The medieval executioner approached us, his face hidden beneath a red hood. It wasn’t Halloween. It was the restaurant’s employee uniform. “Where are you girls from?” Our responses went: Germany; Germany; California. “Nice!” He removed his mask. He appeared our age, a twenty-something. Much friendlier-looking than seconds ago. “I’m Jakub!” My companions and I introduced ourselves. Veronica, the graduate student. Kristina, an aspiring model. And me, the unemployed Californian: Sophie. I’d met Veronica and Kristina an hour ago. We were roommates for the weekend, staying at a hostel just outside Prague’s Old Town. We were eager to try the local cuisine and wound up here, drawn in by the restaurant’s outdoor swinging tables. Between Jakub’s costume and those tables, it was possible we had fallen for a tourist trap, but we didn’t mind. It was part of the place’s charm. Jakub provided puzzle games to keep us occupied during our wait for a table. He joked with us while we ate. As his shift ended, he invited us to join him and his friends for drinks. He offered to drive since the pub was a few miles away. I shared a hesitant look with Veronica and Kristina. I was born and raised in a Cambodian culture with three critical rules when it came to strangers. 1. Do not talk to strangers. 2. Do not accept things from strangers. 3. Do not go into a stranger’s car. My decision to backpack across Europe revolved around meeting new people and experiencing other cultures, so breaking rule number one was a given. Jakub’s invitation was exactly what I wanted—a chance to leave the beaten path and hang out with the locals. But to agree to enter a stranger’s car… I could already hear my older sister yelling, asking if I was suicidal. Veronica and Kristina’s silence suggested we shared similar concerns about Jakub's possible ulterior motives. Jakub waited for an answer. I didn’t want to sound rude with an outright no. I blurted, “We’ll only go if you let me drive.” Clever me. Jakub wouldn’t trust a stranger, especially a foreigner, to drive his car. This was where we would part ways. But without a second thought, Jakub handed me his keys and said, “Sure.” Shoot. I gave my friends an apologetic look, although they seemed more excited by this turn of events than disappointed. I reassured myself that since I was behind the wheel, we would be fine. Even though I’d broken rule number three, I was in control. As I situated myself in the driver seat, I noticed the stick shift. Jakub hadn’t mentioned it. Of course he wouldn’t. This was Europe. Everyone drove manual. Double shoot. Most of my experience operating a stick shift involved stalling out at stoplights. I was glad it was dark. None of the others could see me panicking. Starting in first gear was the most difficult. I eased off the clutch and accelerated. To my surprise, no juddering or stalling engine. I didn’t know if I could accomplish this again. I shifted upward, and for the next ten stress-filled minutes, I avoided dropping into first gear. My only stops were rolling-stops. Jakub said, “Turn right, we’re here.” No dents. No ticket. No stalling. Mission accomplished. I let out a deep breath. Conversation had filled the entire ride and I couldn’t recall a single topic. I’d gone from fearing Jakub to fearing for Jakub's and my friends' safety due to my driving. In the bar, Jakub proposed we join him on the dance floor. No hesitant looks this time—Kristina, Veronica, and I accepted his invitation. Later, alone at our table, I sipped on a beer recommended by Jakub’s friends and watched our host. He was dancing alone, eyes closed. He looked content. I reflected on how the night had unfolded, feeling guilty for my doubts. I’d been overly wary, unable to trust a stranger. Jakub had been the opposite, not only inviting us into his personal life, but also allowing someone he barely knew to drive his car. And here I began to appreciate that this adventure hadn't happened because of me taking a risk, but through a stranger’s trust.