Planes, Trains, and Ought-To-Go-Feels

So I'm back in New York. Some call it Gotham, The Big Apple, The City That Never Sleeps. I call it Urine Soaked Subway Town, but it's still home. The rats are right where I left them. Never has the angry phrase, "Hey fuckwad, getcher ass outta my parkin space" seemed so melodious to the ears. It's a bittersweet feeling being home, more so because I almost didn't make. As Robert Burns once poetically wrote, the best laid schemes o' mice and men often go astray. Truly this is meaningless, since mice can't even spell the word scheme and their thoughts are rarely committed to paper for future analysis. Burns, a Scottish lyricist, may have had a bit too much smoke in the ole bagpipe, if you catch my drift. Nevertheless it may apply in this situation, as my best laid plans, sans mice, nearly crumbled beneath my feet. My tightly scheduled travel plans called for the following: ferry from Hvar to Split; train from Split to Zagreb; train from Zagreb to Salzburg; flight from Salzburg to Stansted (UK); bus from Stansted to Cambridge. Thus begins my final tale.


As the evening ferry pulled away from the dock in Hvar everything seemed in order. The engine roared as we picked up speed and an acrid exhaust billowed from the rear. Hvar quickly receded into the distance, its physical form dissolving into memory. Kristen (my Canadian travel companion) and I were even treated to a spectacular sunset on the way back. The sun lit up the horizon like a fitting analogy that a more talented writer could conceive. Two hours later we reached the shores of Split and headed for the train station. Our train tickets were a touch confusing. We were both taking an overnight train that passed through Zagreb on its way to Budapest. I was supposed to hop off the train in Zagreb at 7:30 in the morning - where our intertwining paths would finally diverge - and Kristen would continue further on to Budapest. The lady who sold us the ticket mentioned that there would be an hour long layover in Zagreb, which struck us as strange, but anything is possible in Eastern Europe. We did our best to confirm all of the information before leaving but we were stymied by her imperfect English. The train arrived when it was supposed to and we quickly hopped on and secured our place in a six-seat compartment. We closed the glass door and spread out as much as we could in order to dissuade others from entering. Passing some gas probably would have sealed the deal but we managed to restrain ourselves and our luck held out. As we rolled away from the station I pulled out some playing cards and taught Kristen how to play Texas Hold 'Em, an American version of poker where the person with the best hand gets bombed and their oil fields are siphoned to replenish U.S. reserves. The hour grew late and we settled in for the night, stretching out our legs across the seats before falling into a pleasant slumber.



"Zagreb!" yelled the ticket-taker in Croatian, as he flung open the door then loudly stomped off to the next compartment and repeated the process. Startled awake, we were both disoriented and slow to rise. I blinked hard in the morning light and glanced at my watch. It was only 6:30. On overnight trains it is fairly common to get a wake-up call well in advance of a major transfer station, so I was unconcerned when the train began to slow for a stop. Poking my head out of the window I didn't see any signs for Zagreb on the stations walls and the station didn't look all that big when one considers that Zagreb is the capital. Just to be on the safe side I leaned out the door and queried a platform attendant about our current location. His thickly accented response, "Budapest", was a sure-fire indication that he didn't understand my question. I thought about making a quick dash off the train for a better look but was afraid the train might leave without me, since stops are generally only a minute or two. Feeling really uneasy about the situation I quickly moved around the train trying to see a sign, any sign, that would tell me where we were. I still didn't see anything so I decided I better pack up my stuff, since it was currently strewn around our compartment. The train let out a piercing hiss then slowly started to move. At the end of the platform a sign suddenly came into view: ZAGREB GLAVNI KOLODVOR. Fuck.



Grabbing my pack I dashed towards the closed door and threw it open. Maybe I've seen a few too many movies but the gravel alongside the tracks didn't seem to be sliding by too fast, though we were definitely picking up speed. I quickly calculated that if I missed my train connection in Zagreb, I would miss my flight to England, miss my bus to Cambridge, miss my flight home, then have to wander the streets of Europe, broke, homeless and hungry until I died in the gutter outside a Starbucks (those damn things are everywhere). Well I certainly wasn't getting to let that happen. I held my breath and stepped up to the lip. At that exact moment a rail worker on the adjoining track yelled loudly at me in Croatian, angrily pointing towards the open door. As if to emphasize his point a train suddenly came around the corner on the neighboring track, significantly increasing both my risk factor and my blood pressure. Our train still wasn't moving all that fast but now I was afraid that if I jumped I might end up under the wheels of the inbound locomotive and become twice the man I am today. I resigned myself to fate and backed up to close the door. But then the strangest thing happened. I still don't know the cause, whether it was the other train coming in to the station, a routine move before a turn, or that the conductor saw an open door with some human appendages dangling out, but our train started to slow down again. I had no idea whether is was going to fully stop or not but I decided I wasn't going to find out. I chucked my pack out the door and jumped. Jumping onto a narrow gravel corridor from a slow moving train in a pair of flip-flops is definitely not the best idea I've ever had. That being said, it was an unmitigated success. My heart was racing as I took stock of my toes, ankles, and knees. I turned to see Kristen standing in the doorway. I yelled up at her to quickly run back to our compartment to see if I had left anything behind. She disappeared from view as the train let out another loud hiss. It was starting to pick up speed again. Kristen reappeared in the doorway and the next thing I knew a pair of shoes were flying at my head. I had forgotten my hiking shoes. The last I ever saw of her, Kristen was waving goodbye as the train sped her away from the station and out of my life.



I made my connection to Salzburg, which was a huge relief. A quick bus ride later I was at the airport, eagerly awaiting my RyanAir flight to Stansted. RyanAir is the skinflint's airline of choice for jetting about Europe. Sometimes they literally sell tickets for $2 before taxes. It's not uncommon to see flights advertised from London to Rome for $60 round trip. They are able to achieve these unheard of prices through a series of crafty innovations, such as single-class cabins and not putting in enough fuel to reach your final destination. They also have a curious boarding process whereupon they announce all rows simultaneously and the crowd rushes to the narrow entrance as if St. Peter had just called a moratorium on entrance through the Pearly Gates (which might seem a prescient analogy when one considers the bargain basement price I paid for my window seat). Elbowing grandmothers, children, and the infirm I dashed for a seat near the front so I could quickly get out when the plane landed and catch my bus to Cambridge. I don't know whether it's some manner of pheromone I exude or what, but I ended up next to yet another Canadian girl. We chatted about this and that until an oratory faux pas on my part changed the course of the evening. In deference to our 90 minute flight, I foolishly remarked: "You know, this is actually one of the shortest rides I will have taken on this entire trip". As the final word of that imprudent observation escaped from my lips a stewardess came on the intercom and announced the following: "Ladies and gentleman, I am sorry to disturb you, but are there any doctors onboard the aircraft this evening?" I shit you not. There was a bit of a commotion near the back of the plane but since I was in the fourth row I couldn't really see what was happening. Within moments the pilot gets on the horn and alerts us that we will be on the ground in exactly seven minutes due to a "medical emergency". This from our maximum cruising altitude of 36,000 feet. My heart skipped a beat and I clutched the seat as we immediately angled into the steepest dive I've ever encountered. We were descending at a rate of 85 feet per second, which is great when you're dropping water balloons on your sister from a treehouse but not so much fun when plummeting towards the earth in an aluminum can.



When we touched down (in Germany, no less) the airfield was alight with the flashing strobes of emergency vehicles. With the plane still on the runway, a half-dozen EMTs quickly boarded up a mobile staircase and ran to the back. They eventually carried someone out of the back of plane. It turns out the guy was all right, just had some bad sushi or something (note to self: don't eat sushi on discount airlines), or at least that's what they told us. We sat on the tarmac another hour while they unloaded every bag from the belly of the plane in order to find this guy's luggage. I suppose if they were lying about his health it's possible they just folded him up inside his Samsonite expandable suitcase for the rest of the trip home. After the luggage was replaced we had to refuel then wait to get back into the flight rotation. All told, our 90 minute flight ended up taking almost four hours.



So, not surprisingly, I missed my bus to Cambridge. Though that had more to do with the Draconian way station they call Customs than with the lateness of the flight. There's nothing like standing in a line for an hour so someone can ask you if you slept with any farm animals in Europe. As if anyone would admit that. Well, this is getting excessive so I better wrap it up. I managed to catch a later bus to Cambridge where my extremely accommodating friend Val still welcomed me into his home at three in the morning. I got a final night's sleep wrapped in a giant feather comforter, caught a bus to London, and had a pleasant and uneventful flight back to the States. So here I am, take me or leave me.

Hvar Nagilah

The final stop on my journey was the small Croatian island of Hvar, and what a perfect stop it was. Once again a bus deposited us in a throng of placard toting room peddlers. Vowing to do a better job selecting a room, we carefully screened out potential risks by going with the person who offered us the lowest price. Hmmm...come to think of it, that might have been a critical error. Regardless, we followed the English-speaking man with the thick Croatian accent on the purported five walk to his abode. On this occasion we let him know we were timing it. When we passed the seven minute mark we began to browbeat him but he assured us it was just up the hill and would be five minutes without our heavy packs. As we ascending we haggled about the room fee until Kristen gave at a yelp when a massive, five-inch grasshopper leapt towards her leg. Our gallant guide scooped it up and proceeded to tell us that he was going to eat it, since he was starving due to an overabundance of haggling guests who cut into his profits. This probably should have set off warning bells but I was too busy laughing as he taunted Kristen with the giant hopper in his hands. We arrived at the house and examined the room, which fit the bill. Our host talked rapidly, used numerous hand gestures, and frequently supplemented his speech with a curious whistling or whooshing noise. Before we knew it we were seated at the kitchen table, downing glasses of homemade wine poured from a Coke bottle while being instructed on Croatian drinking customs. Though he poured ours straight, he cut his own wine with water. The conversation started to get a little weird when our host adamantly insisted that 'Croatian fascists killed the Indians' and that everyone he knew was 'Crazy like a cabbage'. Kristen and I smiled and tittered at this rapid-fire chatterer. After pouring us more wine and whining a bit more about how hungry he was, he lightly told us 'I am so hungry I am going to cut off your legs when you sleep and fry them in the oven'. We giggled and mocked his faux hunger, suggesting that the wine was used to dull the pain of the severed legs, while he told us how much 'I hate this job and I hate my fucking guests'. I laughed hard but couldn't figure out why it was all so funny. Maybe it was because when I was part way though my third glass of wine he said with a laugh, 'Only stupid fucking Americans don't cut the wine with water. After two glasses you would be drunk'. Which shrewdly explained why the room was spinning and his head looked like it was being reflected in a funhouse mirror. Lucky for us his intentions we truly benign. In fact, he showed us the time of our lives. Having spend the entire afternoon chatting with him at the kitchen table he took us down to the Stari Grad of Hvar Town, which was pulsating party of an old city. Before long we ended up stuffed in a bar like sardines, dancing and singing to American 80s tunes as the bartenders juggled flaming bottles of alcohol, lit the bar on fire, and pounded the aluminum air ducts with their fists while wielding a chainsaw. The next morning we were in for a treat. Our new friend threw us in his car and took us to the small village of Brusje, where the maker of the homemade wine, his old Uncle Antonio, lived and worked. The dilapidated old town of about two dozen homes was built entirely from the stone gathered on the surrounding lavender-covered hillsides. He proudly reported that his Uncle's home was built in the year 1600, though I presume his Uncle is slightly younger than that. We were welcomed with open arms and without any previous knowledge were treated to a home cooked meal with the family. Stuffed peppers, mystery meat on the bone, a fresh tomato salad made from homemade olive oil and vinegar, and copious amounts of bread filled our stomachs as we listened to the family argue in Croatian about, um, let's say tactical nuclear war. Hell, I have no idea what the heck they were saying, the only one that spoke English was the guy that brought us there. Nevertheless it was a fascinating experience and one I will not soon forgot. Now, what was I talking about? Oh yeah, feeling indebted to our friend we decided to help him out with is work. He managed to convince us to help him nab potential room renters off the bus. So, before we knew it we were the ones in the throng selling our wares. I knocked a few old ladies out of the way and showed a bit of leg but it was harder then I thought. Despite our native English-speaking advantage all our attempts ended in failure. Maybe I should have gotten completely nude. To forget our woes we headed out for one last wild party. The night was long, the drinks were plentiful, and Kristen and I carried each other up the steep hill before collapsing into a deep and pleasant slumber.

Better Off Dead

You know that line in Jerry Maguire where Tom Cruise blathers, 'You complete me' to the gullible blond? Well that's how I feel about Dubrovnik, Croatia. Never has a city so captured my heart. Stretching out into the Mediterranean, the picture-perfect Stari Grad (Old Town) exhibits stunning medieval architecture astride smooth stone streets, spacious town squares bustling with life, and splendid cafes and bars which beget a musical reverie come evening; all of which is surrounded by an imposing stone edifice replete with turrets. George Bernard Shaw called Dubrovnik, 'Paradise on Earth'. Since I can't compete with that kind of descriptive magnificence I'll just say that it was 'Utopia on Terra Firma'. Original, no? When you step off the bus in Dubrovnik the heat hits you in the face like a wet slap. Just as you begin to recover from the blow a throng of weathered old women descend on you like a cloud of locusts, jockeying to offer you private accommodation in their homes. It's a bit like a livestock auction?and you're the prize pig. When we arrived Kristen and I picked an old lady with no glaring deficiencies, were promptly deposited in her rickety old car, then whisked off to the unknown. She spoke only a few words of English but had a kindly, broad smile and instantly softened our skeptical hearts with cookies and drinks when we arrived at her home. The place seemed clean and comfortable so we agreed on three nights. Better still, she granted us use of her washing machine; which was fantastic because my clothes smelled like they had spent the better part of a fortnight in a dumpster. We threw in a load of clothes and the old lady offered to hang them on the line and fold them for us so we could head to the Stari Grad. Excited about our luck we grabbed the keys and took off. Our first indication that something wasn't quite Kosher was when the purported 'ten minute' walk to the Old Town turned into twenty, then thirty minutes. Well, knowing that old people are prone to exaggerate and occasionally pee themselves, we let it roll off our backs. The Stari Grad was worth any walk. We enjoyed an evening at a great seafood restaurant before settling in to listen to some cool jazz music at an outdoor cafe. When we returned at around 2am, the house was still. Kristen went to wash up and I was organizing some stuff in our room when, without warning, the door flung open and there stood the old maid. She had a wild look in her eyes, her steel gray hair standing on end. Pointing her figure around the room she loudly exclaimed, 'Madame?! Madame?!'. Assuming she was looking for Kristen I pointed towards the wash room and indicated she was within. With a look of relief she quickly vanished into her room without another word. Odd, to say the least. The next morning I took a day trip to the stunningly green island of Mljet. I met another couple of Canadian girls (Europe is infested with Canucks) and we lazed around the two giant lakes of the island's National Park, swimming in the cool waters and baking in the sun. When I returned I found our laundry on the dresser, separated into two neat piles (his and hers), with a note on each that read '20 Kuna'. Since we hadn't discussed any charge it seemed this sweet little old lady was trying to extort about $8 for a load a laundry that had maybe ten articles of clothing in it. Irritated at the gall of the women, we did what any self respecting people would do when they felt they were getting ripped off; we decided to sneak out without paying. We managed to avoid her the rest of the afternoon, and the following morning we quietly packed up our things. Feeling guilty, we left a few dollars on the dresser and hastily made for the door. Unfortunately her husband, a lone sentry, was standing guard outside our room and yelled for his wife the moment we appeared. My blood curdled as this sweet old lady, now a nightmarish banshee, swept down the steps whilst uttering some chilling language of the dead (or possibly Croatian). Her broad smile had became a twisted grimace of hate, her hair a nest of snakes striking blindly at the air. All I could make out was something about 40 Kuna as those wild eyes searched my soul for penance. Fear sucked the air from my lungs, so I mumbled and pointed towards the insufficient funds on the dresser as I made haste towards the exit. Kristen was right on my heals but when we cleared the door I exhorted her to run. Sensing she was right behind us we blindly ran down a steep hill and dashed around the edge of a truck. When the devil is on your heals, you don't stop and ask for directions. Laughing uncontrollably, we made our way to the bus station and sped away from a most certain doom.