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It had been a good car, but we should have realized we were pushing our luck. We had certainly received our money's worth after buying it from a guy we met at a disco in Prague for $300. Split four ways between me and my three American travelling buddies -- Jason, Bill and Sam -- we thought it was a steal.

We probably could have even gotten it for cheaper, but Jason's silly madras golf hat gave us away as Americans, significantly eroding our bargaining power. Anyway, it meant no more trains, no more buses; it would mean freedom to go where we wanted whenever we felt like it. After making the cash transaction in the back parking lot, we received a moldy sheaf of crumpled papers -- presumably making it legal -- and drove away the proud new owners of our very own 1978 Soviet-era Czechoslovak Skoda.

Since then the little red hatchback had spirited us through the posh brick streets of Vienna, Austria, along the winding grass banks of the Danube River, up the hills of Budapest, Hungary, to the base of Vlad Dracul's castle in Romania, over a winding pass in the Carpathian Alps and, finally, many weeks and border checks later, into the pre-dawn streets of Sofia, Bulgaria.

Then it broke down, or I guess it would be fairer to say it finally succumbed to one of a long list of nagging ailments. A quick peripheral rundown of the noncosmetic problems would go as follows: a failing clutch, a broken starter, smoking brakes, a back door that was somehow frozen shut and a sweeping, dangerous drift that hinted at some sort of serious problem with the axle.

In any event, it was the starter that gave out first. The setting of the breakdown -- a police checkpoint on the outskirts of the city -- could not have been worse. After being flagged over to the shoulder by a hulking man with a rifle, we had been forced to spend the next half-hour trying to push-start the car under the hot jeers of a heavily armed detachment of the Sofia police force. "You should have bought American car!" they had yelled as we sweated and pushed. They laughed and slapped each other on the back.

Later in the morning at breakfast, while arguing over whether to ditch the Skoda and proceed by train or attempt to fix it, we met Stipe. He was our waiter.

"If we ditch the car, we'll have to spend more on train and bus tickets," Jason said, adjusting his madras golf cap. "I can't afford to make Istanbul without the car," he continued. "Bullshit," Sam protested. "You just like having a place to store your bags all the time."

"You are Americans?" Stipe interrupted, eyeing Jason's cap as he delivered a bowl of Cheerios. His cheery tone indicated that he hadn't picked up on the heated nature of our conversation -- that, or he'd just ignored it. "You want fix what?" Stipe continued, undeterred by our silence.

After a moment, Jason spoke up. "Our car," he said.

"Really!" Stipe exclaimed. It was as if Jason had just told him we would be paying the breakfast bill with cut diamonds. We all looked at Stipe, Bill with a dripping spoonful of Cheerios halfway to his mouth. Stipe was short, compact and heavily muscled. He was pale and his dingy hair was thinning, but there was an undeniable youthful exuberance in his eyes.

"I fix it, no problem," Stipe continued eagerly. "I do mechanic. You bring my home, I fix it for you today, no problem."

"It's a Skoda," I said, thinking the make might not be familiar in Bulgaria, trying to slow his runaway enthusiasm.

"Skoda!" Stipe exploded. "Oh, I know Skoda. Fix many!" he said beaming.

We all looked at one another, sensing a con.

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