Real cold, the kind that means you need to cover skin after a few minutes lest you feel the sting, and which makes buying proper mitts today’s priority. Thick fog everywhere. A friendly taxi driver, who’d lived in Denver for years, until his lack of greencard sent him home to Plovdiv. Cobble streets, all in darkness, streetlights few and far between. Searching for the light of a café. Crunch of ice patch. Church by the main street, bathed in artificial orange and wrapped in the mist. Found a yet-to-open café, hollered ‘til someone came and motioned me to sit. Spent two hours drinking a coffee and mouthing Bulgarian to myself, owners nowhere to be seen save two trips to buy ingredients. Their warm goodbye makes me think they only let me in because I was cold, not expecting to sell me a breakfast which didn’t seem to exist. Grey light of morning finds me warm in a solid bunk beside a heater, and falling into a doze despite the caffeine.