What's Awesome, and What Isn't; Part Dva

I’m picking up where I left off a couple months ago with the food & music review; despite the fact that all of you thought I’d forgotten. Your faith in me is both underwhelming and to some degree, accurate.

After a reluctant exit from Slovenia, I made my way down through Croatia for a couple weeks. Having a long, rocky coastline that snakes nearly all the way down the Adriatic, I naturally gravitated towards seafood for much of my stay here. Any whole fish I ordered was typically prepared minimally with some lemon, light olive oil, and garlic, and was of predictable freshness. No complaints there, and if Croatia weren’t located along the coast of a large body of water, I’d say the fish was all very good. Seeing as how it does indeed have a prominent coastline, it was pretty average. Make sense? Sort of like when you spot a hot girl on the street in Herald Square, you’re liable to slip a disc at the sight of such a rarity. However, if you’re partying on the island of Hvar and see one, you’re more likely to yawn and order another beer. And then maybe jerk off. In that order.

That was the fish. The grilled calamari, on the other hand (if it didn’t react horribly with my digestive system), was outstanding. They serve it with the guts (is there another word for this?) still inside, and the portions you receive are definitely more than is necessary. I contend that calamari, be it grilled, broiled, or fried (yuck), makes for a great appetizer, but is a bit too heavy and briny for a main dish. This is especially true in Croatia, where the seawater is extra salty and is evermore present in the seafood.

Besides that, the baby squid was incredible. If you can get over the fact that you’re eating 5-7 once-living organisms in each bite, the baby squid I had in Croatia was as tender and light as it was mild. Simply brilliant. Pair that with the octopus salad, which was little more than a delectably tender octopus ceviche, and you have a nice contrast of sharp and mild flavors. Kind of like what I imagine the vagina of a 20 year-old virgin to taste like. Wait… too much? Come on, like there’s such a thing as a “virgin” anymore…” Either way, the octopus ceviche was good stuff.

Another thing Croatia does very well is the pizza. In fact, I am tempted to say that although I’ve never been to Italy, it may have the best pizza in the world outside of New York City. The dough is light and fluffy and crisped up nice underneath a fresh, tomatoey sauce that takes on more of an active role in the overall flavor of the pie than it does back home. The cheese is fresh and laden in just the right ratio to the dough beneath. There isn’t nearly the emphasis on garlic here, and any toppings you get will be a nice, never-frozen addition to an already delicious meal. We made pizza a pretty major component of our diet, right after anything served in a 0.75L bottle. Yea, we get drunk!!! Woo-hoo!!!

One thing I did learn while in Croatia is that there is virtually no difference between cuttlefish and squid by the time it lands on your plate. Cuttlefish risotto and squid ink risotto is EXACTLY the same thing. Don’t let some slick waiter with an overbite tell you anything different. Fuck that guy, it all tastes like shit after the third bite.

Having watched a Discovery Channel special on cuttlefish over Thanksgiving, I have since learned that cuttlefish are among the most intelligent of all underwater living things. And… since then, I have been left feeling more than a little guilty for eating these super-intelligent little critters. Especially since they taste the same as a dumb old squid.

It’s like how you can nickname someone a “squid” and you know that kid is a fucking douchebag. But if you nickname someone “cuttlefish” it’s more likely to be someone on the other end of a Dawson’s Creek friends-that-will-never-amount-to-more relationship. Either way, Dawson was a fag. That shit is scientific.

Moving on. I don’t need to go into much detail on the kebabs in Budapest after the way I lauded them a few months ago. Granted, nine-tenths of my meals there were under heavy alcohol and “philosophic” influence, but the kebabs were amazing. The rest of the food there was usually eaten with the homesick, humorous, and horny Jeff Jones, and tended to be of mixed European fare. I had some decent beef on occasion, but nothing particularly noteworthy. Anything else seemed to be rather nondescript. Either that, or my memory of Budapest suffers greatly from a three-month binge on cheap (and delicious) vodka in Ukraine. Or maybe it’s equally likely that I’m making excuses for my weakness for (good) kebabs. Fuck those things are good.

Before I get to that though the music from Sziget (in Budapest, if you need reminding) was from all different genres, and it all sounds great when you have a fistful of marinated lamb meat oozing with love and devotion. Gogol Bordello though, as I think I’ve mentioned, is a speed/punk/gypsy act from the Lower East Side in New York who I hadn’t seen prior to Sziget, and was absurdly energetic and as much of a show as it was a great concert. Plus, I think the playful, pipe-hitting, pocket-pooling Jeff Jones and I fell in love with the two bass drummers who dance and prance around the stage like tempting little vixen tinkerbells. Oi. The virile, ferocious, and voracious Jeff Jones even had me concerned with his date-rape stare.

Seeing Sinead O’Connor was definitely a cool and (perhaps once-in-a-lifetime) experience. Her voice is completely enveloping, soft and somehow powerful, and all coming from this tiny little Irish chick (who has gained a bit of weight since burning the pope’s picture years ago – that’ll teach her to mess with fucking GOD…). But the whole time, you got the sense you were watching an icon. She’s not in anyone’s consciousness much anymore (at least not back in the states), but when you see her on stage, you get the sense anyone within arms length may start crying. And you’d be more apt to hug them than call them a queer.

Tool was sick.

That really needed it’s own paragraph. Once I escaped the cauldron of death (ie. the mosh pit), and was able to somewhat safely enjoy the show, I immediately understood why Tool fans have a huge boner for Maynard. Huge. The guy is just fucking cool. He’s the kind of performer I’d expect David Beckham to be if he could sing, dance, and convince me to get an abortion. Wait… what???

I expect most people who know even a little about Tool know that Maynard never shows his face. On this occasion, he was wearing dark sunglasses and a cowboy hat, and faced the back of the stage the whole time, with his silhouette broadcast on the white screen in front of him. Which makes me think that silhouette porn is probably the only frontier porn has yet to explore. And honestly, wouldn’t it also be the cheapest? Though probably also the least fruitful, from a consumer’s perspective. Whatever. Nevermind.

His air of mystique definitely pervades throughout the show as the crowd grows into more and more of a vibrating hormonal asexual orgy until some song like Schism gives everyone the opportunity for some weird emotional and energetic release, thankfully devoid of any actual ejaculations. At least as far as I could tell. And believe me, I was looking.

Anyway, I was a Tool fan (one who would buy the occasional album because I respected Maynard’s “vision” for the album so much), but never one to wear a t-shirt or pierce anything. Now, I’m quite sure I’ll never miss another show if they trip through New York.

Faithless is a jazzy-pop-electronic group from the U.K. that was about 5,000,000 times better than I thought they’d be. Granted, five million times zero is still zero, but whatever. I went in there expecting to shout “I told you so” to my hostel-mates over the top of some shitty pop track, as I made my way for a third kebab. On the contrary though, I thought they (Faithless, not my dumbass hostel-mates) brought an immense amount of energy, and that’s not just because they had the biggest crowd of any other band I saw at Sziget. Simply… they bring it. The crowd was a throbbing hoard of heaving kinesis the whole time, and every song raised the bar a bit further than the one prior until finally at the end, I needed a cigarette, a shower, and a good cry.

Pink played too. Yes, that stupid-ass Pink. I dropped by to validate how bad I thought she’d be, and even I was surprised at how brutally horrendous she was. It was like taking home a girl you KNOW is regrettable to begin with, and then finding out she can’t even fuck. I opted for a kebab instead of sitting through a third Pink song. Interestingly, a kebab is exactly what I’d be passing on in the event a sub-par girl happens past my apartment threshold.

I saw Deep Dish too. Ask me if I remember a damn thing about it. That’s how good they were. Definitely won’t miss them when next they’re in New York. I wish I could say more, but I’d have to download or Google something, and at that point, I become much less of a lame blogger, and a lot more of a lame journalist. Either way, we’re all losers.

I saw a shitload of other electronic music while there, most of it spent by myself or with the adventurous, transcontinental, and occasionally transgender Jeff Jones, and all of it is one big blur. That should give you some indication as to how good Sziget is as a festival. Simply one of the top three festivals I’ve ever been to, and probably in no small part due to the fact that I wasn’t sleeping on mud, wood chips, the back seat of a Hyundai, or linoleum.

After Budapest I went to Lviv, and spent three months in Ukraine. I remember I was so fed up with mistaking the map for which area was Center for the first two days that I ate McDonalds three times in two days. Let me tell you, it’s no less disgusting in Ukraine. In fact, it transforms from food to remorse in less time than it takes to chase each filthy bite with cola.

After the first two days, I began moving to greener pastures and delved into cuisines from Georgian, Armenian, Lebanese, and of course Ukrainian. Let me start by saying Georgian food is perhaps the most tasty and flavorful cuisine I may have ever had. For one thing, starting a meal with harcho is a must. Harcho is a soup made from beef stock, with chilies, onions, tomato and chunks of beef making for a spicy and hearty opener. I’ve tried many other Georgian soups, and they simply don’t stack up against everything the harcho delivers.

Next, you can snack on their sweet and spicy sauces paired with flat grilled bread, and then move onto any number of perfectly grilled meats, prepared over direct heat on a skewer over a wood fire. Excellent, and exactly the way it should be.

Armenian food is quite similar to Georgian food, though their meats tended (in my experience) to be cooked over coal and that just isn’t the same. It was kind of like sex with a condom, frankly. Still good, but not nearly as satisfying.

I ate quite a bit of Lebanese food while in Lviv, only because a friend of mine owned a Lebanese restaurant nearby Ivano Franko University, so the food and the slut parade often paired to a fabulous start to my day. Not to mention, my friend made the best ayran I’ve ever tasted.

Ayran is a garlic-yogurt drink with a dash of cayenne, and not only is it healthy and satisfying, it’s also the surest way to increase your own personal greenhouse gases. Simply, it's the middle east's answer to Mexican food.

Ukrainian food is rather bland in all respects. There is an emphasis on pork (for women) and more pork (for men). This comes in many forms, including sala, which is a spiced raw pig fat, which should really be served with a bowl full of Lipitor.

There is also a multitude of sausage options, and their bacon totally ruined the erection I'd typically have after ordering it, as it would normally show up raw. Their soups can tend to be rather heavy, which is fine when it's busecca, which is a delicious tripe soup served with a garlic cream. Goooooooood shiiiiiiiiiit.....

Produce in Ukraine is of the best quality I've ever had. Especially the tomatoes. Interestingly, there is no appetite for salads in this country. Which is totally disappointing, especially after a dinner of raw pig and busecca. It's sort of like waking up with a regrettable girl next to you, knowing you need a shower, and finding out there's no hot water. Crushing.

Caviar in Ukraine is top notch, as you'd expect, and even though the bread products are typically nothing more than decent, you can find a decent selection of cheeses to pair with it, though definitely no wines (that don't taste like cat urine) to complete the triumvirate.

As for music, I did see De Phazz while in Lviv, which was sponsored by Nemiroff, or else they never would have come. They're a very cool, lively, diverse jazz/funk act from Germany, with a male lead singer on some songs, and a female lead on others. They played to a half-full house of about 400, since most Ukrainians can't afford a $40US ticket. Even so, they brought a lot of energy and played not one, but THREE encores. That was a pretty nice touch.

I also saw some other new-age jazz act whose name I can't remember, but it doesn't really matter because they sounded a lot like how Michael Bolton probably wishes he sounded, and that's still not very good. But seeing them for $2US, I would hardly complain much. Though it does probably explain the crappy suits the performers were wearing.

As for me, I’ve been through Turkey, a quick fly through Syria (with some issues at the border, but nothing serious), a night in Amman, and have been in Israel now for about two weeks. I’m in Jerusalem now and heading south to the Sinai Peninsula within a couple days. From there I move to Egypt after a quick jump back out to Jordan to see Petra and Wadi Rum.

I’ve been incommunicado in general lately, if only because I’ve been on the move a lot since leaving New York. I’ll be settling down someplace in Africa for a bit to relax and catch up with everything. Unfortunately for all of you, I haven’t been drinking as much the past five weeks or so, so there isn’t quite as many opportunities for me to get into any trouble. I’ll work on that.

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.