I’ve always been fascinated by the history and events of World War II. So, in 2010, I decided to visit the concentration camps in Poland with a friend who shares the same interest. I invited several other friends to join me, but, predictably, nobody wanted to spend their Brazilian summer visiting concentration camps in the freezing European winter. Only I would have such a bizarre idea! Fortunately, my friend, who also shares my historical enthusiasm, was on board, and we set off on a journey across Eastern Europe.
For this adventure, we decided to rent a car. The prices were great, and the car was top-notch. The only problem was that I didn’t quite grasp that I would need to fill the car up with fuel during the trip. It seemed like a trivial task, right? Well, turns out, not so much. In addition to struggling with pumping the fuel ourselves, we also had the small issue of the language barrier. I don’t speak Polish, and certainly not the languages of the neighboring countries, like Hungarian or Czech.
The problem really hit when we were crossing through Czechoslovakia. The car “requested” fuel, so I pulled over to a station. It was a “chilly” night, hovering between 5ºC and 6ºC, and there wasn’t a soul in sight near the pumps. I stepped out of the car and nearly got blown away by the gusts of wind by the highway, and stumbled towards the 24-hour service station. There was an older man standing by, and when I asked him, “Do you speak English?” he replied, “No English, no English.”
After what felt like a lengthy exchange of silence and gestures, he eventually brought over someone who could communicate in English.
So, I asked this new person for help with the fuel, and here’s where things started to go a little... sideways. He asked, “What kind of fuel do you need?” Without a second thought, I confidently said, “Gasoline.” He, however, insisted, “Ok, but what type of gasoline?” He proceeded to list a range of options, such as benzina, methanol, alcohol, diesel, and so on.
I had absolutely no idea what to choose and, fearing I might pour the wrong fuel into the car, I just said, “I don’t know.”
Now, things got really interesting. He asked for the car manual, but when I handed it over, he looked at it and said, “It’s in Polish. I don’t speak Polish.” I thought, Of course, it’s in Polish. The car was rented in Poland, so the manual must be in Polish. He handed it back and said, “I don’t know what to do.”
At this point, I started to panic. It was the middle of the night, I was in the Czech Republic, and I had no idea what to do with this car.
Feeling both flattered and concerned by our situation, the guy at the station called over the very same gentleman who had previously told me, “No English, no English.” They had a brief conversation, and then the man asked me to start the car. I turned the key, and the man, with barely a word, leaned his ear toward the engine. After a few moments of suspense, he exclaimed to his colleague, “It’s benzina, it’s benzina!”
I couldn’t believe it. I mean, really, I thought I was living in some sort of absurd dream. But, I didn’t have much of a choice at that point. I asked him to fill up the tank with benzina, and from that moment on, every time I saw a gas station, I’d happily ask, “Benzina, please!”