The Drift Of Things

With some difficulty we framed the picture of the village on the mountain getting in the railroad bridge and tunnel at the base. It was a charming scene of red-tile roofs on a green mountain in the golden autumn sunshine with the black hole of the railroad tunnel looking like something out of the movie, "The Train." We clicked the shutter, advanced the film and started back to our rented Audi. At which point there was a hail from the other side of the railroad bridge. A man in uniform was brandishing an object in the air which looked suspiciously like a rifle. We peered around. We were the only other persons in view. He must be yelling at us. He was now closing the distance at a brisk, determined gait but was still 100 yards away. The car was handy but the road was straight, paralleling the railroad tracks for some distance. We dismissed the idea of running for it. Who knows, he might shoot. When he came up we didn't have much of a conversation because it had taken us a week to learn three words of Yugoslavian-zhiveli, long life, huhvalla, thank you, and schlivavitza, the national drink (plum brandy). None of these seemed appropriate. We got the Idea that photographs of railroad tunnels and bridges were prohibited. The guard, for such he seemed to be, took the Audi plate number, administered a last scowling reprimand and stalked off. This incident was the only one in a 15-day visit to Yugoslavia which we would have associated with "Iron Curtain restrictions."