The
next day started at an Irish pub. Pavlos
had left his MacBook charger back in Ljubljana and asked his lover there to
send it forward. Instead of posting it,
she left it with a train driver, which meant we had to go back to the train
station every few hours to find the driver she left it with. The day was not proving fruitful in this
endeavor, but it proved successful in the endeavor of finding a proper drinking
hole. When first we walked to the bar,
we were told the bar stools were reserved.
“We’re in an Irish pub, yes?” I asked to make sure. “What kind of Irish pub reserves bar stools?” But it wasn’t long when other stools were cleared up and we made our way to rest our feet, pad our cushions and soften our weary souls. We ordered the only proper drink proper men can order at an Irish pub, no matter where in the world the pub may be, whether it be in Dublin or Boston or Belgrade. We ordered Guinness, the dark and creamy nectar of the gods. The rounds came and they went, leaving us in empty glasses lined with brown nitrogen cream. We started adding to the flavor by mixing the straight Guinness with Irish car bombs, a move that ensured we would not make it back to the train station on task. When we started fiddling with Pavlos’s camera and making different poses, Pavlos swept his arm aside and knocked one Guinness straight to the floor, splattering all over my pants and shattering the glass under my feet.
"Here you guys are," the bartender said, handing us over two free shots, as though we were to be rewarded for making a mess.
“Maybe, Pavlos,” I said, “you should start breaking more glasses.” We took the shots. “You know, Pavlos, we’ll regret this in the morning, after we make up.”
“After we make up? Are we going to have a fight?”
“I said after we wake up. Because we’ll be hungover,” I thrust my fist through the air towards his head in a fake punch. “No, why would we have a fight? These are the moments that make the adventure.”
We met Reet back at the train station, almost not caring whether we could find
whatever it was that Pavlos was looking for – we couldn’t remember that part
anymore anyway. With Reet we went to a
traditional Serbian restaurant, where they served us beer and huge slabs of tender
meat cooked in various manners – my kind of cuisine. Pavlos kept distracting himself by running over
to a table of high school students and hitting on the girls, trying to get
kisses on the cheeks and using his camera as a way of getting his desire,
possibly deleting pictures of monumental churches to find memory for pictures
of monumental lip smacking.
An old man came up to us, “You should control your friend! He is buying those kids drinks and then not paying for them!”
I asked Pavlos if that was true. “No,” he said, “I’ve already paid for them.”
I went back to the old man and told him, “No, he’s already paid for them. What’s your problem?”
Out waiting for the bus, Pavlos started trying to chat up another girl and get another picture. An old man pushed him and shouted, “Don’t make me call the cops!” I asked the girl if Pavlos was bothering her. “Maybe a little, but not that much,” she said, shrugging.
Back at the house, Pavlos and I had an argument about him going for every single girl he could get, even the ones that I was going for – an argument that was building up across Europe. I shouted and ranted, circling the house in a drunken stupor. “Do you love any of those girls?” he asked me.
“No,” I told him. “But it’s all animalistic. Every time you screw someone – hell, when you just start charming them in that weird, unnatural way of yours – you turn them into dogs, man. There is no meaning! There is nothing without meaning! How do we define life if we just resolve ourselves to fucking with it?”
“If you don’t love them and it doesn’t matter, then it’s all fair game.” He went outside and smoked a cigarette. I followed him. “Shawn, you’re too serious, man. You need to realize, we are animals. And sometimes that’s okay. We’re traveling, it doesn’t matter. Lighten up.”
I said: “Maybe it’s time we parted for a bit.” I was growing tired of it, of his endless flirting and charming all the girls, and perhaps jealous of his demonic skills. “It’s been so cloudy and gloomy, man. Where did the sun go? I’m tired of the clouds. It’s been two weeks since I felt the sun on my face. The darkness of madness blinds us from the desert sun.”
“Can’t we just be normal again for tonight?” Pavlos asked. “Let’s go to this gypsy place, let’s just be normal again for tonight.”
We went to the gypsy place, Blek Panters. It was situated out on a hidden place on an island. To get there, we had to take a cab and pass through some security gates, and then cross over what appeared to be a blasted out bunker, with crumbling concrete steps leading to a shore. The shore side was filled with boats as far as the eye could see, various types of music skidding across the water, blending into a mesh of static sound. Inside our boat, it looked like a fine dining restaurant, groups of shady looking people sitting at their tables, in dark suits and talking low, with a gypsy band playing in the middle. We tried to act normal, but nothing was normal, everything was quiet and awkward between us, despite the band playing loudly and the gypsy accordionist crossing the room to flicker his hands and wink at the women; despite the girl in the tight leopard print dress, swaying her hips to the beat, raising her hands to snap her fingers, to lift her breasts, flicking her blonde hair from side to side, making me remember that I, too, am an animal.
“We’re in an Irish pub, yes?” I asked to make sure. “What kind of Irish pub reserves bar stools?” But it wasn’t long when other stools were cleared up and we made our way to rest our feet, pad our cushions and soften our weary souls. We ordered the only proper drink proper men can order at an Irish pub, no matter where in the world the pub may be, whether it be in Dublin or Boston or Belgrade. We ordered Guinness, the dark and creamy nectar of the gods. The rounds came and they went, leaving us in empty glasses lined with brown nitrogen cream. We started adding to the flavor by mixing the straight Guinness with Irish car bombs, a move that ensured we would not make it back to the train station on task. When we started fiddling with Pavlos’s camera and making different poses, Pavlos swept his arm aside and knocked one Guinness straight to the floor, splattering all over my pants and shattering the glass under my feet.
"Here you guys are," the bartender said, handing us over two free shots, as though we were to be rewarded for making a mess.
“Maybe, Pavlos,” I said, “you should start breaking more glasses.” We took the shots. “You know, Pavlos, we’ll regret this in the morning, after we make up.”
“After we make up? Are we going to have a fight?”
“I said after we wake up. Because we’ll be hungover,” I thrust my fist through the air towards his head in a fake punch. “No, why would we have a fight? These are the moments that make the adventure.”
 |
| Guinness ad by Pavlos |
 |
| one of those possibly deleted pictures from Pavlos's camera |
An old man came up to us, “You should control your friend! He is buying those kids drinks and then not paying for them!”
I asked Pavlos if that was true. “No,” he said, “I’ve already paid for them.”
I went back to the old man and told him, “No, he’s already paid for them. What’s your problem?”
Out waiting for the bus, Pavlos started trying to chat up another girl and get another picture. An old man pushed him and shouted, “Don’t make me call the cops!” I asked the girl if Pavlos was bothering her. “Maybe a little, but not that much,” she said, shrugging.
Back at the house, Pavlos and I had an argument about him going for every single girl he could get, even the ones that I was going for – an argument that was building up across Europe. I shouted and ranted, circling the house in a drunken stupor. “Do you love any of those girls?” he asked me.
“No,” I told him. “But it’s all animalistic. Every time you screw someone – hell, when you just start charming them in that weird, unnatural way of yours – you turn them into dogs, man. There is no meaning! There is nothing without meaning! How do we define life if we just resolve ourselves to fucking with it?”
“If you don’t love them and it doesn’t matter, then it’s all fair game.” He went outside and smoked a cigarette. I followed him. “Shawn, you’re too serious, man. You need to realize, we are animals. And sometimes that’s okay. We’re traveling, it doesn’t matter. Lighten up.”
I said: “Maybe it’s time we parted for a bit.” I was growing tired of it, of his endless flirting and charming all the girls, and perhaps jealous of his demonic skills. “It’s been so cloudy and gloomy, man. Where did the sun go? I’m tired of the clouds. It’s been two weeks since I felt the sun on my face. The darkness of madness blinds us from the desert sun.”
“Can’t we just be normal again for tonight?” Pavlos asked. “Let’s go to this gypsy place, let’s just be normal again for tonight.”
We went to the gypsy place, Blek Panters. It was situated out on a hidden place on an island. To get there, we had to take a cab and pass through some security gates, and then cross over what appeared to be a blasted out bunker, with crumbling concrete steps leading to a shore. The shore side was filled with boats as far as the eye could see, various types of music skidding across the water, blending into a mesh of static sound. Inside our boat, it looked like a fine dining restaurant, groups of shady looking people sitting at their tables, in dark suits and talking low, with a gypsy band playing in the middle. We tried to act normal, but nothing was normal, everything was quiet and awkward between us, despite the band playing loudly and the gypsy accordionist crossing the room to flicker his hands and wink at the women; despite the girl in the tight leopard print dress, swaying her hips to the beat, raising her hands to snap her fingers, to lift her breasts, flicking her blonde hair from side to side, making me remember that I, too, am an animal.
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