ZIG ZAG WANDERER

With usual anxious punctuality, I hurry up and get on the train which should be leaving from Belgrade in not less than 30 minutes. The train appears completely desert, and I take advantage to find a place close to the window and organize my luggage. After a few solitary minutes I start feeling a bit stupid. “Am I the only person on this train? Am I on the wrong platform? Maybe it would have been better to take a plane as mom suggested?”
I stand up and decide to explore the other compartments.
After a few steps, I find myself in front of two men, one young and one middle-aged. Their appearance is definitely gypsy. I istinctively proceed, feeling almost distressed. I have shown them that I am a lonely woman traveller and maybe I have attracted their attention. I am curious and nervous at the same time. I do not even have the time to explore my thoughts as one of the two, the younger one, enters my compartment. My reaction is of extreme annoyance.
The young man asks me kindly where I am heading, in a broken English, and I reply that I am going to Salonica. He says that I am crazy to travel by myself, and that I need protection: he will be my guardian angel, at least until Niš. His statement comes as a surprise, as a considerable part of me still thinks the danger could be represented precisely by him. The situation starts looking quite paradoxal. But things are too complex, especially on the Balkans, and I know I can only reach relative, incomprehensible truths. Djunak, this is his name, doesn't abandon me for a second. We become so close after some minutes (or hours? Time has no dimension on these journeys).
He is only 19 but his life experience would be considered of a 40 year old man in Western Europe. I am older than him, but feel so naive. Contrary to my expectations and to my severe thirst, Djunak engages in a sort of anti-alcoholic campaign: better not to ruin my life as he did. The heat is oppressing and continental on this hellish train struggling to move. I would kill for an iced beer! I grab instead a cigarette from the package Djunak is insistingly offering me. It's been such a long time since the last time I smoked one. The train proceeds at a moderate speed through the flourishing Serbian countryside I have always been dreaming of. Is this real?
Notwithstanding my throat problems, I smoke one cigarette after the other. I am overwhelmed by a strange joy, as a new and secret self awareness. I feel I am at the right place at the right time.