WWKD?

I don't know what it is, maybe I'm just like the faux grad student version of a "Night at the Roxbury" guy, but I always, always, always seem to run game on random girls I meet at coffee shops. Bars? Clubs? Heavens no -- way too nerve wracking. Coffee shops is where I do my best work.

That goes for doing research papers on Angola as well. I've been working on this bad boy -- explain the entire history and geopolitics of Angola in ten pages or less -- piece for about three months now, and I'm about to hangola myself. I had to leave work early today so I could focus, and I came to my favorite coffee shop in Austin, Spider House.

About four hours in, after I'd gotten tons of solid work done, a cutie McTutie rolls up, laptop in hand, looking for a place to sit.

An extra seat at my table, with an outlet right next to me -- the coffee shop equivalent of having a lighter on you.

"Do you mind if I sit here?" she asked. "I need a place to plug in my laptop."

"By all means." Nice, Billy.

She sits down. I thank the gods of hot girls in low top Chucks. Cutie, Mc, Tutie.

And then it gets weird.

It's clear that she's a UT student from the get go -- I mean, who carries a stack of library books on Kabbala and Hinduism for fun -- but I'm thinking 22, 21, maybe 20, at the lowest. Maybe 19 and a half.

And then, in the course of converasation, I found out something I don't want to hear: the year she graduated from high school.

2009.

I graduated from high school in 2002.

This makes her officially my little sister's age.

A dilemma, indeed.

I have a friend, his name is Kyle, who would not find this to be problematic at all. So I email him, for self assurance, and write the question "WWKD?" in the subject line, in which I lay out the entire scenario.

Kyle texts me within minutes.


Get the #, invite her out to do something this weekend, be vague until u have a good idea, obviously can't invite her to a bar, hahahaha.
Perrrrrrfect age


I then text Garland, my little sister, proud member of the Class of '09. I ask her if it's weird, what I'm contemplating, which is continuing to run game on a girl who probably doesn't remember the band Bush.


Yes.


I respond:


I disagree.


I'm going with Kyle's advice. Will let you know how it goes.

Sticks and stones may break your bones.

But sticks are also really fun.

Question: how come no one blinks an eye when you say, "Man, I've been working like a slave lately," but you have to hesitate and poll the room before you want to write the sentence, "Man, I've been working like the protagonist from 'Roots'"?

The answer: (sigh). I don't know.

Ironic, though, on two counts:

1) The reason I have not written in over a month is because my job -- which, incidentally, involves staring at a computer screen for 12+ hours a day -- has completely eliminated the notion of "free time" from my existence, and 2) The only reason I am writing now is because of something that came up as a result of me working ... at 10:30 on a Tuesday night ... while at my friend Tony's house.

I'm getting ready to give a 15-minute presentation on Somalia tomorrow.

I told Tony this.

Tony was kind of blown away.

"Somalia" is a pretty broad topic.

"Somalia?!" he responded, as we sat in his spacious living room, with a big screen TV playing Game 3 of the ALCS in the background, while my fingers punched away on the keyboard of his roommate David's expensive Apple laptop computer. "I had a pen pal in Somalia in like third grade." Tony is a year older than me, meaning this was circa 1991-92. "We'd write shit like, 'I like to play Super Nintendo! And he'd be like, 'Uhhhh... okay. I like to play with a stick.'"

After I copied down the quote verbatim in my notes -- our dialogue is going to be the opening salvo in my presentation tomorrow -- I let Tony know he would be getting sourced as footnote no. 1.

"A stick," I said, laughing my ass off. Funny because African kids really do like to play with sticks, which is exactly what the stereotype is. I thought Tony was just stereotyping; there was no way his Somali pen pal actually wrote that.

"No, you know what it was?" he said, his memory suddenly refreshed, like an Internet connection that finally just gets there. "Tennis balls. It was tennis balls! And sticks."

"Wait... wait... He really did play with sticks?"

"Oh, yeah," Tony said. "They would play games with tennis balls and sticks."

Wow. Just... just wow.

The benefits of the mustache far outweight the costs.

Update on the mustache situation: I successfully maintained it until Friday, which is today. And as agreed upon, Leticia bought me my 12-pack of Pacifico.




She also made a special flier, acknowledging my hard work, and taped it to the box. I now have it tacked onto my cubicle wall. The flier reads:

You must look like

to have one of these.

Bayless earned these by sporting a manly,
yet playful mustache all week,
so do not ask him for any!

So now, on my cubicle wall, I have a piece of cardboard Pacifico box taped to that flier, a cartoon drawing done by a coworker that depicts a stick figure of him farting in my stick-figured face, a work email about the death of a famous Hollywood director sent by an intern who shared the same name, and this:




Which was also provided by Leticia.

I think I really do look like him. Which is why I am going to be Inigo Montoya for Halloween.

(But I'm definitely shaving the mustache before then.)

My name -- this week at work, at least -- is Inigo Montoya.
Prepare to buy ... me a 12-pack of Pacifico, Leticia.

"Ya know," The Bob said, as we sat outside eating breakfast at my favorite coffee shop Monday morning, "in some cultures, it's the father who is supposed to ... ya know ... it's the father ... he's the one who makes the--"

Whenever my dad is bullshitting, he gets the same stupid look in his eyes, and he hesitates before delivering the punch line. It means that he's not clever enough to actually come up with a good one.

(The face I'm talking about is sort of a cross between the one he's making above and the one below. Anyone who has seen it knows what I'm talking about.)

"Dad," I said, not even cracking a smile. "Shut up."

He did a half giggle as my mom made her face: the one she makes whenever my dad makes his.

If I had had to describe it in words, I would have gone with, "How the hell did I stay married to this guy for this long?"

The Bob, sufficiently pleased with himself, diverted his gaze away from the two of us and settled it upon the tall mystery girl sitting all by her lonesome self at a table about 12 yards away.

"The father makes the introduction," came the punch line, about 3.5 seconds too late.

It was really kind of him to be looking out for his boy like that. But if there's anything a father should teach his son, though, it's how to hunt for his own dinner. And how to shave.

The subject line of about five emails I sent out at work yesterday read "the reason i grew the 'stache."

That tall mystery girl -- whose name turned out to be Audrey -- is the reason I grew my 'stache. I'll explain that later. What I'll explain first is how I came to erase the word "mystery" from her description.

Shortly after hugging my parents goodbye after that breakfast, and still seeing her sitting all by her lonesome self, I took one look at the stack of printed-out academic journal articles on Angolan geopolitics I had in my hands and said to myself three words: "Fuck Angolan geopolitics." As much fun as I have memorizing the intricacies of clashing rebel groups and offshore oil production in that godforsaken corner of southwestern Africa, I get to do that for more than 60 hours a week at work. At that moment, all I wanted to do was pull up a chair, and invite myself to sit down, classic Parsley style, with the tall chick.

"You don't mind if I join you do you?"

"No, not at all," she said, with a semi-genuine, semi-creeped out smile.

The Bob would have been so proud.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

I said I "grew" my 'stache, when that's not exactly the truth. I'd had a beard that morning. Nothing like I had in Serbia last July...




... when I looked like the guy from the 20 dinar note ....




... but a pretty solid one nonetheless. Turning it into a glorious moustache, then, only took a few minutes and a few strokes of the razor. But it added about ten years in age, and took me back about three decades in time.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

"All I could think to myself as I was talking to your friend in there was this: 'This girl thinks that I am Moustache Guy,'" I said to my neighbor Kevin, as we were eating burgers at his place, less than an hour after I'd come to own the 'stache. "But I'm NOT Moustache Guy!"

"No," Kevin said. "No, you're not." But he certainly was enjoying the fact that his friend Allison, who I had never met until she rolled up to the barbecue, thought I was. "Yeah I'd say it makes you look more... 'Uncle Chico'-ish."

That's what happens when you grow a 'stache for reasons other than aesthetics, though: People who you've never met will think you're Moustache Guy.

"Don't you know what it means to become a Moustache Guy?" I shot back. "It changes everything! I'd have to dress different and I'd have to act different! I'd have to get all kinds of robes and lotions! I'd have to get a new bedspread and new curtains; I'd have to get thick carpeting and weirdo lighting! I'd have to get new friends; I'd have to get orgy friends!"

Okay fine, I stole that whole last paragraph from "Seinfeld."

But the point is this: Moustache Guy is a lot like Orgy Guy -- neither are me, and both require dressing and acting different. In Austin, Moustache Guy is Hipster Guy. And I don't want to be Hipster Guy; nor do I want people like Kevin's friend Allison to view me as such upon first meeting.

Which is why I felt compelled to explain myself as I walked out the door, stuffed to the brim with burgers and guacamole, about to hop on my bike and go ride downtown to meet Audrey and her friends.

"By the way," I said as we shook hands, "I have to tell you the reason I have a moustache..."

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

Because of the mussels -- which is ironic, since I'm not Muscles Guy, either.

"Yeah, it's Mussels Monday at this bar if you have a moustache," Audrey had said that morning at the coffee shop. She was referring to a place called Bess' Bistro on 6th. (Yes, that Bess' Bistro; the one Sandra Bullock loves.) "But since I can't grow one I just put on this fake one I have and go."

Seeing as my lack of shame in the self-invitation department has already been well documented, you shouldn't be surprised to find out that it took about three seconds before I offered to shave and meet them later that night. It was Moustache Mussels Monday, after all. And it was an excellent cover for trying to run game.

I went home, I read about Angola, I shaved, and I went to Kevin's to eat dinner (as mussels are not quite filling enough.)

And of course, what do I do? I eat so much at Kevin's that I find myself on my bike, riding to Bess', fighting back the urge to vomit with every revolution of the pedals, even when going downhill.

Mussels were the last thing I needed once I showed up at the bar.

"Well actually mussels aren't what's free," the bartender said when I plopped down on the stool next to Audrey. "It's appetizers that are free if you've..." -- the lady, who didn't crack a smile once the whole night, was delivering this sentence with entirely too much seriousness, in my opinion, seeing as it was in front of five moustachioed patrons, two of whom were women -- "... got a moustache."

I looked around; no one besides our small group of five had anyone in its party with a moustache. It appeared as if Moustache Mussels Monday was a flop.

"Okay well I'm even too full for an appetizer," I said. "How about..."

And this is the part where I smooth talk the manager into hooking me up with a free beer, rather than a free, small piece of food.

"We can throw away a beer on him, don't you think?" the manager said to the lady, after I'd driven home my position by reminding them that I had "a pretty legit 'stache, ya know?"

"We don't carry Lone Star," the semi-snobby, hipster bartender said when I aimed low (I felt like it wasn't my place to go for a classy beer in that situation, seeing as I looked worse than someone who watches Channel 9 at the time).

"Hey Peter man!"

(Oh and while we're at it, you may want to watch this clip -- totally unrelated to this story, but related to guys who watch channel 9 -- and get ready to be jealous of this guy's ridiculous good luck)

"Okay..."

So I got an Austin Amber, which is fantastic, and more expensive than an appetizer. I made sure to thank my moustache and its glory with every sip.

This was on Monday. Today is Wednesday. I still have the moustache. Why?

Because after I wore it to the office yesterday -- (it would have been a crime had I not at least shown it off for one day amongst the cubicles and the non-channel 9 crowd) -- one co-worker promised to buy me a 12-pack of Pacifico, my favorite beer, if I kept it until Friday.

A.k.a the easiest best I've ever made in my life.

"I think you should keep it," Audrey said when I talked to her tonight. "I think it looks good."

"You should keep it until Halloween," about three different people suggested today at work, "so you can be Inigo Montoya." (Another coworker told me she thought it made me look "more confident," whatever that means.)

"Who knows, man?" Kevin asked. "You say you don't like it now, but who knows? Maybe you'll come to enjoy it. Maybe you'll actually become Moustache Guy."

That, I highly, highly doubt.

But I definitely think I've found the secret to subsidizing my beer drinking. And I've definitely found out the secret to macking on tall chicks. It's alllllll in the moustache.

A karmic force out.

I’m on a kickball team here in Austin that plays every Thursday night. Our team name is the Freebasers.

We were apparently really good last year, though no one on the squad would deny accusations that we have not lived up to the hype this season. Last year, when I wasn’t on the team, we were good. This year, when I’m on the team, we suck. I’m just glad my initials aren’t C.D., because someone might get the bright idea to start calling me Common Denominator.

We had a game last night against the defending champs. Their team name is Team Relax. Team Relax is nasty. They’ve got a great pitcher, they’ve got a girl who is almost as good as most of the dudes on our team, they’ve got a token black kid who is an all around athlete, and they’ve got a championship trophy, which they got after beating the Freebasers in what was apparently an epic championship game, last season.

And Team Relax is cocky, too. One of their heavy hitters is drinking beer out of the trophy in right field as he’s waiting for the game to begin. It's the kickball equivalent of Terrell Owens spiking it on the star. It is grounds for a brawl.

Oh, and by the way – Team Relax? They’ve never lost. Not once. In four years. They are four years-and-0.

I want to beat Team Relax.

But guess who doesn’t want us to win?

To understand the answer to that, we've got to go back in time, so I can fill you in.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

(Three weeks ago, against a shitty team, whose name I never knew)

It was the second or third inning – we play five, total in this league – and we were losing. Man on first, one out, I’m up to bat. I kick a screaming line drive to the second baseman, who drops the ball, and has no time to make the force out at second. Mark, our captain and GM, is a fast little guy, but he wasn’t trying to slide and cut up his shit. So he ran through the bag, then hurried back and safely touched his foot down, avoiding the tag.

The tag, you see. The tag.

One of the fundamental rules of baseball and/or kickball is this: when there is a force at second or third, once the runner touches the base, that force is no longer in existence. It is then up to the infielder to tag the runner if he's off the base. I knew this rule as a six year old.

But the umpire? The girl umpire who thought she was a badass, but who was and is actually a complete bitch? She didn’t know this.

“Out!” she screamed.

Out??

“Out!”

But no, we protested. He was safe. He was not out.

“Out!”

I hate umpires that think that once they take the field, they cease to be a human being, and become some sort of infallible authority figure akin to the pope, or Stalin. They’re the umpire. And Mark is out.

“Will you at least explain WHY I’m out?” Mark asked in vain, now that there were two down and a man on first – rather than one down and a man in scoring position.

“I’ll explain,” the bitch girl umpire said, essentially snarling as she did, “after the inning.” This girl is probably a nocturnal teeth grinder, by the way.

And explain she did, after the inning – to the home plate umpire, who was a guy.

“Blah blah blah,” she said, explaining her righteousness in the form of a narrative about a force out that wasn't, “and then she stepped on the base. It was a force out.”

I was listening in intently. And at that part of the narrative, I lost it.

“OH MY GOD!” I yelled for the entire field to hear, aiming for max embarrassization. “The umpire just admitted she doesn’t know the rules! THE UMPIRE, just admitted, that she DOESN’T, KNOW, THE RULES!”

Needless to say, we lost the game, by one.

And we left with an enemy for life – who will never forget the definition of a force out.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Okay, now let’s flash forward through time. We’re back at the same field, this past Thursday (also known as last) night.

It’s a close game – we’ve been going tit for tat with Team Relax every inning except one, when we tacked on two unanswered runs, and then again, an inning later, when we add an insurance score. Going into the last inning, the Freebasers are sitting on a 3-0 lead. But you can never relax when you’re playing Team Relax.

Man on third. No one out. We’re up three, but that could change in a heartbeat. The only reason there’s a runner on base is because I dropped an easy throw to first. If they rally, it could easily be pinned on me.

And the batter hits a lazy foul pop – to me.

“Don’t drop it, don’t drop it, don’t drop it,” I’m saying to myself – I’ve already dropped it twice in this game, and I can’t embarrass myself again.

I don’t drop it; I catch it, and there is one out. But before I can congratulate myself, I see the runner on third make a break for the plate. And I laser one home to the catcher, who has to tag the guy out -- because there is no force in this situation.

The runner clearly slides under the tag. He's safe. Our lead has been cut to two. But the home plate ump blows it.

"He's out!"

Out!!

I couldn't believe it.

It was a karmic make up call from the game where the bitch girl umpire screwed us.

And guess who is the umpire in the field for this game too?

That's right. The same girl.

"He was safe!" she yells from her post near second. "There wasn't a force out!" And she ran towards home to pow wow with the guy ump.

"She's using it against us!" I thought to myself. "We've created a monster!"

But the guy ump wasn't having any of it. He wouldn't listen to her; after all, she had lost all credibility after the previous debacle.

And we ended up winning the game, delivering Team Relax its first defeat ever.

And it was all despite the force.

I have 7.5 liters of sljivovica in my bag.
Now that is a souve-freaking-nir

I intentionally left room in my huge pack when I came to Belgrade because I knew I'd want to bring souvenirs home. My bag was light when I left Houston. It is very, very heavy now.

"How much rakija you want?" Mladen asked tonight as I was getting all my stuff ready to go.

"Fill up one of these bottles," I said, pointing to a plastic bottle of water sitting on the table in the common room.

"That's it?" He sounded rather disappointed in me, like a dad from Alabama finding out his only son was gay. "This is just two liter."

"How much do you have?" I asked. I'd thought my request was too much, not too little.

"Ten liter."

"Okay then, I'll take more."

He picked up a different plastic bottle. "This one is 1.5 liter."

My bag is now holding 7.5 liters of this shit.

Rakija is not stuff you can mess around with, either. It's serious stuff. You don't take shots of it. You sip it. And then you sip some water. Even tough, crazy Serbs like Mladen follow this rule.

Osama bin Mladen

Let me repeat this: I have 7.5 liters of homemade Serbian rakija in my bag that I am checking from Belgrade.

"You gonna be on CNN," Mladen just told me when I marveled at how much freaking rakija that is.

This stuff is no joke. I had nose hair until three days ago, when I made the mistake of sniffing my shot glass of it before I took a sip. And I'm taking home the good stuff: sljivovica, known in English as plum brandy. There was a Czech guy here at the Black Catz the other night who thought he was tough. While we were sipping our glasses, he was shooting his, despite my warnings. His friend, though, listened to our warnings.

Guess which one is which, 30 minutes later.

Goodbye, Belgrade.

"You want coffee?"

"Yeah. I do." Mladen can just read my mind sometimes. We'd started with a beer, then had a rakija. It's only natural that we move to turska kafa, since I have no plans on going to bed tonight, as my flight leaves Belgrade at 6:45 in the morning. And besides, it's symbolism. Pivo, rakija, kafa, i necu spavati.

Beer, rakija, coffee, and I'm not gonna sleep. Pretty much sums up my Balkan existence.

"Okay," Mladen said. Mladen, the owner of the Three Black Catz, is one of those people who understands. He just gets it. The night sky above us had that hue that lets you know you've passed its darkest hour. But it's still night. "You make coffee, and I'll go get cigarettes." I smoke cigarettes when I'm in the Balkans, because it's just what you do. When in Belgrade, do as the Serbians do.

If my mom wasn't recovering from surgery, I would just tear up my e-ticket and stay for an extra month, which could easily turn into two, three, four, indefinite.

I hate leaving Belgrade for good. It's only the second time I've ever done it. But it's never something I want to do.

These two weeks were ... exactly what I wanted. They were exactly what I wanted.

"When I come back." That's what I say in sentences. Not "if," but when.

I've got unfinished business in this country. Too many friends. And a special reason to come back.

And so I will. That's all I know. I will.

Like two peas in a pod.
Exit Festival, 2009.

It was dark, and I was drunk, thanks to Indira and her excellent choice in domaca rakija. That, and I just wasn't expecting it.

Guy in a giant pizza costume, getting down in Novi Sad, Serbia. Exit 2009.

"What are you," I asked, "like Pizza Man or something?"

I guess I'm just used to people dressing up as different junk foods amidst large crowds of strangers.

"Pizza?!" he yelled back, as if I'd just uttered something blasphemous in 1492 Spain. His words were just loud enough to be heard over the speakers pumping out beats at one of the large stages at Exit. "Hell no, mate! I'm a big pussy!"

Very nice!

And what do ya know?

I just happened to have been wearing my big cock shirt.

Welcome to Belgrade.
A city where this girl is about a 6.5

Dada is the nickname of the newest employee at the Three Black Catz. She is extremely aware of the fact that she has a perfect body, as any mirror with eyes could tell you, and exhibited by the fact that when she saw the photos I took tonight, she said to herself -- amidst a Japanese-like flurry of flirtatious giggles -- "I am so beautiful."




Dada is also a really nice and sweet girl.

Did I mention she has a perfect body, though?

Dada happens to mean "sister" in Swahili.

Did I mention she wears a bikini around the hostel at three in the morning?

"Dada," I finally said, after hours of battling the pair of magnets pulling my eyeballs downwards about 45 degrees every time she bounded by me, "it is very distracting when you walk around the hostel like this."

She didn't know what the word "distracted" meant, I could tell.

"Do you know the world 'distracted'?"

"No."

"I don't know where to put my eyes when you walk by me like this, Dada," and I succumbed to the magnets, like a drunk kid who's been fighting his pass out moment for three hours, just so I could teach her what the word "distracted" means in ingleski.

I was thinking that Mladen, the 3BC owner, should pimp Dada out as the cover girl for his page on hostelworld.com.




Or, we could just go with this.




There we go. Much more symbolic.

Nazis, NATO, Jews and knowing your audience.

"So are you having a good day at work so far? You seem really upbeat."

Simone, my new South African friend I met at Exit -- and hopefully a friend I can stay with in Cape Town when the World Cup is held in her home country next summer -- wasn't winning any blue ribbons for that observation. She was sitting at the main table in the common room of the Three Black Catz, her back up against the Beograd map on the wall, as I came huffing and puffing into the hostel. The elevator in this old, gray, socialist block apartment has been broken for weeks, and the four flights of stairs are a nice little way to sweat out the vices of this city.

"Yes, I am stoked," I said exictedly, "because I convinced the people at work to publish something about the World Cup." We don't normally deal with sports-related issues at my job, since it's not a sports-related company, but this item had to do with a labor strike, so it was a little more relevant to what we do. But I love sports, more than I love labor issues, and so I was excited. "I'm still at work, though. I just had to leave that coffee shop because they were being complete Nazis about the Internet time."

The new guest sitting across the table from me, who I had not met yet, let out a laugh. The girl with him, who I'd just introduced myself to, was named Eva. They were a couple. He pointed to his t-shirt. It had the letters 'DE' emblazoned upon it.

Eva is a German name. 'DE' stands for Deutschland. Deutschland is German for Germany.

"Sorry dude..." I said, as if the dot-dot-dot's and averted eye contact would make it okay.

This is not the first time something like this has happened to me, by the way.

Luckily, these people were better sports about it.

"It's okay," he said, in a precise, clear German accent. "We make such jokes as well."

And so do Serbs (though they can, as the Nazis weren't very nice to them during WWII)

"Did you see the no Nazi sign at Exit?" he asked.

I told him that I had.

And when he left, I apologized again.

"Sorry about that Nazi comment," I said.

"It's okay. Just don't make any jokes about the Jews."

I would never do such a thing, seeing as I look like one.

But the Serbs (who also weren't treated very well by NATO during the Bombing Spring of 1999), they sure would.

(TEPOPY is Cyrillic for Terrorism, by way.)

To ti ne treba!

I don't speak very good Serbian. Znam samo malo, ali ucim jezik. But I have picked up a lot since I arrived two weeks ago, and so anytime I can pick up on passing conversations, it is really fun.

One thing I do understand, though, are the huge letters H-I-V spelled out in condoms.

They were passing these out for free at Exit, which gives you an idea into what was on people's minds at the festival. As I walked by it on Day 2, I saw an overweight Serbian dude bending down to grab one out of the box.

"To ti ne treba!" his friend mocked. You don't need that!

The nearly 20 seconds of uncontrollable laughter this sparked inside me -- back breaking, lose-your-breath laughter -- is why I always try and learn the language.

Don't gain the world and lose your soul.
Exit Festival. 2009.

The sun rises over the masses at the Petrovaradin on the fourth and final day of Exit.

My cup is far beyond overflowing as I sit in this coffee shop, back in Belgrade. It was overflowing before I even got on the bus to Novi Sad last Friday. After four-plus days up in northern Serbia, the ground around my cup is as damp as a Vietnamese rice paddy. It should be illegal for one person to have this much fun. And it should be a crime against humanity for tens of thousands to all have this much fun together.

Serbia is a small, landlocked country that is far away from America, and even farther from the American consciousness. Those who have even heard of this place probably know only bad things: Milosevic, Kosovo, NATO bombs, Bosnian Serbs, genocide, The Hague, communism, fascism, death, intrigue, and of course, cigarettes. And it really is a pity, because if they'd only come visit for themselves, they would see that this, this is the place to be.

Especially for four days every July, when all the good that is in the worlds of those who love music, dancing and revelry all converge upon an old Austro-Hungarian military fortress on the Danube River known as the Petrovaradin.

The Petrovaradin is Novi Sad, as the London Bridge is London, the Great Wall is Beijing, or the Coca Cola Clock Tower is Arusha, Tanzania. Technically, it's not in Novi Sad, but in a separate municipality creatively named Petrovaradin as well. It's only once you cross the Danube that you arrive in Novi Sad proper, a beatiful city that stands as a beacon of culture for all of Vojvodina, a semi-autonmous Serbian region that has almost as many Hungarians as it does Serbs. The Exit Festival, which is a massive party that replaces the memories of encamped armies with the vibrations of music and thousands upon thousands of dancing feet, takes place inside of the Petrovaradin fortress, and it just celebrated its tenth anniversary this past week (or, if you asked the lovely Petrovaradin native who works for Exit, Indira, its 11th, but that is another debate over when, technically, the wonder that is Exit really first began).

My biggest fear about returning to Serbia after more than two years away from my favorite country in the world was that, quite simply, it would suck. Trying to recreate a magical time in your life is an endeavor wrought with risk. No matter what you tell yourself, it's not place that touches the heart, but the people in that place. And people have a funny way of changing over time. These changes can lead to disappointment when you find that what your memory tries to keep alive actually perished long ago. I learned this when I went back to UVa for a weekend a year after I graduated, and found that it was not the same place that had existed in my head during a year of traveling the world. And so the fear that Serbia, Round II, would be just like that Foxfield weekend in Charlottesville loomed large in my mind as my plane touched down on the tarmac in Belgrade this past July 4.

And then Exit happened. And it was better than anything I ever imagined.

I won't try to get into the details too much at the moment, because I don't have time to write War & Peace. Unfortunately there is a little thing called "work" that is calling my name. And after reveling in the pure bliss that is ignorance of what was happening on the work front for five full days, I've got a shit ton of emails I've got to read before I log on from Belgrade to do my job. But there will be stories, and they will be plentiful.

This, though, is the main message: it's not the place, it's the people; and there is a certain wisdom you accrue from reminders of this message. The relationships that you can form when you're traveling are so special. It's not that I don't love America, or that I don't want to be in America, as some of my friends from back in the day have at times alleged. It's that being on the road in another part of the world brings out something in people that is hard to find when you're lost amidst the routine, and the mundane of everyday existence. It brings out the best in people; it opens up their hearts, and their minds; it brings them together, in a way that lasts forever.

It refreshes my soul. It makes me remember why it is that I work. I work to make money so that I can travel and meet more people, form more relationships, learn more about the world and the moment and the collective human experience. It's not about silver and gold alone, but about the entire package. If you can use money to gain wisdom -- and love and laughter -- you have, as the old knight in the third "Indiana Jones" movie says, "chosen ... wisely."

For me, Exit was an affirmation. I have chosen ... wisely. Four days of all night parties, three hours a day of sleep, and a series of moments that I knew, as they were happening, wouldn't last forever, except for in my mind, in my heart, and most importantly, in my soul.

The best things in life are those that words cannot possibly describe. It's a warmness in your bones, in your spirit, that makes you take deep breaths and close your eyes and just ... feel. The moment. The moments. And you can't put a price tag on stuff like that.

(Well, you can, but I'd really rather not think about it. A flight to Serbia ain't cheap. But it is certainly worth it in the end.)

It's like Bob Marley said, "Don't gain the world and lose your soul. Wisdom is better than silver and gold."

Why people from Belgrade would probably really relate to bats

"Did you sleep a lot when you first got to Belgrade?"

My best friend from Serbia, O.G. Zoka, asked me that tonight, the first time we'd seen each other since April 2007, after I told her how long it had taken for me to make it here, from Texas to Serbia.

"Well, yeah," I said, "but it's fine. I was super jet lagged --" I paused, remembering that people who speak English as a second language don't necessarily know what terms like "jet lagged" mean. "Do you know what jet lagged means?"

"Da, da," she said.

"Okay, cool. So I was super jet lagged, and I went to bed at like 5:30 the first morning, and around 4:00 last night," I said. "But since I'm still on U.S. time, it's no problem, because I can go to bed at five, but since I work from 2:00-10:00, I can get up at like noon, have kafa, chill, and I have plenty of time to get ready for work."

As I've told dozens of people so far, with a job this flexible, in a town this night-oriented, I could get used to this schedule.

The Three Black Catz Hostel is a place where time ... slows down. That's what the new Aussie guest Lucas said tonight after he arrived, scratched his balls, and realized four hours had gone by in the mean time. It's a black hole. The One Black Hole Hostel. Anyone who is good at drinking and telling stories is unable to leave. It's the greatest place ever. It's my Balkan home sweet home. And for the next two weeks, I'm home.

Peter, a.k.a. Pete, one of my Black Catz brate's from my second stint at the Black Catz in December 2006, is here too. We're both here for Exit: my first time, his many'eth. Pete understands the beauty of the Black Catz, and of Belgrade.

"I got really, really nocturnal last year," Pete said. "Like ridiculously so. I'd get back from clubs, then I'd start drinking rakija," -- that's the ultimate Serbian spirit -- "and I'd start going to sleep at two, three..."

Wait for it.

"... in the afternoon."

There ya go.

That is the schedule at the Three Black Catz. It's an exercise in human nocturnal...ness. And it's beautiful.

The smell of Serbia.

The first thing that hits you when you walk from the plane into the terminal at Belgrade's international airport is the smell of stale cigarettes. Like what your grandmother's shag carpeting used to smell like when you were a kid. You're pretty sure she had stopped smoking by then, but the smell was still there, and it's the same with the airport in Belgrade. Everywhere you turn, No Smoking stickers, peppered with air bubbles that show the haste with which they were applied, warn you that Serbia is trying to modernize. Modern societies don't have people smoking in their international airports anymore, after all.

But it still smells like cigarette smoke. You can make a push towards European integration, but you can never take the street out of the dog. Old habits die hard in the Balkans.

By the time I'm making these observations, I've already made two new friends.

It was the final leg of my Houston-London-Munich-Belgrade airplaneathon, and finally I had a window seat. Only, it's occupied. By a Serbian woman. Who is sitting next to her large Serbian husband.

Being an exceptionally nice guy to strangers, I let her keep the seat and settle down into the aisle. I probably shouldn't fall asleep again anyway, I tell myself. That's already happened twice so far, and at this rate, I'll be going to bed after the sun rises in Belgrade (not that there's anything wrong with that).

The man in the middle is also sitting in a third of my aisle seat. He doesn't seem to see anything wrong with this arrangement. I do, and I briefly consider tapping him on the shoulder to ask for some freaking space. But then I remember two things:

1) I'm officially in the Balkans, even though we're sitting on a tarmac in Germany, so I shouldn't expect a European decorum.

2) I used to live in Africa, where public transportation makes a sardines can look more spacious than the hotel from "The Shining." I need to quit being such a kuma.

So I restrain myself, and embrace the intimacy of his jelly rolls. Still, though, my initial impression of the two Serbs is a negative one: crude, rude, unaware.

Within half an hour, we're talking about how they're going to give me a ride to my hostel from the airport, and my impression of Dragana and Nebojsa is an entirely different one: charming, full of life, and so courteous it makes my teeth hurt.

This is the beauty of the Balkans.

Our friendship begins when I pull out my Teach Yourself Serbian book and ask a question about grammar. Serbian is hard as shit, and is not a language many foreigners take the time to learn. If you know even a tiny bit, you will earn mad street cred. Even if it's samo malo, just a little, which is all I can speak. Show the people here that you care even a little about them, and they will do anything for you.

Including giving you a ride from the airport to the town center in their friend's car.

Like I said, my Serbian consists of samo malo, only a little. I don't understand shit. But I can hear when English phrases pop up in the middle of conversations in pretty much any language.

For example:

"Serbian Serbian Serbian give a leeft Serbian Serbian," Dragana said to Nebojsa (two uber Serbian names, by the way).

"Serbian Serbian," he muttered back. To a Balkan new kid, it would have sounded like Dragana was trying to convince Nebojsa, and that Nebojsa was shooting her down, since the way people speak here makes them sound rather disagreeable. It's the opposite of Africa, where a simple greeting will cause the African to break out into an uncontrollable fit of laughter, as if every Joe Blow on the street is a regular Jerry Seinfeld. But you can't let the appearance of things trick you into thinking that's the way it is. The Balkans are all about appearances, layers, and then the actual reality, buried deep below.

Far from shooting her down, Nebojsa was fully endorsing Dragana's plan to give me a leeft.

"It is small car," she told me, "so we will see. But this is why I ask you how much luggage you have."

I had known that's why she'd asked, but I acted pleasantly surprised nonetheless when I heard Dragana say "give a leeft" in the midst of her Serbian conversation with Nebojsa, who was still sitting in a third of my seat. The truth is, I knew from the moment his eyes had lit up at my question about the proper context for using Ja sam versus jesam that they were going to offer me a ride.

The first thing Dragana did when we stepped outside from baggage claim was light up a cigarette.

And they weren't lying; it was a small car. But all cars are small cars in Serbia. My favorite kind, a remnant from the socialist Yugoslav period, is called a peglica (peg-leet-sah), or "little iron" in English.

The driver either didn't speak English or was too shy to speak English. But she was beautiful, which is a synonym for "she's from Serbia and is under 30." Serbian girls are the most beautiful in the world, but years of cigarette smoke, trials and tribulations make the Serbian M.I.L.F. as rare as the Northern Hairy-nosed Wombat.

The road from the airport to New Belgrade was pitch black. The beautiful girl driving the car was listening to Serbian turbo folk, the equivalent of a Texan listening to David Allen Coe, except instead of being all right music, it's the worst music ever. At least the volume was turned down low. Most of the homes that we drove past had no lights on. I thought about asking why that was the case, then I decided against it. The last conversation I wanted to start was the "Did you know how much we suffer as Serbs?" conversation. I'm going to be here for two weeks, and there will be plenty of time for such talk.

Balkan homecoming.

"Yo, man, how much are you excited?! For Balkan again... Be prepared."

That's the text I got from O.G. Zoka last week. In just a couple of hours, I'll be on a plane, bound for Belgrade, Serbia, back to my Balkan Home Sweet Home.

It's been over two years, but ja sam spreman.

My stay in Belgrade will be interrupted by a nice little trip up to northern Serbia, in the historically distinct Vojvodina region, to my second favorite Serbian city, Novi Sad. Exit Festival, from July 9-12, is going to be the shit.

It helps that I have the coolest job ever, with employers as flexible as Mary Lou Retton. All I need to punch in is an Internet connection, whether that's in the office in Austin, in the rainforest of Brazil, or the smoke-filled den of the Black Catz. That's why I can go to Serbia for two weeks and only take three vacation days. If I'd really known just how flexibile they were when I bought my ticket, I may have just gone for a month.

I know I haven't been writing much lately. Crystal, I apologize. I will be picking my game up for the next two weeks, for sure.

Zato idem u Beograduuuuuuu.

If you're Farrah Fawcett, you are pissed right now.

Two reasons:

1) "Thanks for stealing my dead celeb thunder, douche."

2) "For the rest of everyone else's lives, every time anyone pictures me, they'll picture Michael Jackson, too."

"... and get your Gatti's pizza--"

And why I'm a slave to the international consumerist conspiracy

There are certain questions that have obvious answers. Of course, I'd like a cupcake. Of course, I'd like a cold PBR. Of course, I'd like to go to the Astros game with you.

And of course, I'd like to sing the jingle in a Mr. Gatti's commercial.

Until I ran into her at Kathryn's birthday party, I hadn't seen my friend Lauren since probably ninth grade. We had a lot to catch up on, such as how each other's Y2K celebrations were, and how things had been since we'd gotten our drivers licenses. So we made plans to meet up at Jo's Coffee Shop on Congress the next day to fill each other in. Not 20 minutes after I showed up, we were approached by a four-person camera crew, who took one look at the two of us and thought to themselves, "These are the exact types of people we want to help us sell Gatti's pizza."

Obviously, though, they didn't think too highly of our ability to sell. Lauren's lines were cut to "twenty-two, twenty-two," while mine got cut short by, as John put it, "the rappers." And the only person whose entire rendition of the song surived edit in its entirety -- the guy with the Mexican flag guitar at the end -- is maybe the biggest douche bag in the state of Texas, "right now, riiight nowww."

But whatever. I'll take it, man. I'd never been on a commercial before. I'd gotten some face time on Charlottesville local news a couple of times, and was on CNN International shaking hands with George Bush in Tanzania, but certainly no one had ever asked me to sing for them on camera. Naturally, I was stoked on popping that cherry. I can't tell you how many calls/text messages/Facebook posts I got about it, with most stories following a similar line: "Dude! I was at this bar with my friends, and all of the sudden I was like 'Dude! I know that guy!'..."

Clearly, I'm going to tell everyone I know about it. Being in a Gatti's commercial is the greatest thing ever. And 99% of people agree. But there is one who doesn't.

The same girl who told me that sports were all about "nationalism and war."

Ahhh, Lindsey. Lindsey, Lindsey, Lindsey. When will you stop giving me fodder to write about?

First go read about the incident from a few weeks back, when I was trying to watch Game 6 of the Rockets-Lakers series in peace on my front porch.

Now you're ready for the update.

About two weeks ago, after the first confirmation that the Gatti's commercial had been spotted by some of Lauren's friends, I was telling the story to all my neighbors, and I was excited: ME! ON A GATTI'S COMMERCIAL! THIS IS THE GREATEST THING EVER! Everyone agreed: Yes, this is the greatest thing ever. You! On a Gatti's commercial! Please tell us more.

These are the types of environments in which haters love to hate: when everyone else is excited.

"But that's just ... consumerism," came the barely audible voice. Lindsey speaks very, very quietly, like you're listening to a song on your computer with the headphones plugged into the jack, only, the headphones are sitting on the table. I could tell she was making some type of revolutionary statement, but I couldn't pick out the words. So I asked her to repeat herself.

"That's, like, consumerism."

Still, couldn't hear. One more time, I told her.

"You're just like, feeding the cycle, and numbing their brains so they'll want to buy pizza."

Oh, God. Here we go again.

"Lindsey..."

"That's just ... consumerism," she said, cutting me off.

I took a sip of my beer and rolled my eyes. Everything inside of me was screaming, "Let it go, dude. Just let it go. Just let, it, go."

But I just couldn't do it.

"What in the world are you talking about?" My voice was getting agitated, a la the time she implied that watching the Rockets-Lakers game was akin to going to a Nazi Youth rally. "They're trying to run a business! They want you to know, 'Hey, we sell pizza. Come buy some. From us!'"

You know those people who like to make ridiculous comments that they know will rile people up, and how they just don't listen, to anyone other than maybe Alex Jones? When you come back at them with some sort of demand that they explain their ridiculous comment logically, they just spit back more ridiculous comments that don't relate at all to your request. It's like they're not even processing your words. Their brain shuts off, and all they remember are the dogmatic mantras of wannabe revolutionaries, with buzz words such as "nationalism," "conspiracy," "truth," and, my favorite, "consumerism."

"I just don't like, want to be a part of that ... just the ... it's consumerism."

We were at a restaurant at the time, by the way. And she was consuming things.

"Have you ever ordered a pizza?" I asked, trying to end this debate before it really even started, with a walk off grand slam.

Lindsey looked rather uncomfortable in her seat. I don't know if she just doesn't learn from past experiences, or if she thought something had happened to me since the Rockets lost Game 7 that had changed my personality, from one that calls out people on their revolutionary bullshit to one that doesn't. But she was certainly a sad sight to behold as I unleashed on her, so offended was I that anyone dare not to think that me being in a Gatti's commercial was the greatest thing ever.

"Yeah..."

"Okay!" I threw my arms up in the air, like I'd just made field goal. "You're a consumer!"

It should have ended there. But it didn't. She continued to whisper anarchic comments to herself, as she clutched the debit card she was going to give the waitress, so that she could engage in consumerism. I couldn't hear anything she was saying, but it doesn't take a deaf person to read someone's lips when every third word is "consumerism."

"Let it go, Bayless," the angel on my shoulder said. "Let it go."

But I couldn't.

"How are you going to pay for the food you're eating right now?" I asked, thinking that maybe this would open her eyes to the massive hypocrisy that embodies her existence.

She showed me her debit card.

"Okay. Consumerism."

She bashfully looked down at the table, and kept muttering things about consumerism.

"Did you make your own clothes?" I asked. Silence. "Did you weld together your bike frame?" Silence. "Did you.."

"It's like, numbing their brains," she said, in the meekest act of defiance possible, yet still defiant.

The best part about Lindsey's theory that I help numb people's brains by singing the words, "and get your Gatti's pizza," on TV, in exchange for a coupon for a free pizza, is that I'd bet that her own brain has been numbed by doing massive amounts of synthetic drugs. The girl is a walking, talking example of why you should just say no to things that don't grow from the ground.

"Well Lindsey," I said, "you'd be happy to know that in exchange for doing the commercial, I got a coupon for a free pizza. So it's the exact world you'd want to live in: the barter system, where the currency is food!"

The end.

Barton Springs, books on the Balkans, and boobies.

To the handful of devoted readers, I apologize. I stare at a computer screen for a living. When I come home, the absolute last thing I'm trying to do is stare at it as a leisure activity as well.

I do have a lot of stories, though -- that hasn't been the problem.

Like yesterday, at Barton Springs.

Barton Springs is my favorite place in Austin, and certainly one of my favorite places in the world. It's my memory of childhood summers on the Guadalupe River crossed with a neighborhood swimming pool, with a New Deal era public works project emanating from every slab of concrete and blade of grass on the lawn that rises above it. The water is cold, perfectly cold. Living in a sun colony like Austin, it's the perfect antidote for loving to ride your road bike every chance you get. Sure, it costs $3 to get into the nice section, but you could always try to sneak in, or get a friend to come stamp you with some spit and a reverse, prolonged high five.

Plus, there's always the section on the other side of the chain link fence, which has less than half the depth as the yuppie part, thanks to the dam that separates the two. That section is waist high and free to all. It's full of dogs and their owners, most of whom call their dogs perros. I call that side the swine flu section.

I prefer to go to the pay section, because it's nicer, you can sit on some grass rather than rocks, the water is dive-able, and there are more hot girls around than a sunny day in Belgrade, Serbia.

(Okay, maybe not that many. But there are a shit load. Trust me. And they're all in bikinis.)

Barton Springs is my favorite place in Austin.

But I hardly ever go there. Why? Why don't I ever go there? It's like going to college and not taking advantage of the free CD's and DVD's you can rent from the library. I live maybe a five minute bike ride away, and the final leg of that ride -- the part that takes me flying directly into the Springs' back side parking lot, and right up to the entry gate -- exists in the form of a hill that bombs so hard I wouldn't be surprised to find out gets me going at speeds of up to 35 mph. (I totally pulled that number out of my ass, by the way. But I do fly down that hill.)

All this, and I take advantage it maybe 1.5 times per week.

"Screw it," I said to myself yesterday. The cop out I always have is, "Oh, I'll only be able to go for an hour or two if I cruise over there after work." I like to read books when I go to the Springs, so the free-after-9 p.m. deal doesn't really appeal all that much to me. "Three bucks wouldn't be worth it," I tell myself.

"Screw it." And I pedaled past Kinney, past the base of that hill, and right towards the front gate.

It's my favorite place in Austin.

Okay, so I'm sitting there. No one is really around -- maybe three people, total, on the entire expanse green grass (which is actually a pile of brown dirt at the moment, but it's usually green grass). Everyone else is in the water, down by the diving board, and I am reading a new book I got on the Balkans, sitting by myself, leaning up against a tree.

This is the part where I see the sexiest girl at the whole place walking up, looking like a complete gangster, when she stops, maybe 20 feet away from me, drops her bag, looks around like a person who is in a very familiar and comfortable place, and proceeds to take off her top.

Aaaand she's not wearing a bra.

Suddenly my 600+ page epitome on Balkan history from 1804 to 1999 isn't so interesting. Stories of Ottoman pashas and Serbian peasant revolts don't exactly do the same thing to my kurac as the sight of a very beautiful, very topless babe chilling right in front of me, totally at ease with the fact that I'm clearly staring right at her breasts, like we're in Europe or something.

For all you Serbian speakers out there, you know what I was thinking: Zelja mi je pusta da ti svrrrrrsim u usta! (Sorry, I can't get my format to get the Z or the s right; I know it's slightly misspelled.)

I look over at the 40 something year old dude that was sitting even closer to her than me.

He's pretending like nothing out of the ordinary is going on.

I look back at her; she seems to not even notice me.

My eyes quickly avert back to the pages of the Balkan book. It is a mammoth: 662 pages if you count everything up until the glossary, notes and bibliography; 726 if you count it all. I pretend to read a few more lines: "Are the former Ottoman provinces of Bosnia and Hercegovina excluded from the Balkans because they were annexed by the Austro-Hungarian Empire in 1908, before the Ottoman collapse?"

The answer: boobies.

"It was not until the end of the Great War that a new layer of meaning was imposed on the term. 'Balkanization' was first used by journalists and politicians not to describe the political fragmentation of the Balkan peninsula but the emergence of ..."

Boobies.

"... several small new states to replace the Habsburg and Romanov empires. It would have been just as accurate to label this process the East Europeanization or even the Balticization of Europe."

Or you could call it boobies.

No matter how hard I tried to read -- 732 pages if you also included the introduction;740 if you count the series of maps at the beginning -- all those words just ran together into one word, repeated over and over again: "Boobies boobies boobies. Boobies."

I mean, it's not like these are the kinds of boobs that you see and think to yourself, "She's got a nice ass, though." No. They are the kinds of boobs you see and think to yourself, "Nice, Bay-LESS!"

They are perfect. But now she's walking away. And I'm stuck there, in the dirt, with a few blades of grass, some irritating, solitary ants, and my Balkan history book -- 734 pages if you throw in the acknowledgements.

Boobies! Nooo!

Never have I been less enthralled with the Balkans. Like I could concentrate on Selim III. Who cares about that dude? I stared vacantly at the page, staring at the same line for about five minutes, while an entirely different vision was being played out in my mind.

After about ten more minutes of this, with ants periodically picking away at my toes and inner thighs, and no sign that the sexy mystery girl was going to return, I packed up to leave. In half an hour at Barton Springs, I read maybe ten pages. That's 10 cents a page -- and most of them were read during the first 20.

The sun was setting anyway, I thought to myself.

And that's when I saw her again.

And she's doing yoga, now.

Standing with her back to the pool, I was able to confirm that yes, they also look good from the profile.

They look even better once she turns around and looks me in the eyes as I walk by: I'm pretending to be casual, while she really is casual. This is your chance, Bayless! But how? How do you approach a girl like this? I briefly consider using the line, "Hey, I'm topless, too!" while looking all surprised, as if we had something in common, but then lose the nerve. I mean, it would be hard enough to get the balls to approach a girl that much more badass than yourself when she's just chlling, but while she's doing yoga?

You can't. You just can't do it.

By the way, I've passed by her little spot in the shade of the corner by now, and she is standing on her hands and feet, back arched, boobies pointing towards the heavens. This means that her eyes are pointing back away from the pool, which in turns means that she can't see me come to a complete stop, turn around, gawk for about two full seconds, commit the image to memory like I'm saving a file, and then walk on down the path, shaking my head to myself at how incredibly badass any dude must be who snags her.

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"Naw man, you CAIN'T! You cain't!"

That's what the jovial, semi-ghetto black dude yelled back at me when I told him this whole story at H-E-B 30 minutes later, while we both waited for our deli meats to get cut.

"You cain't approach uh girl like dat. You cain't!"

He gave me daps. His friend, who was working behind the counter, gave me my turkey, and my cheese. And I thought about those boobies, and if I'll ever have a chance to approach the girl whose body they belong to.