1991. On a train through Yugoslavia two young Americans faced one another across a table. Karine had a braid that wove its way down her spine, and that she played hypnotically around her shoulders as she talked. Kathleen was a petite, voluptuous chainsmoker with an acerbic wit and a laugh that started from deep within her notable body. Kendal, my Brazilian schoolmate, and I were supposed to be hitchhiking to Turkey, but a blizzard on the Austrian autobahn had intervened: the BMW that had given us a lift had pinballed off the guardrails on a slick, sweeping curve, and we had left the driver dumbstruck beside his crumpled vehicle and hitched a ride to the nearest village while the wet spring snows cloaked the valley. The next day the roads into Yugoslavia were closed, so we took the train. We met Karine and Kathleen soon after it left Belgrade. They were strippers from Seattle, journeying across Europe. To two young men in the midst of an adventure, they were catnip. Their next stop: Mount Olympus. We changed our plans.
The four of us disembarked late at night and made our way via taxi to the nearest beach. I put up my tent by headlamp while Karine and Kendal laid out their sleeping bags on the sand. When I unzipped the door, Kathleen threw her bag inside. By morning, we were a couple.
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