Maybe it just stays extra cold extra long, where we’re going.” I pulled out my guidebook, something I had not been obliged to do for a very long time. When his head hit pillow, he went right out. I could hear Ballard snoring through the paper-thin walls. The elastic catch-all on the exterior of my bag was becoming satisfyingly full of coke-bottle caps and other souvenirs. I had decided to make use of my time by creating a travelogue, an ongoing narrative account of my Roman exodus, and our journey to parts unknown.

I shut and locked my door and then fetched out my diary. See you tonight.” He was anxious to get his shut-eye. I moved our stuff into our rooms a fast, laborious trip. Ballard had to see what was wrong with my Gambalunga first. But then I remembered about my status as an illegal alien and shut my mouth. Prague was beginning to feel like a million miles away. “Not to worry,” he said.Īnd to think, I told myself, if I had just taken the Eurorail, I could practically be there by now. “That is our route we are taking,” he said. The Czech Republic lay in the heart of Central Europe.

He showed me the map––the “place of trees,” the Stromovka, as he called it, the deep swaths of forest surrounding Prague. Soon we will have to leave the road behind us––any food will come either from our packs, or the cunningless game misfortunate enough to wander into our traps.” “Enjoy it while it lasts,” said Ballard, “for it is the end of our comfort, when it goes. We decided to give it a rest, the Gambalunga, not the trip, to see what we could see. We passed vineyards, dead or dying, when my Gambalunga started having fits. A picture-postcard, Giazza was snowed under. Mountain ranges filled with trees, and snow, there in the distance. At the town of Giazza, on the Monti Lessini plateau, I saw a spectacular view. The sweeping countryside gave way to hills––craggy, dramatic, out-of-nowhere. We drove to Verona, when the trek got really hard. We wound our way through surface streets, passing small towns Ballard assured me we would get to Prague, eventually.

Neophyte by T.D. McMichael