Am I really in Bosnia?
The chatter of rapid Spanish broke our deep sleep. In my foggy state, it took a moment to realize I was in Balkan Han Hostel, Sarajevo, in a room full of Spanish Erasmus students. Last night at the Sarajavska Pivara Craft Beer Festival was a lucky find, but I didn’t know how well hunting for craft beer in Sarajevo would go today.
The Russian, hungover, rolled on her side and groaned in my ear. While we chatted in broken Serbian, I distractedly listened to the Spaniards. When I caught a flat Mexican accent among the lisping Castilian, I shouted out, “Oye, compa! Que onda, weeyy?” The Latinos stopped, shocked. They had only heard us speaking in indecipherable Slavic mix.
I told my Southern neighbor that after The Russian and I did sightseeing, we would be at The Brew Pub Sarajevo for a craft beer fiesta. I would play guitar and, yes, the gringo knows Mexican tunes. The conversation quickly progressed into light-hearted teasing about tequila, tacos, illegals and how, absolutely, no fucking way, will that orange pendejo build The Wall.
When you’re an American living in Europe, you realize how much you miss your Mexicans.
