At a speed of 40 km/h, I pass a long line of trucks waiting to cross the border into Romania.
I stop in front of the border checkpoint. A young officer signals me to wait and gestures at his watch to indicate the barrier will open in an hour. I glance at the barrier, then look back—about a kilometer behind me, I passed a gas station. I turn the bike around and head back to the station. Pulling a few crumpled bills from my pocket, I hand them to the attendant. Five and a half liters, and the pump stops.
Returning to the border, I find the barrier already open. A 10-minute wait, and I’m riding on Romanian roads, passing villages and small towns. I’ve entered “Varna, Bulgaria” into the GPS as my general direction. Leaving the last village behind, I find myself on a vast, open plain. Strong crosswinds buffet the motorcycle, forcing me to lean hard to the left to counter the wind.
A truck approaches from the opposite direction, sending a swirl of turbulence my way. A brief loss of control shakes me, but I recover. Another truck comes into view. This time, I lie low on the tank to reduce resistance. Signs along the road show upcoming cities—Constanța is on every one of them. I stop, pull out a map, and see that the city is right along my route.
Reading about Constanța, I discover it’s Romania’s “summer capital,” with a rich history. It has one of the largest ports in Europe, the only one on the Black Sea capable of accommodating large ships. I also learn something intriguing: in the dawn of history, the Roman poet Ovid was exiled here for the last eight years of his life, his only crime being that he wrote poems that defied the spirit of the times. The city also boasts an old casino, no longer in use, but steeped in fascinating history.
The temperature gauge on my dashboard reads 39°C, and it’s only 2 PM. That’s enough to convince me to head into the city. I ride along the main street, slowly now, opening the visor of my helmet and unzipping my jacket. The sea breeze cools me as I pass the port, riding its length until I reach the old town.
There’s the old casino, surrounded by magnificent buildings from another era. I arrive at a small marina, park the bike, and sit down at a waterfront restaurant. Ordering a fish dish with red sauce, I stay put until the weather cools down.
At 5 PM, it’s time to move on. The ride is much more pleasant now.
The scenery becomes mountainous and lush, with only a few kilometers left to reach the Bulgarian city. Dusk begins to settle, and the winding road disappears into a forest that blocks the last light of day. The weather shifts quickly—ominous black clouds threaten rain. I hesitate, unsure whether to push on. Meanwhile, flashes of lightning grow closer, and I can smell the approaching storm. A light drizzle starts, and it’s clear that heavier rain is imminent.
I spot a camping site, pull in, and stop to think about what to do next. The thought of turning back to the city for a hotel nags at me. Over the noise of my engine, I hear a voice, thick with a Russian accent, speaking to me in English:
“Hey, they say a serious storm with hail is coming. You can set up your tent under the roof and park your bike inside.”
“That’s a good idea,” I reply, grateful for the suggestion. “Nice to meet you, my name’s Harel.”
I unload the gear from the motorcycle, set up the tent, and quickly prepare dinner. Arthur joins me and shares that he left Russia in January with his motorcycle, traveling through Georgia, Armenia, Turkey, and then Bulgaria. While we’re chatting, a young man arrives. “Hi, I’m Johannes.” Johannes came alone with a caravan from Germany to the campsite. He says he’s fed up with city life. When I ask where he’s headed next, he replies that he has no plans.
Johannes walks barefoot everywhere, claiming it’s healthy. I show them pictures from my trip to Moldova and other journeys. Johannes asks for a few pictures he likes. He doesn’t have a smartphone—he’s against modern technology. Instead, he writes down his email address for me. He owns a camera, but for some reason, he says his photos don’t come out clearly. I explain the photography triangle to him—aperture, shutter speed, and ISO. “You’ve got to stop relying on auto mode when you take pictures,” I tell him.
I’m very tired; it’s already midnight. Thunder, lightning, and heavy rain fall outside. I lie on the mattress inside my sleeping bag, feeling cozy and protected. Thoughts about the day run through my mind, and I drift off to sleep. I can’t pinpoint the exact moment I plunged into a deep slumber.
The sound of a door opening wakes me. Arthur steps out of his room—it’s 9 a.m. I’ve slept for ages. I improvise breakfast with leftover rice from yesterday, hard-boiled eggs, and a bit of soy sauce. “Arthur, come eat,” I call out. “I ordered breakfast from the campsite restaurant,” he replies. “Try this; it’s good,” I insist. He takes a bite, then goes to the restaurant to cancel his order and returns to eat with me. “Arthur, why did you even go to the restaurant?” I ask. “To see if I could cancel the breakfast,” he answers. “Yours is delicious, and it’s more fun eating with you.”
A few minutes later, Johannes joins us. We exchange contact details—Johannes gives me his email, while Arthur prefers Telegram. We promise to stay in touch. I tell them, “No matter where you are, I’ll find you.”
By 11 a.m., the motorcycle is packed and ready to go. Out of the corner of my eye, I glance at the dirt road, which now looks more like a mud pit after the rain. I say my goodbyes and head out. After about 150 meters of riding, the road feels like an ice rink. The tire grooves fill with mud, the rear tire loses traction, and—bam!—I’m on the ground. Lifting my head, I see my two new friends running toward me. Johannes is barefoot, with wet mud squishing between his toes, while Arthur’s shoes look like muddy boats.
“I’m fine. Just help me lift these 350 kilos,” I tell them. I sit back on the bike and ride slowly, avoiding the muddy road and sticking to the grass along its edge. Arthur and Johannes steady the bike from the sides until I reach the asphalt. I wave goodbye. It’s great to have friends.
For the next half-kilometer, mud flies off the tires in all directions. Finally, I’m riding toward Shiroka Lake, and from there, onward to Thessaloniki, Greece.
