Today I hit my head really hard on a low door frame.

When I hit my head, I get crazy. It’s a reflex action.

That expression ‘blind rage’ – that phrase was coined by a tall guy who just hit his head really hard on a door frame. It’s literally true. Your skull goes smack against the door frame, your brain sloshes forward and slaps against your skull, your vision goes dark, and then everything turns red and the anger comes.

I’m in Sofia, Bulgaria.
I was hitchhiking to Greece a couple of days ago. It didn’t go so well.
My first day on the road through southern Bulgaria a guy waved a gun in my face, and then, later in the afternoon I had the pleasure of meeting some Neo-Nazis.
“Fuck this shit” I thought to myself and turned around to go back to Sofia.

I need a rest.
I’ve been traveling too fast for the last few weeks. I’m fatigued. Exhausted.

When I encountered those Nazis my battery was at about 5%. By the time I got back to Sofia yesterday my warning light was blinking.

‘A few days in a hostel. Hot showers. Hot food. This is what I need’ I thought to myself.

I’ve spent nine nights out of ten in my tent this month. That sort of lifestyle is fine if you’re in beautiful forests beside picturesque rivers. If you’re camped beside random motorways, hiding from cops and trying to stay dry in the European autumn it can get old after a while.

I book a bed at a hostel in Sofia.
When I arrive at the hostel the guy behind the desk tells me they have no beds available.
I inform him that I made a booking.
He tells me ‘yes’ he can see that I made a booking, but they have no beds.

I’m not exactly shocked by this situation. I’ve stayed in quite a few crappy hostels in my life. This kind of scenario isn’t that unusual.

‘Come on mate, it’s raining, it’s cold. Find me a couch or a bit of floor or something, OK? Please?’

I settle into my couch. It is not particularly clean, but it is soft.
The couch is in a hallway at the top of the stairs.
I won’t have much privacy, but then again, there’s not much privacy in hostel dormitories either. My couch in the hallway is like a private room in a way. It’s a lot more comfortable than my tent, anyway. I couch-surf all the time, right? This is just like couch surfing… except for money.
Anyway, there are soothing philosophical quotes on the walls, so that’s nice. It’s like being surrounded by new age memes.

 

I go to the bathroom to have a hot shower.
The door to the bathroom is kind of low. Not super low, just… low.
As I go through the door I hit my head. Hard.

Black. Red.

Going to a hostel was supposed to help me relax and unwind.
Now I’m shaking with rage.

Breath. Breath…

I head into the kitchen to make myself some hot food. That will be nice. A hot meal will chill me out.

There’s a couple of people sitting around the kitchen table.

As I eat I’m chatting with a young Polish guy about this and that. He asks me what I do. I tell him I’m a blogger.
“What do you write about?”
“Lots of things” I tell him. “Travel. People I meet. Stories.”
“Are you having fun in Europe?” he asks me.
“Yes. It’s been great. This last week has been a bit rough, but overall it’s been great.”
“What happened this week?” he asks me.
“Bad day yesterday. I had a run in with some Neo-Nazis at a service station. The worst thing about it was, I was telling a guy I met about it and he was like – ‘yeah, the Nazis are scary, but we need them for the Gypsies’. It’s shocking to me how people still hate Gypsies here in Europe.”

The Polish guy starts explaining to me how I don’t understand.
‘Gypsies cause so many problems… Gypsies steal… Gypsies are dirty… They have babies just to claim welfare. They don’t look after their children…’

“Do you know the history of your own country?” I interrupt him. “How can you spout such racist bullshit?”
“That’s not racist,” he retorts “I have seen this stuff with my own eyes. You don’t live in Europe. You don’t know. I see Gypsies with my own eyes. They take welfare payments, they beg on the street and then they wear gold jewelry. They have some fucked up class system in their society, there are a few rich gypsies who take all the money and they make the others beg on the street.”

Black. Red.

I lean close to the Polish guy across the table.
“A class system? That’s called capitalism. OK. Listen man, you got me at the wrong time. Normally I would try and have a conversation with you about this but I just hit my head really hard on the bathroom door frame, and I have no patience for your stupidity right now. My family came from Europe. After the war. The big war? The one where thousands of Australians died fighting Nazis? I know a little about how things work here. You say you aren’t racist. But you also say that what you think you know about Gypsies legitimises the bullshit that Neo-Nazis say and do. You are ignorant. What you just said is the definition of racism. You think you have seen some Gypsies behaving badly, so now in your mind, all Gypsies are bad. You just described the mechanism of prejudice perfectly. Criminals are criminals. Terrorists are terrorists. To say all Gypsies are thieves is as stupid as to say all Arabs are terrorists, or all Polaks are drunks. You’re so quick to make excuses for Neo-Nazis. You make me sick. In the Second World War the Nazis pointed the finger at Poles just like you are pointing your finger at Gypsies: degenerate Polaks; dirty; stupid; can’t feed their children. Learn your history. I’m done talking to you.”

I decide to find a hostel that has a bed for me. I am sick of sleeping on couches.