On the bus to Bulgaria.

The Dali Lama said something about how every moment is intrinsically meaningful unto itself, that there is no such thing as wasted time.

I kept thinking about the Dali Lama on my bus ride to Bulgaria, because I had already found time to think about everything else, so I decided to go through the alphabet and I was at “D”. In between the bouts of a state of manic lethargy that I’ve come to know as “sane enough to travel,” and the bowel clinching fear of going to a country that I knew literally two things about* the Dali Lama came up frequently.

While thinking about the Dali Lama’s words I realized, how awesome it would be to be the Dali Lama. Homeboy can say anything and it’s printed on a billion “thought of the day calendars.” And he gets to be reincarnated.

While, I had expected to be in Austria at the time I ended up on a bus to Bulgaria, no one path was any better or worse, it was just different. Traveling is traveling; there is no right or wrong way to do it. Despite any fastidiously laid plans, eventually everyone ends up where they need to be. You only lose if you stop, and you only stop if you believe that you ever knew where you were going.

My site mate Garrett (who you will come to meet later) has said, in all of his small town American wisdom: “Man, places are like beers. If I like a place it’s because of the people I’m with when I’m there. If I like a beer, it’s because I had a great time drinking that beer with the people I was with. Boom. Done. Beers and countries.”

Any time he says “Boom. Done.” You know that he has made his point.

As the grey green landscape of Macedonia and Bulgaria rolled past, the windows speckling with rain my new friend (who I will call, Lindita because I didn’t have prior approval to use her in this blog) sat behind me. She showed me a video of her flute students playing heart-breakingly beautiful music in a music hall in Prishtina. She gave me a book of her poetry and music the title of which translated to “Riddle.” All I had was a copy of George Orwell’s "Down and Out in Paris and London.**" She signed her book, saying “Good luck in Bulgaria.”

I already had very good luck.

At one point a large German man sat next to me, cramming me against the window. He talked at me for the better part of an hour about… well everything. His large belly rumbled pushing me closer and closer to the window as he orated in a thick German accent. I had merely asked him if there was a bus to Prague from Bulgaria, and unwittingly made a new Balkan Bus friend. From our one sided conversation I gained the following information:

He is a very famous cardiologist. Who is subsequently on a waiting list in the Netherlands for… wait for it… a new heart***

One of his fingernails was painted red with the Sanskrit word for “Om” painted on it.

He smelled like wet cigarettes and Macedonian coffee.

He was owed hundreds of thousands of Euros from a lawsuit against a Bulgarian branch of an international medical device retailer.

He enjoys Harley Davidson Motor Cycles and according to him has two of them waiting for him in two of his three homes, located around the world.

He enjoys medicine but he hates talking to patients. This is a direct quote, “They always want to talk! I say: You stressed? You want a prescription? I tell you what- you smoke a joint when you go home every night and you won’t be stressed any more.” He then threw up his Christmas ham sized forearms and looked at me like I should be taking notes… In the interest of complete disclosure, I was taking notes.

He then grabbed my leg and turned to me to give me some paternal advice, “I lived in a cave in Greece for a year. I was making silver jewelry for all of the pretty girls. You should do that. I don’t know why you’re in Albania. You could go live in a cave in Greece.”

Yes, I could go and live in a cave in Greece. I suppose, I hadn’t considered that. Given how the first three days of my trip had gone, all options were on the table, and I could only assume that the Dali Lama would approve.

At the end of the bus ride, the German man handed me his card and said- “So here. Take this, you can find me on the internet. Have a good life.”

Lindita then took me to the Bulgarian Bus station and asked if there was a bus to Prague... In Bulgarian... because Lindita speaks Bulgarian too... My Balkan bus buddies are the best****.

The travel agent said they had one bus left and told me the departure and arrival time. I said that I would take the ticket.

I then did some rudimentary finger math. When I ran out of fingers I realized that I had just booked myself a 19 hour bus ride to the Czech Republic.

*They have a great puppet theatre, and their organized crime syndicate is called “The Octopus.” As far as I know these organizations are not related.

** I know that title is supposed to be underlined but I can't figure out how to underline or indent on blogger yet. I'll figure it out.

***I flashed back to a theatre professor explaining “dramatic irony.”
**** One million blog experience points for alliteration! You have advanced to the next level, from "Knight" to "Berserker."