Azerbaijan/Iran 2008: Next time around, you better lose!
It was slowly getting cold and the thrill of the journey's initial, autumn sunlit hours had receded into oblivion. At the Wuppertal gas station, the October evening didn't bode for one of prismatic luster to any great extent. Traffic was anything but dense, yet there was still a lengthy road to travel. The only cars tanking up at this point were ones with local license plates, probably on their way home. The station was sort of nondescript – small, essentially hidden despite being just next to the highway. No restaurant or motel. Just pumps, bathrooms, snacks and soft drinks; a momentary stop of necessity, to keep from running out of gas. I'd been in the blatantly possessive embrace of hopelessness for quite a while by the time the clock's hands were aligned on the twelve, and the temperature was approaching zero. Following a period of complete inactivity that stretched on for an eternity a small, dilapidated Ford Fiesta with Berlin license plates pulled up. Its driv