At the border, I’m turned away by the Ukrainian immigration: ”This border is too big for bicycles. Only trucks and buses can pass. No bicycles.” I try with a few loose pages in my – a five, a ten, a twenty – but nothing works. They really think that the border is too small for me. I’m pissed off to be honest, but try to be keep cool. Hide my hand in my pocket before showing them my finger. I turn back; have to go through Slovakia and Hungary instead to reach Romania.
Again, the rain is hailing through-out the day. I’m soaked wet and cold; pay myself a warm stay at a cheap government hostel in Przemyśl.
I can’t stop thinking of how silly we can be as people when we just go by the book and not by reason. When machines – trucks, busses, cars – can pass between two nations, but people can’t.