The interpreter was a stern-faced stout lady with short curly hair and horn-rimmed glasses that kept sliding off her nose. She spent an entire ten minutes translating my rights from a book word by word. They started by pushing for the address of the Slovenians so they could continue the search and locate my passport to make sure I was in the country legally. After perusing a map , we set out in four patrol cars so I could make proper identifications. This time, not without handcuffs slapped on my wrists.

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No sooner had I recovered from the post-traumatic snow disorder than That Guy starts bugging me to get to work which meant dispatching the checks in my possession. I honestly didn’t want anymore to do with it. I was just hell-bent on starting out afresh, hopefully meeting some Polish bloke and living happily ever after. (more…)