It seems to me it’s been an age since I was on the road. That’s because it is. It is with some intimidation that I leave the hostel this morning, unsure if I’ll remember to have the balls to do this. It isn’t easy having thousands of vehicles pass by you on a windy corner, with what always appears to be a never-ending stream of wankers waving at you. Seriously. How are these pricks being bred? Who is bringing them up? How is that funny? I silently whisper wishes that their crap car is wrapped round a tree further up the road.
I’m standing by the side of a busy intersection and the wind is blowing a gale. The service station to my left has pointless promotional flags along the grass verge just asking to be blown over. Of course this they do, and I dutifully keep putting them back up. I’m hoping the multitude of vehicles revving their engines at the lights will notice such blatant desperation and pull in. “Oh what a nice boy helping out in all this wind, let’s give him a lift.” It’s nearly whacked my head several times and I’ve had sod all.
As ever with places like this, it could go either way. There is literally so much traffic that a ride might not be as forthcoming as you might think. You’ve no chance of anyone in the middle or outside lanes either, which technically is where your typical lift clientele will be sitting. Guys in wrap around shades with a canoe on their roof. The inside lane is reserved for locals, little old ladies, and truckers. Lucky then that a Hungarian long distance driver pulls in on the hour.
Not a bad return to form. Graz is only a couple of hours away, but I’m given the option of being dropped with a view to pushing on to Maribor and leaving the country. It’s approaching rush hours, but as the rain begins to drizzle in I make the executive decision to call it a day. At least I’m away from the Vienna hypocritic debauchery. I stumble into a crap hostel to discover six massive Romanians lurking in my room. On one I’ve never seen a gut so large, like an alcoholic, naked, pregnant Jabba The Hut. Some are smoking out the window. It’s a scene from Taken. There’s a moment of silence as I humbly slip into my cell and deposit my things apologetically. I make a mental note not to look at any of their faces. It’s going to be a long night.
Back in business and Romanian roomies
It seems to me it’s been an age since I was on the road. That’s because it is. It is with some intimidation that I leave the hostel this morning, unsure if I’ll remember to have the balls to do this. It isn’t easy having thousands of vehicles pass by you on a windy corner, with what always appears to be a never-ending stream of wankers waving at you. Seriously. How are these pricks being bred? Who is bringing them up? How is that funny? I silently whisper wishes that their crap car is wrapped round a tree further up the road.
I’m standing by the side of a busy intersection and the wind is blowing a gale. The service station to my left has pointless promotional flags along the grass verge just asking to be blown over. Of course this they do, and I dutifully keep putting them back up. I’m hoping the multitude of vehicles revving their engines at the lights will notice such blatant desperation and pull in. “Oh what a nice boy helping out in all this wind, let’s give him a lift.” It’s nearly whacked my head several times and I’ve had sod all.
As ever with places like this, it could go either way. There is literally so much traffic that a ride might not be as forthcoming as you might think. You’ve no chance of anyone in the middle or outside lanes either, which technically is where your typical lift clientele will be sitting. Guys in wrap around shades with a canoe on their roof. The inside lane is reserved for locals, little old ladies, and truckers. Lucky then that a Hungarian long distance driver pulls in on the hour.
Not a bad return to form. Graz is only a couple of hours away, but I’m given the option of being dropped with a view to pushing on to Maribor and leaving the country. It’s approaching rush hours, but as the rain begins to drizzle in I make the executive decision to call it a day. At least I’m away from the Vienna hypocritic debauchery. I stumble into a crap hostel to discover six massive Romanians lurking in my room. On one I’ve never seen a gut so large, like an alcoholic, naked, pregnant Jabba The Hut. Some are smoking out the window. It’s a scene from Taken. There’s a moment of silence as I humbly slip into my cell and deposit my things apologetically. I make a mental note not to look at any of their faces. It’s going to be a long night.