maybe tomorrow
Home was short and hurty, but mostly good times. Shellac was great, and I've never had a bad time when alcoholic arnold palmers and the castro theatre are involved.
Somehow recently I have turned into a complete and total mess seemingly both inside and out. For some reason I've been more concerned with the out, as I'd turned my little part of the world into an elaborate game of desktop buckeroo. With each new day comes a fresh attempt at organization that leads, without fail to the pile shifting from desk to floor and then back again. Trauma.
So I shoved it all into a bag and flew to Croatia. That's right up there with "my dad got bit by a dog in vietnam" in the category of things that I never thought I would have occasion to say out loud.
I was bracing myself for a hellishly long flight to Frankfurt in the very last row of a 25 year-old airplane operated by a crude bunch of sadists otherwise known as Lufthansa's flight attendants. At the absolute last minute I managed some sort of 'hand of god' upgrade to business class, had a few cocktails, watched a documentary on the great barrier reef and passed the hell out for about nine hours. When I arrived in Frankfurt with a few hours to wander around before my flight to Zagreb, I deftly talked my way into the first class lounge. I say 'talked my way into' as if it involves anything other than speaking English loudly and quickly to a German. It was a nice break though, and I got to take a shower, and make use of the complimentary internet.
There was even a breakfast buffet. I figured what better way to ease myself into the rough and tumble world of European cuisine than with some white rice and water.
The flight to Zagreb was brief and utterly terrifying. The plane made those sounds like that thing from Cloverfield makes when it's eating the Brooklyn Bridge. It was mostly due to the thick and heavy clouds that seem to cover the city at all hours of the day and night.
It seemed to only get thicker and more forboding as the day went on. This is never a happy sight when you are embarking on three weeks of outdoor festivals.
I had a little walk around, and in my weary state found Zagreb to be a pretty ok place. It wasn't nearly as strange and Yugoslavian as I had imagined. It was decidedly Eastern European, but everyone seemed pretty good natured. I faded pretty early and spent the rest of the night in the hotel trying hard to avoid the two channels of televison that I got. One was a scambled version of the news, and the other was some sort of vaguely Slavic porn that seemed to involve chance encounters with the guy who works at the Kebab shop down the street.
And just like that it had all begun again. Send in the clowns.
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