From Vienna to Nitra
«Over here! Over here!»
An unexpected, insistent call from a customs officer who, for some reason, chose to pick us from the crowd before our turn suddenly jolted three exhausted travelers out of a dreamlike haze, where plans for the days ahead blurred with anxious thoughts about their luggage. «Will it arrive, or won’t it?» – the kind of lottery every traveler dreads… And really, what else was there to do in that endlessly long, half-asleep line, creeping forward like a freight train, each carriage responding with a delay to the movement of the one ahead.
The officer greeted us with a friendly smile and bore a curious resemblance to Jesus from The Big Lebowski if he’d been dropped straight into Cyberpunk 2077. His mostly black hair was streaked with the odd patch of gray and bold flashes of crimson. Both ears glittered with earrings, while an elaborate tattoo curled across his neck. Unlike most customs officers, he resembled a rock musician more than a bureaucrat: his uniform fit so snugly it might have been tailored for an album cover photoshoot. The look was topped off with stylish fingerless cycling gloves, a slim scarf, and delicate silver-framed reading glasses. The whole improbable yet oddly harmonious ensemble left little doubt that we were dealing with a true Austrian.
What worried us was that our passports held Schengen visas not issued by Austria, even though we had to cross the border here. In the past this was quite normal, but times had changed. The officer, however, didn’t seem the least bit concerned. He tossed out a few jokes about our accent, quickly stamped the pages, and handed our documents back with a smile, wishing us a pleasant stay.
Expecting an interrogation with shades of psychological drama, we were pleasantly surprised by the officer’s composure, since the most recent posts on traveler forums, written by people who had lately crossed borders with «the wrong» visa, had painted a very different picture.
The officer seemed to take our genuine bewilderment for nothing more than a brief stupor, brought on by fatigue and unfamiliar surroundings. He even half-rose from his chair and, still smiling, pointed us in the right direction. Outwardly we may have looked sluggish, but our minds were firing at full capacity: the route had already been mapped out, and his gesture was simply the last signal that sent us sprinting toward the baggage claim.
After about ten minutes of winding our way through passageways and corridors, we finally reached the part of the airport where life was in full swing, pulsing with movement, and the faint smell of aviation fuel hung in the air – a peculiar, unchanging marker of adventures about to begin. It felt like an invisible line, separating everyday routine from the start of something new and exciting.
And then, to our surprise, the unexpected happened: both of our suitcases, heavy and dependable, rolled onto the carousel almost at the same time, among the very first. Anyone who has ever endured those long, weary minutes at baggage claim, watching everyone else’s luggage circle lazily past while their own seems lost to some parallel reality, will know just how rare and incredible such luck is. It felt as if life itself, for once, had decided we’d had enough trials – at least for today.
There’s a special kind of relief when fears that have chased you so stubbornly, and with every appearance of reason, suddenly don’t come true. But the awareness of this never comes right away. It’s as if fear itself needs time to pack up, tidy itself, and make a dignified exit from the place it had already claimed, settled into, and perhaps even started plotting how to turn to its advantage had things actually gone wrong.
