Backpacking can be a dangerous lifestyle for it is always possible to
runaway from a problem. The German rich man, throwing a tantrum and
wanting attention said to me as I crouched on the floor by the phone,
"You are a gypsy."
"What do you mean gypsy? Like traveling in a caravan gypsy?" I was
"You don't know what a gypsy is over there?"
"Of course we do. What is that supposed to mean?"
"You have no home, you go from one place to another, like a gypsy."
"So?" This condescending analyzation of my current lifestyle was
pressing on my nerves. Drunk, spoiled baby. The sharpness of my
response cut through that time and he widened his eyes a little, but
the flaunt of a smirk remained. "I didn't say this is a bad thing."
Emphasis on bad.
"I just want a taxi and get home."
Roman and I walked down the long road cut into the hillside, leaving
behind the beautiful gated mansion of the German I had been speaking
with. Roman, German as well, was a different person, much softer, with
a comical horn of black hair uplifted by his right ear.
"Do you think he sleeps now?"
"No. He is not sleeping. He's awake."
"How could this happen. I am so sorry."
I laughed sourly, "Don't worry about it. Think of it as an adventure."
"I am like a brother to him," his face was genuinely defeated. "He does
not think about us. I am so sorry," he repeated.
"Listen," I said, sighing deeply and looking at the hillside and
brightening sky. "Right now he's inside asking himself why he didn't
let us stay. He cares about you. He cares about you so much that when
he can't control you, when he can't make you stay out of devotion, he
gets angry. He can't deal with it. It's easier to turn away, to kick
you out, so he doesn't have to admit it. No one wants to be alone. Now
he's inside angry with himself and it only reinforces who he already
"Oh, yes. Yes," but Roman was looking back towards the house with
pale, misty eyes.