Parking ire

So, we finally find a parking place in Mostar after a really long time looking for one. It's a hike to the Old Town where we wanted to go, but in the shade by a little apartment building, next to a mini-van emblazoned with the name of a cafe. There are no signs posted anywhere near the spot.

We go to Old Town and be tourists then we return about 90 minutes later and there, inches from our bumper, butt up against the back of our car is another cafe truck. Locked. It's about 110 degrees and there's no sign of a driver anywhere. So Miranda, serving as trip fixer, goes into a restaurant across the street and comes back with the proprietor and the two of them ring on doorbells looking for the driver. No luck. I'm convinced the guy is an upstairs garret with a girlfriend having afternoon delight; Phyllis figures he's trying to teach us a lesson about taking his spot -- although how we were supposed to have know it was his spot is unfathomable. 

Just as we are convinced we are gonna spend an entire day of our limited vacation waiting for the angry, oversexed driver to return, Miranda hit on the right button, talked to a woman and in a few minutes a man in shorts but nothing else came sauntering out. He didn't look at us, just got into his offending truck and pulled away just far enough for me -- using K-turn maneuvers -- to wiggle out of the space.  Really, a sign saying NO PARKINJE would be more effective.