saw some huge modern factories that were freshly painted and clean-looking, with mowed lawns and cheerful signage, nothing like the dystopian industrial landscape I saw in other parts of Eastern Europe.

In addition to roadside vegetable stands I frequently saw old men or women sitting by the roadside with an upturned bucket or cardboard box with just a few eggs or scallions or apples for sale, desperate looking figures who don’t look up when I pass.

When I camp, washing up in the morning is limited to a quick face splash with a water bottle. I always stop at the first opportunity for a more thorough job, usually at a gas station. Some are disgusting, some are nice, but if there is running water, even just cold, I can wash, shave, rinse clothing, and feel good. The people are almost always nice, and I always buy something if it’s available, water or soda or peanuts.

One gas station I stopped at last week, at a crossroads far from town, was over-the-top nice. Spotless chrome, glass and tile inside and out. Four attractive women in uniform (black skirt and shoes, white shirts, perky hats like airline stewardesses used to wear) were cleaning, stocking shelves and pumping gas. The single male employee was cleaning tire marks off of white-painted curbs. The bathrooms were as you would expect in a fine restaurant, with three shining sinks and a mirrored wall. Espresso and pastries were available. At a small counter were four upholstered bar stools and three of these…

…for charging your phone, and a sign inviting you to use the free wi-fi. As I was leaving, the staff was lined up for inspection by a stern female manager in the same uniform, but with stripes on the epaulets.

I have a lot more observations I’d like to share, but it’s time to catch my boat. I expect that I’ll have plenty of time in the next few days for more blogging. Thanks for visiting!

Riding north from Constanta was nice and varied. Leaving the tourist area behind, I passed through an area of refineries, factories, and exceptionally vicious dogs. Then there were wheat fields to the horizon on both sides for miles. I camped, with permission, among some trees at a quarry; at sunset two shepherds, two dogs and 500 sheep passed my campsite. Next day, hills, from the tops of which I could see the Black Sea to the east, and the Danube River Delta to the northeast.

The delta is huge, unique in Europe, and fascinating. It has more than thirty towns and villages, accessible only by boat, some prosperous fishing towns, some with a history of smuggling and piracy. Nobody I met had ever been there. The inhabitants have a reputation for cunning and wildness. I considered hiring a boat to investigate, but no such opportunity came up.

In Tulcea I enjoyed a salad in a sunny cafe while I uploaded my latest post. Before leaving, I checked my e-mail one more time and found that my sister Martha had passed away during the night. I sent some family e-mails and pedaled toward Ukraine with memories flooding my mind, some of them more than fifty years old. Martha had a challenging life filled with disappointments, yet she brought smiles and laughter to everyone, every time. Mom and Dad must be happy to see her.

I was roused from my reverie by Julian, a wonderfully looney marathon runner on a training run who flagged me down. He is a regular Borat; I wish I had recorded the directions he gave to his house. His fractured English made me laugh every time he spoke.

His may be the poorest household I have visited yet. His mother has every inch of the small yard under cultivation and seven chickens. I arrived before he finished his run and, just as he told me, she provided me with a stool to sit on and a small glass of wine. Julian returned with a small fish, assuring me that it would fill all three stomachs to the very top. And with some scallions and lettuce from the garden, some hard boiled eggs, and a loaf of bread from my saddlebag, it did.

With village water on tap in the yard but no plumbing, a reed-thatched roof, and one-bulb-per-room electric service, they live somehow with almost no income (and almost no teeth). Julian told me that February was particularly hard. Wood for heating is scavenged from the nearby hills; most of their income goes to propane (for the small range), electricity, flour and sugar. My tea in the morning was from garden herbs.

Julian hitch-hikes or rides freight trains to Eastern European cities to compete in marathons, begging entry fees from better-off runners and wearing cast-off shoes and running shorts. Mom disapproves and balks at the required food intake. In the morning I pretended to need yoghurt and brought back $15 worth of groceries (a hefty couple of sacks here). It was awkward for a few minutes but we got over it.

Leaving Romania involved a ferry across the Danube, lunch on a park bench with some teenagers in beautiful Galati, and a windy ride across an industrial wasteland to the Moldovan border for a routine crossing. Thirty minutes later I was at the Ukrainian border–I rode through Moldova without ever putting a foot down.

Ukranian customs was serious. A big staff in a complex of buildings was searching cars and trucks. For the first time so far I was delayed with questions and a partial search of my luggage. Only the captain spoke English. They finally loosened up when he asked why I was traveling alone. I said, “Why not?” and he said, “It’s dangerous, you could have trouble.” When I grinned and said, “I LIKE trouble!” he burst out laughing and translated, and they all laughed. They waved me through saying, “Goodbye, crazy American.”

It was immediately apparent that I was in a different land. The roads are crumbling, the cars and trucks are thirty years old, the busses and trolleys even older. Old motorcycles with sidecars were in use in many towns. Crews of thirty men and women were painting the curbs and trees. (In Eastern Europe, for some reason, every roadside tree and utility pole is painted white up to waist height, and most people do the same to the trees in their yards.) People are friendly, but the language barrier is large. The dogs are even more enthusiastic than in Romania. I’ve entered Ukraine in a very rural, frontier area, so my observations so far probably don’t apply to the whole country. I’ve been told that Odessa is modern and sophisticated.

Why? I don’t know.

I found a very inexpensive room in a very nice, clean hotel from another era. After a good bath I went down to the dining room, where half the tables were full of men. I sat waiting for a waiter, and after a while a man from one of the tables came and poured me a glass of wine (from a plastic spring water bottle, indicating home-made). Salut! From their own tables, they brought me a couple of fried fish, a basket of bread, and some cabbage salad. A young man with some English explained, with difficulty, that no waiter would come. They were a work crew boarding at the hotel for a month, and the kitchen was closed.

They were a crew of engineers, electricians, drivers and crane operators who install 300-ton (!!) power station gear all over the world. Sasha was the oldest, the shortest, and obviously the boss—you could just tell from his face. I scored big points with this crew by (A) opening beers with a lighter, (B) lighting Peter’s cigarette, (C) downing my vodka in one go, (D) peeling my tangerine in one piece, (E) calling Slava a fucking lightweight when he said he had to go to bed at 2:00AM. What a great bunch of guys.

They made me promise to stay another night (maybe), and visit them in Odessa (definitely). We had only Illya for translation, not very good, so we used google translate a lot. But the alphabet is different so we had to change the language setting on my phone back and forth repeatedly. I had to rely on Illya to return it to English and the last time he messed it up so bad it crashed. It came back to life exactly as it was out of the box—no apps, contacts, music, nothing. I finally got everything back from the cloud but the music, a couple of albums I purchased last week, so long ago it seems like a year. Sasha the boss fell in love with me and is trying to find a reason to hire me.

Sasha

Slava brought out a laptop and showed me the company web site. Unbelievable. They have a diesel rig with 60 wheels, and a crane that lifts 500 tons. I think they are the dudes of Ukraine, and they think I’m a heroic figure of historic proportions. The innkeeper had to scold us for noise thee times. Incredibly good times. Those poor bastards had to work at 7:00.

Slava

Next morning I paid my dues. On an empty stomach, hung over to the point of nausea, I set off in a cold rain along the Danube on the worst stretch of road ever. Slabs of broken pavement, potholes that would make the newspaper in Vermont, shoulders of slimy clay, stretches of soft mud. Cars passed, splashing muddy water on me; tractor trailer rigs lumbered so slowly through the potholes that we passed each other repeatedly in clouds of black diesel fumes. At one point the whole road was under three inches of water, making the potholes unavoidable. This torture went on for 25 miles, which took nearly four hours. I shudder just writing it down.

Eventually the rain let up and the road improved. In the countryside I saw crews of forty men and women planting potatoes on fields that stretched to the horizon, horse-drawn wagons dispensing seed potatoes. Fishermen lined the rivers and held fish up for sale to the traffic. I crossed a great swamp between two lakes, five miles noisy with frogs, ducks, and seagulls.

In the afternoon the sun came out and I reached a small city, Ismail, and found a restaurant with wi-fi. It seemed strange to be sitting there among well-dressed men and women, sipping Coca-Cola, viewing web sites, while the potato planters surely continued their endless task.

Three days of camping, broken pavement, sunburn, and huge fields of wheat and hay followed my visit to Ismail. The camping is basic: alongside wheat fields a quarter-mile down a tractor road, still within sight of the highway. One night a car passed on the farm road so close the wind from it shook the tent.

The area I’m traveling through shows signs of Soviet-style Communist development. The highway passes by towns, not through them. Main-street businesses and commerce were just not a factor in planning. Bus stops on the highway are huge painted concrete affairs with pillars, seating and outhouses. Today they are crumbling from neglect but still heavily used. I passed the remains of old communes, walled compounds where agricultural products were loaded onto trains bound for the cities, and bulk foodstuffs, building materials, clothing, coal and diesel fuel were unloaded for local distribution. Stores are few now because back then there were none. At each railroad crossing stands a tiny cottage, now empty, once home for a bachelor whose entire lifelong career was operating the safety gates. Drawbridges on the larger rivers are still manned this way today. I learned some of this in a small museum in Ismail, some from Wilipedia.

I’m learning the Cryllic alphabet by looking at town and city names on road signs and comparing them with google maps’ English version. Ukranian is spoken in small villages, Russian elsewhere; English is rare. Shepherds and goatherds tend sizable flocks. Here, unlike elsewhere so far, some are talking on cell phones.

One day I was out of water in a village with no store. Ten-year-old Valeria had a dozen words of English, and she led me to the village well, where her aunt Anna, a school teacher, drew water and filled my bottles. They fetched a young man who spoke English and interviewed me while a small group gathered. I was sent off with route directions and a small Coke bottle of Grandma’s wine. I asked if I was the first American bicyclist to come through town. No; they remembered the last time, in 2005.

Gathered by the village well.

Tonight I’m in a terribly seedy seaside resort town, Zatoka, a dystopian Wildwood, New Jersey. The motel I chose didn’t look like much, but behind the walls, out of sight of the highway, is a beautiful compound of clean, modern white stucco and tile, facilities for barbecue, cooking and partying, and nice rooms. The delightful extended family that operates it is busily preparing for the upcoming season. The daughter (with a month-old baby) speaks perfect English. When I asked about a nearby restaurant, she looked at my bicycle and said, “It is too far. You will eat with us.” They are natural-born hosts, and the great family-style meal was relaxed and full of cheer. Once again I have somehow found the right place.

I’ll finish here and post while I have a connection. Apologies for the lack of photos. I’m trying. I’ll spend a few days in big, ancient, historic Odessa, securing a Russian visa and replacing some worn parts on my bike. And finding a good straw hat. Then Sebastopol, the Crimea, and finally, Russia. Wish me luck.

Here I sit in Constanta, Romania, on a park bench, facing east and looking out at the Black Sea. This is the absolute last place I could decide between a northern (Siberia, Mongolia) route and a southern (Turkey, ‘Stans) route. But I have already chosen north, my original plan. Reasons include visa simplicity and the fact that most of you who responded voted north. The climate was a factor, too. North will be largely cloudy and rainy, the south sunny and dry. It is only April but sunburn is a problem. I’ll still have deserts to cross in Mongolia, 500 miles instead of 2000 miles on the southern route. But if I am suffering from sunburn already…I think my mind is stronger against rain and mosquitos than my body is against sunburn.

Romanian friendliness and openness continues to impress me. The towns and villages changed character somewhat as I traveled east, more stores and little bars. In the evening people like to sit on little benches or stools, or on the curb or ground, in front of their homes, outside of their fences and gates, by the sidewalk and highway. I find this interesting: behind their walls and gates I see very nice gardens and yards where they could enjoy the evening in a quieter, more private place, but they choose to be out where people are, gathering in little family groups or bunches of older men, women, or teens. The Fedora is popular headwear, even for farmers in horse-drawn wagons. Little old ladies (Babushkas in my American slang, a Russian word not to the Romanians’ liking) have a standard outfit: black dress to below the knees, black stockings, big shoes, a bulky dark sweater or jacket, and a head scarf. Sometimes a dark-colored apron. They all appear to be seventy years old but a closer look reveals they are between 35 and 100. Younger women wear tight pants and modern clothing, and not all women over 35 are Babushkas. In groups of three or four I see them carrying rakes and hoes out of the village in the morning, back in the evening, with a food basket. Often they and their menfolk are seen gathering dandelion greens, lamb’s quarters and other edibles, or grass and clover for the fowl. They also gather snails for eating.

The last week has been full of experiences in Romania. This is a beautiful country full of friendly, real, vital people making good lives in very hard economic conditions. They don’t hesitate to smile and engage. They are proud of their well-deserved reputation for hospitality.

After my last dispatch from Craiova, on Orthodox Easter, I learned that the holiday is celebrated for three or four more days. An outdoor party at an agricultural co-op drew me in. A fiddler and accordion player (clearly farmers in their best clothes) were surrounded by a ring of dancers of all ages, their arms joined, making their way clockwise with steps resembling Country Western line dancing. A man came around with cups, filling them with Pepsi. A woman re-filled mine with beer. Next was something stronger from a Pepsi bottle. A little old lady came round dispensing bags from a basket; mine contained two hard-boiled eggs, a chocolate bar, tiny home-made fruit pastries, and some hard candies. The tradition with the eggs: find a partner: hold your egg out pointy end up; he or she taps your egg with his. The egg that cracks is given to the owner of the intact egg. I had four wins, my eggs lined up on my hat brim on my bike. I joined some men in discussion at the well; a short, sharp, powerfully built farmer translated for me. Some wished for a return to communism, when every family in town had a similar level of prosperity, no man or boy was unemployed, ever, and crime was rare (even if that prosperity level was pretty low, and there was little choice at the grocery stores or in careers). Others preferred today’s freedoms, abundant consumer goods, and the chance to at least try, by working harder or more cleverly, to earn more money (even if there was high unemployment, especially among the young, more crime, and many families in town struggled through extreme poverty while a very few farmers drove BMWs and vacationed in Western Europe). I’m sure glad they didn’t ask my opinion. I took my eggs and left after shaking thirty hands and kissing a bunch of cheeks.

Bound for Bucharest, I missed a turn. I took a side road to get back on course, and then missed another turn. Fifteen miles of back roads were required to avoid backtracking. The dirt road villages I encountered were tiny, isolated and poor. I started to set up behind a very small church at sundown. A charming little girl tried to help, then brought me to her house next door, a house with few comforts and no English. Dad and Uncle, already half drunk, insisted that I eat and sleep there. I should have refused.

Mom and kids were charming and hospitable, and dad and uncle were too, at first. But after much beer and many eggs, they brought out the whiskey, and things went downhill from there. They demanded louder, faster music from me, kissed my cheeks when they got it (eww!), cursed and spit on the floor when they didn’t. They showed their me their tattoos and scars, screamed at the wife, threatened and scared the kids, laughed and cried and pounded on the table. At 1:00AM I demanded sleep, climbing onto the couch on the porch. They insisted that I sleep in the main bedroom (none too clean, a rug for a sheet on a high, soft bed), over the wife’s loud objections. A high volume argument ensued outside the door.

A half hour later the dad and uncle woke me, loudly demanding more music. I yelled back louder and they apologized in a whisper, tiptoed out, and had a screaming argument in the hall. An hour later this scene was repeated exactly.

The Bastards

At 4:00AM or thereabouts, they came in again with a big, burley policeman, a constable he called himself, with a stern look and a hand on his gun. I put on my glasses and greeted him from under the covers. He shined a light around, then asked, “Are you American?” Yes. “Are you a prisoner here?” No. “Are you sleeping in this house?” Trying.

The kids and wife watched from the bedroom door; the two drunks were quiet and scared. The questions continued. He never asked for ID. At one point he seemed satisfied, then asked, “Do you know Arnold Schwartzreneger?” I answered, “Yes, he’s my friend.” A little white lie. “Have you ever shaken his hand?” “Of course I have.” He moved closer and asked, “Did it hurt?” I said, “Yes.”

He turned and glared at the drunks, ordered them out of the room. Then he took off his hat and said, “May I ask permission to shake your hand?” I stuck my hand out from under the covers and we shook. It hurt. “You are free to go,” he said.

He went out in the hall and chewed the men out viciously. They didn’t make a sound, but the wife argued loudly with the policeman. After he left, the wife moved me to the couch on the porch, after much pantomime and confusion, because I thought she was kicking me out of the house and so I refused to get out from under the covers. She tugged, I held tight. A half hour later the roosters started crowing about three feet from my head . Before the sun was up, the drunk uncle was poking me saying, “Kaffe? Kaffe?” It made him sad when I refused coffee, tea, beer and whiskey. I ate a hard-boiled egg and was on the road by 7:15. I hope these two darling, left-handed girls survive their upbringing.

Sweet, Left-Handed Darlings

That day in Caracal I met Andrei and Florentina at the grocery store. They are 30, from Constanta, 240 kilometers distant, visiting Florentina’s Mom for the holiday. Tea with Mom, lunch with Auntie, a tour of the gardens; it was most pleasant. They described Constanta, on the Black Sea, and invited me to visit a few days later. I envisioned the Jersey shore and accepted their invitation.

Rainy weather followed me for a few days. After a soggy camp I was watching the weather move (big sky country) and took shelter at a little village grocery just before a violent rain and hail storm. They were quite hospitable; soon I was seated and drinking home-made wine, sweet and strong. Visiting Costin and Ion, the father/son shopkeepers, was cousin Livru, from Bucharest, 30 kilometers away. By the time the rain stopped I had a friend, and an invitation, in Bucharest.

Livru is an entomologist, a mosquito expert working on an international West Nile Virus project; his wife Michela teaches English. After a fine dinner we had a great time around the kitchen table with Livru’s best friend Lucien, a dentist and orthodontist, and and Lucien’s girlfriend Corina, a beautiful dental student. It was my first joke session since England, and I learned a couple of new ones, too raunchy for blogging.

In the morning I got a tour of Livro’s office and lab, with Lucien and Corina. I really connected with these guys. Both underpaid professionals, they have travelled abroad and seen how their careers would be elsewhere. Yet they stay in Romania, proud to be Romanian (although not fond of the Romanian government), determined to make their homeland a better place. My hat is off to you, gentlemen.

I roamed Bucharest on my bike for a while, dodging showers, admiring the architecture, plazas, fountains and parks. I found some beauty there, but Bucharest needs a facelift, in my humble opinion. Crumbling grey concrete was the motif in many neighborhoods, and the gritty commercial and industrial zones start rather close to downtown. The beat-up busses and ancient trolley cars didn’t help. The people, however, were sharply dressed and friendly, except for the ever-present Gypsies.

As I left Bucharest the weather changed; the rain stopped, the temperature dropped, and a north wind grew to a gale. For the first time ever, a side wind forced me off the highway. Coming from my left (with a perilous drop-off to a muddy, puddled non-shoulder on my right), it prevented me from keeping to a path narrower than six feet wide. Broken pavement and heavy truck traffic made it even more challenging. After a couple of close calls when a tractor-trailer blocked the wind and sucked me close to the wheels (I mean really close!), I stopped, at 3:00PM, at a handsome restaurant, only to find they had recently built five nice cabins out back for tourists like myself. I may have been the first guest in number 2, for $32. I cleaned my bike thoroughly, washed my woolens, cranked up the heater and watched a movie. I was so happy.

Next day, fresh as a daisy with a clean bike, I found the side wind was now a tailwind. Yahoo! I made nearly ninety miles, despite a late start. In a little town I heard some Yankee accented English at a café. A half-dozen Marines from a nearby base were having lunch. Nice guys (and one gal), we chatted for a while.They were surprised at my choice to travel alone. When a bunch of US Marines call you sir and say they admire your courage, it’s hard not to be flattered. Semper fi.

This Kansas-like wheat growing area offers little cover for camping. Tired at sundown, I pulled into a farm with a few trees out back and held off two enthusiastic dogs until Luci rescued me. She pointed me to the courtyard and soon enough to the dinner table and guest room. Good vibes.

Done For the Day

Vali and Luci and their two kids and two farm hands make a hell of a good life from the land. Forty cows, 70 sheep, lots of chickens, geese, turkeys. Vali doesn’t like pigs. They have a lot of land, a tractor, a horse and wagon they use for work. They sell milk and eggs, chickens, calves and lambs, onions and garlic, hay, flowers and herbs, and they rent land to other farmers. The farm hands get room and board and $133 a month. Room is a bunkhouse with a wood stove and outhouse; board that night was a big sausage and three eggs cooked in the kitchen and delivered to the bunkhouse. (We had lamb stew, greens, bread, beans, dessert, wine—a wonderfully wholesome and delicious meal.) Vali says the bulk of the farm hands’ income goes to alcohol and nicotine. They are strong, healthy-looking specimens nonetheless.

Chicks were hatching in the kitchen incubator, yoghurt was kept warm by the stove, and young Ionella washed dishes while I played a couple of tunes.

Salt of the Earth

When there is no English sometimes the conversation is limited. Not so with Vali. After a couple of glasses of wine we switched to water. With pen and paper and words I could grasp (Romanian is a Romance language; my Latin and bits of other languages provided some vocabulary), Vali told me about Moscow’s grip on Romania via oil and natural gas prices, how corruption takes a huge percentage of tax dollars, about the soil and agriculture in different parts of the country, about his devotion to the Orthodox Catholic traditions, and lots more. A real fine character, he exuded warmth and cheer, and clearly relished his role as a farmer and head of the family. By the time we were seated for breakfast, he had done three hours of milking and chores. Soon the family and hands were gathered at the gate for a ceremonious farewell.

That night, with a storm threatening again, I found shelter at a miserable, dirty, forgotten motel, the only guest, an empty restaurant downstairs with the owners drinking beer and smoking cigarettes. Good wi-fi though, so I got some e-mails and phone calls done. I cooked dinner in the room and fell asleep late.

My bank sent me a $10 iTunes gift (for being among the first to use their banking app), so I used it to download some music. I had lost all my music in France in a software update glitch. Next morning, in sunshine, with a tailwind, I listened while riding, something I have never done much. It is enjoyable in moderate amounts.

The next day brought me to Constanta. Not the Jersey shore resort I had imagined, it is more like a small Miami. Florentina and Andrei were most excellent hosts, showing me the beautiful, historic city on foot and by bus, and making me feel right at home in their apartment. I stayed two nights, my first layover since Simon and Stane’s in Slovenia.

The city is prosperous; fishermen, seamen, and longshoremen make better than average pay, and the resorts, spas and big hotels provide jobs. There are also a couple of universities. My hosts have a lively group of friends, and we joined them for a beer here, an ice cream cone there, and an evening in the waterside park, which was full of families, couples and groups enjoying the warm spring weather.

A Good Crew

On the second night of my stay, we ordered pizza and beer for an impromptu party. Lovely Laura, her friends Elena and Mihaela, and Florentina all teach English or French. Catalin is the coolest dude I’ve met in a long time, smart and funny. Adrian, a former soccer pro who coaches now, kept the game on TV, even though the girls kept switching to MTV. Dan is a bear, a professional rugby player, and funnier than hell. His girlfriend Diana speaks four languages and studies Greek. Andrei is an economist, unemployed, who hopes to become a seaman.

Last Farewell

Florentina sent me off in the morning with gifts and kisses and directions to the Russian Consulate. They were no help, and suggested I try the Embassy in Odessa. Which is exactly what I’m going to do. Stay tuned.

Making my way east from Belgrade was a mixed bag. With 3,000,000 people, the city spread out in a maze of highways with almost no signage. They just don’t bother with them here. Using the sun for direction was effective for the most part, but sometimes resulted in backtracking or unpleasant traffic-clogged stretches. I finally made some progress in the afternoon and reached the countryside with the typical Serbian mixture of neat, prosperous neighborhoods surrounded by squalor and litter.

Every country and village store has a table and chairs outside with men drinking beer and smoking cigarettes, some old some young, so I imagine unemployment is a factor. I was having a morning yoghurt at one such table with four men, reviewing my route map. Despite the language barrier they convinced me that my plan was unsound; they directed me to take some back roads north to the Danube and follow the big river east, a longer but nicer ride. They were so right.

The back road was 20 miles of blissfully traffic-free mountainous riding, beautiful hill farms, a couple of primitive villages and a mountain pass with dramatic views. The last mile down to the Danube was among the steepest paved roads I have bicycled.

The highway along the Danube, through a big national park, was smooth and nearly deserted. The landscape was intensely beautiful for miles and miles. Forested mountains with silver-white cliffs and outcrops plunge to both shores; the highways on both sides are engineering marvels with bridges over canyons, tunnel after tunnel, one with an old fort growing out of the top, one with just a bridge to the next tunnel.

Dirt side roads led to tiny hillside sheep farms with plum trees in bloom. I stopped at one for the night, the most extreme hardscrabble farm I’ve ever visited. I had to climb a path and ford a stream to get there.

A single guy, my age, has some hilly acres, a stone and brick hovel with 2 cows and a calf downstairs, a shed with some sheep, a pig, a garden, a dog, no fowl. A large garden tiller seems to be his only equipment, an old bicycle his transportation. No English, no electricity, a stream in the yard for water.

He was clearly delighted to have a guest. I was introduced to all the animals and shown the crops and plum trees, the bees and the freshly planted potato patch, although not the living space. He helped me pick a good tent spot with morning sun (that didn’t work out—it was raining in the morning). As I was cooking he brought a plate with a dripping chunk of honeycomb, the darkest I have ever had, indescribably wonderful to eat. We sat and talked for a bit, he in his language and I in mine. We laughed when we understood, laughed when we didn’t, but mostly it was quiet comments about the evening, the birds, the dog, life in general. I think we both appreciated the conversation and the absurdity. In the morning drizzle he brought me a cup of hot milk, handing it into the tent with a twinkle in his eye. He brought a watch out of his pocket and pointed to it, wagging a finger at me to bust my ass for sleeping so late.

The rain stopped and I spent an entire day following the Danube river along a couple of long curves. It’s wider than the Hudson at New York. I could see that the Romanian side had a bigger, busier highway, a railroad, more towns and more agriculture. A few barges used the waterway; no bridges or ferries crossed. Serbia is different here. Still in a big national park, I found clean roadsides, picnic tables; the towns were cared for, had welcoming riverside spaces with benches and trash bins. I found so many roadside stops with dramatic backdrops that I ate too many snacks.

Next night, my last in Serbia, was a lot like the previous one. I turned right, climbed a hell of a dirt driveway, asked permission. This farm was more prosperous, had a house, two barns, a hothouse, thirty sheep and three cows, many fowl, and a view of the Danube. Like other Serbian farmers, this fellow approached me warily, greeted me gruffly, shook hands in a businesslike manner, quickly dismissed any notion of English, and considered my request thoughtfully (I can say ‘sleep’ and ‘tent’ in Serbian), then, removing a hat and rubbing his face, as if to say, “Woah, man, this is serious!”, he looked around, thinking. Then, “Da.” He points, I camp.

Today I crossed into Romania, not into the area known as Transylvania, as I had planned, but farther south. I could see the Carpathian Mountains to the north, fresh snow at the tops; they are Transylvania’s southern border. I could visit, at the cost of some hundred and fifty mountain miles, but I won’t. It’s nearly 200 miles to Bucharest as it is. I can likely find enough adventure between here and there anyway, if not enough wi-fi.

“Here” for tonight is a big old country roadside hotel, way past it’s prime and empty but for me and a village couple drinking beer. Looks like Grandma, Grandpa and 12-year-old Bogdan run the place. Once grand, the marble floors, wood paneling, red tablecloths and chandeliers say. Outside it is grey and gloomy with overgrown trees and garden, chickens in the courtyard (one fewer now that I have dined), and no cars in the weedy parking lot. My room lacks some basics but is overly luxurious with satin bedding and private balcony, Hollywood style. Bogdan speaks a little English and nearly fainted when I handed him a tip for carrying my bags. He has never seen the Internet, even at school. His Grandma presented me with an invoice at breakfast and went over it with me in detail, explaining each charge in long bursts of Romanian, which Bogdan translated in one- or two-word phrases, just like a comedy routine.

I set off in a light drizzle and completed the climb from the Danube to Romania’s agricultural interior. In Slovenia, Croatia, Bosnia-Herzgovenia and Serbia the countryside, towns and villages were primitively and selectively developed. So far in Romania it is even less developed. In sixty miles today I passed nine villages with populations from 400 to 2000 (my guess). Only one had a tiny store with fruit, candy and soda. No bars or cafés. One gas station. Every village had a fountain, spring fed from nearby hills, where friendly townspeople were filling jugs, most on foot but some in tractors or cars. Damn little English but nice people!! No problem sharing my chocolate with little old babushkas, shooting the shit with the men, slapping five with the kids, holding the baby while mom fills the bucket. Elaborate set-up, too, with shelter from rain, benches and tables, a place to rinse mud from boots. Along the highway people wave and shout, make little bicycle motions with their fists, and wave me into the yard. At one place I stopped and was seated in a covered outdoor kitchen, fed meat and bread and served plum liquor. The family had a piece of land ten meters wide stretching from the highway back to the hills 500 meters away. So did the neighbors on both sides, dozens in the village, some bigger but not by much. Each had chickens, pigs, sheep, dogs, nice gardens, grapes, plum trees; some had cows. Women were preparing food, and very little of it looked like it came from a store. I wobbled down the highway overstuffed and a little drunk.

In the first real town, 12,000 people according to my friends, I was invited into a bar of sorts, really a comfortable living-room-like space with a modern glass-front refrigerator full of beer and soda, and a couple of arcade video games. Marcel and Cristina, an economist and lawyer couple who work and live in the city of Craiova, an hour away, keep this bar open weekends in their hometown because it is across the street from Mom’s house and they like to visit their friends. Mom fed me and sent me off with a bottle of her wine and a hat full of sweet treats. The wine is sweet and mild, low alcohol by the taste of it, refreshing after all the strong plum liquor lately.

It rained on and off today, but I still managed fifty miles in this flat, sometimes rolling terrain. Plenty of nice camping here. With a full belly I waited until late to start looking. Then I could see a serious storm coming behind me. A rough-looking bar/restaurant/truck-stop/fuel-station came into view. Very rough. I survived the dogs and the owner, who was turning sausages on a big wood-fired grill and beating the dogs with the same long fork. As soon as I got under cover the rain came in torrents. It turned out they have cheap rooms upstairs. Now I’m sitting by the radiator writing this for you while the rain continues to pour an hour later. From my window I see a few cars in the parking lot, more arriving. It’s Saturday night. I think I’ll get cleaned up and go see what’s happening downstairs at the bar.

Speaking of dogs, they are abundant and enthusiastic. They run free in bunches, no collars, or are chained in the yard inches from the road. They take their security responsibilities seriously. Three or four at once they come barking and growling, teeth bared. I haven’t been bitten but my shoes and saddlebags show scars. The Gypsy camp dogs are the worst: they don’t stop at a squirt from my water bottle, and if I’m going uphill they will chase me for half a mile.

Right this minute I’m in Craiova, Romania, in the deserted city center. Today is Easter for Orthodox Catholics, a big deal here, and all but a few businesses are closed. I found wi-fi at the closed tourism office. I’m headed off to Bucharest, then Odessa, Ukraine, just as soon as I add a few photos and upload this post.

THANKS FOR THE E-MAILS!!

I had both flat valleys and steep mountain passes between the last post, in Doboj, and Belgrade, where I am now. I passed through some incredibly gritty industrial cities in Bosnia; Tuzla stands out. Seems the major industries are nuclear power, scrap metal and smokestacks. I asked a waitress, “How do you like it here?” She said, “Its awful. The people are terrible. I hate it.”

Bijeljina was a bit nicer:

I climbed one pass late in the afternoon, then into evening, trying to get to the east side for a camp with morning sun. I made the top, then climbed on a side road to find privacy. I didn’t choose this spot:

By the time I was satisfied I had pushed into exhaustion, legs trembling as I pulled a windbreaker over my sweat-soaked jersey. I had my dinner in the dark and slept like a hibernating bear.

Next day I should have made it to Serbia. Five miles from the border I made a wrong turn and then, trying to reach the right highway using back roads, I got quite lost by sunset. My camp by a man-made lake was among the most private and beautiful I have enjoyed. It rained, stopping at 8:00AM for long enough for me to pack up and leave.

I found my highway and entered Serbia in a drizzle.

As I go eastward the people I meet look to the west, toward western Europe and America, with admiration and envy. And they warn me that to the east I should be careful; the people are rough poor and not to be trusted. And indeed as I go east each border brings me to a country with rougher roads, rustier cars, more hardscrabble farms, bigger, dirtier gypsy camps and colder, harder looks from the men gathered to drink at increasingly tough-looking bars. Serbia is no exception. Pit toilets in some gas stations and roadside vegetable vendors with onions only, stuff like that. Rural neighborhoods with tiny homes, no apparent power or automobiles, chickens and goats, and ancient men and women hacking at their gardens with oversized hoes. Of course there were other, more prosperous looking neighborhoods as well, and all kinds of cars on the road, newer ones too. But the average is tending toward Yugos and subsistence farming.

A few kilometers in I encountered a funeral en route from church to graveyard: robed Orthodox Catholic priests, candle-bearers and a large cross, followed by a horse-drawn, flower-strewn bier, followed by a hundred mourners, followed by a mile of backed-up traffic. I stopped and removed my hat as the procession went by. Didnt have the heart to take a photo.

Later I passed through a little town with a littered, crumbling center surrounded by squalor. At a long, low, two-story school the teachers were hanging out the windows smoking cigarettes, laughing at each others’ jokes with gap-toothed grins while behind them the kids partied at a full roar, food and papers flying. The next town was clean, proper, and quiet; handsome, clean-cut schoolchildren were making their way home in little happy groups.

In Bogatic (it’s unpronounceable) I met Serbs. They are crazy bastards. They look you in the eye, act tough, sneer, then turn out to be sweethearts. My search for wi-fi brought me to the Havana café and bar in a town the size of Middlebury. The owner, Bata, 50 or so, employs his sons and their friends, all around 20, to run it, and it is my new favorite place. Bata’s twin sons Milios and Marko, 16, are like grown men and we became very close friends in a very short time. At 16 in rural Serbia you can sit at a bar, drink and smoke. Ivan the bartender is a real pro: he could work a bar in NYC no problem.

Philipe, Danilo, Milos, Ivan, Billy. Photo by Marko

I tried to leave town but rain chased me back to the Havana. Thunder and lightning, a downpour, and sunset sent me next door to the Hotel Bogatic, where, among the old-world elegance and helpful staff, everything is broken. The price was right.

Later, back at the Havana, I joined in a mission. In an old Renault driven by Danilo (good driver), Philipe, Mladen and I went to a nearby village to meet a friend. It was a regular Chinese fire drill complete with dueling cell-phones, gas stops, and history lessons. For my part, I taught those boys that you offer an older gentleman with a white beard the front seat automatically, as a respectful gesture. They understood immediately. I like these Serbs.

What followed was a tour of most of the six bars offering live music. This is in a town of less than ten thousand. First was a small dive with a VFW feel to it, a keyboard player and a drummer backing up a fifty-year-old lady singing traditional songs. A good singer, she sat at a table with friends; I had to follow the microphone cord to find her. Next place was similar. The place after that had a three-piece band (accordion) and a young, sexy singer who went from table to table, singing with stylized flirting, looking into a man’s eyes, stroking his biceps and whatnot. After she sang to me (I promised Milos that I would post the video to Facebook, so you can see it some day if you want), I was invited to sing a couple of numbers myself. Those videos I have promised to post, too, but it was not my best performance. Alcohol was a factor.

Late at night, staggering home, we traded stories. These young men are like characters in a classic tale. The twins Milos and Marko are near opposites, the straight-arrow and the long-hair, but they clearly love each other; Danilo is a bit older, wiser, experienced; Mladen is sharp, charismatic, and talented, but troubled, hurt and angry. E-mail me, dude, I have more to say to you. Philipe is the quiet one, my interpreter, a solid guy, under Mladen’s sway but his own man. He had the presence of mind to make video with my phone. Aleksandar, Nickolas, you other guys with unpronounceable names, thanks for everything. It was a great night; you are clearly the kings of Bogatic.

After a few winks in the luxury of the Hotel Bogatic, I had a breakfast date at the Havana with the twin’s parents, Bata, (his nickname) and Snezana. We had to wake the boys with the phone. These young guys; party animals but lightweights in the AM.

Goodbye turned into a show with pictures, gifts (a bottle of Rafika {plum whiskey}, a book, pens, lighters, a t-shirt, maps), extended toasts, and promises to return on my part, promises to visit me in America on their part.

Totally charged from that experience, I found myself on the road again trying to process it all and prepare for whatever was next. I navigated to the Sava River and followed its banks toward Belgrade, where it joins the Danube.

Even with the late start and slight hangover, I made 125 kilometers pass under me before taking a side road to seek a campsite. Pretty densely settled here, but agricultural and not without prospects. Still, I didn’t find anything obvious, and asked a man in a fenced-in yard if I could camp in the field across the road.

“I don’t know,” he said, opening the gate. “Why don’t you come in here and have a drink first?”.

Four guys, all around fifty, were spending the weekend in a weekend house. “Stay here, it’s going to rain.” And rain it did, while we ate plentiful pork chops, salad, mushrooms, bread; great food. We made a good dent in the liter-and-a-half of plum whiskey I was carrying all day, and beer was abundant.

They Don’t Mess Around

These fellows, closer to my own age, were Serbs with very good vibes, as mellow as they come. I never learned their names. They were all scuba divers. One spoke English; he made a living filming underwater video and selling it by the second. The rest had regular jobs. They were so relaxed and matter-of-fact that I felt instantly at home (pretty easy anyway in weekend bachelor’s quarters). “Here’s a bed, there’s the bathroom, thanks for the whiskey. Want another beer?” We watched TV, they smoked cigarettes. These guys are passionate cigarette smokers.

I crashed like Evel Knievel and declined whiskey at breakfast. Departing with no fanfare (I like the coolness these guys display), I was on the road again. It was Easter Sunday for the few Roman Catholics in the area: Orthodox Catholics observe Easter next week. The coldest day in a long time, gloves and all. The rain has gone, skies are clearing. Reaching Belgrade was easy.

Belgrade is hard to describe. The city is not beautiful, but it is decent and handsome here near my hotel, across from the parliament and seat of government. The people are extraordinarily sharp and urbane. My Fedora and shades don’t fool anybody here; they look me in the face with a smirk that says, “Who are you trying to kid?” The vibe is socially aggressive and fast-paced. Everybody jaywalks; pedestrians and motorists alike claim their space and display little patience for clumsy moves by American bicyclists. Twice I saw pedestrians stop in their tracks and stare down with dagger eyes a motorist who almost failed to yield, creating an extended tense moment that onlookers seemed to enjoy.

People look you in the eye here to a remarkable degree. Not in the country but in Budapest. I look back, of course. After a few scowls and dismissive, angry, “Pfft!” sounds and eye-rolling, we can talk. When I ask, “Do you speak English?” I either get ignored after a disgusted look, or else I am impatiently told, “Of course!” as if I had insulted them. The thing is, though, after that, people are nice, helpful, friendly, downright warm. I spent the afternoon among these Belgrade Serbs and although I haven’t figured them out, I love them. They don’t hold anything back; what you see is what you get.

On the street good food comes from hole-in-the-wall sidewalk shops, very cheap, no seating or bathrooms. Next door, or not far away, you sit at a café with your food and order an overpriced soda or beer (still less than a dollar and a quarter). The café serves no food; the hole-in-the-wall food joint offers no drinks. I’m getting along fine.

That’s it for now. Tomorrow I’ll see more of Budapest and then go camping in the countryside for a few days. Next stop: Transylvania. Now a part of Romania, I hear it’s nice, thick with castles, forests, hillbillies and history. And of course I hear that the people are dangerous and rough, thieves and liars, and lazy to boot. I doubt it. Whatever I learn I will share with you here in these pages.

It was indeed snowing when I woke, big wet heavy flakes sticking to the grass if not the road. And there was indeed home-made sausage. After breakfast in this hunting lodge (where I am the only guest and eat with the family) I climbed back in bed and worked on the gmail problem. I’m making progress. I work on it mostly to keep billyromp@gmail.com alive, but it would be a lot easier to get a new account. I’ll keep you posted.

By 11:00AM the sun came out and I was on the road. Crossing into Bosnia-Herzgovenia was, again, simpler than crossing from Vermont into Canada.

Bosnia-Herzgovenia is different. It’s somewhat tidier, and it seems to be more prosperous than Croatia, although I am told that it is not. I shared the road with the occasional Mercedes and the occasional tractor, some antique mopeds, plenty of pedestrians, and one horse-drawn farm wagon. Picnic areas are few but nice, except for the litter. It is really out of hand here.

I visited Kozarak, a small town off the highway, thinking I would change money and get some food. I asked a couple for directions to a bank and they reminded me, in genuine British accents, that it was Sunday and the banks were closed. They were Ervin and Arnela Kulašić, and they insisted on treating me to lunch. Arnela suggested Ćevapi, the national dish, and it was superb, just what a cyclist wants: big beef sausage squares between two fresh pancake-like things, with onions, salad, and local beer. As grateful as I was, I am much more grateful to them for sharing their story.

Ervin is from Kozarak, and they visited here every year from their home in Essex, England, where they both have good jobs. They visit Ervin’s mother, and to keep alive their memories and feelings for their war-torn homeland. Kozaric was where anti-Muslim atrocities started; a monument in the center of town to massacred Muslims was funded partly by the Muslim community in Chicago. Arnela is from Sarajevo, where her prosperous family, her father particularly, suffered much from the senseless violence during the war, and lost everything. I won’t recount the details here, but I will never forget them.

Only children when the war started, they have lived most of their lives in England, where Arnela’s father still survives, still suffering from injuries received in a war that ended in 1994. Many Muslim families have returned to this town and this area, but many houses stand empty. Every few kilometers a small memorial sits by the roadside with flowers and candles, most with lettered stone plaques and photographs, marking the place where a loved one fell.

I rode along toward Banja Luka with my eyes opened. Thanks Arnela and Ervin.

A curious thing: look at the google map of Bosnia-Herzgovenia and you will see towns all over but main roads only. Neighboring Serbia is thick with roads. On my paper map they are similar. The small roads I am on, east of Banja Luka, are roughly paved and (thinly) populated, and I have no idea why they are not on google maps.

By the way, if you want to, you can find Google Latitude on your computer or smart phone. Sign up and select me as a friend. I will approve it when Google Latitude sends me an e-mail. Then you can log in and see where I am (or last was when I had wi-fi). I think you need a gmail account to do it, but even with my recent problems, I still like those guys.

In fact, I got my account unblocked a day or two later. I’m dashing across Bosnia-Herzgovenia with a map and compass. The camping is good, the riding is better. Trees are blooming on the hillsides and the mosquitoes are few. I camped in the rain one night and rode in the rain next morning. It’s not as bad as it sounds. I ate lunch today with this bunch of kids in a tiny farming village.

What fun! They go to school from 8:00 to noon. One spoke English; his mom owned the restaurant. I played some tunes for them, and an grizzled old guy bought my beers.

Tonight I got dinner and a big room in Doboj (pronounced dough-boy) for cheap. I’m headed for Belgrade, Serbia and then Bucharest, Romania. Then I absolutely have to decide; north to Ukraine, Russia and Mongolia or south to Bulgaria, Turkey and the ‘Stans. Let me know what you would do.