Amongst the locals but forgotten, below the Tatra mountains of Slovakia and on the edges of Tirgu Mures, Romania, stewing sweet veggies and potato intestine, using long wooden spoons like witch brooms. Hand me down violins, American sports jerseys, and soccer balls. A village bathing in a single communal outdoor tub. The Roma: A people tucked away, hidden behind the last, white, cement, communist apartment buildings. Rough and tumble and giddy with life. I have 8 stitches on my forehead from a long ago fistfight with a pair of local Roma over a misunderstanding in a bar. I've chased a horse drawn caravan up a hill and into the Carpathian mountains. Witnessed a burial where I could kick myself for running out of film. Played soccer with Roma next to "The Pentagon" housing projects on the edge of Bratislava, Slovakia. It seems that deep in my blood I have nomadic tendencies. I use the camera both selfishly and to spread joy. I look forward to looking at my photographs as an old man, but I dread viewing all the different lives I could have lived. This is a series of photographs I took when I was a budding nomad among the experts in Eastern Europe.