Among the many reasons I like Croatian bus drivers is that they will carry on conversations with you knowing full well you don’t speak the language.  A test of your sense of humor, perhaps. A display of their own. A smile and a slow blink seems to demonstrate the proper respect and good spirit.

Our bus stopped at the border crossing and when the engine cut, it became clear the wait would be long and August hot. The driver crawled out with our stack of passports.  In the backseat of a car idling at another line, a little girl leaned closed to her window. She craned her neck to gaze at our massive bus. She mimed eating corn on the cob while rolling her eyes and wagging her head. Adorable, she chattered away, entertaining herself while her parents offered identification to the guards. She finished one invisible cob and started…