There are the two types of travelers in this world: those who triple-check their itinerary, who would never go to the airport without color-coded files, noise-canceling headphones and a backup pair, and then there’s me. Instead, my version of travel prep involves Googling “Do I need a visa for Croatia?” the night before leaving, and then running around like mad trying to pack and seriously question every life choice you’ve made since you were eleven.
Here’s the story of what happened when I nearly took a dream trip to the Balkans, but instead went on a side quest that involved a pissed-off customs officer, a suitcase full of socks (and not a single pair of pants) and a mysterious goat named Vladimir. It’s a trip across borders, through dead Wi-Fi zones, and straight into the wild absurdity that modern travel.
Let’s begin.
Chapter One: The Airport Chronicles (a.k.a. Where Dreams Go to Die)
It started bright and oh-dark-hundred with a loud alarm, feelings of, “I can sorta sleep on the plane.” The airport was alive with overachieving families in matching T-shirts reading “Travel Squad 2025,” as I stumbled in like a disheveled raccoon who had just learned of carry-on luggage.
Turning over my passport with the easy grace of a man who had checked in online (without printing the boarding pass), the check-in agent flashed me the first look of pity I would accumulate like rare Pokémon on this trip. “Your flight’s out of Terminal 3,” she chirped. “This is Terminal 1.”
I nodded as if that were significant to me.
I ran. I dropped my water bottle. I stumbled over a child, don’t worry he’s completely safe. I almost kissed a security dog in apology.
Chapter Two: TSA Therapy and the Curse of the Overpacked Bag
I looked up from security in time to see a guy lift a single banana from his carry-on and get waved through like he was the queen. All the while my bag, which was packed with six novels, three power banks and a rather suspect number of travel-size shampoos, was being frisked like it had borrowed someone a fiver.
“This you’re not allowed to bring,” the T.S.A. agent said, brandishing a 75ml bottle of lotion as if it were nuclear-grade plutonium. “It’s over the limit.”
“But it’s coconut-scented,” I breathed.
“No exceptions.”
As I stood there and they flung my anti-frizz serum out into the cold dark sky like an expired yogurt, I had an epiphany. It was no longer about travel at all — it was about survival. It turned out that the glamor of Instagram-worthy trips had lied to us. There was nothing poetic about real travel, which was disorderly, unpredictable and required you to take off your belt in front of complete strangers.
It was then, somewhere between gate confusion and existential anxiety, I say an ad display across a nearby screen – Shop solitaire diamond rings
I found it a little oddly specific. Yet, when I was so agitated, it felt kind of rational to think that way. Being stuck in an airport was a good excuse for me to buy jewelry that I might not have wanted if traveling had gone as planned.
Chapter Three: The Flight That Wasn’t
Has it ever happened to you to see your flight take off as you stand holding a pretzel and all your hopes? I have. It means being left behind at the boarding gate and it’s a lot more upsetting than just being ignored by someone.
Apparently, “last call” literally means last. While having trouble with a motion-sensor faucet in the restroom, I suddenly heard the gate was closing. I tried convincing. I tried crying. I I thought bribing them with whatever Skittles I had was a good idea But no, the plane was gone.
“I can arrange for you to fly on the next available flight,” said the agent. “It leaves in nine hours.”
Nine. Hours.
Chapter Four: Layover Limbo
I did what any normal person would do during an unwanted layover, got lost, bought an overpriced sandwich that tastes like regret and googling things like “how to turn the airport floor into bed” and “is goat yoga really a thing?
That’s when I met Vladimir.
Not a person.
A goat.
Actually, technically a man dressed as a goat encouraged people to stay in a homestay service from Eastern Europe. He served me hot herbal tea from the thermos, gave me a brochure and bleated.
Reader, I drank it.
For some reason, probably a result of dehydration and being tired, suddenly I wanted to set aside my Balkans adventure and take part in a shepherding retreat. Their slogan? “Come for the cows, stay for the quiet judgment.”
Chapter Five: Duty-Free and Existential Dread
With plenty of time to kill, I ventured into the enormous labyrinth of the duty-free area. And if you’ve spent any time wandering such retail mazes, you know they are essentially adult amusement parks, filled with perfume squirted in your face like confetti, or whiskey sampled in tiny glasses like orange juice on a self-serve buffet.
I accidentally tried a cologne called “Musk of the Mountain Goat” (maybe related to Vladimir) and bought a chocolate bar as big as my forearm. I was this close to purchasing a neck pillow shaped like a flamingo but decided I wouldn’t feel like explaining that later at customs.
Somehow, in a moment of delirium, I tested out a massage chair that was cheek-to-jowl with a toddler who was screaming bloody murder after he’d dropped a gummy bear. My chair snapped into attack mode, rubbing against my back in a painful way and the toddler joined in with a loud scream.
Chapter Six: In-Flight Enlightenment
I was then able to get on the new flight. My neighbor in the seat next to me was a garrulous dentist from Manchester who made a point of displaying photographs of every dog he had ever met. Not owned—met. There were 83 photos.
But cruising above the Alps and snacking on mystery peanuts, I began to sense…peaceful. Travel isn’t perfect. It is messy, it is loud, it is absurd, and it smells often of hand sanitizer. But it’s also liberating. Every screw-up seemed just the right kind of strange rite of passage into a society of fellow mischievous wanderers.
We’d all been there. Stuck in a middle seat between a snorer and a window licker. Fighting with Google Maps in a foreign city. Overdressed for an island because we don’t know what Celsius is.
Chapter Seven: Adventures in Lost Luggage
Naturally, no epic journey is complete without the classic lost luggage subplot. Mine was lost somewhere between Vienna and “We Have No Idea.” The airline provided a care package with a toothbrush, one T-shirt that was XXL and a mystery “balm” labeled “For Emergencies Only.”
I slept in that T-shirt for two days. It had a dolphin on it. I acted like it was by design.
One night I even wore the shirt out to a dance night in town, with a pair of borrowed cargo pants, borrowed from another hostel tenant, an Irish fellow named Lars. Pants, Lars said, should never contain fewer than six pockets. I resembled a bewildered wildlife guide.
Chapter Eight: Love, Languages, and Llamas
My grandfather one night patted my hand and used a voice that sounded almost as if he were falling in love. I found out later he assumed my watch was a tiny compass and was inquiring if I got lost in the mountains. I nodded yes.
Another guest at the homestay claimed he once proposed seven different languages in seven countries. I asked him if anyone had agreed and he shook his head and answered, “Not so far.”
He now runs a llama rescue center in Spain.
Chapter Nine: The Return (and the Sudden Realization That You Miss the Chaos)
It was with mixed emotions, both happy and sad, when i returned back home. Sure my plumbing functioned properly, but where were the peripatetic accordionists? I can’t trust my eyes they selling meat is from a machine. Thinking, if you will you get sheets on your bed when you book a hotel stay?
Travel weariness does fade, but the stories do not.
Now, whenI see people sprinting through airports I just smile because I used to be that person. I understand that while you’re traveling, you can encounter missing a train, language issues and possibly a suspect sandwich.
Chapter Ten: Buses, Blunders, and a Baguette Named Fred
Now that I finally had my bags (which had taken their own separate holiday in Belgium), I figured the worst was behind me. It was a simple journey, or so I had been told: I just needed to take a bus from Sarajevo to Dubrovnik.
Spoiler: It was neither pretty nor easy.
For a start, the driver of the bus spoke only in shrugs and interpretive eyebrow movements. At one point we stopped in the middle of nowhere to pick up a man with nothing on him except a saxophone and a birdcage. Then he dropped some money on me, sat down and then proceeded to go to sleep on my shoulder. The bird seemed to be very judgmental.
And to add to the weirdness, the bus stopped exactly 7 times, each time at a service station that only sold warm Fanta, postcards of semi-naked gladiators and unrecognizable deep fried things. Somewhere within stop four, I walked into a bakery and bought a baguette for sentimental reasons; I called it Fred.
Fred and I bonded over our mutual confusion and no Wi-Fi.
The border crossing going into Croatia involved a short interrogation by an officer who was convinced my name was “too fictional.” I was asked to say the alphabet backwards while staring in another man’s eyes. There were no successful solutions to either of these problems.
Somehow, I made it through.
Chapter Eleven: Beach Days and the Sunburn of Regret
By the time I got to Dubrovnik, the sun was setting, brushing the city’s medieval walls with gold. It was the sort of view that authors aspire to and at the very least post, in three separate Stories, to Instagram. I checked in to a delightful beachside hostel run by a retired soap opera actor named Nikolas who gave me free flip-flops and love advice.
As an adventurer, I had taken part in a beach bonfire night hosted by like-minded travelers with a major in ukulele and a minor in sun damage. We roasted janky sausages, traded travel horror stories and I inadvertently sparked a heated argument over whether gelato counts as a meal (it does).
Stupid me, I forgot sunscreen, Go figure. And so I became what I now describe as a human tomato with legs. Every step hurts. My shoulders sizzled like bacon.” I had to walk around in a towel poncho, ice cubes in zip-lock bags clasped in my hands, as if I were the unofficial mascot of an ice-therapy club.
But in that discomfort, I was also laughing. Because as I shimmied down the cobblestone streets resembling a blistered burrito, a stranger yelled, “You look like you’ve discovered the sun for the first time!” And honestly? He wasn’t wrong.
Final Thoughts (Now with Bonus Wisdom – Continued)
In conclusion and to wrap this up again, here are some more things to keep in mind when you travel:
- Never ever believe a hostel bed labeled “firm.” It’s either concrete or a marshmallow.
- Your best stories will definitely emerge from the awful moments. Embrace the chaos.
- Make sure to always pack one “what if?” outfit. You will need it at 3 a.m. in a karaoke bar.
- And remember: the world isn’t waiting for your perfection. It’s waiting for your participation.
Travel won’t always go as intended. You’ll most of the time miss buses, lose things, your backpacks, and your headphones, get sunburnt, and argue with vending machines. But you will also meet strangers who become friends, try dishes that are strange to pronounce, and see the humor in things that used to upset you.
So go forth, awkward adventurer. Get lost. Be ridiculous. Sometimes putting your dignity in a plastic bag is the only way. You should not ignore the therapeutic effect of having herbal tea served by a man in a goat costume.
Because sometimes, that is exactly where you’re meant to be.
Now, over and out, I have to call the goat.