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“There’s no need to panic,” I kept thinking to myself. “After all, I still have a fourth of a chocolate bar.” I was on an open road, and the horizon stretched behind and ahead of me to no visible end. The sun, which recently swapped from Serbian to Romanian, beat down on me without remorse all the same. I praised the sparse clouds that shielded me with shade periodically and mourned their loss dearly when inevitably they drifted away. I took stock of my supplies. I had a few swigs of water left in my bottle, however, they were hot with a twinge of plasticky taste at this point. Aside from my melted chocolate reserves, all I had to eat were salty peanuts, which I didn’t dare to touch given the water situation. With full bags on my back, I usually do not go on foot for more than a couple miles before hopping on something with wheels, and so the weight of roughly 30lbs rubbed my shoulders raw quite quickly in the harsh midday heat. At least my legs knew the drill at this point and kept quiet for the most part. To distract my mind from these hard facts, I started to sing aloud to my music, and so some passing sheep were subjected to my rendition of “Teenage Dirtbag” by Wheatus. Eventually, I reached a small town. I entered the first shop I see, and attempted to convey to those inside that I am looking for a bus station, or any means, which led to Timişoara. They pointed a direction, but when I tried to leave that way they all laughed and shook their heads. I learned the station was non-functional for the rest of the day, and there were no lodging options nearby. At a loss, the local inhabitants shrugged and pointed to the side of the road. So out of sheer necessity rather than choice, I found myself standing on the side of a small road with a nervous smile and outstretched thumb. This was not the plan. From Mostar the transfer to Belgrade was simple, but when I awoke I learned there were no direct means to Romania that day. Travel between the two countries is notoriously sporadic, and I would have to patch something together if I wished to get to Alba Iulia in time for my volunteer orientation meeting. So I took a local bus to the border and simply walked across it. The Serbian guards frowned at my American passport, understandable given the violent history between our countries. I was told to go to a room inside, and when I saw an officer with latex gloves, my heart skipped a beat as my head raced to the invasive uses he might have had in mind. The worst did not come to pass, but he was quite thorough going through my belongings. He seemed particularly perplexed as to why I had a Star Wars coloring book in Bosnian despite not speaking it. They refused to let me use the bathroom, which I found quite petty, but I was allowed to walk into Romania in one piece. Back on the side of the road, it had been about an hour, and all I’d received from passing drivers were head shakes and honks. I started to eye empty buildings where I could perhaps set up for the night, but before I came any closer to full-fledged vagrant status, a white van stopped. I was giddy as could be and would have skipped across the road if I was able. My savior went by the name of Moritz, an Austrian man who did his fair share of hitchhiking back in the day. Now he owns ice cream stores all around the world, and he was transporting some samples and equipment to Timişoara. Moritz told me what to expect in Romania in terms of reception, recommended some videos and readings, and dropped me off near the train station. I wandered the streets for a few hours before the excitement died down and my exhaustion caught up. After some much-needed shut-eye, I woke early to catch the morning train to Alba Iulia deep within Transylvania proper.