Found this on my laptop today (10 June 2010).
This blog often serves as reportage, which I think is cheating, since I can hide my emotions behind a veil of facts and figures. I feel this is a betrayal of good blogging. Somehow, in the early history of the medium, the topical blog began to eclipse the confessional one, but it was the confessional blog that was the real ground-breaker (the topical blog is usually nothing more than punditry). The confessional, autobiographical blog was the true "revolution of consciousness," an acid trip that most of us took, as confessors and/or voyeurs.
I am back at my favorite base of operations, Zagreb. My girlfriend, Cristina, is in the United States, which is funny considering she was born in Romania and we now find ourselves on opposite sides of the pond on each other's respective birth-continents. Obviously that has proven to be a relationship challenge, but we seem to be doing well under the circumstances. Of course, she would prefer that I be with her as she wrestles with the myriad complexities and the enormous stress of applying for work in a foreign country. I remain because I was granted a once-in-a-lifetime experience to be in the Balkans and would hate myself if I returned earlier. We both make good points because we are both strong arguers, which is both exasperating and exhilarating. Cristina wins because she can argue beautifully in two languages.
Being in a relationship alternates between running a three-legged race, where we must run slower together; and a 24-hour car race, where the two of us can take turns sleeping and taking the wheel. Sometimes it's an inefficient way to move because you have to abandon selfishness in order to accomodate another person's needs, which much more than sex is the ultimate act of love. But other times it is a far more efficient way to accelerate towards life goals. The trick in assessing any relationship, I suppose, is to decide whether you are spending most of your time running three-legged races or driving (or more complicatedly, if you are ultimately covering more ground together during the driving portions despite those necessary three-legged race moments). The impossibility of knowing one's exact goal complicates things also. What are we running/racing to, anyway, and how quickly are we getting to that unknown destination?
I am greatly disappointed to be returning to the United States. If you read my earliest blog entries, you know that I was hoping a trip to Eastern and Balkan Europe would turn into a permanent stay. I love the culture here, particularly the music culture. My blog entries testify to my synchronization with things over here, from the political to the ornithological to the Eurotrashmusical. For the record, I never felt homesick in my three months of travel. Sometimes I was a bit lonely, or a little disoriented ("Am I in Belgrade or Zagreb?" I asked myself upon waking up this morning—and I was not hung-over), but moments of uncertainty were always quickly cured by a walk on a beautiful spring day, or a good night out.
What I like about returning to the United States, though, is the opportunity to earn some money again sans guilt (I've been on a generous paid vacation so far); to have a chance to reflect, from a distance, on the experience of these last three months; and, hahaha, to record a definitive sequel to my last DJ set showcasing all the music knowledge I have acquired these last three months. And I really look forward to reliable internet, and laundry, and knowing that when my train pulls into the station I will have a roof over my head that night—actually, not taking any trains at all, but rather my SmartCar to any destination I choose.
And Cristina, of course. But Cristina and I can get up and go anywhere together, and right now she has more momentum than I do, being especially smart and clever. Cristina and I are our own country. Wherever we wind up, we'll make it ours. I love you, my Mata Hari. See you in a couple weeks. :-X
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Split, Croatia
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| From Ukraine, Romania, Hungary, Croatia, Serbia, and Slovenia |
Split has a big music festival. Several Croatian musicians and pop groups hail from Split, as do a high percentage of Croatian Miss Universe contestants. But in the off-season, Split is a country of old men, a sort of Florida in Croatia. It's during the summer that, Daytona Beach-style, Split becomes a youth paradise.
People in Split sound exactly like Italians, only they are speaking Croatian, another demonstration of the blurred reality of humanity vs. political borders. That Italian-esque Split accent is distinctive. It made one self-conscious Splitter in a Zagreb hostel particularly nervous the night before a big Zagreb/Split football match. "The moment I speak they know exactly where I'm from," he told me.
As the train snaked up to the Split train station, my initial impression of the city was that it looked pleasant but not especially marvelous. That view changed when I walked down the palm tree-lined promenade facing the bay. The promenade is a lovely bit of city design work that I was told caused some controversy initially for its being considered too modern ("modern" in the Mediterranean sense of looking fewer than 500 years old). But as the voices of 1880s protestors over the then-new Eiffel Tower were quickly drowned out by the many more people who dug it, people in Split seem to like their promenade now.
The handsome facade facing the bay contains a variety of cafes and bars, most of which offer nice first floor (second floor American-style) views of the promenade and the water beyond. Typical bars here have a very narrow porch—not wide enough to accomodate even a small table—so one sits on a stool facing out towards the sea, beer glass set on a wooden slat counter. These porches are like garden boxes for beer drinkers.
That's really nice, but the real magic of Split lies behind that facade, for there you find the sprawling network of ancient Roman alleys and narrow streets that has earned the city its distinction as a UNESCO World Heritage Site. This is the Diocletian's Palace.
If you've lost your sense of childlike wonder, you'll find it again wandering amongst these Roman ruins. The Diocletian's Palace is a maze of stone streets, and every time you turn a corner you discover something new to delight your eye. Best of all, it's not some dead museum. Life goes on here. There are cafes, bars, and stores of all sorts, nestled tastefully into the ancient ruins. It's fantastic.
Birds have begun building nests in Croatia, and the denizens of Solta Island, a one hour ferry ride from Split, were tending to their own nests, preparing their beds & breakfasts, hostels, cafes, bars, and discos for the coming summer season. I was the only tourist wandering aimlessly around the island. I had a nice meal at an otherwise empty restaurant while adult-contemporary Croatian music played in the background. It served as a painful reminder that my European adventure was coming to an end, for I could see how much fun Solta was going to be in a few months, and I knew I would not be here to enjoy that.
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| From Ukraine, Romania, Hungary, Croatia, Serbia, and Slovenia |
Monday, March 29, 2010
Philosophy of Hosteling and Split, Croatia
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| From Ukraine, Romania, Hungary, Croatia, Serbia, and Slovenia |
After that wild last night at Saloon, I returned to the hostel, then walked to the train station. I was a bleary-eyed wreck. I rode in a semi-conscious state about 7 hours down to Split, a celebrated coastal city in Croatia.
Most surreal after experiencing the spring temperatures of Zagreb was the sight of snow-capped mountains overlooking fields covered in snow. Much of the interior of Croatia is national parkland. It's gorgeous. Nice though the snow was, I was pleased that warmer weather awaited me in Split.
I stepped off the train to a chorus of people shouting, "Do you need accomodation?" "Do you need a room?" and so on. I hate that.
Then I couldn't find the hostel. I wandered up and down the street seeking the Hostel Split Mediterranean. It was at No. 21 along the street, but the numbers jumped from 19 to 23. Since I had never received a confirmation from the hostel, I was unsure as to whether or not the hostel even existed anymore.
I wheeled my baggage to a second hostel, called Croatian Dream, which I had seen on the way up the same street, but while some too-trusting guest buzzed me in, the staff was not there, and after five awkward minutes of waiting (the sign on the door said "Back in 30 minutes"—30 minutes from when?) I decided to split (forgive me).
I went on to a third Split hostel, one for which I had collected a flyer in Budapest. It's called "Al's Place," and it's run by a British fellow whose name you can guess. But when I finally found it it was closed for renovation.
I was at wit's end.
Fortunately, while Al's Place was closed, a dusty and disheveled Al was there. He was renovating the hostel. Remarkably, he took time out to talk to me. It turned out he was in a spat with the very same Hostel Split Mediterranean I sought, because they had taken a very similar internet domain name (his is www.hostelsplit.com, and theirs is www.hostel-split.com). The spat was serious enough that he was reluctant to call the number I had for them, but he encouraged me to go back and find it. He even let me keep my luggage at his place while I made my second search, a great burden literally lifted from my shoulders. Al is obviously a terrific guy, so if you find yourself in Split during the summer season be sure to make Al's Place your first choice.
When I returned to the original street and found myself facing the same 19 to 23 quandry, I heard a guy shout, "Hello! You're Andrew? You made reservation for hostel on internet?" It was a grinning old man in a cap standing in front of a gate in a little alley off of the street proper. Clearly he was a true blue Croatian.
So I found the place, or rather the propreitor found me. I was deposited in a cozy, three bedroom apartment all to myself for 100 kruna a night, which is less than $20.
The proprietor was very friendly, if a bit perfunctory, in explaining the details. Then he left, and I never saw him again—even when I had decided to spend some more time in Split and wanted to pay the necessary money in order to do that. After fruitlessly knocking on the man's door, I wound up stuffing money into it with notes explaining my intentions. I guess this was acceptable.
Al had told me that Croatians are suspicious of strangers, and that this colors their style of running hostels. Why would anybody want to fraternize with strangers who might try stealing your stuff? they reckon. So, often a solo traveler can be placed in a room of his own for no additional cost. But although having a space to yourself is nice, for the solo traveler it's also alienating. Al spoke passionately of the importance of bringing people together at a hostel in order to facilitate the creating of new friendships. Despite my general introversion, I had to admit he had a point. The times I spent at the hostel in Kiev, with the gentle/hard-partying Gautier, the talented writer Keith, the wise beyond her years Lauren, and the affable mega-snorer Piet were among the best of my trip.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Friday Night Clubbing in Zagreb
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| From Ukraine, Romania, Hungary, Croatia, Serbia, and Slovenia |
On Friday night I had hoped to meet up with Tena Vodopija and Domino Effect Band. They had performed at Saloon on Thursday night. We had talked tentatively about a rendez-vous at Maraschino, but had not set a time. So I got to Maraschino a little early (10 PM) thinking it was a bar and that we'd all go from there to Saloon at midnight. As it turns out, Maraschino is more of a club, and it was pretty dead at 10 PM.
My fruitless hunt for my Friday night clubbing guides allowed me to discover that Maraschino has a small bar at street level, where green and red laser lights drift across all the surfaces in the room like phosphorescent plankton in the deep sea; a lounge area above that; and a dance club in the basement.
I moved to the basement dancefloor level about the time the music switched from house (the classic Salif Kieta track "Madan" [Martin Solveig mix] being one choon played) to retro Motown and 70's funk (e.g., "You Can't Hurry Love"), with perhaps some newer songs offered that fit into the sonic architecture. The place filled up quickly. The funky music was well-complimented by the movie Hell Up in Harlem showing on the TV hanging over the bar. How do Croatians know about obscure American blaxploitation flicks?
I embarrassed myself in a case of mistaken identity. It turns out that, to a clueless American, many Croatian women look alike, and one I thought was Tena was in fact a totally different person who made it absolutely clear how unamused she was by my error.
Random observation: Croations are quite tall, and size does matter. For example, if you are a tall Croatian bartender, it is much easier to lean across the bar to kiss your girlfriend than it is if you are short.
Some American cry-baby boys showed up at the bar cry-babying about the cost of beer. One had an Indiana driver's license. That's all I know about them.
As talented as the DJ was, his retro sound was not for me; I wanted to hear new tunes. So I decided to return to last night's spot, Saloon, which I had been promised would feature plenty of dancefloor action.
As I strolled to Saloon, it was impossible to ignore the three drunk kids staggering down the street while the tallest one hoarsely sang the same four syllables over and over again. It was irritating. I hoped they weren't headed for Saloon, but as it turned out they were.
Saloon's DJs began the night by focusing on the greatest hits of Eurotrash. It was pretty terrific, because hey, fun tunes; but also mildly disappointing, since I knew all the songs already. If anybody reading this remembers the Eurotrash parties I used to throw, many of the songs I spun then were exhumed here, including Mad'House's "Like a Prayer," Paul Johnson's "Get Down," Elvis's remixed "A Little Less Conversation," and Rednexx's "Cotton Eye Joe." There was some inspired mixing, including a good transition from Madonna's "Four Minutes" into Michael Jackon's "Billie Jean."
I finally saw Tena, so I gave her a hello and clinked beer glasses in acknowledgement of her good suggestion to return here. Then I went circulating about.
Lots of people were wearing stickers featuring a cartoon, little-boy version of "the Riddler" from the Batman comics. I asked one guy what that was about. He didn't seem to know. Then he threw an arm around me and in a booming voice said, "What is your name?"
"Andrew."
"Andrew! And where are you from?"
"America."
"Andrew from America, what the FUCK are you doing in Croatia?"
"I'm rockin', man."
"Do you know anything about Croatian football?"
"No."
"This is a shame!"
"Is Croatia in the World Cup this year?"
The change of expression told me I had asked the wrong question.
"No," he said. "Because we were FUCKED by England!"
Then the DJs veered into pure, pounding Croatian-languge Eurodance. I could have cried with joy. This was what I had really wanted to experience: a full-on Croatian discotheque at its peak. The patrons went crazy, singing along in big booming choruses to songs like this fantastic remix of Bijelo Dugme's "Hajdemo u planine," and to tracks from artists like Rozga Jelena, Alika Vuica, Severina, and Magazin. I know this much because I ran up to people with notebook in hand requesting artists and song titles. "WHAT IS THIS SONG?" I wrote on the top of a page in my notebook to help them out, since the music was loud and written English might have been easier for the Croatians to process than shouted. Sometimes the people singing along to the tunes had no idea about the song's identity; they just knew the words by heart. It reminded me of folk music in that sense, an oral tradition of popular music passed down while the original songwriters remain anonymous.
Many tune IDs were lost, probably forever. But you cherish what information you are able to gather and the lost songs are forgotten.
Scenes from the club: A patron's tired push of a drained tumbler of ice and lemon rind back to the bartender to collect. A bottle of Jack in a bucket of ice shared by three guys who fished out the ice cubes to cool their drinks. A girl with her arm around a guy hitting the side of my head over and over again as she twirled her hand to the music—not a problem, until the hand held a lit cigarette, at which point I had to move.
On my way out I discovered another dancefloor showcasing typical house tracks, so I stopped in there and had another beer. At first, the DJ'ing seemed technically good but joyless, but later some colorful tunes, including the requisite David Guetta, entered the mix. A group of young women were dancing there as if in an aerobics class, with one leader facing four girls who mimed her moves. When the leader quit leading, I jumped in and took over, taking the girls through as many silly dance moves as possible, including the "Ketchup Dance," which my friend Michael will be pleased I still remember. Then I fell backwards onto the couch behind me, whereas there were no couches to catch them, so some pretended to fall and others just stood there laughing. Dumb nights are made of this.
Feeling refreshed by the more "normal" house sounds, I returned to the main, Croatian-heavy dancefloor, and hung out until 5 AM. I marveled over how early Atlanta's club scene shuts down and almost thought that was a shame, until I remembered that Atlanta's clubs are terrible and undeserving of being open until 5 AM.
I spoke to the bartenders, who were middle aged men, perhaps even a bit past middle age. Some of them had been students in Saloon themselves years ago. I asked them what the club was like back then, but I didn't get much out of them due to the language barrier. The club has been around since 1970 and they heard a lot of live rock music in it back in the days when they went there to party instead of work.
Lonely Planet, by the way, does not mention Saloon. One of my emerging theories about Lonely Planet is that it writes for a UK/US audience, which it assumes will want to experience night life more on terms with which they are already familiar. For example, clubs with great live alternative music, or jazz, or house music—music scenes with which young backpacker types are familiar—get promoted. Croatian pop-friendly venues, on the other hand, seem to have been excised. Turbo folk music in particular gets the usual condescending treatment in a special box titled "Brotherhood & Unity or Dumb & Dumber?"* And so Saloon, which flirts with some of that stuff, might have thus been cut from the final edit of the volume. That's just my theory.
I stumbled back to Nocturno Hostel. Some dummy had locked the door (he was not supposed to), so I buzzed to be let in, thus bringing out the bleary-eyed proprietor who then complained about the dummy's incompetence. She asked if I still needed a wake-up call for my 7:50 AM train to Split. I told her I'd be fine without one. She went back to sleep, I Skyped with Cristina for maybe an hour, and then I took a shower and headed to the train station in the bright light of day.
Maybe the best night of clubbing in my life.
* This rhetorical technique always angers me, the one where the author seemingly offers a positive perspective balanced with a negative one, but in fact the positive is really just a different kind of negative ("brotherhood" and "unity" are familiar jingostic terms--the sorts of words used today by nationalistic skinheads and associated with statues of Lenin [the term is plucked from a Tito slogan]--and thus they ring sinisterly in the ears of the British and American hippie backpackers who reference Lonely Planet). A fairer title for the piece would have been, "Techno-fied Celebration of Traditional Balkan Culture or Dangerous Vehicle for Nationalism?" It's clunkier, but it's also truly balanced and more accurately captures the essence of the music.
Friday, March 19, 2010
Backdated Entry: Zagreb, 19 March 2010
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| From Ukraine, Romania, Hungary, Croatia, Serbia, and Slovenia |
Due to last night's revelry, I slept until 11:30 AM today. I awoke to temps near 20 degrees Celsius, which is around 70 degrees Fahrenheit ("30's hot. 20's nice. 10's cold. Zero's ice"). Without a doubt this is the most beautiful day I've seen in many months, and the natives probably feel similarly. Every other park bench in the city was occupied by kissing couples. A dog took obvious pleasure rolling around on the grass while its owner looked on. And insects are out, now. I had forgotten about insects.
Buskers played on the streets. Simon and Garfunkel music seems to be the most popular. I passed a male/female duo, one with a guitar and the other with a flute, performing "The Sound of Silence." Then I passed a guy in a corridor singing "Mrs. Robinson." Near the train station the strains of "El Condor Pasa (Yes I Would)" filled the air.
Zagreb remains a complete pleasure. The people here smile and laugh constantly; it's their natural disposition. In some countries the people don't laugh, or when they laugh it's a cruel or bitter laughter. Here, everyone seems to be a good-natured comedian. While telling funny stories, people frequently lapse into comic voices to enhance things. It's wonderful.
I have enjoyed every city I have visited, but I can't recall a place where I felt more charmed than Zagreb. I love this city. So after Split I'm going back to it again for a couple days before I head to Belgrade to interview another band.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Zagreb, Thursday Night Music Scene
I began the night strolling down my favorite street of cafes. I heard live Croatian music floating out of one bar and a chorus of people singing along. I had to check that out. It was a private party, so I was told to stay at the bar. Stayed I did, for a good half an hour, as I listened to this wonderful band belting out old Croatian standards (with accordion) while the patrons sang along. Here is a recording of some of it.
Spacemen 3 had a terrific album title: "Taking Drugs to Make Music to Take Drugs To." I suspect many years ago that a lot of Croatians got plenty drunk before writing these wonderful songs to get drunk to. They are perfect drinking songs because they are bittersweet. You feel the love, but you also feel the tears just below the surface.
After that I sat at the bar of a cafe that was playing good house music, including Dennis Ferrer's groovy "Hey Hey." Then it was on to another bar where the sounds of classic disco were offered, including "The Hustle."
The club proper that I visited was Saloon, a legendary Zagreb venue. Live music was on tap; the video above is of that, and shows Tena Vodopija (on right) performing with Domino Effect Band. It was the first time they had performed together like this, but they sounded like they had been working together for years. The song is "One Way or Another," one of the great Blondie tracks. My dad had the album this came off of, Parallel Lines. Parallel Lines also contained the legendary "Heart of Glass."
For the curious, other songs in their set list included "Bitch," "I've Got My Mind Set On You," and "Proud Mary," which served as the finale. Some Croatian songs were tossed in as well. Here is a longer bonus clip of them tackling "Umbrella" and a song I did not recognize.
Everything shut down at 2 AM, so at 2:30 I wandered through a nearly-deserted Zagreb. A few minutes after I got back to my hostel, three dorm mates, guys from Italy, entered the room. They had been to the Rammstein show and must have been drinking after that because I saw lots of fresh Rammstein T-shirts when I had arrived at Saloon hours earlier.
For many visitors to Zagreb, Rammstein was the music event of the night, but I was very satisfied with my own music experience.
My Long-Suffering Mother
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| From Ukraine, Romania, Hungary, Croatia, Serbia, and Slovenia |
The trip to Zagreb was spoiled by my boarding the right train but the wrong car in Gyékényes, Hungary; the cars split at one point and I was on my way to Budapest with a ticket saying "Zagreb." I spent an hour sitting at a train station in Balatonszentgyörgy, a town which, despite its sexy name, was dead. Three and a half hours after my expected arrival I made it to Zagreb.
Hostel Junis, first choice in the new Lonely Planet guide, exudes a hippie sort of cool, much as did the excellent Hostel Nap I had stayed at in Pécs. Unfortunately, it smelled like a locker room in my six bed dorm, which is not the fault of the staff so much as the luck of the draw. Due to a lack of room there tonight, I have now moved to the Nocturno Hostel which, based on my first impression, may be superior to the celebrated Hostel Junis, though it also costs $7 more a night.
I met a terrific young Californian named Darren at the hostel. He is a 23 year-old international studies student, table busser, and death metal DJ who is exploring many of the same countries I am. We started with drinks alongside the people-watching paradise that is Tkalčićeva utica. Then we headed to Sax! pub, which was hosting a St. Patrick's Day celebration with live music. Dismayed by the cover charge (about $6 US) and lack of activity in the early part of the evening, Darren and I decided to make that a miss. We passed time at a hip little cinema-themed cafe. Then, Darren proposed that we pick up beer at the supermarket and drink it on the street. I asked him, "What are the rules here with regards to open containers?" to which he replied, "It's ZAGREB!" and to which I replied, "One might say, 'It's SINGAPORE!' "
Still not clear about Zagreb's open-container laws, I opened our beers with the hostel's key anyway, and we strolled and sipped until Darren spotted a McDonald's. He wanted to drink the beers inside because it was too cold outside. I was reluctant, but agreed out of curiosity. As we entered I noticed people seated at their tables staring at us bemusedly—perhaps worriedly. We sat in front of a TV showing men's handball, followed later by a Barcelona/Stuttgart football match. Darren ordered and ate a cheeseburger in order to buy good-will from the McDonald's staff for our transgression.
When he disappeared for a bit, an older McDonald's manager came up to me and scolded me for the beer bottles. She marched them out of the restaurant in a huff. I rose from my chair and found Darren engaged in conversation with a Bible student at an internet station in the restaurant. At one point Darren seemed to get a bit effusive and, to my ear, nonsensical; the Croatian Bible student looked terribly confused. I made a snarky comment, which offended Darren greatly. In retrospect I realize there was no need for my remark, and I wish I had contained it. The remark, for the record, was, "Dude, I'm an American and an English major, and even I cannot follow what you are saying."
He was sore about that for a while, so after we hit the streets I proposed that we go back to the Sax! club and that I pay his cover. This cheered him up, and it cheered me up too, since I felt bad that I had hurt his feelings.
It was a terrific decision. Two excellent live bands played, the first serving up a pint of traditional Irish music, the second offering two pints of raucous Flogging Molly-type rock.
Two Finns from the hostel that Darren had invited showed up, and the four of us, who share a great fascination with foreign affairs, got into a fabulous discussion about the World. What more perfect thing to discuss over several beers, a pint of Guinness, and two Johnnie Walkers while seated with two Finns and an American in a Croatian bar on St. Patrick's Day?
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| From Ukraine, Romania, Hungary, Croatia, Serbia, and Slovenia |
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