Dubrovnik is burning? Let's eat!!!

Gregg and Nino took off on a Saturday from Dubrovnik, leaving just me and the undeterred, unflappable, unstoppable Jeff Jones to take apart Dubrovnik, and soon after, Budapest.

Jones and I moved that day to an apartment nearer the Old Town, on the X and Y axis, but much further away on the Z axis. So basically, instead of being about four km away, we were now about two, but they were straight up in the air. Awesome. One thing I really needed was more obstacles between the bars and the safety of my bed at night. Mission: accomplished.

One thing Dubrovnik is not short on, is stairs. There are stairs everywhere, to go anywhere. When I arrived, my calves were that of an average 180cm tall (I'm all metric now) 31 year old. Now, they are chiseled masterpieces right out of any Michaelangelo gallery. Johnnie Drama, eat your heart out.

Dubrovnik, the town, is striking. The sun strikes the roof tiles at dawn and dusk the way you'd imagine it would on the canvas of any of the old masters. The colors are brilliant, and the layout of the city is breathtaking. The Jewel of the Adriatic definitely earned its nickname, as far as I was concerned.

One thing Dubrovnik is short on, is good clubs. The nightlife there is shit. The clubs are jammed with sweating, heaving, misguided tourists lost on an eight hour land break from their enormous cruiseline eyesore before they go back two hours early and mark off Dubrovnik on their "Cities I've Visited" map on Facebook. They're all cunts.

Sick of that scene, Jones and I go back to the only club cruisline cunts don't go to, East/West, where I run into some Portuguese guy I had evidently entertained the night before. I'd heard about a big party at the Belvedere hotel, and East/West was pretty dead, so the Portuguese guy, his friend, the adventurous, expectant, slightly scary Jeff Jones and I all head to the Belvedere.

Fucking wow. This party was out. of. fucking. control. It's set into the mountainside in a tiered coliseum-type layout, with every tier jamming with people (all beautiful), pouring their energy onto a thumping dance floor in front of world-class DJs like Ian Pooley, among others, with the backdrop of Dubrovnik reflecting it's grandeur onto the small bay in between.

Mentally, and alcoholically speaking, I am horribly ill-prepared for this. It's about 12:30am, and I, along with the dumbstruck, dazed and bedazzled Jeff Jones head for the bar with the two Portuguese guys. One guy (the one I'd met the night before), Artur, is your typical suave, good-looking, fucking cheeseball. But in a really endearing, positive way, so he's fun to keep around. Their pace in drinking slips behind mine, as I make the solo decision to increase the slope of my time-over-drunk curve by putting down one tequila shot, chugging a red bull-vodka, and buying a beer to walk around, with each trip to the bar. Astonished gazes by onlookers notwithstanding, I felt rather strong in this environment.

Around 7am, the party closes down, I am sufficiently drunk and exhausted, and the determined, undeterred, and persistent Jeff Jones is busy trying to meet the last of the women remaining in the cavity that was once Dubrovnik's biggest party of the year. We endure a 5 km walk back to our apartment, feeling triumphant and fulfilled, if also exhausted and acutely suicidal. Hyperbole!!!

Next day, we walk around the wall of Dubrovnik, which is something people with an immense amount of patience and energy typically do. Those people, generally, are not coming off an 8 hour raving binge the night before. And if they are, they are probably still complaining about the experience, much as I am now. What else would I be doing?

The walk was sufficiently taxing, though still worthwhile. I bought the audio guide with the best of intentions, only to eventually come to the conclusion that I was only listening, and not hearing. Or hearing, and not listening. Either way, I was using it as a barrier between me and mankind to keep from speaking. I learned a few things, but most of them had more to do how not to spend a day with a brutal hangover.

That day, the overwhelming smell of a campfire filled the Old Town. Why? Because the hills behind the city were on fucking fire, that's why. Of all the things I was equipped to do on this day (sleep, eat greasy food, lay, sleep, drink liquids, roll over, sleep), outrunning a forest fire was not one of them. Nor was inhaling unhealthy levels of carbon monoxide while trying to scale a flight of stairs that go straight up in the air. So, you can imagine how welcoming my attitude was towards an advancing march of flickering death flares, as they approached the Old Town. Where, interestingly, they were already nearly devouring the apartment in which we were staying. One good thing is, imminent danger = great pictures!! Hope you enjoy!!!

Owners of nearby homes were dousing the trees behind their apartments to prevent them from catching ablaze, as the timid, tepid, yet somehow tempestuous Jeff Jones and I were passively suppressing our otherwise obvious concern. While the hills of Dubrovnik gradually burned off their beauty, we discussed plans to sleep on the polished marble grounds of the Old Town, (or, more likely, the floor of a friend I'd met who lives in the Old Town), as we dined on the most delicious seafood I'd had in years. Grilled baby squid, steamed shrimp, and the freshest other-seafood-crap-I-can't-remember known to man. Ahhh, memories!!

We fall asleep in the arms of the Lord, knowing that with 91% of Croatia being devout Catholic, he's watching over this land rather intently. Hopefully, there are really big churches nearby. We wake up the next morning, inspect our brush with danger (to the tune of about 200m) and are on our way to the airport.

The drive proves that literally every square inch of what was once natural beauty, is now ash. One would think the cause would be the intense heat and dry conditions, but no, no no.... locals most often blame the Serbians for setting time-release fires to scorch the countryside.

I personally blame the Jews. Clearly they were upset at the Croatia cash-only system and wanted to stunt their burgeoning tourist metropolis. It's true. An Albanian told me so. And if there's one thing I learned from Croatians while there, it's that Albanians are always right. Or was it that they were asshole cunts? Ya, that might actually be it. My bad.

By the way, I know it's been so long since I uploaded any pictures, that everyone has probably stopped checking for them. Well, you're in for a big surprise, because Croatia and Budapest are ready for your distracted inspection. Go for it.

Random Thoughts

A while ago, I promised a glossary of terms I’d learned. Fuck that. I’m finishing up my 12^th week of gallivanting. As you might imagine, by now I’ve spent enough time studying the people (both of the local nation, and of the travelers within it), to make some very insightful, if wholly judgmental observations. Sounds fun, doesn’t it? Let’s go!

The most obvious comment I can make is that Brits, as a general rule (we are generalizing here, aren’t we?) fucking suck. Let me footnote this as saying that everyone I’ve met from Leeds is especially cool, however. I’ve never been there, but the people there make it sound like an Austin, Texas. Minus the hot southern girls, and great food and climate.

Ok, enough lauding. That’s not my aim here. Hell, I just posted a story about shitting myself, so I’d say it’s high time for me to lash out at my fellow mankind. Brits suck. They run around, singing their tired-ass, stupid songs... LOUDLY, they’re all wasted by late afternoon, and they all travel in groups of like 16 people. And when they’re not telling you how fucking amazing London is (even though they live 20 minutes outside), they’re waxing wistful about their most recent sexual conquest, which just so happened to be about four months ago. Here’s me giving my look of utter wonderment.

Forgive me if these musings tend to seem a bit disjointed. And I'll forgive you for not anticipating this patternless diatribe when the word “random” is clearly the headline.

Contiki travelers fall into the following categories:

-The Curious Jorge: This guy leaves his home country with the best of intentions. His eyes are wide; his stride a bit uncertain; his hat down low so as to avoid eye contact with locals, because that’s what his parents told him they don’t like. He starts out this way. Come week 7, he is a cocky, arrogant, Lonely Planet drone with nothing but crappy jpegs of “the sights” uploaded to Shutterfly (gay). The pics are all taken with his shitty 1.7megapixel Canon Sureshot, and all the churches and bridges look like they’re frames taken from a Soderberg movie.

He’ll piss out a laundry list of things he’s seen, with only a broad-stroking knowledge of each one, and he’ll tell you that in seven weeks, he’s been to 19 different cities. Really??? 19??? That sounds fucking awesome!!! I too, would like to spend 30% of my waking holiday hours, battling train station herds and jockeying for the next available seat between Hamburg and Vienna. Great job, dickweed!!!

-The Attention Whore: I find this most often with women, quite honestly. This is the girl who leaves her university behind, wishing to come back with the craziest summer stories. Granted, we all want some crazy stories to tell, but some of us try a little less hard to make them happen. It’s like a stud baller like Kobe forcing up 24 shots (making 5), all while getting his team down 19 by halftime. Let the game come to you, Kob. There’s no need to rush it when the shot isn’t there….

Not only that, but she’ll tell stories such as, “OH MY GOD!!! The WORST THING EVER happened to me in Vienna!!! I was walking along the Ring and wearing my new sandals from Salamander, when I got them caught in the drainage grate!!! OH MY GOD it was soooo scary!! This guy was coming towards me about 80 meters away on his bike, and he wasn’t slowing down!!! I didn’t know if he’d hit me or not! And I JUST BOUGHT them so I wasn’t about to just let it go, you know [insert forced laughter]… Then the guy just barely missed me and I noticed he had a piercing IN HIS CHIN!! GROSS!!! Oh, but it was so scary. I got the sandal back, THANK GOD!!! But Vienna is SOOOOO dangerous!!!!”

It’s also rare that she’s been to more than a handful of different cities in the first place. Which would be fine, if it weren’t for her insistence on telling you all the lame things she’s done in each one. Naturally, her limited travel scope, and unlimited abrasiveness places her nearest the bottom of the travelers food chain.

Her other crazy stories are most likely derived from her wealthy Facebook library of “Group Photo!!!” ops and her fabricated claims that she made out with “this really hot Australian guy.” Oh, you mean that Russian guy in the back that looks completely disinterested and somewhat nauseated? “Yea, that’s him. He was SOOOO hot…”

-The Hopeful Wanderer: This is the category I best fit in. Let that not fool you into thinking that I do not have just as much contempt for us as the others. I do. Most of these types are of a bit longer tooth, who left a job, or are taking a hiatus to find something they feel more passionately about. Only the conclusion they all reach is that drinking obscene amounts of beer, booze, and any local vodka we can find, is a pretty good short-term remedy.

They are also a moody fucking brood. There are days when they’re happy to socialize with just about anyone. And then there are days when even the most well-meaning, thoughtful traveler will irk them with even the hint of a sentence aimed in their direction. And these transitions take place without notice or forethought. Sometimes they can be polite and interesting, but most of the time I’m wondering if they’re really just planning their exit strategy from what I thought was a mutually thought-provoking conversation. And I know this because I’ve done it. Countless times.

Meanwhile, we’re escaping you only so we can work on our next captivating blog entry to entertain our friends back home. Not only are we the most likely to have a blog in the first place, but we’re also the type to name it something “original” and lame like “Zen and the Art of Backpacking Maintenance” or “Travelling Light.” Fuck us.

-The Cunt: Always Australian. They are just looking for the next city to get fucking “pissed” in, and for another new way to do it. Truthfully, I find them endearing. They’re typically in good spirits, well behaved, and they’re always wondering why people are out trying to DO things, LEARN things, and SEE things. To them, the world is one huge pub-crawl, and each city in Europe is another pint. And honestly, I can’t say much that can take that away from them. Cheers.

-The Sore Thumb: This guy just looks like he doesn’t belong. On earth. He left behind a city like Dublin to presumably find somewhere to fit in. Unfortunately, that place doesn’t exist. Believe me, I applaud his effort, and his individuality is something I think we all secretly crave, but he’s a psycho. In an unfamiliar land, where people speak differently, eat different things, and engage in different customs, I’m not the guy who is going to spend time figuring out why the mute with piercings down his vertebrae is halfway through an entire pumpkin pie by 10am. And pumpkin pie?!?!? Where did that even come from??? This is Poland, and you’re from Ireland, for fucks sake!!! And didn’t you just say you came in from Sicily? Why the hell do you look like you haven’t seen the sun since Marilyn Manson’s last tour? EXPLAIN YOURSELF!!!!

On second thought, don’t. I’m going to the store to buy garlic cloves, and after I’ve strung them around my neck, I’ll be hanging around a church for awhile reciting some scripture. You keep organizing your goth t-shirts. See ya never.

-The ________: Judging Jeopardy!!!! This traveler typically travels in groups of three or four as they stick together like SS soldiers on trial. They spend more time staring into an LCD screen on the back of their 14megapixel, 12x optical zoom camera with polarizing lens, then they spend actually looking at the site in front of them. Each picture must be taken with requisite smile and pose in front, as they all take turns, each striking a goofy pose that elicits a similar laugh as the time they did the same thing three minutes earlier. They’ll stop in every futbol apparel store and buy anything Adidas or alternatively, anything with the Brazilian flag on it. I’ve also never actually spoken to one of them on this trip, so this is the most judgmental, and thus the most fun profile yet!!! Name the stereotype.

Ok enough. Moving on.

I’m getting concerned. My throat has been slowly closing on me since halfway through Croatia, and I’ve developed an acute case of narcolepsy. I was checking out some museums in Budapest with the honest, loyal, forthright, and fearless Jeff Jones, and he’d turn his back for no more than a moment before I’d be asleep in a corner somewhere. And lest you think these were quick naps, I assure you that each one could have stretched for hours had it not been for the caring, compassionate, and gentle Jeff Jones waking me up each time. For that matter, I’ve also begun snoring for the first time in my life. I understand that this is probably an effect of the first two issues, though for me, it’s no less alarming.

Getting back to the naming of the blog, let me just say that I totally hate the name of this thing. If it weren't for having 35 different things to do before I left the office on my last day, I would have probably given it a bit more thought. Along those lines, if I was the kind of person who gave things a lot of thought, I probably would have bought a book about Ukraine before I got here. Instead, I walk into museums and complain that I can't read a damn thing in Cyrillic. And remarkably, it's not my fault!!!

Why I hate all of you

Allow me a moment to rant for a bit:

You guys are all on my shit lists. And no, I don't mean you're up to do my laundry. But where's the fuckin' love, man?? No virtual hugs from what has to be considered my most embarrassing moment? One that I broadcast for your momentary amusement???? That is unacceptable!!!

I'm in Ukraine now, where there are pirates literally at every turn. Sure, that might sound like a good time in an "aye matey" kind of way, but when you're facing possible abduction for a few hundred Hryvnia, it tends to lose its charm.

Got a few posts lined up, just need to put some finishing touches on them. Kind of like how all of you need to put the finishing touches on your underdeveloped empathy. As punishment, I think I might litter this thing with Ad Sense just to piss you all off.

I hope all of you get carpal tunnel.

Hvar – a Lesson in Repetition and Tragedy

My friends Jeff (Dr.) Jones, Gregg, and Jeff (the Godfather) all meet me in Split, so we can take the town of Hvar by storm. It’s nice to see some familiar faces, even though I’d had a slight amount of anxiety leading up to their arrival. After all, I hadn’t followed a schedule in months, and we had our next 2+ weeks mapped out already.

I had made a couple contacts along the way that helped us grease the rails in Hvar at the best (and really, the only) club in town, Carpe Diem. For us, there would be no First Night Follies*. We are all set with a table reservation for that night, and our excitement is more or less uncontainable. These guys had been looking forward to this for months, and I was just excited to wallet-whip the player’s scene a bit after living on a backpacker’s budget for the last two months.

After docking in Hvar, we head to the taxi station to get a ride to our apartment. Apparently, you need a phone number of the apartment in which you are staying, and of course, I am not prepared for this. I go into a random travel agency to ask what else I can do, and in a strange twist, the apartment we are renting is adjoined to the one owned by the girl (actually, her mother) working there. The exchange is a pleasant one, and we are off to our apartment.

The owner is an imposing, whiskered old woman with the requisite butter-teeth and smokers gasp. She too seems pleasant. But the best part of all, is the view from our apt is insane. From our balcony, the town glistens with fuck-you yachts and dangling earrings, with the faint throb of a baseline underscoring the evening twilight. Not coincidentally, the same throb can be heard from our collective livers, as they prepare for the bottle-beating onslaught they’ll be forced to endure over the course of the ensuing week.

We are running late, so we grab a bite at the first restaurant we see in the Old Town. It’s a seafood restaurant, where I order the grilled calamari. There’s a lot of schmegma inside the squids. I realize I’m not living upstairs from Il Bagatto anymore, and the seafood is bound to be a bit less “prepared.” But by the end of dinner, we’re buzzing with a couple bottles of white wine under our belts, and the anticipation of absolutely destroying Hvar.

WARNING: The next several paragraphs may not be suitable for readers who either hold me in high esteem, or those who do not appreciate a good dose of blue humor. Scroll down to the next bolded portion, if you wish to skip. I realize there is no chance anyone actually does this, but my own fragile ego insists I at least provide this warning.

We arrive at Carpe Diem. We glide past a mobscene of sycophantic wannabes with disdainful glances down the slopes of our raised noses, and are greeted by our waiter, Ivan. We’re seated with reasonable location, and our bottles are on their way. Ca-fucking-ching. The place is already resonating with expectant energy. An intense baseline provides the soundtrack for a bustling herd of the most absurdly attractive cross-section of women I have ever seen in my life. The hot girl from the Pula tourist agency is a far-gone, distant memory. We smile at each other with knowing looks of accomplishment as our cocks get progressively heavier.

A couple of harsh baselines rattle me out of my inward back-patting, and I feel a knowing rumble in my nether regions. I turn to Gregg and declare that I might find it difficult to last all evening without the benefit of a one-hit stall. As I say this, I lift a cheek to release a little pressure and buy myself some time, when it happens.

I woefully miscalculate. I turn to Gregg and inform him that I’ll be right back. I dart out past the once-friendly velvet rope, and begin speed-walking the 3 km hike back up to our apartment. Why don’t I take a taxi, you ask?? Because I am terrified at the thought of sitting back down, that’s why. And fuck you very much for asking.

I am darting past models and would-be models, musing that all some of these girls would need for a contract at Ford is a simple eating disorder. I think this as a way to get my mind off the burgeoning shame I am sure to encounter should anyone know what I am carrying beneath my pants pockets, as I am unsure of what I might look like from behind. As such, I try desperately to pass people only by sneaking up on them under the street lamps, and making my move past them in the shadows. It occurs to me that this technique is also probably widely utilized in the rapist community.

One km uphill, and my ass is torched. Clearly, my not-so-viscous feces are suffering from high thermal breakdown. Between the astonishingly high amount of friction between my cheeks, and my constant need to clench them, I am in brutal pain. Every step is an exerted effort, and each time I wince, I curse the fact that our bottle has probably just arrived… making my pain both physical and emotional. I am comforted only by the baseline, which can still be heard over my stifled whimpers.

This is my first trip back to our apartment. It is pitch-dark for the final km, and I am in a town I don’t have the slightest knowledge of. I make the choice to climb the wrong daunting staircase countless times. I am determined, yet direly fearful of the inevitable aftershock. I consider several times a hop into the bushes, but remain strong. I decide for some reason that a dash to the bushes would be admitting defeat.

I finally find our apartment. I release my demons while I confirm that in fact, my horrible accident is indeed visible from behind. Cursing those nasty calamari, I shove my clothes into the European lock-as-soon-as-the-door-closes washing machine, to presumably handle the mess later. I shower, and afterward layer my entire ass in aloe. They say it’s good for burns.

NOTE: Anyone who sympathetically skipped the above portion, may continue reading from this point forward. If you actually did this, you are indeed a gentleman and a scholar, and I thank you dearly.

Donning a new pair of jeans, I arrive back at Carpe Diem, about 45 minutes after I left. Question most often asked is “where have you been?” My secret won't be revealed until my first cocktail is safely numbing my brain. And ass. The place is positively exploding. I smile triumphantly knowing that my seafood mishap cost me so little in the long run. My smile widens when I realize that our dear friend Jones is somehow already murderously hammered. I remark that one tragedy begets another, or that things happen in threes, or something else that exacts a look of confusion from whomever I was speaking to at the time.

Jeff is toast. He's asleep on a banquette by about 1:00, despite my ruthless back-handed chest whipping "motivational" beat-down. He'll come around eventually, though I'll have nothing to do with it. This night was not resurrected for the purpose of babysitting others. He's dead to me.

We head up to the only late-night club, Veneranda, and I lose some time. My next memory is Gregg and I singing and drinking out on our balcony at 7 am, getting yelled at by the apartment owner and her daughter. Their words “You are not sorry, you are sick! Sick in the head!!!” seem utterly poignant as Jones comes stumbling through the door. I had already written him off for dead, mourned him, and moved on with my life. His reappearance is eerily unexpected.

He apparently found a group of Australians doing mountains of blow in some random hotel room. Mind you, none of us sign up for that accelerated party level, so I am sure this situation was especially interesting for Jonesy.

Next day, we go to the beach club, Hula Hula, drink some more, take a nap, and again are running late to Carpe. We slam down a pizza at Mama Leone’s, a place we’d had lunch at the day before.

We get to Carpe in reasonable time, and nail down an even better location. I am watching the hordes of people out front accumulate when I recognize some people I’d hung out with in Ljubljana. I get them in, and they love me. Memories of the tragedies of a day earlier are long forgotten. Jones is safely on beer-only status, I have ingested about 400 mg of Tums, and the party is underway.

More of the same, great, high-energy times take place until around 5am we are somehow back at our apartment with a couple people from Ljubljana, a couple of random New York girls, and the Australian guy who saved Jones the night before. I’ve already scolded one of the New York girls for disparaging the good name of the Godfather. No one criticizes the Godfather, lest they be met with extreme ire and repercussion.

There are a good number of us, but we are keeping the music inside this time, so as not to piss off the owner. Mission: failed. The owner storms in, and is visibly vibrating in unbridled anger. She tears the Ipod speakers from the wall, only to become even more infuriated when they don’t turn off (stupid rechargeable batteries!!). Johnny, the Australian (whom I nicknamed Johnny Snow Nose) proclaims “I speak Crohayshun!” and that he’ll handle speaking to her.

It should be noted that he’d been proclaiming a lot by this point:

“I hahve the best coke in Crohaysha!!”
“Jonesy, he’s loyahl, he’s ‘onest, he’s trustworthy, he’s a good dancah, he’s an esteemed Siebel project managah, he’s a wohthy adversary...”
“I can hahve 3 grahms of coke here in 20 minutes.”
“Are you sure you don’t need any coke?”
“Jonesy, he’s loyahl, he’s tendah, he’s gentle, he’s caring…”
“My guy’s on the phone, he wahnts to know how much coke you guys wohnt.”

In any case, his 20 second conversation with our apartment owner went nearly as follows:

JSN (in Crohayshun): Words, words words. Words words, words words American words.
Apt lady: Words words American words words [shakes head]!
JSN: Words words words? American words.
Apt lady: No. American words words words words!! Words!!!!!!
JSN: Ok. Words.
JSN (to us): Well, she’s cawling the cops if you guys ahn’t out of heah in 30 minutes.

Fuck. I could have done that!! I could have told her to shave her face and go fuck a Serbian and wound up with a better result that that. Fuck Johnny Snow Nose.

It is 8am. Granted, any better-behaved group of adults (Godfather is soon to be 45) would have been long asleep by then. However, we were all still in ramped-up party mode, and now are hiking our crap down to the nearest hotel as a penance. It also happens to be one of the most expensive hotels in town. At this point though, I’m feeling the need for a good night’s sleep, much the way I did after spending several hours holed up in a Mexican jail cell in Cabo. Any amount would be too little to pay for me to get a clean, safe place to sleep, at this point.

The next day at Hula Hula, we all share a vindictive laugh over the fact that my soiled clothes from the night before are awaiting our apartment hostess at first inspection. Last laugh? America.

Are you sensing a pattern? Because there is one: Afternoons at Hula Hula; evenings throwing food down as quickly as possible, nights at Carpe, late nights at Veneranda, all peppered with drastic tragedy and mild triumphs. Clearly, Hvar is hardly a big town. In fact, I commented to the Godfather one night that this beautiful, quaint little town with so much history and culture, exists purely for the gluttonous indulgence of the Haves, and all else can fuck off. It’s pretty much a reason to rethink that “money isn’t everything” mantra that people without money like to regurgitate, when faced with what they perceive to be a decision not to have. Truth is, Having is much more desirable than Having Not.

It’s like the guy in high school, who claims he’s not into chicks. Oh, he’s into fucking chicks, alright. But his is not a choice borne of his own volition. In reality, it is the choices of the hundreds, if not thousands of girls in his high school that won’t fuck him. Sure, he may eventually wind up being a searingly witfull, well-adjusted, mildly athletic and virile stallion in his latter years, but those sexually developmental years are mostly spent lying to yourself and others about why you’re not boning every (any??) girl with a claspless bra. Trust me, I am that guy.

[/digression] By the time we left Hvar, we had a rather approving reputation at Carpe Diem, and a boat ride to the surrounding islands under our belt – which, by the way, managed to compact my spine to the tune of about 2 inches. Inasmuch as Gregg was driving, methinks he pushed the throttle to the hilt in order to make us all as short as he is. It’s a theory I plan on sticking to, at least until my next massage.

Hopefully my tragic night in Hvar makes up for what has been a long blogging hiatus. I get the sense I’ll be relentlessly forgiven. You know, I’d like to think that awful story is up there (in substance, not talent) with Richard Pryor telling the story about how he set himself on fire while smoking crack; although I accept this as being a probable fabrication of my need for creative approval.

* - First Night Follies are often encountered when you visit a city on the first night. It takes a night of stumbling around to the shitty clubs before you meet enough people to direct you were the hottest girls are making the poorest and most morally bankrupt decisions.

36 Hours

Already with one admittedly aggressive call (to hitchhike in Postojna) under my belt in the previous 24 hours, I get up for a 7am train to Pula for the second day in a row (having missed it a day earlier) at around 6:00, with no more than three hours sleep as fuel. Considering my average rising time for the past two months has hovered between 11:00 and 12:30, I’m already off to a rough start.

The train ride to Pula is about four hours, and goes by surprisingly (shockingly) smoothly (three adverbs in a row!!! I’m feeling a bit rebellious). I arrive in the Pula train station around 11:00, ON SCHEDULE (which at this point surprises me by itself), and, having only had a momentary glance at an online map, head brazenly toward town. With about 30 kilos on my back, a squeaky computer bag, and a blue t-shirt mercilessly clinging to my sweat glands, I get into town and start asking around for the Budget office.

My first trip into Avis that day was to ask exactly that. They shun me effortlessly with the “I-don’t-speak-English-nor-would-I-care-to-speak-it-to-you-even-if-I-could” move I’ve grown to actually appreciate. I eventually arrive at Budget, and gasp that I have a reservation. Before I’m finished reciting the confirmation number, the guy at the counter grabs a piece of paper nearby and says “are you Brian Ar0nson?” I affirm, only to learn that my car had been given away a day earlier. Of course there aren’t any other cars available. I must have been kidding myself to think that missing that train the day before would bear no rotten fruit.

They agree to let me drop my bags in the back, to more easily allow me to run around town and find an alternative. Which, he warned me, would be difficult. Awesome. Later I’d realize that their act of kindness in allowing me luggage storage was selfishly motivated: they’d already seen what a decrepit mess the before picture had been, now they were wringing their hands waiting to see what I looked like after my fruitless car search.

Let me backtrack a bit and mention that Lou had warned me that “Pula is a hole. Fifteen minutes at the coliseum, and you’re ready to move on.”

In knowing I’d already walked past the coliseum on my way into town, and after seeing what an armpit the marina area was, I was desperate to get out of there. By this point, even the wordy bitch in Vienna was starting to look like a good time.

Nah… that can’t possibly be true. Can it?

Moving along, I drop into Avis, and put my name on a waiting list, since they have no cars remaining. The guy at the counter smirks as if I have no chance. I smirk back, if only so he remembers my face when I haunt his dreams.

I go into a cell phone store to get a local SIM so people can call me when these cars arrive, via tooth fairy, magic carpet, or otherwise. This takes over 60 minutes. I realize that everywhere people are retarded. There must still be an assload of lead paint around the Istria Peninsula, because this woman dealt with the same guy for over 40 minutes, and I can’t possibly explain why. But let me try anyway:

Guy in tattered Banana Republic shirt circa 1997 was buying four phones. I can only imagine whom for. He was getting the standard issue shitty Nokias with what looked like a pretty basic plan, based on where the blondish (teeth and hair) woman behind the counter was pointing to. He was assuming that by his snappy fashion sense and huge buy, he could get a discount somehow. However, I-Can’t-Believe-It’s-Not-Butter Teeth was not going to be easily impressed by anything not including fluoride. The dance continues, managers are consulted, my eyes are sorely poking out the back of my skull, and finally, a receipt is printed. My exasperated gasps of frustration are continuing to fall on deaf ears. People behind me in line are almost amused at how infuriating this scene has become. I, on the other hand, am gnashing my teeth like a dog at Michael Vick’s house.

I finally get my SIM card, and begin going through the steps of the initialization process. My phone battery dies. I am so fucking pissed, that I almost break down on the sidewalk and throw an absolute temper tantrum. My parents would tell you that in my childhood, these fits used to be punctuated by a breath-holding passout. I’m not kidding. It’s hard to imagine I had more willpower as a 6 year old, than I do as a 31 year old. In any case, they don’t sell batteries to my phone in the store, and now I’m thoroughly fucked, and I’ll never get that hour of my life back. My only solace rests in knowing that some people may actually find that portion of the story enjoyable.

Two car rental shops later, I drop into my 4th, which is actually a tourist booking agency. Quite literally, the most gorgeous woman I think I’ve ever seen in person is seated behind the desk. Certainly the hottest I’ve ever actually spoken to. Clearly, things are looking up. This girl is probably about 22 years old, is seated in a low-cut tank-top, and looks like a much, much hotter version of Rachel Leigh-Cook. She’s quite plainly, the only person I don’t want to strangle and drown in Pula’s nasty shipyard.

Not to mention, she proves very helpful. She informs me that A) I will never get a car to rent last minute during the high season in Pula, B) there are plenty of places to stay in her piece-o’-shit town, and C) my love is cheap.

Upon her suggestion (because let’s face it, I’ll do anything she says at this point), I head to the ferry office, which runs a service to Zadar, which is where I had planned to spend my first night anyway. I find out they only run ferries on Mon, Wed, and Fri. It is Monday right now. Ferries run at 7am. I’m fucked. Again. This pattern is beginning to get tiresomely tedious.

I go back to Avis, and reiterate that I have a local number, but that it doesn’t work. I’m not sure why they would want to know this information, but I’m doing what I can to remain in their conscious thought. Mind you, this is already my third separate trip into the Avis office in about 90 minutes.

After stopping for a beer at some god-awful café, I decide to at least book a place to stay, before either there are no more places left, or worse, Hot Girl takes lunch. As I’m booking a place, and about to shovel over some Kuna, a different girl says from behind me “are you going to Split?”

Oh. My. God. “Where are your wings” comes shooting out of my mouth. She looks confused. If she were my last successfully firing synapse, she would have known it was a pun that was a cross between “How else do you plan to get there?” and “Are you an angel?” I smirk in mild amusement.

She is trying to lock down the only rental car left in town, a huge 12-person minivan from (duhn-duhn-duuuuuhn…) Avis. I’m in. I thank the screaming-Hot Girl for her help, and tell her “I hope I never see you again. Except maybe from outside your bedroom window.” She winks and laughs. I’m a creep… but at least I’m funny.

I go back to Avis, where the guy at the counter unabashedly laughs when he sees me. Apparently, this Canadian couple are picking up another couple on their way down to Split, and just wanted to defray a little bit of the cost for the ride. I emphatically agree. I hate Pula. Let’s go.

We get a beer while we wait for the car to be brought around. They’re nice as hell, and I buy a round to thank them for stalking me down the street for 20 minutes.

Ok, enough about f#%*ing Pula. We’re on the road, and my spirits are gradually lifting. The subject of money comes up about ohhhh, every 9 seconds. This costs this much; can you believe how cheap this is; such and such cost this much at the North Pole, but this much in a shithole like Pula.

Yawn. I’m beginning to understand why they chased me down the street to save about 100 Kuna. I mean, I’m all about a budget, but I’m not about to focus nine-tenths of my conversation about it. My friends would tell you that a portion that size is usually saved for talking about boobs and shitting. This is understandably a fact I am not particularly proud of.

In any case, they’re good people, and we pick up their friends. The new girl is one of those panic-stricken travelers known to overuse phrases such as “OH MY GOD, we’re going to DIE in Croatia!!” Why she would think this after only having to wait an extra 30 minutes in the airport for her ride, I’m not quite sure. Maybe I’m so intolerant that I hate everyone who doesn’t think like me. Then again, maybe some people just suck. In this case, I’m comfortable assuming the truth lies somewhere between everyone sucks, and everyone kinda blows.

Blah blah blah, good times in the trip down. A few laughs, an average dinner (with –shocker!! – separate checks!!!), and some random hitchhikers we pick up on the way to Zadar. At first, this makes me think everyone is actually cool, and it’s me who is the douchebag. Then when I hear about how, according to the new girl “we have categories for those kinds of people,” referring to the hitchhikers, I realize I was right all along. I guess she thought she was the only one judging. In reality, she has no idea how much better at this game I am than she is.

All along, I know that these people are sizing me up to score a possible free place to stay in Manhattan when they feel like going. I know this because I’ve gotten that vibe a lot so far on this trip. For example, when I say I’m from America, I get the proverbial “ooohhhh really??” but when I say I’m from New York, I get a lot more love. A girl I met along the way says “New York just sounds better.” I’m aware of that, but the skeptic in me wonders if that’s because I’m an email away from taking requests for my couch and shower, and the guy from Indianapolis fears no such thing.

I should mention that each of these couples own not one, but TWO houses each, and that they each frequently use the word “poor” to describe themselves. At one point, I “jokingly” inform them that they are using that word (poor) incorrectly. The word they should be using is “illiquid.” Or, alternatively, “overextended.” I am amused. They look a bit less so.

Ok, I’m dragging this out a bit. We spend an uneventful night in Zadar. I snake the big room in the apartment we all shared to myself, as the one who landed the joint in the first place, and because hey, maybe I really am an asshole.

In Split, we mercifully part ways, and I rent an apartment from an insane woman. At this point, I am desperate for my own space. It is right on the promenade, clean, reasonably priced, and easy to find. It’s also in the same building as the Czech and Israeli consulates (useless info!!!!), with a bunch of other offices. Basically, it’s an office-turned-bedroom in a building full of offices. The owner goes through the entire apartment, turning on switches and as she turns each one off, she says, “When you leave, you close.” Ok, so you want to chill out on the utility bill; I get it. Now get the hell out of here so I can jerk off and take a nap.

That night, I decide I need some Brian Time. Brian Time is long overdue after living not-so-strong in the hostel in Ljubljana, and a full-day ride with “poor” Canadians. And yes, Brian Time often begins with some good ol’ fashioned havoc wreaked on my genitals.

After that, I begin writing this entry, with an average bottle of Croatian white wine, and a six pack. There is a very average fire-juggling act going on right below my window. In roughly 90 minutes , I’m drunk and generally in great creative and happy spirits. In barges Crazy Lady.

“Brian, when you leave?” Granted, with evidence of substance dependence littered about the room, this was a fair question, even though it was about 7 hours after I had just checked in.

“Uhh… in 2 days, as we agreed?”
“Ok Brian. Music, too loud.”
“Oh yea, I forgot the other people who aren’t here can hear me. You want a beer?”
“No Brian. [looks at empty bottle of wine] You drink too much.”
“I’m sure you’re right. Anyway, I was just about to get in the shower (lie. I had just gotten out).”
”Ok Brian. [points to light switch] When you leave, you close.”
“[I point to door] When you leave, you close. [begin taking pants off]”

She leaves. I am now entirely sure she is insane. It’s not just me; it’s everyone else... If this theory somehow proves incorrect, I will nevertheless die blissfully in a cloud of my own ignorance. And I’ll be happy.

Ok, I owe you all one

I must apologize for my lack of communication the past two weeks. Much, much has happened, and there is plenty you will be entertained by, I promise.

However, I am still travelling with a companion, the loyal, honest, and virile Jeff Jones. As such, I feel it necessary to make sure he stays awake and functional at all club venues, while ingesting a sufficient amount of vitamin C to ward off any and all communicable diseases. He leaves on Saturday, at which time I will be able to get back to keeping you desk jockeys entertained.

Please be patient.