The days of the week, as they are known to travelers who fly east, are: Sonday, Muesday, Twensday, Wursday, Thriday, Fraturday, and Sanday. They are long days. Trans-Atlantic flights may be overnight ones, but those nights are not long enough to make sleep a viable option. By the time the chicken-or-pasta dinners have been eaten and the plastic trays cleared, one has only a few hours to rest, and somebody's crying baby, or the kid kicking the back of your seat, or a loudly-conversing pair of travelers ensures that that won't happen. Then, the cabin lights come on, breakfast—some eggy thing and a stunted banana—comes too early, and the plane's wheels hit the tarmac less than an hour after that.
Twensday Part One: Tuesday (1 November 2011)
My Twensday began in Atlanta the usual way, with me anxiously awakening at 3 AM from an already poor night of sleep. The previous night's whisky did not help. I dozed in a semi-conscious state until around 7:30, when I grudgingly surrendered, rose, and chugged two Coke Zeroes from Nathan's refrigerator (I was staying at friend Nathan's house at this time; Nathan was away on his usual weekly business travel).
At 8:30 AM I drove like a zombie to Bank of America in order to solve a problem with my savings account. In closing my savings account the day before, 10 cents of interest popped up, which thus prevented the account from closing completely, but did qualify me for a $30 penalty fee for insufficient funds. I was told I could fix this only in person, because in many regards the U.S.A. is a third world country. I arrived at Bank of America's 9 AM opening time. Barney, a polite, sharply dressed, and exceptionally young-looking black guy, helped me out. I can report months later that he got the job done.
On my way back to Nathan's house I stopped off at the Avondale Estates Waffle House for a final American meal—and things don't get more American than Waffle House's classic All Star Breakfast: bacon, grits, eggs (scrambled), white toast, plain waffle.
Back at Nathan's, and more than a little jittery from the waffle and syrup sugar rush, I rushed through the last of my packing. The dire warnings given to me by the Delta employees I had spoken with a few days earlier (when I picked up a friend at the airport) regarding massive fees for oversized and overweight luggage echoed ominously head. I wanted to fit everything into one check-in suitcase, one backpack, and the DJ equipment coffin. If the DJ coffin weighed too much, I would swap one piece of DJ equipment for some sweaters. That way I'd be charged only for the extra piece of luggage—a fee I was told would be about $75—and not additionally for the excess weight.
In this packing panic, I found I had to abandon many personal items. I left behind two bags of these for Nathan to take care of. Thank you, Nathan. My friends are my pit crew. I feel guilty about this, but Nathan correctly said to me once, "It's no problem, because I know you'd do the same for me." And as I nodded in agreement to his statement, he then added, "Wouldn't you?" And in an alarmed tone I said yes-yes, of course I would!
I would do the same if I could afford comparable things to offer in exchange. That's my problem; I have nothing of comparable value to give in return for such favors. No house, no storage space, nothing. Hopefully, one day I will. In the meantime, there's always room for an air mattress here on the floor of my apartment if anybody wants to drop in.
Back to Nathan's. So I called a cab, and when the cabbie arrived he regarded my DJ coffin wearily, shook his head, and said, "You're going to be charged extra for that."
I watched my black SmartCar recede in the taxi's rearview mirror. Even the smallest of actions, like a taxi ride, assumed great significance. Threads to my old life were being cut.
The Avondale Estates MARTA station (MARTA is Atlanta's local rail service) had a number of rough-looking kids, including one who yelled to a girl on the stairs, "STOP WALKING!" Which she promptly did. I guess they knew each other.
It was during the wait on the platform that my friend (and master traveler in her own right) Ashley sent me encouraging text messages wishing me well on my trip. These could not have come at a better time. Ashley has an inspiringly sunny view of life. Some optimists sound naive, but her optimism is buoyed by clever observations and real wisdom. She's a rare bird. And she knew more than a little about what I was going through mentally; a month later she flew to South-East Asia for a multi-month adventure of her own.
The trip to Hartsfield-Jackson airport via MARTA took the usual forever. A woman ate a stinky sandwich directly underneath the "No food or drink" sign. Illiteracy is sad. People stared blankly at me. I imagined that my DJ coffin looked impressive to them, and so I felt important standing next to it. But they likely didn't give a fuck.
While going through security at Atlanta Hartsfield-Jackson airport, I received a text from Nathan. He suggested that I had probably locked out his cleaning people due to a mixup that I cannot describe in detail for fear of jeopardizing his home security. I was apparently too tired and hung-over to double check this simple thing. Life has gone on. I presume his house has been cleaned sometime since.
The DJ coffin and its contents were 4 pounds over the 50 pound weight limit for a piece of luggage. As I crouched on the airport's floor in order to unlatch the coffin, with the intention of swapping out a CD turntable with some sweaters, the Delta employee told me not to bother. Apparently, he knew the rules were absurd. Actually, why don't they just weigh us all, luggage and personal girth together? Yeah, I know, that would be too controversial. Despite being completely sensible.
Point is, because I checked the DJ coffin, and I brought both my suitcase and the backpack onto the plane as my one carry-on plus one "personal item," I did not receive a single penalty fee.
Victorious, I swigged a celebratory Sweetwater at an airport bar in the international departures area. A recorded voice played over the terminal's PA system to remind travelers that "Atlanta is in the Eastern Time Zone."
An attractive blonde woman who said she was a flight attendant from L.A. sat a couple of bar stools down from me. She babbled gibberish with the bartender. Literally. She was either stoned or mentally ill. The bartender mockingly offer to buy her drinks, and one muscle-head, probably in some branch of the armed forces judging by the looks of him and his massive, buzz-cut friends, took a seat beside her as well. He chatted her up while making cruel asides to the bartender about her scrambled-eggs brains. The woman eventually left the bar and migrated around the terminal. When I last saw her she slept in a fetal position on some chairs in an otherwise empty waiting area.
My flight departed at 5:30 PM. The trip was largely uneventful. At one point, a couple of French-speaking men switched to English in order to berate a fight attendant about the cold temperatures on the plane.
"I'm sorry," the flight attendant said. "We cannot turn the heat up anymore. It's as high as it can go."
"But that cannot be possible! Every flight I have ever been on has been warmer than this one! Please speak to the pilot about this!"
I had the chicken.
I don't think I slept one minute during the flight, but with my sleep mask, earplugs, and headphones I was able to trance out a little.
Twensday Part Two: Wednesday (2 November 2011)
We reached Brussels in the dark pre-dawn, about 20 minutes early, which only added to the already massive 4 hour-plus gap between connections.
I somnambulistically shuffled off the plane and followed the signs that directed me toward my transfer flight's terminal. I emerged in a small shopping mall, where I asked an attractive young cashier where an ATM was. I learned this trick from my friend Charles while we toured Romania in 2001: If you have to ask for directions, always ask an attractive young woman, because who knows where the conversation might lead?
"Nowhere" was the answer; they weren't handing out free-blowjobs at the Brussels airport. But she did tell me that there was an ATM in the terminal, just past security.
If you spend more than one hour in any airport, you become critical of its amenities. That's because you're fucking bored and you just want to look at stuff to pass the time. The Brussels airport was surprisingly shabby compared to many other European airports I'd been through, and it offered a smaller number of gift shops than I'm accustomed to seeing (not that I ever buy anything at those overpriced places, but it's nice to brouse). There were next to no restaurants or bars (a Starbucks was the most popular travelers' spot).
My Wednesday-in-Croatia plan was to view two apartments in Zagreb, pick one, and then pay my deposit in euros (the preferred currency for rent despite Croatia being on a different currency, called the kuna). I was renting my place through a group called Rent in Zagreb (henceforth "RiZ"). Flying through Belgium was perfect for these plans, because I could just withdraw my euros from an ATM at the Brussels airport and arrive with the cash on hand. That's why I asked about the ATM.
But the ATM didn't work, and nobody working at the airport could describe where there was another one (contradicting some online advice I'd seen that claimed the Brussels airport was full of ATMs). One employee explained it had been "a long weekend" and that therefore it was normal for ATMs to be emptied by Wednesday morning. What the fuck? It's Wednesday! During my four hour layover I returned to that ATM over and over, where I encountered several other frustrated travelers standing before its depressingly blank screen.
I had business to take care of. Dragan was my RiZ contact. He had taken over my account from Neda, with whom I had made my original apartment-viewing arrangements via email and Skype. Neda was on vacation. I realized during the trans-Atlantic flight that it was possible Dragan didn't know which apartments I was to see that day. Did Neda forward all the relevant information to him?
The ATM didn't work, but I had 50 euros on me, saved from previous European escapades. I stuck a 10 euro note into a square-shaped yellow machine hanging on a wall, and it spat out a credit card-sized thing with a user name and scratch-off pin number in return. The card entitled me to one hour of wireless internet. I entered the card's login information into the airport's gateway website. Thus, I was able to get online in order to email Dragan the proposed rental contracts Neda had drafted.
The flight to Zagreb departed from Brussels gate B83. This gate is located in a dingy basement waiting area. I was worried that I'd be assessed a fee for my excess baggage, especially when I saw that a posted message at the gate read, "One piece of hand luggage, strictly enforced." But in the end it was no big deal; the employees were easy-going and went around tagging all the excess luggage. This luggage was tossed into the belly of the plane at no extra charge. I was in the clear. I had not incurred a single penalty fee from Atlanta to Zagreb, despite initial expectations that I might have had to pay a couple hundred dollars.
I sat in the propeller-driven puddle-jumper. I was relieved to see my DJ box in the luggage truck outside. It was the first time I felt confident that my DJ equipment would actually make it to Zagreb.
We flew over some dramatic, stony mountains. Some of these mountains looked like giant volcano cones with bowl-shaped tops filled with snow.
I sank into my worst jet-lag state. I dozed on the flight. I skipped the complimentary lunch. Half an hour later, the growling in my stomach made me ask myself how I could have been so stupid as to skip a complimentary meal like that.
We were high enough up to enjoy sunshine and blue skies over the thick layer of fleecy clouds that indicated drearier weather below us. Whenever I get depressed about cloudy days, I remind myself that blue skies and sunshine lie above any cloud-cover.
The descent into Zagreb was a real leap of faith. The blanket of clouds was pierced by mountain peaks whose deadly mass, like that of icebergs, was hidden beneath the surface. We entered the pitch pale gray. It was a blind descent in terms of what the naked eye could see. The wheel popped out of its hub in the wing and locked into position against the gray curtain, seemingly confident that it would safely kiss earth despite the lack of visible evidence. We emerged from the fog only seconds before the wheel hit the runway.
Zagreb airport was about as small as Ljubljana's airport. Passport control was a cinch, and my DJ coffin popped out on the luggage belt fairly quickly.
There's a convenient ATM in the airport, but I had a few hundred kuna on me from the last trip to Croatia anyway, and I decided to soldier on as quickly as possible to RiZ. So I bought a SIM card for my vintage clam phone at the airport's post office and moved on.
I considered taking a cab from the airport. It was the weakest moment of my jet lag-induced foggy thinking. I was told I would save at least 270 kuna (around $50 at the time) by resisting such an urge, and so I fought off the thought and looked for the bus.
In marked contrast to Bucharest's airport, no cabbies harrassed me for their business. And the bus, a big, distinctive thing similar in appearance to America's touring buses, pulled up to the curb right away. I loaded my DJ equipment and suitcase into the bottom (the bus driver fussed a bit about the amount of luggage I had brought—he was apparently stunned that a person exiting an airport might have some luggage).
The cost to ride the bus from the airport to Zagreb bus station was 30 kuna. The driver hesitated in his effort to produce change from the 40 kuna I handed him, which suggested that he was hoping to bluff me for an extra 10 kuna. But, as I lazily chewed gum with my expectant hand hovering before him, he didn't get away with that—if that was indeed his motive. I'm not saying it was. I just noticed that pause.
I called RiZ from the bus to let them know that I was on my way and to expect a 3:30 PM arrival. Dragan later complimented the speediness by which I had snagged a SIM card, saying it really helped make things easier for him (most folks, he said, take several days getting set up with a phone, which complicates the orientation process).
We rolled toward Zagreb under gray skies. As we approached the city, and the buildings grew taller, I saw billboards announcing upcoming Tom Jones and Lenny Kravitz concerts.
When we pulled into the bus station, I knew where I was (I had taken a few trips to other parts of Croatia from this station in 2010). I could walk to RiZ from here—quite a long walk—but doable.
I stood in line at the bus station's magazine kiosk, half-remembering that this was where one could probably buy a tram ticket. I turned and asked a student behind me if that was indeed the case. He confirmed that it was. I felt good that things were coming back to me.
Both the tram platform and the blue tram #6 I boarded were very crowded despite it being 2 or so in afternoon. There was a rush hour-like crush. Perhaps students were finishing classes then. I rolled by sites familiar to me: Zagreb train station, the parks by the art galleries, and then Ban Jelačić Square, the main square in the center of the city. As I looked around me, I noticed how beautiful the Zagreb women were.
I became the most hated man in the city when I had to push my way out of the tram two stops past the main square. I shoved children and grandmothers aside, but what else could I do? I had to get off the tram with my luggage. At some point during this struggle my DJ coffin took a big ding. One of the little rubber legs at its base broke off, exposing a circle of chipped, naked wood where it had once been. Whatever; it's like losing half a finger. Life goes on.
My prediction that I'd reach RiZ's offices around 3:30 PM turned out to be right on the money.
At RiZ, Dragan, I man I'd estimate to be 30-something years old, slid a window open on the second floor (the first floor in European parlance) and announced he was coming down. Britisher Karl, a silvery-haired bespectacled fellow with whom I'd had much Skype contact at RiZ, pulled up in his car shortly thereafter. We loaded my stuff into Karl's car and I hopped into the shotgun seat. Dragan trailed us on his motorcycle.
As we rolled through the city, Karl was chatty, friendly, and encouraging. He took an interest in my DJ'ing (he described Zagreb clubs that I might be interested in). He also discussed the weird Croatian weather (one time, he said, he drove into a tunnel on the sunny, coastal side of a mountain range and emerged in a blizzard on the Zagreb side). As I listened to his cheerful chatter, I found myself catching a second wind.
I viewed the two apartments. The first and more expensive one was centrally-located and older. Internet was not set up yet, though that was said to be something solvable within hours. A woman who appeared to be in her 30s regarded me expectantly through her glasses as I inspected the place. I felt bad being nice to her, since I imagined how disappointed she might feel later if I didn't pick it. It was certainly a nice apartment, but if the other one proved equally nice and 50 euros cheaper, I'd prefer that one.
The second apartment was housed in a modern apartment building, with internet ready to go. I was told that modern apartments were more heat-efficient, so my bills would likely be lower. It was a very short walk from there to the Tommy and Billa supermarkets, which was of great convenience. It was not so central, but it was a doable walk to the center—good for my health, I reckoned. Trams to the town center ran regularly from a nearby stop anyway.
I picked it.
Dragan and I sat at the apartment's white, round table and went over the financial arrangements. The deposit was one month's rent, and there was a one-time commission to pay to RiZ.
We took a trip to Raiffeisen bank, literally my favorite bank in the world, since they did the most to help me through my Ukrainian bank card disaster back in 2010. At last, I tested Bank of America's proficiency in allowing me access to my accounts from overseas. Success. Experimenting at the ATM demonstrated that my maximum daily withdrawal limit was about 5000 kuna (at that time, around $848, though by 1 January, with the euro's woes, it would be more like $920). I don't feel comfortable disclosing the financial specifics of my rental contract in a public blog, but my new apartment cost me less per month than I spent living in a shitty motel in Atlanta, and since I was now earning only half my salary that was a vital benefit.
Dragan told me that electricity in Zagreb costs more to consume in the daytime than at night.
He parted around 5:30 PM, at which point darkness had fallen over Zagreb. I was eager to explore the city again. Dragan had told me that trams 1 and 17 would swiftly transport me to the town center, but I went on foot instead, since I was uncertain how the whole ticketing thing worked for trams.
I arrived in the center of the city and felt a wave of nostaglia wash over me. The kebab spot near Nocturno restaurant was at the same location as it had been in 2010, right next door to the internet cafe. I was amazed that both places were still in business (perhaps the internet cafe gets lots of business from the nearby hostels?). A kebab served as my first Zagreb meal.
Kino Grič, a cafe where I'd had drinks in 2010, wisely advertised its free Wi-Fi with a neon sign in the window. (In 2010 it had been hard to find free wireless in cafes.)
Cold weather had thinned the herd on Tkalčićeva ulica, a lively street full of cafes and bars that is, in my opinion, Zagreb's best attraction. But many of the patios had heat lamps and were shielded by sheets of plastic, so people still gathered there, though in smaller numbers than I'd seen in the warmer spring of 2010.
It felt like a long walk back to my apartment, but my perception of time was dilated by my unfamiliarity with the route.
I then visited the Tommy supermarket, where an extremely loud and smelly Roma family spent a great deal of time fussing about things in the fruit section. That sounds offensive, but that's how it was. I walked out of Tommy with shower items, toothpaste, some juice, and (critically, as it is my most needed drug) Coke Zero.
Back at the apartment, I took my first shower and washed Twensday's travel off of me.
It seemed chilly in the flat with the thermostat set at 20 degrees celsius, but later I learned that the comforter's warmth allowed me to dial down the heater to 17, and maybe even less, at night. Having the bed right by the radiator was a plus.
I Skyped with my mom, I posted to Facebook, I sent a photo of myself in my new digs to a few people. Then, I crashed. Twensday effectively ended around 8:30 PM.
I awoke around 11:30 PM, then returned to sleep.
I awoke again around 1 AM, dialed down the temperature from 21 to 19, and began writing this when sleep seemed impossible.
I will now enjoy some juice, and then I will return to bed. I meet with the apartment owner tomorrow to pay up the remainder of what I owe, and then together we will settle residency issues with the local police.
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