What is travel nowadays? Huh? What has it become? Like most of us, I've come to consume travel instead of fully experiencing it. What's the point of jumping on a plane to Rome on a Friday night, eating spaghetti, a pizza, gazing at the Trevi Fountain, and visiting the Colosseum, only to come back on Sunday and claim that we've visited Italy when the only Italian we've spoken to is the souvenir shop clerk...
Where on earth have the wild years of my early travels gone? Those years when I hit the road without a dime but with the best travel companions, enriching myself with a thousand unforgettable memories that made me who I am today. Those trips where we slept in the streets and met people in droves! The ones where we roamed all over Europe in our old Clio, trading comfort for the unknown, predictability for the unforeseen. The streets were our alcoves and encounters our trophies. Ah! That was an adventure! These expeditions were not just travels, but rites of passage.
Have I grown old?! I don't like the thought of it. Travel must, above all, be an adventure, an exploration, a discovery, and a learning experience. Travel should tear apart our veils as much as our guts. I don't want to be like those people who spend two weeks on the white sandy beaches of Thailand, roasting themselves while sipping piña coladas. Absolutely not! We must return from a journey enriched, not impoverished. One evening, during a discussion about travel, an idiot tells me that hitchhiking is for the broke or the hippies. My patience starts to wear thin. I tell him that I practiced the art of hitchhiking in my younger years, a simple gesture that opened the doors to a world his mind could never understand. To which he responds with a condescending smile that I was young, so I was forgiven. He says that now I work like everyone else and that one would really have to be some kind of beggar to subject themselves to hitchhiking. His words infuriate me, and I go home boiling inside. It's November 2021, and this idea will stay in the back of my mind until May of the following year. After spending several months immersed in maps, scrutinizing every line, every turn, hunting for the perfect route, I am ready. My departure will be on September 12, 2022.
Day 1 - France - Amiens - Kilometer 0
The sun is barely rising when I load all my gear onto my back: my camera bag slung over one shoulder, a small backpack in the front for all my electronic devices (laptop, hard drives, Polaroid, etc.). And then there's "the Monster," my 80-liter backpack. Thirty-five kilos of freedom, responsibilities, and dreams. My home, an extension of myself that I will carry on the roads for the months to come.
For months, this journey has been calling to me like an untamed siren. It's 7 AM when I get on the bus that will take me to the city outskirts. With the weight I'm carrying, I have the agility of a three-legged hippopotamus. Sitting down is impossible. It's a dance between the man and his burden. But it’s not just a burden, it’s a pact I've made with the Monster. The pot dangling from my bag clangs against every metal bar on the bus; everyone is staring at me, and I wish I could hide in a mouse hole, but I am an elephant. Forty-five minutes later, and with the bus episode behind me, I set my bags down in the fresh dew of early September, at a strategically chosen spot. My sign is raised, and my best smile lights up a friendly face. I am clean, shaved, groomed, neat, impeccable. The cars start to pass by. It's cold, and the smile that warmed my cheerful demeanor becomes strained with one question in mind, “What am I doing here?” The sun rises, igniting the sky and flooding it with possible hope. The morning mist intensifies the golden rays that give me more strength and courage. The cars race down the road, and inside their cold shells are different people and expressions. When you hitchhike, you discover a whole gallery of characters. There are those who avert their gaze, as if by ignoring me, they erase my presence from their reality. Then there are those who fumble with their radio or phone to pretend they’re busy and avoid the discomfort of your gaze that bothers them. And of course, there are the arrogant ones, who look at you with disdain, as if you were a mere failure spoiling their daily panorama. Don't worry, the contempt is mutual. To those who grumble in their cars, like “No way, buddy, keep dreaming!” Yes, you! Stop doing that. Because in your cocoons, through your armored windows, we can read your lips...
But there are also those who communicate with gestures. A shrug that says "I'm sorry." Those who point in a different direction to indicate they are not going your way. Those who point downward to say they live here and aren’t going any further. Those who give a thumbs up as a sign of encouragement. Those who flash a broad smile as if I remind them of their youth. Thank you to these generous souls for treating me like a human being. It’s a burst of warmth in this icy world. And it brings back the smile. Truly, thank you.
And then, of course, there are those who stop. Those who open their car door, offering a glimpse into their lives. These people are human oases, and I raise my glass to them! Speaking of which, after spending thirty minutes shivering, the very first car of this long journey finally stops. Bruno, the director of a Catholic institute, tells me he turned around on purpose. A Christian duty, no doubt.
You can't imagine the rush of adrenaline, that electric surge that went through my whole body the moment I got into that first car. The journey finally begins. Europe with its roads stretching out like veins is mine! The thousands of kilometers opening up like a promise are mine! Thirty kilometers later, my savior of the day drops me off on the side of the road, in the grass, on the edge of a field, in the middle of nowhere. Literally. No one will ever stop here. Five minutes later, a driver proves me wrong. Her son missed his train to school in Saint Quentin. For her, there was no doubt—it was a sign, she had to pick me up. She tells me she hitchhiked in Italy when she was 17. It was during the war in Yugoslavia, and everyone mistook her for a refugee, which she found amusing at the time. She also shares that her husband, when he was 20, made a pilgrimage on foot to Santiago de Compostela. He set out with a big backpack, like mine, and gradually gave everything away to the poor he met along the way. To the point of giving away his shoes and walking the last 300 kilometers barefoot. He even crossed fresh asphalt without shoes, she says, and found himself in bushes surrounded by snakes. And nothing happened to him. No matter what you do, if Saint James wants you to make it, then you will. That's what she tells me. It was an evangelical journey.
I realize that every driver has a story to tell. An episode from their life that has marked them forever and now marks mine. Just as I mark theirs. Because the road is just that—a canvas where stories intertwine, where destinies intersect, leaving a mark, however fleeting, in the grand book of travel. From that moment on, everything moved quickly to La Capelle, in the Aisne.
A woman, charming in herself, drops me at the entrance to the city because she’s heading in the opposite direction. I look at the map and, to avoid crossing the whole city on foot, I ask her if she can drop me at the other side; it would take her 5 minutes at most! She’s in a hurry and can’t. No choice, I gather all my gear and set off! During this crossing, I meet a fifty-something woman on a bike who, as she passes by, immediately turns around. - Look what we have here! Where are you leaving like this? - To Turkey. - What?! A handsome guy like you? Alone on the roads! Come have a drink with me, it’ll give you some strength! - Thanks, but no. It’s ten in the morning after all. - There’s no time for a glass of wine! It warms the heart!
I thank her, decline, and continue on my way. One hour. That's how long it took me to cross this village with 35 kilos on my back. I was drenched in sweat. If I have a message for all the drivers in the world: when you pick someone up hitchhiking, if a detour takes you five minutes, drop them at the edge of the city, not at the beginning or in the middle. Because, five minutes for you is an hour for us, or even more! And with accumulated fatigue... that time can make the difference between the joy of finally arriving and the agony of an endlessly stretching road.
Later in the day, someone drops me on the outskirts of Charleville-Mézières. As soon as he leaves, a woman stops in the middle of a bustling roundabout, rolls down her window, and says: - You're in a terrible spot here! Get in, I'll drop you off at a better place! - Thank you! Where are you headed? - It doesn’t matter. Get in. I load the trunk amidst the blaring horns and get into the car. She hits the gas, taking the first exit on a whim. She continues with a sort of fake upper-class accent. You were in such a terrible spot; the person who dropped you off here is completely thoughtless. Completely thoughtless. I saw you on the side of the road and immediately thought, oh, poor thing! Poor thing! (Yes, she tended to repeat everything twice. Twice). I had to help you, and you're also handsome. You’re handsome! How could anyone leave you in such a situation? Such a situation. You know, I help a lot of people. And you look good. You know, I’m a clean woman. I’m clean. I take care of myself and I wash. I wash. Where are you going?
- To Sedan.
- Oh, but that’s not at all in my direction! I’m going in the opposite way! What am I going to do? What am I going to do? - Drop me where you picked me up, the place wasn’t that bad.
- Oh yes, it was! Oh yes! It was a very bad spot! I can’t drop you back there. I can’t. We’ll have to find a solution. A solution.
She turns around, and filled with good intentions, she merges onto the ring road to drop me off at the best spot possible according to her terms. She continues:
- Oh, you know, I love traveling, but I can’t afford it, so I only travel within France. Do you know France? I’m a fan of the departments. The departments. I can name all of them if you want! All of them. Next week I’m going to Loiret.
- Do you have family there?
- Oh no! I don’t have much family, you know. Not much family... But Loiret is a beautiful department! I recommend it. I recommend it. Your trip to Europe sounds nice, but you should go to Loiret. It’s beautiful! Beautiful.
She eventually drops me off at the edge of a tiny village that doesn’t seem to see any traffic. When I ask to take her portrait, something I try to do with each driver, she jumps back in surprise.
- Oh no! I’m sorry, but I’m too shy for that, and I don’t really feel good about myself. About myself. You know, I have a lot of insecurities, I don’t find myself very pretty, not very pretty. However, I don’t know if I’ve already told you, but I’m clean, very clean! And you are so handsome! I couldn’t leave you on the side of the road. On the side of the road.
There she goes, and I find myself alone. Very alone. One thing I’ll notice later is that, in general, the kindest and most helpful people, those who always want to do their best, often end up dropping you off at the worst spots. The worst spots... After a wait that turns out not to be so long, people start stopping and moving me along quite quickly. I must really be very handsome... I pass Sedan and enter Belgium through Bouillon, where a lovely man makes a detour to show me around the city! By late afternoon, after a more than successful first day, I arrive in Bastogne, Belgium, at my niece's place where I’ll be staying for the first night.
Day 2 – Belgium – Bastogne – Kilometer 310
Morning. Hangover. Charlotte drops me off in Luxembourg. The day begins. The road is very busy, there’s plenty of space to stop, and the place is perfect. And yet, I waited an hour and a half in the rain before the man who lives across the street came over to tell me that I absolutely must take a bus because, one, transportation is free in Luxembourg, and two, I’m in Luxembourg, so no one will give me a lift. I explain that the purpose of this trip is to hitchhike across Europe, so no buses. He goes to fetch his car to drop me off a few kilometers away at a bus stop... Once sheltered at the stop, I wave as he drives off, and as soon as he turns and disappears, I hoist my bag onto my shoulders and head towards the main road. I wait for a good half hour in the pouring rain before someone finally stops and drops me off at three villages away, and once again, at the entrance of the village... 45 minutes later, soaked, I hold up my sign praying to the sky that this nightmare, the rain, or both, will stop raining down on me. I must not have prayed hard enough...
Nevertheless, after an hour, a mail carrier picks me up and drops me off at the border. A Belgian family immediately takes me to escape this hellhole, locally known as Luxembourg. Four hours! That’s what it took me to cover the equivalent of a twenty-minute drive. But the troubles are just beginning. This kind Belgian family drops me off in the middle of a residential area. However, I don’t wait too long before getting a ride to the German border. I’m at the last roundabout of the village, with both exits leading to Germany. I flip a coin to choose one of the two routes, put on my poncho because it’s pouring rain, and try to shelter as best as I can between two trash cans to write the name of the next city on my sign: Hallschlag. Cars pass by every five minutes, mostly taking the other exit. An hour later, with my feet soaked to the bone, I decide to switch exits. And just like when you switch lines at the supermarket or lanes in traffic, all the cars go to the exit where I had been waiting for 60 minutes. Damn it! So, I decide to plop myself in the middle of the roundabout’s grass like a castaway on his island and wave two signs—one for each exit. And it pays off! A family stops. Germany, here I come!
I celebrated too soon... Here I am, stuck for ages in the next tiny village. I think. What the hell is the problem?! Is it the Germans? Possible. The fact that I’m drenched? Possible. Being dropped off at crappy spots? Possible. And suddenly, the lightbulb goes off. From the beginning, I’ve been avoiding highways for several reasons. Firstly, because I want to enjoy the scenery, but also to have the option to pitch my tent wherever I like if needed. Plus, access to food and water without having to stop at rest areas where everything costs a fortune. But there’s one thing I hadn’t thought of but seems obvious now! All Germans take the highway! It’s free here!
I pull out my map and figure out how to reach the nearest highway. Prum. That’s where I need to go. The wait is long, but my spirits lift because this time, I’m sure, the highway will get me out of this mess. An old man finally stops. I try to explain where I want to go, but the problem is, he doesn’t speak a word of English. I pull out my voice translator and start a funny exchange between two baffled people. Still, it works! Three minutes after being dropped off, a motorhome stops and takes me to Bitburg. “Big beer brand, Bitburg,” the driver tells me.
Then things start moving quickly. The next driver, Paul, a 27 year old salesman, crosses the western part of his country every day. I ask him if it's true that there are no speed limits on German highways. He tells me to look at the speedometer and floors it. The needle climbs steadily, 120, 150, 180, 200, 220. The rain now covers the vehicle with a damp, blurry shroud, forming a wavy layer over the hull. He drops me off in Montabaur.
I'm almost there. A couple driving a tiny, beat-up car stops. The man takes a stroller out of the back seat, crams it into the trunk, and forces it shut. In the back, my seatmate is a child who, upon seeing me, starts screaming at the top of his lungs. It's unbearable. His parents try everything. Water? He throws it on the floor. Soda? Same. Cookies? Same. Candy? Again. Toys? No. Pacifier? He cries even louder. The parents start arguing. I understand them. I felt like tossing the little brat out the window. I thank the driver. He tells me he walked from Syria to Germany and that many people helped him. He would have died if he hadn’t met so many kind-hearted people along the way. That’s why, he says, he will help others for the rest of his life.
Bad Camberg! The goal of the second day is achieved, and not without difficulty... Julia and James open their home to me. Willkommen! Six years without seeing each other. We open a good bottle of wine, order pizzas, and catch up on everything.
Day 3 – Germany – Bad Camberg – Kilometer 569
You’re always well received at Julia and James's place. Maybe a bit too much. Upon waking, my slippers are waiting for me outside the bedroom. Once I’ve descended the two flights of stairs, it’s chaos. People are running around in all directions! Am I okay? Did I sleep well? Am I too cold? Too hot? Do I want coffee? Tea? Am I hungry? They can bring me croissants or pancakes. Calm down. Everything is fine. Relax and don’t worry about me. No sooner have they finished, than coffee and croissants are on the table. I’m not going to complain. Originally, I planned to stay two nights with J&J, but two days before my departure, I had a cycling accident. Fractured rib. Since then, it’s been agony when I breathe, cough, laugh, etc., so you can imagine how it is when I’m carrying the Monster. So, I decided to double my German stopover. I visit Bad Camberg in the late morning, a charming little town of 15 000 souls, with its half-timbered houses and cobbled streets, typical of the region. During my wanderings, an old man calls out to me to take his photo. So, striking a proud pose with his chin raised, like Napoleon, he ends up captured in my camera. Afterwards, he invites me for coffee at his tailor shop.
He suddenly gets an idea! "I absolutely need to call my nephew! He lives in Paris!" The phone rings, and the nephew answers.
- Hello ?
- Yes, hello, I’m with your uncle in Germany. He insisted that we call you.
- Oh ? And why ?
- I don’t know. I think it’s because we both speak French. The tailor nods, looking at me with a broad smile. Then I continue, "Well, I don’t know what else to say, so goodbye.
-Yes, good bye.
One of the strangest phone calls I’ve ever had... I manage to extricate myself from the old man’s grasp and return home with my arms loaded with pastries. James opens the door and exclaims, “Keep your coat on! We’re going to Julia’s parents’ place for a caipirinight.” That is, a night of caipirinhas.
Day 4 – Germany – Bad Camberg – Kilometer 580
My eyes open, accompanied by a throbbing headache and aching ribs. My slippers are waiting for me in front of the door, and my coffee is steaming on the table. Once I gather my senses, Bert, Julia’s mixologist father-in-law, picks me up to show me around. We visit the medieval towns of Limburg and Runkel, gems that have survived through the ages to reach us today.
We find an authentic Deutsches Restaurant to indulge in a schnitzel. Spoiler Alert: it's just a breaded turkey cutlet. While digesting, I meet up with Julia, and we hop on a train headed for Frankfurt am Main.
Once there, the first thing that strikes me, though I can't quite explain why, is that this city has a vibe similar to New York. It’s no wonder the Germans nickname it Mainhattan. After devouring an Injera at an Ethiopian restaurant, a marvel, and a few gins, we head back home.
Day 5 – Germany – Bad Camberg – Kilometer 728
The next day, I head to Frankfurt alone to visit a friend. This light-hearted day ends at Bert and his wife’s bungalow by the lake, with several bottles of red wine, a feast of stories and anecdotes, laughter, and friendship.
Day 6 – Germany – Bad Camberg – Kilometer 924
It’s time to hit the road again. J&J drop me off on the outskirts of Würzburg, on a bypass. The sky is a monotonous gray, I sling my bag onto my back, my ribs crack. Half an hour later, a van with Croatian plates and solar panels stops with a special request. Can I drive? The driver has important calls to make. So, I find myself behind the wheel driving towards Altdorf bei Nürnberg. The guy explains that he’s broke and that I’ve used up his gas by driving at 130 on the highway. He also warns me that he’s running on reserve. We then look for a gas station to put the remaining 10 euros into the tank. I offer him a bill, which he pushes away with a smile. He drops me off at a rest area where I immediately find my next ride, which drops me 30 kilometers from the Czech border. So far, this crossing through southern Germany has been a succession of bare coniferous trees, but nonetheless strikingly beautiful, giving me my first real sense of well-being and escape. But here begins my first real desert crossing. For hours, I try out different possibilities in this rest area. I have time to admire the fir trees, even count them! Until, miraculously, Hannah, a young Flemish woman who had initially declined my request, reappears, informing me that Alex, her 25-year-old Swiss boyfriend, told her to come back and pick me up. So, I’m with two geology students heading to a vacation camp in Sušice, Czech Republic. By the end of the day, I arrive in Pilsen, a large rainbow city with houses in pink, yellow, blue, red, green, white, purple, and orange, battling the torrential rain pouring down on them. And now I’m faced with a new dilemma. Night is falling, I’m soaked, fatigue is weighing on me, and my ribs are killing me. Should I try to leave the city to set up camp in a remote spot? Should I rent a hotel room in town and see what happens tomorrow? Or should I hop on a train, knowing that 86 kilometers separate me from Prague, where an apartment awaits? It’s a tough choice. But the long rainy day leads me to the bus that goes to the station. When I get on, the driver yells at me upon seeing my bag. I don’t understand a word, but I know he’s cursing me out. Seeing the bus aisle, I immediately know my bag won’t fit. So, I lay it across the floor and slide it to an empty seat. The other jerk keeps hurling a stream of insults at me. This son of a bitch is stressing me out. That’s when everything goes wrong. He jumps on his little legs and rushes at me, continuing his complaints. Everyone on the bus is watching us and laughing. I turn around, yell at him to shut up, and finally manage to sit down, humiliated.
Less than an hour later, I find myself at Prague train station, then on the metro, and finally in a huge apartment that Andrijana, a long-time Czech friend, is lending me for a week while she tours the country’s movie theaters for the premieres of her new film, Svetlonoc, which has received 7 nominations!
What a day! I need a drink. I wander around the block and end up in a dive bar, a typical Czech-style joint. What could be better?! I weave between the bar pillars and order a glass of red wine. To my surprise, the owner gives me a look and a shrug that seems to say, “Whatever you want, buddy.” Half a second later, a heavy hand lands on my shoulder.
- Are you seriously ordering wine here? You’re gonna have a pint, like everyone else!
- No, I’m having wine. Because I want to!
- Why would you drink that crap? Only French queers drink wine!
- Well, maybe because I’m a French queer!
Oh right! I forgot to mention that Czechs, like Germans, are super proud of their beers! Except, their beer is crap. Some kind of vaguely fizzy beer with 4% alcohol. Might as well drink cider. I take my glass and settle in among a group of about thirty Sparta Prague supporters, decked out in scarves and club shirts, drunk on weak beer, disappointed and angry about their draw with Ostrava. So, with my red wine and my scruffy appearance, I certainly stand out. Damn! The wine is undrinkable. The shrug makes perfect sense now. Maybe the beer wasn’t so bad after all. When I leave the bar, the same guy asks me how the Czech wine was. Disgusting. Bursts of laughter.
Day 7 – Czech Republic – Prague – Kilometer 1515
The sky is a brilliant blue this morning. It perfectly complements the colorful ballet of facades in a multitude of pale hues. The architecture, a blend of Baroque and Art Nouveau, whispers poems that quickly enchant me. Under the city's spell, with a smile from ear to ear, I leisurely explore the story-filled streets of this magnificent capital. I start with the Jewish Cemetery, an incredible place that almost seems unreal due to its surreal nature. A stratigraphy of graves stacked upon each other, creating a mound overlooking the old city around it. My wanderings then lead me to the cathedral, the astronomical clock, the castle, Charles Bridge, and of course, the taverns and restaurants where I savor a svíčková. During my stroll, I enjoy a trdelník, while birds sing and wink at me, flowers dance, the Vltava river ripples, the wind caresses me, and time seems to stand still. My few days in Prague will be a harmonious blend of joy, tranquility, magical encounters, laughter, hangovers, romantic adventures, curiosity, lightness, a cultural shower, and friendship.
Day 11 – Czech Republic – Prague – Kilometer 1578
Andy is waiting for me in her car outside the building to head to Kutná Hora and its impressive ossuary. We have a coffee, share a Czech cake, exchange some final laughs and smiles, and then she drives off, leaving me on the side of National Route 2.
The neighbors, hidden behind their curtains, keep an eye on the hitchhiker occupying the sidewalk. A window opens. I'm handed a bottle of water and a slice of pie. I thank the old man. His wife, embarrassed, chuckles behind him. Sitting on my backpack by the side of the road, with the sun warming my face, I savor the gift. A car stops. Perfect timing. Adela, the driver, tells me we're going to pick up her boyfriend, who is used to hitchhiking and will know where to drop me off. Arriving at their countryside house, Adam, the companion, shows up with two surprises. The first is a large cold beer, and the second is their albino hedgehog! Cute but difficult to pet. They drop me off in front of a roadside restaurant, in a vast parking lot next to a very busy road. According to Adam, it's the best spot! I should be picked up in 2 minutes. Forty minutes later, with my beer finished and my bladder full, a guy stops and comes over. "You're on the wrong side of the road. Pardubice (the city on my sign) is in the other direction!" Damn it... Anyway, the guy says he's going to eat at the restaurant and if I'm still here when he comes out, he'll take me to the right side. Sure enough, after his meal, I was still there, dodging trucks. Because yes, on the other side of the road, there's no parking, just a tiny strip of dirt where trucks pass literally a meter from me. The man drops me off on the edge of town, in a commercial area. Perfect. Before leaving, I bought some cheap shoes. Big mistake. The sole is peeling off everywhere. I go around the shops, and barefoot on the roadside, with a tube of super glue, my new best friend, I improvise as a cobbler. After that, everything moves quickly; the scenery changes with apple orchards lining the roads, replacing our plane trees, and I fall asleep in Olomouc, in the east of the country.
Day 12 – Czech Republic – Olomouc – Kilometer 1857
The day dawns peacefully, and the Monster is already perched on my shoulders. Jakub, a Slovak photographer, contacted me on social media. He wants to meet me and invite me to KalamarKap, a large gathering of climbers in the mountains. To get there, I need to be in Žilina, Slovakia, by 4 PM. Once I arrive in town around noon, I grab a bite to eat and wander around with the Monster. The town doesn’t hold much interest. I get into Veronika’s car, and an hour later, we pick up Jakub. On the way, he wants to stop and show me a small monument in the middle of nowhere, deep in the mountains. When we reach the insignificant-looking monument, I ask him what it's about. It turns out we’re at the geographic center of Europe! Jakub asks me to listen closely. In the distance, I hear howling. It’s apparently the rutting season. We drive through the woods at night and finally arrive at the campsite. We’re about ten people gathered around a fire. The glow of the flames makes our shadows dance on the surrounding pines, creating a ghostly and soothing atmosphere.
Day 13 – Slovakia – Kalamarka – Kilometer 2059
When I step out of my tent in the morning, the scene has changed completely. There must be nearly two hundred people, some in coats, others shirtless. The common factor? They all have harnesses and carabiners around their hips. All of them, except me. The goal of KalamarKap is to run from the nearest village to the campsite with climbing gear. Once you cross the finish line, it's a pint, laughter, hugs, smiles, good cheer, music, and a meal that everyone cooks over the fire.
Aaaah... Slovak food. One of my greatest discoveries! Where to start? Maybe with Kapustnica! A sauerkraut and sausage soup. They cooked up an enormous barrel of it! I had seconds three times and was immensely sad when the barrel was empty... Jakub wants me to try the national dish, bryndzové halušky, potato dumplings with sheep cheese and bacon. It's out of this world. Most of the climbers make their own cheese and all of them wanted me to taste it. Mamma Mia! A delight. They roast it over the fire, it doesn't actually melt, and once it's in your mouth... That salty taste! My God. I can't describe it, you have to taste it.
After the meal, we head to the mountains to climb. The place is unique, like something out of a fantasy novel. The trees are so tall that watching their tops sway from side to side makes me dizzy. I feel like a flea in a pine forest.
Everyone is geared up, with carabiners and ropes attached, each carefully studying their route before launching into the air. They all climb like spiders on a thread. After a few back-and-forths, one of them hands me a pair of climbing shoes.
- Your turn !
I politely decline, admitting to a very real fear of heights. He laughs and places the shoes in my hand.
- You have five minutes to change, then you climb.
Once ready, at least physically if not mentally, he shows me an "easy" route. Before I know it, I'm two meters off the ground, my legs trembling like overcooked spaghetti, feeling vulnerable.
- Go for it! You’re doing great! You’ve got this! You have six meters left to the top!
Six fucking meters?! Is he serious? I don’t want to disappoint them or MYSELF. I want to return to the camp as a hero tonight. I muster all my courage, analyze the wall like a pro. Cliffhanger mode activated. One hold after another, confident, I reach the top. I crawl to escape this hell, stand up. Applause and congratulations echo behind me. I turn around with a big smile and arms raised in victory and ask:
- Where’s the way down?
They look at each other and tell me it's the same way I came up. I laugh. They don’t laugh. I understand. I grumble and sit for five minutes on the edge of the cliff to consider my options. Either I throw myself into the void or I descend the way I came up. Simple. I curse as I lay flat on the andesite, trying to find a handhold for my right foot, thinking that this damn country should be erased from the map. I start the descent when people below stop me.
- You need to lean back without using your hands, they say, and push with your legs to jump like a frog against the wall and descend. - Are you kidding me?! What next??? I follow their crazy advice and finally touch solid ground. I kiss the ground like a castaway finding dry land. I can hear you saying, “Come on, eight meters is nothing, stop exaggerating!” Well, for me, it’s a lot! The applause starts again. I’m proud of my climb to these great heights and thank them warmly and sincerely for the adventure.
- Do you want to do another one?
- No.
Laughter.
Night falls on our shoulders as softly as a feather, guiding me by the hand back to base camp. A massive fire warms the crowd in front of a low-quality concert. A 9-year-old helps his father serve pints behind the bar. - Pour me four of them.
- But it's the French! the father exclaims. Put your money away, it’s on the house! After some thanks, bows, and distributing beers to those around me, a guy grabs me by the arm.
- Come over here and chug this down! he says, slapping a bottle of water against my chest.
- No thanks, I don’t want water. Smile, wink, he opens the bottle and lets me smell it. It’s lawnmower fuel.
- It’s homemade moonshine, he says.
Smile, wink. I survived an eight-meter climb. I’m invincible. One cowboy gulp and I’m back at it. Around me, the flames dance with drunkenness. The night hides the madness.
Day 14 – Slovakia – Kalamarka – Kilometer 2064
Eight in the morning. Hangover. The clearing is deserted. We're down to just a handful of people. It's raining. The few survivors look gray. The camp is packed up, and Jakub and his girlfriend, Emma, surprise me by taking me to a typical Slovak village lost in the clouds and mist, where beautiful wooden houses are perched. Bear pelts are hung on the walls above small corn husk dolls. Several small streams flow on either side of the village. Speaking of which, the couple tells me that there are about 1,100 springs in Slovakia. That's more than the number of springs in Canada and the USA combined! The day fades away as I bid farewell to Jakub and Emma. We promised to meet again someday. I turn on my heels and hike up the mountainside, feet in the mud, to find the ideal spot to pitch my tent, hidden from view. I emerge from the woods into a large clearing. The perfect spot. I look around and notice holes about a meter high that pierce through the bushes, resembling sort of tunnels. My hunting skills (a lie) tell me these are wild boar tracks. I set up camp a hundred meters away. The tent is pitched, and while the pasta cooks on the stove, I put all my food in a small backpack and hang it on a tree with a rope, two hundred meters away, in the woods. Why? Bears. The country is full of them, and these fools would be capable of tearing open my tent, and me, for a can of cassoulet. I eat in the rain and retreat to the warmth of my little cabin. Nothing else can happen to me. The sound of the rain echoes inside; I'm warm with my book, my eyelids are heavy, I turn off the light, and just as I’m about to drift off, I hear howling in the distance. What the hell is that??? The howling grows louder and more terrifying. It's an animal howling. Wild. Two possibilities: they are werewolves or bears. The howls last for a good twenty minutes when more appear on the other side of the clearing! They’re no more than two hundred meters away from me. I pray that the sound of the rain on the tent doesn't make me need to pee! I stay at the bottom of my sleeping bag, eyes wide open, telling myself that nothing can happen to me. An hour passes, and a flash of realization hits me! The deer rutting calls! It's mating season! They’re just trying to get laid! I take out my phone, go on YouTube, set the volume to minimum, type "deer rutting call," and press the phone to my ear. That’s it... Relief. I quickly turn off the phone and fall asleep, lulled by the amorous howls, still praying they don’t mistake me for a doe.
Day 15 – Slovakia – Besenova – Kilometer 2199
7 a.m. Tent packed up. The bag wasn’t torn open. Neither was I. The deer are sound asleep. Retracing my steps in the rain, I discover something that wasn’t there the night before. The ground is torn up, turned over on a 30 square meter area. Wild boars! They came during the night. Hunter's instinct. After several hours of waiting and soaked to the bone, a woman named Zusana picks me up. A hunter, a real one. Her dog has just graduated as a professional hunter for duck, pheasant, and rabbit hunting. No joke. She’s off to deliver beers in Poprad. I tell her I want to go more towards the center of the country.
- That’s a bad idea, she says.
- Why ?
- Gypsies. They're everywhere.
A scourge, according to her. The center is filled with villages of “travelers”. If I venture there with all my bags, I’ll surely end up returning in my underwear! Jakub and Emma warned me about the same “danger” the day before. In doubt, I prefer not to take any risks. Once in Poprad, the first car that stops is a family of gypsies... I awkwardly decline because of the brainwashing from the past two days. The man understands and shakes his head in contempt. I feel like crap... Tomas picks me up shortly after. He’s going to Košice, 200 kilometers away. The last city before Ukraine. What’s his opinion on gypsies? He’s unequivocal.
- You did the right thing by not getting in with them or going to the center of the country! They would have stolen everything from you. I'll show you.
He takes a detour to the outskirts and shows me from afar a sort of slum where these poor people live in shacks made of pallets and tin, standing in the mud. He turns to me.
- It’s heartbreaking, but you can’t trust appearances. They’re scum. They have no pity. They need to be left where they are.
Day 16 – Slovakia – Košice – Kilometer 2385
I had decided to stop in Košice to regain my strength and explore a bit. Nothing to see here, folks. Once I left the city, I had a good feeling. The sun had come back out and I was happy to be back on the road. Despite the dismayed looks from drivers reading my sign, "Ukraine," an Ukrainian in a Renault Trafic picked me up. Given the situation in Ukraine, my route had changed several times since the beginning of the trip. I initially wanted to pass through the major cities in the West to reach Moldova but eventually decided to take the small mountain roads in the south. This would allow me to easily take refuge in Romania if things went south. There were five of us in the van. We arrived at the border, waited ten minutes, got my passport stamped, and I officially entered a country at war. The driver told me he was heading to Ivano-Frankivsk, one of the cities on my original route, which was a big leap forward. I'm in. People got on and off throughout the journey. I realized I was in a Blablacar, feeling awkward about not having paid a cent but happy to have a good star watching over me.
The guy drives like a maniac, I think he's afraid of missing happy hour. I see myself dying a hundred times. The kilometers fly by, revealing a green and rusty sea of trees climbing the surrounding mountains. The spectacle offered by the Skolivski Beskydy National Park is a whirlwind of fresh air. For the first time since the day I left, I feel like I'm on an adventure. A few new elements add to the scenery. Cyrillic script, Orthodox churches, soldiers, billboards urging civilians to join the fight, very Soviet-style architecture, cold and austere, and makeshift bunkers everywhere serving as checkpoints. Ukraine is the first country I've traveled through without internet access. After using a hotspot, I book a hotel where I'm dropped off. There are no tourists in sight; I'm alone in the establishment. After this long journey, night falls, just like me.
Day 17 – Ukraine – Ivano-Frankivsk – Kilometer 2707
What's happening outside? That's the question I ask myself the second I open my eyes. I walk through deserted streets to reach the city center. A few stray dogs wander in run-down neighborhoods filled with dilapidated houses that whisper forgotten stories. The pavement is in poor condition, adorned with misshapen and rusted fences. Gradually, the streets fill up, public transport appears, the houses grow taller and more colorful, and beside roadblocks guarded by heavily armed soldiers, terraces are full, shops have customers, children play, people smile, the city is alive. I'm very surprised by this context. In my imagination, people were starving, their spirits broken, faces downcast and gloomy. But instead, people stroll relaxed in front of the State Administration building, well hidden behind tons of barricades. And despite the bullet impacts here and there, everything seems perfectly normal. Like a rare flower growing between the cracks of war. A day of sightseeing ends with a Ukrainian restaurant, which feels like a reward. Tonight's menu: holubsti. Stuffed cabbage with meat. Delicious.
- Anything else? the waitress asks me
- Wine.
- We have French, Italian, Argentinian wine, but we also have Ukrainian wine from the southern region. - I'll go with Ukrainian wine!
I can't remember the name of that wine, and believe me, it's a serious mistake. I wish I could remember the name of such a disgusting wine so I'd never order it again. Between gagging, I watch the waitress flirt with one of her colleagues. They must be around twenty, living out their love amidst the backdrop of death.
Day 18 – Ukraine – Ivano-Frankivsk – Kilometer 2717
This morning, the receptionist advised me to go to Yaremche. According to her, it’s a quaint little town. At the bus station, I buy my tickets and have twenty minutes to kill. I order a hot dog in front of the station and take a casual photo of the buses falling apart while waiting for passengers. Three cops show up and ask for my papers. I respond, "passport, hotel." They pull out handcuffs and, as they take a step toward me, a man who was waiting in the same line for food intervenes. He looks to be in his fifties. They ask him for his papers, which he provides. They ask for his phone, and he gives it to them. They start questioning him, taking photos of all his contacts and messages, and it quickly becomes clear that these cops are not messing around. As they surround the guy, the waitress hands me my sandwich and, with a very serious and frightened look, gives me a subtle nod to get out of there. I quietly walk to the corner and slip into the bus. Hidden by the curtain of my window, I watch my savior being yelled at and taken away. The photo was definitely not worth it...
Yaremche is just as it was described to me. Bucolic. A small village bordered by a stream, surrounded by mountains and forests. In the narrow, uneven streets, there are old, large wooden houses with dozens of broken windows. The light must enter like in a cathedral, but it would take at least a weekend to clean the panes! An old church sits there, in the midst of nature, surrounded by a hundred graves that turn their backs to the sacred building. As if these graves were gazing at the surrounding hills in infinite serenity. On each grave, a photo of the deceased reflects a life that has faded.
Back in town, I crave noise, beers, and conversation. I meet an American on the street who invites me to join his friends.
- What are you doing here?
- We’re American soldiers stationed here. We’re training Ukrainian fighters.
- But I thought there were no American soldiers on the ground.
- It’s just not talked about in the media. Where are you heading after Ukraine?
- Moldova.
- Dude, don’t go there! It’s the Pakistan of Europe. Trust me. You’ll get ripped off. It’s full of thieves. You won’t last a day.
Personally, I trust what I see. So I’m not changing my mind. They shrug and say, “We warned you.” The atmosphere in the bar is like any typical Saturday night in Paris. Everyone is drunk, the music is loud, the soldiers are flirting, and no one is talking about the war.
Day 19 – Ivano-Frankivsk – Ukraine – Kilometer 2834
A high-pitched noise is vibrating through my skull, a sound my hangover doesn't appreciate at all. What is it?! A fire alarm! I tumble out of bed. Once on the floor, I realize the alarm is coming from outside. I throw on some pants and go down to see the receptionist. She confirms what I didn’t want to hear, russian planes have been seen over the city, and these are the sirens warning of a potential bombing. I shove everything into my bag and dive into the cold, gray street. Not a soul in sight. The only presence this morning is the oppressive sound echoing off every wall. I need to get out of here fast, and hitchhiking is out of the question. In the center, an unsettling frenzy takes over. Some people are running home, others are filming the chaos with their phones. I take out my camera in this electric atmosphere, which provokes the anger of a civilian in his fifties. His words, foreign to my ears, make it clear that the camera is not welcome. A soldier approaches me and tells me I need to leave immediately. That was my plan. Once at the bus station, I ask a soldier what's happening. He laughs and tells me to jump on the first bus I find. Without internet access, I ask the cashier for a ticket to Moldova. She sells me one to Kolomyia and assures me it's the right direction. The bus takes off, and the sirens fade away with the city. The old yellow minibus speeds through the rain. Once in Kolomyia, I step into the mud, the buildings are decrepit and covered in rust, and people wander aimlessly.
Without wasting time, I grab a ticket to Chernivtsi. The weather softens, and the gray above me turns to blue. The bus drops off travelers at the entrance to the city. I find a Wi-Fi connection to reassure my loved ones, glue my soles back together, and, like solving a puzzle, I look at the road I need to take. The city doesn’t seem very large. I start walking. The avenue is endless, and the Monster weighs a ton. On the map, I see a road that cuts through a residential area. I turn off. The road is much longer than expected. Interminable even. Did I mention that I'm diabetic? An important detail. After two exhausting hours of walking, the inevitable happens. I feel weak, my legs turn to cotton, my head spins, my thoughts get lost in an incoherent maze, I don’t know where I am, I don’t know what I’m doing here. Hypoglycemia. I look through my things. No more sugar or anything that could improve my condition. The street is deserted. Not even a store. I keep going. About twenty minutes later, out of strength and completely disoriented, I see a woman in her garden. I try to call out to her. No sound comes out. I tap on the fence, she turns around and comes to me. Unable to speak clearly, the words don’t make sense in my mind, lost in a mute desert. Her husband arrives. On my knees, exhausted, the only words my lips form are sugar and diabetic. Sweat drenches my entire body, and I sincerely think I’m going to die here. Finally, the husband reappears with cakes. I devour them. Survival instinct. I regain my senses and explain my situation to them. The couple starts their yellow Kangoo and takes me to the city outskirts. On the way, I realize the mess I got myself into, given the distance we covered. I would never have made it alone. We hug, they insist on giving me a sandwich. I find myself alone once again, with my thoughts in a haze. Nightfall is approaching, I’m exhausted and head into the woods. My tent is pitched, the sandwich is gone, and the sirens resume in the distance, back in Chernivtsi. I turn on my weak red light, which sways in the tent to the rhythm of the panic outside. Eventually, fatigue overcomes fear.
Day 20 – Chernivtsi – Ukraine – Kilometer 2970
I wake up feeling ashamed, but lucky considering how my adventures turned out the previous day. I am alive. An Ukrainian soldier picks me up almost immediately. In a gruff voice, he tells me that he is forbidden from picking up anyone. I have to hide in the back seat. He drops me off at the Moldovan border.
I pass through customs without any issues. The internet is still non-existent. The American soldiers had advised me to detour through Vinnytsia in the North, suggesting it was a much busier route. In my view, it was a much longer one. As much as it annoys me to admit, they were right. Four hours have passed, and only four cars have gone by. Several stray dogs are circling around me. There's no way I'm sleeping here. Around me? Nothing but the forest, the dogs, and myself. A minibus arrives. It’s going to Chisinau, the capital. To hell with it. The past two days have been hellish. I need a bed.
- How much is it ?
- 20 euros.
- Deal. The driver takes off and leaves me alone in the bus for a good two hours. When he returns, he tells me it's actually going to be 30 euros. Son of a bitch. I have no choice anyway. It's this or the dogs and the woods. During the trip, a few passengers get on. 270 kilometers sitting on a washing machine in full spin cycle. I can't even dog-ear a page of my book. My face gets splashed with water every time I try to drink. I look, enviously, at the driver's seat, mounted on some hydraulic suspension system. When he hits a bump at 100 km/h and our heads bounce off the ceiling, he gently bobs, floating on a cushion of air. My anus is bleeding. After six endless hours crossing one of the poorest countries I've seen, we arrive at our destination. My body continues to shake for a good half hour. Please, speed up your research on Parkinson's. The couple sitting next to me shares their internet so I can book a hotel. 144 euros. It's the cheapest. What the hell is this?! Simple. I'm told that because of the war, many Ukrainians are crossing the border to find refuge in Moldova. So, everyone is hiking up prices to make a quick buck. It's unbelievable. You have to be a real bastard to pull something like that...
I finally miraculously find an apartment on Airbnb for 25 euros. Reservation completed, relief. But the relief is short-lived when I receive a message asking me to cancel because the accommodation is no longer available. The catch is, if I cancel now, less than 24 hours before arrival, I won't be refunded. It's the second time I've been scammed today. After a bit of a ruckus, the host gives me the address of a hotel where I can stay without paying. She has informed them. Well, there you go! Under a blazing sky, the couple accompanies me to the bus stop. "It's not far," they say. On the way, I learn that they paid 3.50 euros for their bus ticket for almost the same journey. That was the first scam. Forty minutes of walking later, we finally arrive at the damn bus stop. I wait. The buses go by, all except mine. On the map, I see that the street I need to go to is two blocks away. Ten minutes of walking and I’m at the supposed location, but there's nothing. A white light shines on some gravel at the end of a dark path. I follow it and see a slightly open door with what looks like a reception area beyond. The place is depressing. Walls soaked with damp, tiles that were once white, a couch a dog would hesitate to lie on, and a wobbly Ikea reception desk. The whole setup is a mosaic of neglect and decay. Behind the desk, there’s no chair, just a bed. Lying on it is a girl, about 28, glued to her phone.
- Excuse me.
- Just a seconde ! She comes over two minutes later, sighing.
- What do you want ?
- Hello, I'm here on behalf of someone from Airbnb who contacted you about lodging me tonight.
- Okay, it's 30 euros a night.
- There must be a misunderstanding. That person told me they contacted you. There was a problem with the reservation.
- I don't care. It's 30 euros a night or you leave.
This grumpy bitch isn't giving me a choice. It's the third scam in 12 hours.
- Two nights.
- 60 euros. Now.
- I need to drop my stuff in the room before going to withdraw. I don’t have any cash on me.
- No. 60 euros in cash, and now. I lean forward and look her straight in the eye.
- Listen carefully. I'm going to go into that room and drop all my stuff that I've been carrying since this morning. Then I'll take a shower to calm down, and AFTER that, I'll go get your money.
- Okay.
The building looks like a madhouse. The paint peels off the walls like old tree bark, and the cracked tiles look like the bed of a dried-up river. The first floor is drowned in a torrent of electronic and aggressive music emanating from a room at the end of the hallway. In that room? Two men in their twenties, apparently in an advanced state of inner travel. In the hallway, an excitable man paces back and forth, punctuating his steps with punches against the walls. On the second and top floor, I follow the receptionist, who is clearly deranged, with a hurried and wary step. To my right, a strong smell of food wafts from a boiling pot on a portable stove. Clothes hang on two taut ropes stretching across the room. Two grandmothers watch my passage with keen eyes. The last door is mine. The lock is broken, the sheets are dirty, the décor is from the 80s Eastern Europe, and the heating is dead. The bathroom is located on the landing. I try to lock my room door, but it's impossible. I stack my bags into the bathroom, next to the shower, turn on the water which dribbles down the wall like a waterfall during a drought. I turn around, and the showerhead is in the sink. Unrepairable. I get dressed, gather all my bags, and descend the two floors. On the first floor, the swirling man shouts a “son of a bitch” at me in perfect French. The receptionist is in bed.
- Got my money?
- No, I'm going to get it, but the shower is broken, and I can't lock the room.
- I'll check it out. Bring the cash. I
return twenty minutes later with my Monopoly moldovan money. I slap thirty bills on the counter. I've never seen her move so fast.
- I'll just take one night after all. Did you check the lock?
- Yep. Doesn't work.
- In that case, I'll take another room.
- No other room. It's this or outside.
- And the shower?
- Ground floor. End of the hall to the left.
As I turn around, a small blond in a hoodie smiles at me. Not a cute smile, a blood-chilling one.
- Hi! Who are you? What are you doing here?
- Hi. I'm nobody. Just passing through.
- Come out front with me for a smoke?
- No, thanks. I quit, and I'm going to take a shower.
- Come ooon! Come with me, please! I'm alone and want to smoke with you! Screw the shower. I need a smoke. My first in over a year. Awful.
This girl has an impressive speaking speed. She is simply unstoppable. She seems completely lost. Something is off. She talks like a 12-year-old and then suddenly spews a torrent of insults before bursting into laughter and starting again. She scratches her arms, hits herself, and spills the beans. Drugs. Why? Because she has psychological problems. She ran away from the hospital. She’s hiding here and apparently, she’s not the only one. I take a second cigarette from her. This one goes down better. While she’s pouring out her life story, I notice a man standing in the shadows, watching us.
- Who’s this ?
- He's like me. But dangerous. Don't look at him. Don't talk to him.
The guy gets closer, and the girl leaves.
- Where am I from? The guy's asking.
- France.
- What am I doing here ?
- Long story.
- I’ve got all the time.
- I don’t. I have to go.
I get up and go into the hall. The crazy girl is talking to the receptionist, who looks at me with disgust. I enter the ground floor bathroom. It's a filthy laundry room with a bathtub well past its prime. The water is cold. An unpleasant experience. When I come out, the escapee from the asylum is waiting for me, lying on the couch.
- I knew you were in there! I was waiting for you!
- Nice work, Sherlock.
- Want to smoke a cigarette?
- Sorry, but I need to sleep. I have a big day tomorrow.
- Come on, just one cigarette!
- Okay, let me just take my stuff upstairs and I'll be back.
I’ll never come back. Once in my room, I tie the door handle to the bed frame to make a MacGyver-style lock. One kick and the door would break open. I'm no MacGyver, but at least it will wake me up. The light is off. I hear someone prowling in the hallway. It's the crazy girl. - Frenchie? Are you there? Come sleep with me? I stay still and silent like a dead tree. It takes me a good hour to fall asleep, hand on my knife under the pillow.
Day 21 – Chisinau – Moldova – Kilometer 3176
The day breaks, caressing the room with a timid glow. The door is closed, my sleep as fleeting as a brief embrace. I wasn't robbed, I wasn't raped. All clear. I want to get out of here as quickly as possible. Not just from this trap, but from this country. And believe me, I will never set foot here again! Everything is silent. I am alone in this place that seems to have been abandoned, even by ghosts. Everyone is asleep. Everyone except two shady guys who catch up with me in front of the deserted reception.
"Hey man!" says the first, giving me a hug that's a bit too tight for my liking. He's short, fat, with greasy, shiny skin. A wide friendly smile tries to mask a gaze that hides a dark side. When I ask him to let go, the second guy bursts into disproportionate laughter. A laugh that seems to rise from the rubble of a night still too recent. He's very tall, very skinny, with pale skin and a Pluto cap, and he still seems high from the night before. Although for him, the concept of yesterday, tomorrow, or anything related to time probably doesn't mean much anymore.
I start walking, and the two follow me into the street. I feel a hand slipping into my pocket. I turn around instantly and stare at the short guy without saying a word. He talks and talks, and even though no sound comes from my mouth, they see that my gaze says it all. They turn around and finally leave. I stop a taxi.
- Where are you going ?
- To the south bus station.
Twenty minutes pass before the driver drops me off. I find myself amidst dozens of buses and hundreds of people. There are stands everywhere. Honestly, it looks more like a market than a terminal. Everyone jumps on me, trying to sell me anything and everything. And frankly, I'm not in the mood. I ask a driver stopped at the platform which bus I should take to go to Romania through the south.
- The south?! Oh, but you're in the wrong place, my friend. You're at the North terminal. Fucking bastard taxi driver. I see red. Seriously. I get another taxi. I make it clear to this one: South terminal. We cross the entire city again, and once in front of it, I ask if he is absolutely SURE we are at the right place. He is.
I find my minibus to Giurgiulești, at the Romanian border. The journey is long. We arrive at the border an hour before nightfall. I approach the customs officer to ask if I can cross the border on foot. Not possible. If I want to cross the border on foot, I have to go further north. Screw it. Several people are waiting by the roadside, hoping for a kind soul to pick them up. I join them. After about fifteen minutes, a woman gets out of a car with Ukrainian plates and offers a ride to me and two other people. She and her husband are from Odessa. The previous day's bombings near the city made them decide to leave that nightmare. They have a gas pipeline company in Romania, specifically in Galați, just past the border. They're going to visit their plant and then head to the Adriatic coast for a vacation, waiting for the war to end. It's going to be a very long vacation...
We pass over the Prut River, which marks the border between Moldova and Romania. Of course, I can't resist making a little joke (Prut means a fart in french). Everyone exchanges silent glances. It falls flat. Night has fallen for less than an hour when we arrive in the city. The couple drops us off in the center. According to the map, it will take me over an hour to get out of here. I book a room at the nearest hotel. The door is open. No one at the reception. I look around, check outside, upstairs, nothing. On the counter, there’s a bowl with several keys in it. I take one at random and go up to the room. Finally, I am alone and safe. After a hot shower, I lie down, leaving behind a landscape arid of regrets.
Day 22 - Galați - Romania - Kilometer 3446
I open my eyes in a room swallowed by the night. Behind the curtains, the day is breaking in the distance, painting the sky with a sulfurous orange that embraces the clouds. No one is at the reception. I place the keys back in the bowl with a faint clink and head out. The sun is shining brightly, and you can’t imagine how happy I am to be in Romania. Five kilometers of walking and many, many housing blocks later, I find myself facing a highway. I see the city’s exit, but it’s impossible to go further. Soon, a man who looks like Jean-Luc Mélenchon stops in the middle of the road and signals for me to get in.
- Hi! I’m Adrien, and you?
- Aurélien.
-Ah! We both have names of Roman emperors! I know Emperor Aurelian well. We chased the Romans out of Romania during his reign.
- Yeah, but I’m back!
We talk a bit about my journey, and inevitably, we end up talking about Ukraine. He starts.
- Putin is a piece of shit! He needs to leave power. But we both know he won’t. So, there’s one solution left. Kill him. You see, I grew up under Ceaușescu, during the Romanian dictatorship. Let me tell you something, it was horrible, communism is shit! A gangrene. Something that rots society and men. Communism was a huge open-air prison where you were forced to work, eat, sleep, think, and dress in certain ways. Let’s change the subject, I don’t want to talk about it anymore. I don’t want to remember. He falls silent for a few seconds, his face dark and fearful.
The engine purrs as the landscape rolls by all the way to Constanța. Walking through this charming city, a salty breeze caresses my face. My steps naturally lead me to the seafront, where an Art Nouveau-style casino stands. But my excitement is quickly tempered by a disappointing reality. The building is hidden behind a wall of scaffolding. Renovation. A treasure concealed beneath a construction site. Nevertheless, I stay there, sitting and gazing at the Black Sea stretching endlessly before me. I don't quite realize it, but I have just crossed Europe from West to East. This movie replays in my mind. I smile. It had been a while since I last smiled. The sound of the waves nourishes me, and the sun warms my skin. At this precise moment, I feel free, happy, strong, for the first time in a long while.
Culinary stop. I order sarmales. Cabbage rolls stuffed with minced meat. Then I continue my journey south, my taste buds filled with the memorable flavor of this Romanian specialty. A guy picks me up at the exit and drops me off 60 kilometers later at the Bulgarian border. Long hair, tattoos from head to toe, he studied in England for years. He tells me that his only time in France was for Hellfest. But after three consecutive days of drinking, sprinkled with cocaine, he realized he had missed the festival...
He gives me two croissants, wishes me good luck, and I cross the border on foot. I crossed Romania in less than a day. I never waited more than two minutes on the side of the road. What I didn't know was that Bulgaria was going to be a whole different story.
An hour of waiting in the border parking lot with no results. I don't have much time left before nightfall. The nearest village must be about seven kilometers away. I need to make a decision. I walk along the roadside for a while. Trucks and cars brush past