Brent's Ramblings

Warsaw to Krakow to Kyiv—the final stretch of my journey was anything but ordinary. From strange hostel encounters to ticket-window battles, pizza lunches in Stalin’s “gift,” and even a chess hustler in the park, the road home was filled with chaos, laughter, and unexpected lessons. Sometimes travel isn’t about where you go, but what God reminds you of along the way.

Returning to Warsaw felt like a homecoming after months of travel. The all-night train ride brought colorful encounters—a nonstop-talking extrovert, Brits, and Aussies. In Budapest, I soaked in hot springs, dodged flag Speedos, and escaped childish banter at dinner. Back in Warsaw, familiar streets, favorite soup, and even paper airplane contests on the sidewalk reminded me why this city feels like a second home before my final journey to Krakow and Kyiv.

Serbia—land of no toilet paper and scarce internet cafés. In Belgrade, I wander past bombed buildings and meet locals like Baby and Nikolai, who share stories from Serbia’s turbulent past. Along the way, I befriend travelers, get teased for buying socks, and spot quirky t-shirts. After two and a half days, I’m tired but grateful. The road to Budapest awaits—but it’s the people who make this adventure unforgettable.

Arrived in Athens at sunrise with a shooting star above—Olympic magic had begun. Navigated chaotic buses, sweaty ruins, and no bag storage, but found relief from North Carolina Baptists handing out water. Caught Canada vs. Chinese Taipei in Olympic baseball after a hilarious run-in with Greek security. The sunset over the stadium was stunning. Sunrise to sunset in Athens—then off to Thessaloniki by night train.

In Selçuk, I toured Ephesus with Jerry and Andrea—a meticulous planner and a Danish journalist full of trivia and celebrity gossip. Between ruins, we bonded over awkward beach moments, chest wig stories, and shared laughs. We parted ways, but I continued to Athens via ferry, met more Aussies, and tangled with a grumpy Greek “sleep police” guy. Travel teaches you that good company and unexpected moments make the best stories.

I dove into belly dancing lessons in Istanbul—until the instructor pulled a man from the audience, stripped his shirt, and my fear kicked in. I escaped to the bathroom. Later, a carpet salesman coaxed me into a 30-minute tea-and-sales-pitch session, laying out twenty rugs and weaving stories of Noah’s Ark. At dinner, a waiter's arm-around-the-shoulder friendliness earned me a free meal. I ended the night in the Blue Mosque, awkwardly clad in a Velcro skirt.

Rambo! That’s what I heard shouted by Turkish passersby—likely sparked by my sleeveless shirt. Two hours ago, that was my welcome. Today, Istanbul has been kind: a peaceful breakfast, a quiet moment with God in a café, and a run along the sea. Hot air balloons floated, ships bustled, and a little boy shouted “Thank you!” after trying his English on me. In 30 minutes, I’ll board the bus to Ephesus.

I stepped off the boat into Istanbul and instantly felt foreign—my skin pale, my hair light. I churned uphill, sweaty, for lunch, paid millions (worth cents), and wandered through a residential neighborhood where everyone stared. One man shouted “Sportsman!”; two boys called me “Toureest!” I laughed, ate some of the best food I’ve ever had, got lost at night and hailed a taxi. My driver became a friend, playing Lyle Lovett music as we headed back to the hotel.

On my journey to Istanbul, the boat cabin became its own little world. I nearly knocked over a Russian couple when opening the door, then we boarded a deaf couple whose silent presence challenged communication to new levels. The concierge paged a deaf roommate for a missing key—awkward. Over breakfast, I befriended a German duo and Ukrainians who, previously silent, later shared harrowing stories of danger in Turkey. Then the 300-dollar bribe at passport control changed every

Leaving Alexandria, I looked forward to a quiet train ride to Odessa. My peace was interrupted by two loud men boarding—one clearly drunk, both apparently policemen. We talked travel, life, and the awkward question: “Why did you leave the States?” In Odessa, I wandered: hunting tickets, doors locked, toilets scarce. I met strangers—a young English-student, a champion marksman named Alexander—each encounter adding color to the city. Odessa is changing, still full of surprises

I’m in an internet café in Odessa, scheming to catch a 6 p.m. boat to Istanbul—if I can finagle my way on. My journey began aboard a train where I switched seats with a stranger and joined an older Ukrainian lady. In the next compartment, a man probed me with questions in broken Russian, telling of his sunflower oil business. The conversation left my head spinning, but not before he invited me to tour his factory in Alexandria.

In 2004, after two years in Ukraine, I set out on a 30-day, 9-country overland journey to see more of the world—and understand God, myself, and others more deeply. With U2’s Summer Rain as my theme song, I packed light, ignored warnings about danger and heat, and boarded a train from Kyiv. This wasn’t just a trip—it was a step toward living more freely, taking more risks, and trusting God’s call to adventure wherever it might lead.