a party, cajun memories and fake breasts

“You’re amazing at accordion,” Antonia told me as we were drinking coffee in the morning.  Pavlos was in the shower and Iosip, Antonia’s boyfriend, was doing his morning ritual of playing chess online.  “You’re unstoppable, unless some offers you some croquettes.”  She was referring to the party the night before.  We decided the morning previous that we would throw a couchsurfing party.  We were at one in Prague, in Vienna and in Ljubljana before and they were all successes.  Pavlos figured, since we couldn’t find anything happening in Zagreb while we were there, then we’d make something happen.  He put up an announcement on the couchsurfing site for an accordion party.  If there were more than 7 people, then it would be at the nearby Medvedev restaurant and bar.  By the time it was afternoon, there were 15 people signed up.  We went to the bar.  Roughly 30 people arrived to join us, while I played accordion for entertainment.  People clapped and sang along, the laughed and shouted, and while I was on break, some were making their own songs.  

There was a French guy with crazy hair who did body painting in South France.  There was a Croatian girl with dots of makeup around her eyes, three dots below the right, three dots above the left.  There was a red haired Croatian woman and her guy friend with long black hair, both watching me with great interest, the girl completely captivated.  There was a short, blonde American girl working and living in Zagreb.  The people came and went, talking and clapping and singing and drinking and talking and clapping and singing and drinking.  The night was a success, we had taken over the bar by force, the singing revolution had begun.  It is in my goal in all things – politics and religion aside – to spread a little bit of happiness wherever I go, to give something like love to all I meet.  It’s not always a success, but that night, it was an epic success.  

Pavlos finished his showering business and asked Iosip for some rounds of live chess.  We sat in the living room, smoking, drinking coffee and playing chess.  “So what are your plans today?” Iosip asked.  

“We were thinking about seeing this Mirogoj cemetery and going to the Museum of Broken Relationships.  Then we’ve got to catch the train at 11:30 tonight to get to Belgrade.” 

“The cemetery is really nice,” Antonia said.  “How are funerals like in America?” 

“The best ones are in Louisiana,” I told them.  “Especially big ones.  There’s tons of music playing, lots of lively jazz, it’s a real celebration of life.  They have the wake at the house and then they march it to the cemetery.  The band plays a slow march until the body is done with when they play some hotter jazz.  And the cemeteries there are real beautiful.  They can’t bury the bodies, since the earth is too wet, so they have to have sarcophagi and tombs all above ground.”

“That’s like the Mirogoj cemetery,” Antonia told us.  “There are statues everywhere.” 

“And if you guys make it to America ever, New Orleans is one of the best cities,” I said.  “It’s not very big, but it’s so rich in its own unique culture that it’s a must see.  New York, Chicago, New Orleans and San Francisco.  If you don’t go to those cities, you haven’t really seen America.”  I showed them pictures of New Orleans, feeling a kind of pride that my family was from near there.  Growing up, I used to hate to visit Louisiana in the hot and sticky Southern summers.  It wasn’t until I was an adult that I really came to appreciate the South.  But then, when you’re a kid, you can’t really go to smoke filled jazz clubs in a city an hour away from where your family is.  Nor can you really appreciate the French colonial architecture and the weeping willows that hang low over the still bayou waters that define Southern Louisiana.  You can appreciate the food, the spicy boudin and shrimp filled gumbo, or that the crawfish your uncle cooked that burns your lips before it even touches, or the endless piles of red fish your other uncle cooks, which all play a role in some of my favorite memories as a child.  No, when you’re a child, you don’t always see the beauty in a place.  The state is too hot for me – literally – but it’s one of the best in the country. 

Pavlos may have mentioned something about some Canadian cities, but talking about Canada is like talking about Hobbiton or some other fairy tale land of low crime and cheap healthcare that only exists in tales spun by evil socialist hippies in port-a-potties at Occupy protests that are a constant nuisance to people who don't live or work near one.  Such silly talk makes me zone out into a stupor.  “So are you ready to go?” Pavlos asked me.  They were done playing their chess.  I had a moment of a time dysfunction, but I finally realized something was happening that didn’t have to do with Canada, so I got up, grabbed my coat and we were out.  

the museum arcade

The easiest way to Mirogoj cemetery is to catch the 106 bus that departs just outside of the cathedral.  The bus stops directly in front of the cemetery arcade, a huge fortress wall on the street side.  After you go through the gates, you can see that the wall is actually a one sided arcade, filled with marble statues, memorials and fountains, open to the air towards the cemetery itself, which is also overcrowded with tombs and statues – not unlike one of those Louisiana cemeteries I was talking about with Antonia and Iosip.  

From the Mirogoj cemetery, we went to the Museum of Broken Relationships.  Like the name might reveal, it’s one of the most depressing museums I’ve ever been to, though it’s got a few light hearted moments.  The Museum is an international collection of items that have reminded people of their past relationship with someone they loved, but because the significant other moved, died or was a lying, cheating bastard, the relationship ended.  

outside the museum

Along with the item, there’s a little plaque that talks about the relationship and the significance of the item.  The items range from key chains and teddy bears to dildos and paper machete breasts – one man brought home a pair of large paper machete breasts to make his wife wear in bed because hers were too small, a story that is easy to understand the why of that item’s donation to the museum.  The Museum sees itself as a way of letting go.  It’s received donations from all over the world, from Zagreb and Belgrade, Berlin and Paris, and all the way even from San Francisco.  They are constantly receiving new items and rotate the items on display, so it can be a unique visit every time.  

better than the real thing?

“What did you think of the museum?” the porter asked us as we left.  

“That was perhaps one of the most depressing museums I’ve ever visited,” I told her.  “But it’s interesting.  And the story of the Frisbee is great.” 

“A stupid Frisbee”
2 years and 2 months
Belgrade - Zagreb

“Description: a stupid Frisbee, bought in a thrift store, was my ex-boyfriend’s brilliant idea – as a second anniversary gift.  The moral was obviously that he should be smacked with it in the middle of his face the next time he gets such a fantastic idea.  Since the relationship is now preceded by the word “ex,” the Frisbee remains in the Museum as a nice memory and expelled negative energy.  Feel free to borrow it if you like. 
P.S. Darling, should you ever get a ridiculous idea to walk into a cultural institution like a museum for the first time in your life, you will remember me.  At least have a good laugh (the only thing you could do on your own).”