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.

Vienna – maybe solitude is a good thing?

After three solid days of not talking in Cesky Krumlov, I headed to Vienna, where I got my own room in some hostel near the train station. Decent place, and by now this hostel thing is becoming surprisingly palatable. Vienna is enormous, and the train station is a solid thirty-minute walk away from the Ring. I’ve got a lot of walking ahead of me.

After a day or so of walking around and taking in the utter brilliance of the architecsture, along with the window-shopping in the first town I’d been in worth doing so, I was desperate for some human interaction. I got some. A lot of it.

I head back to my room on the first night, where in the common kitchen, a 30ish year-old Spanish girl is sitting down. She jumps right in:

“Where you from?”

Understand, this is THE most cliché of all questions amongst travelers. It’s been only two months of this round-the-world (or RTW*) traveling for me, and I already can’t stand the utter gasp of that sentence any longer. I have no idea how I’ll feel six months from now, but I’m guessing I’ll find my inspiration somewhere in Vienna (the Leopold, perhaps – see below).

It turns out, she is a school teacher from…. Washington fucking Heights. Another New Yorker. This would be fine, if she weren’t launching self-gratifying diatribes in my direction at three times the speed of sound. In record time, she covers subjects ranging from her job, to having kids, to why she’s still single, to her relationship with her parents, to why she studied art, and her completely uninformed idea of the mechanics of currency fluctuation. By this point, I am TERRIFIED that I’ll be paired up with this broad for the next two days. I’d been listening to her for twenty minutes, and I’m already doing calculations in my head:

“Ok. It’s 10:30. Tomorrow, if I eat dinner around 6:30, I can be done by around 8, and be back here and out again by about 9.”

I would rather dissolve my genitals in sulfuric acid before I deal with this chick for another ten minutes.

She fires more words at me over the course of about nine minutes fifty-five seconds. Having exhibited far more than any saint’s patience, I turn around and walk towards my door – mid-sentence – offering nothing more than a grunt and a half-hearted hand wave. And she wonders why she’s still single…

Those who know me well, and even many of those who don’t, (I hope, at least by now) realize that I have an overwhelming appreciation for time to myself. Never has that been truer than after having being browbeaten by this random New Yorker in Vienna.

Beyond that, I had the best rack of ribs I’d ever had outside the state of Texas and a few select places in Manhattan (Smoked, you’ll always have a special place in my heart [insert genuflect here]). I was almost as surprised at how good they were, as I was that I ordered it in the first place. Then again, there is only so much schnitzel one man can eat before he finally reaches the conclusion that it all pretty much tastes the same. Which it does, by the way. I get the sense that women probably feel the same way about the penis. In fact, from this point forward, I’m basting my cock daily with a thin layer of Salt Lick sauce.

I also went to a number of museums, one of which (the Leopold) had an entire floor devoted to a guy who I can only assume was the creative consultant for Hostel, if it weren’t for his subtle (invisible?) artistry. For example, there was a delightful video of him sitting in the front of an art lecturer’s classroom; defecating himself and rubbing it all over his body. I gave it a 3 out of 5 wipes. Could have been a 4 wiper, but the director didn’t really have a lot of control over the gagging extras seated in the first few rows. (Actually, I guess a 1-wiper would be a primo flick. But you get the point.)

Next, there was a lovely video of him cutting himself with a knife while tossing his body around on a white sheet. Methinks he could have cut out the middleman (ZING!! Puns!!!!) and instead just stolen the Red Tent linens. I solve problems.

There was another enchanting “exhibit” consisting of a wall full of deformed baby pictures, juxtaposed with pictures of real people making retarded faces. This was one of those moments I have when I think to myself: I could have done that… SOOOO much better.

Like, why stop there? What about putting a picture of a lady during childbirth, right next to a picture of the same lady three hours after she eats a plate of hot wings and a double espresso? Or, what about a picture of Al Reynolds biting into a raw lemon, next to a picture of Al Reynolds five seconds after he goes down on Star Jones? See? I can totally kick ass at modern art.

On the upside, if you want to know some really cool modern artists that I saw there, I’d recommend googling Egon Schiele or Koloman Moser. I know everyone goes cuckoo for Klimt, and his stuff was great and all, but Shiele stole the show for me. Moser’s most impressive work was his furniture designs, though frankly, by that point I was probably a bit predisposed to loving anything that avoided all things self-mutilating.

I understand that I talk about self-mutilation quite a bit. But I assure you… when the day finally comes when I do bludgeon myself to death with the blunt end of a torpedo shell, I’ll have the common decency not to film it.

I'll get pictures for Vienna up soon. But it may take a couple weeks. Hang in there, desk dwellers...

*(backpacker shorthand for Round The World, which I find completely nauseating. I mean, you can take the time to actually go around the fucking world, but you can’t take the time to write it out?? Fuck you; you’re a dick.)

Cesky Krumlov - a lesson in solitude

I’m writing this from the bus on the way to Cesky Krumlov. Let me just say that I was excited about going to Cesky Krumlov, but now, facing 3 more hours of what is, after 20 minutes, already an immensely painful bus ride, I can’t say I’m nearly as enthused.

First of all, I have a smelly old Czech man already passed out next to me. That, I could probably live with. What I can’t live with, however, is his shameless encroachment into my seat space. I’m admittedly anal about abiding by the “stay on your own f***ing side” rule of public transport. In this case, Sr. Funk has a full 4-5 inches between himself and the window. Mind you, these are 4-5 inches I would sorely need, even if all my own space weren’t occupied by his wild spread-eagle sitting/slumping posture. You may be wondering why he’d be sitting like this. Or, you may just be assuming that his cock is thicker than a one-pound can of Folgers crystals. Assuming the former, between his legs sits a doo-doo stained, white cloth sack full of no doubt: smelly things, and stained things.

Half the reason I’m writing this right now, in fact, is I am hoping that a lapful of laptopo will provide some visible evidence (other than what I thought was an obvious 8 inch height advantage) that I could REALLY USE THIS SPACE.

His leg is a full 5 inches past the double-seat median, and the more he slouches, the more his legs spread open and his elbows flay. At this point, 70% of my port side is being touched by something dirty.

I know what you’re thinking: shift into the aisle a bit. No dice, cowboy. There is another smelly Czech man, this one in his 40s, standing in the aisle (because apparently, that’s how Czech busses roll). Worst part? His ass-side = my side. And here I thought I was lucky to have bought my ticket in advance, thinking that a seat assignment was actually an advantage. Sandwich me between two funkmasters, and the advantage is effectively nullified.

Oh, hey. Old man slouch-all-the-way-down-to-my-cock just woke up. Sweet. I’m A) hoping he can (and will) read the English off my computer screen, and B) hoping he’ll SIT UP AND GET OUT OF MY KITCHEN. Nope. He’s asleep again. I’m not kidding. That’s how long it took. I almost envy him. Well, clearly I envy him, in only the simplest of ways (he IS the Jones’ right now). I definitely don’t envy his leather-colored cuticles, or his stained everything-he’s-wearing/carrying.

Lets talk about his speckled spectacles. Yes, the lenses are in fact dotted with some unknown tar-colored substance. If he were a bit younger, I’d ask if they were the goggles he used to win the Belmont.

Oh shit. This was great. He just woke up, looked at my monitor for a minute, tried to continue reading the book he’s trying to read (he’s been on page 143 for nearly half an hour), and passed back out. And here I thought I was the hungover weary traveler on 3 hours of sleep and no food. I can only assume this guy got started at about 4pm yesterday with some Becherovka on ice at his crib till his friends got back from the gastro-entomologist, then powered through a barley and hops dinner at the beer garden, when his friends wisely flaked off. He continued on, wailing on B’52 shots at Chateau till around 3am, when he made the strong call to hit up Studio 54 till about 2 hours ago. Now he’s crashing hard after the coke binge he went on with those models from Prague VII.

I’ll add more later. My wrist is seriously killing me from contorting it to type in these cramped conditions. And frankly, this guy isn’t worth a crippling case of carpel-tunnel.

Wrote all that on the bus. The update is that he eventually backed the fuck off, but only after spending about three minutes reading what was on my screen (I had the view set to 200%). Looks like our boy knows some English. Good for me.

Ok, so Cesky Krumlov is the old capital of the Czech Republic. There’s a wicked castle, which just so happened to be right outside of my hotel room window. Other than that, here’s a quick recap of my weekend in CK:

-I spoke no more than 200 words for the entirety of three whole days. This town has nothing but couples and families with kids running amok. Not my scene.

-There is absolutely NO nightlife at all. I was in bed every night by 11pm like a good boy.

-There is, however, a beautiful stretch of the Vltava that snakes around the castle and several others further upstream.

-In case any of you were wondering how it felt to row a canoe (alone!!) for 20 kilometers, I can assure you that it’s about 12 kilometers past fun. It’s kind of like when you go home to visit your parents for a week, and the first three days are a good time. Then day 4 rolls around, and you begin giving thought to diving on a rusty spike in the backyard. By day 6, you’re drinking bleach and tonics with breakfast and taking note of where all the prescription meds are located. Moral of the story: I almost drowned myself in the river Vltava. On purpose.

-I imagine if you had a partner to row with, much like bringing a friend to visit your parents, it probably tempers the experience a bit. But you’d still rather shopping for objects to self-inflict blunt force trauma.

You’ll all want to check out the picture captions from The People of Cesky Krumlov. I’ll try to make it a blog entry, but it may be difficult. I’ll see.