Czech Republic

After several white-knuckled hours attempting to extricate ourselves from Prague’s confusing streets, Mr. Dinosaur is behind schedule for arrival in Krakow, Poland.

“Looks like it’s nothing but chips bought from the gas station today,” Andrew says, as I steer the Justy through the Czech Republic’s farmland. Suddenly, amid tractors and corn, on the side of the road about 60 miles from the Polish border, is a run-down trailer next to a white table surrounded by teenagers.

“Food!” I shout, on a hunch. We fast-walk to the trailer, and sure enough: kielbasa, in multiple iterations, as well as half liters of beer for sale.

Mims and I order two sausages from a dour woman. She spears them from a pot of water and quickly nukes them in her microwave inside the trailer. They’re presented on small paper plates, alongside two strangely tiny buns.

We dollop on spicy and sweet mustard, as well as horseradish, and retreat to the car to eat. The sausages are snappy and juicy, with a richness imbued by pebbles of white fat. They are pure serendipitous bliss. We wipe our mouths clean and resume our slog to Mongolia.

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