And back to the Three Black Catz, my (Balkan) home sweet home.
...It's plain to see that it's never gonna be the same... Those are some of the words to what was the song of my final semester at Virginia. The song in Chase's car, at least. Not too many people own the "Conscious Decisions II" CD besides me and my friends.
To and fro Little League practices and games in that white Explorer, the two of us probably listened to it over 8,000 times. Hunter heard it just as much on his iPod, where "Conscious Decisions II" was listed as "Conscious Dub." As for the rest of the guys, almost all of them were fluent in the lyrics by graduation, simply by being forced to listen to it over and over again, in the same way that many Guantánamo
Bay inmates are as familiar with Metallica's "Black Album" as they are with the suras of the Koran.In those days, of course, I thought Sean Paul (who I usually hate, I swear) was speaking directly to me, and directly to us. He just wanted to make sure that we were conscious of the fact that the next few months in Charlottesville would be times that, once they had passed, could never be replicated. Hairs which stood at attention on the back of my neck each and every time I listened to the reminder showed that I had taken his words to heart.
Those hairs showed that I was conscious of a fact that was plain to see: That it was never gonna be the same.
Things never are really the same when you try to replicate them, are they?
That's what I was worried about in coming back to Belgrade. When I left this city, three weeks ago, I went out on top. Every night had been a good one; every encounter (except for the one with the fascist Serbian cops) a positive one. I had made truck loads of Serbian friends. I had my own little family at the hostel. Finally, I had a one-word answer for that oh-so-popular, yet oh-so-difficult question, "What's been your favorite place so far?" Thirty minutes after getting off the train in Sofia, after a night of traveling away from the White City, it was no coincidence that the reggae party flier I picked up off the sidewalk had only two words printed on the back: POSITIVE VIBRATIONS! Still daydreaming about what I had left behind, positive vibrations were the only things emanating from my corpus on that Bulgarian street.
Coming back, though, meant risking that the next time I go through Sofia en route to Istanbul (I have to meet The Bob, Mamalou and Garland there on Dec. 27), I would no longer harbor the same types of warm feelings towards Beograd. Just ask Macaulay Culkin about sequels and their ability to disappoint.
The first Wilderness Ventures trip I took -- backpacking, kayaking and canoing around Washington state in the summer of 1999 -- remains one of the greatest months of my entire life, over seven years later. My second WV trip -- a month of backpacking and rock climbing in Wyoming the next year -- remains one of the worst. That is because I was constantly comparing that trip to the first one, trying to reproduce an experience which could not be replicated. Beograd Part Deux: Would it be MJ with three rings, coming back to Chicago? Or MJ with six, switching jerseys and moving to D.C.?
Michael proved that if you squeeze something hard enough, you can bring it back to life, or you could crush it.
So far, with four nights under my belt, I have brought my memory of Belgrade back to life.
There are some old characters, but mostly new. Dragana -- the longest-serving employee at the Three Black Catz, and pictured above -- has been around, partying hard; but Mladen -- the owner -- has been in Budapest since the day after I arrived, "selling Serbian magazines to Serbian people." When I walked in the door Wednesday night, hoping to surprise someone that I knew from the hostel, Mladen was the first face I saw. And his reaction was just as I had hoped it would be.
The lights from the disco ball illuminating the dark room with a carousel of white spots, Mladen, drunk and holding a burning cigarette, almost started to laugh.
"Could it be?" the "Braveheart" extra asked, in mock disbelief. "Or have I had too much to drink?"
I smiled, as I stood in the doorway, both my bags still strapped to my body.
"Looks like it could be both, man."
A bear hug -- always a little difficult to pull off when I'm wearing backpacks on front and back -- ensued.
"Sooo, I'm taking it you've been here before?" one of the new characters asked.
"Good guess," I said to my new friend. Back at last, in my (Balkan) home sweet home.
The first guy I met was a Quebecker (I am sure you can't write it that way, but who's going to stop me? You and what editor?) named Vincent. Vincent is insane.
Just scroll up, and I am sure you will be able to tell which one he is.
The Quebecker and I have many things in common. One is that we have experience getting sucked into the One Black Hole that is the Three Black Catz. Another is a shared dream of opening a hostel of our own some day, whenever we go home and get semi-settled down.
Vincent plans to open up shop in Quebec City. Austin, Texas is calling my name. In two countries that don't have the same backpacking culture as Europe, demand would obviously be a problem. But if you ask Dragana, so would all the hard work that is entailed.
Right.
"I know it looks easy, but it really is a hard job," she claims from her prostrate position on the bench in the Three Black Catz's common room.
"Dragana." I look at Vincent, and then back at her. "You're getting paid as we speak."
"But it's not a lot of money." True. "And it's not as easy as you think." Also true.
It clearly isn't easiest job in the world. Working a 24-hour shift, not being able to sleep, having to deal with sketchy German dudes who show up at 5 a.m. and demand that you change a 50 euro note into dinars since he would have to take a cab to a hostel with rooms available, having to clean up vomit, having to talk to people who often times just aren't interesting or nice ... there are downsides to a permanent Three Black Catz existence.
But there are downsides to every job. That's the nature of the beast. But working here? It's like, you also get paid to just chill for a good portion of the day. Sign me up, baby.
(As I write this, Dragana is drinking beers with us -- something Mladen has turned into a nightly ritual).
I said last time that Belgrade is bad for my health.
I'm still singing that tune, and I'm sure that my new Catz who went out with me and Dragana would agree.
Bad for my health because 3 a.m. is as ridiculous a bed time as 8:30 was when I was in 3rd grade (8:30?? Really, Mom and Dad? No wonder I used to wake you up in bed every morning with cold feet and ask "What happened in the Astros game last night?"). In Belgrade, sleep is something that happens during the day. Breathing fresh air, that happens at night.
I learned that lesson, sometimes painfully, my first time around in Beograd. As for risking a disappointing sequel?
I don't think I have had as much fun as I had last night -- and this morning -- in recent memory.
"I can feel it, Pete," I said to a fellow Three Black Catz veteran tonight. I made a big suction noise with my mouth, as my arms pulled imaginary matter -- including light itself -- into an imaginary black hole. "I can feel myself getting sucked in again!"
Pete was sitting directly underneath the poster board I made with Carmel the last time: Welcome to the ONE BLACK HOLE HOSTEL, I had written, with my Kiwi sister drawing three black cats below the block letters, alongside a portrait of Gricko's face saying, "I be here 17 days!" and "Tomorrow! Sofia! Tomorrow! Yes, Sofia!"
Pete showed up my second or third night back -- details of what happens on what day are inevitably sucked into the hole, so I can't remember exactly. His return was also a surprise visit; but this time, it was Dragana who did a double take in the presence of a friendly face, not Mladen. Her reaction, which consisted of a wide-open mouth, bugged-out eyes, a scream, a rush for the door and an embrace of the new visitor, told me all I needed to know: Pete and I are birds of a feather.
Big surprise that we became fast friends.
"So how many times have you stayed here?" I asked tonight.
"This is my third," came the answer, in a quintessential Yorkshire accent.
"And how long did you plan on staying your first time?"
"I meant to be here for two days, but I stayed three, three and a half weeks." The pause that came after three, I expected to be followed with the word "day." "I just couldn't leave, you know?" Oh, did I. "I had been over all of Europe, and then I stopped traveling," he said with emphasis on the last two words. "I just stopped. I got to Belgrade, and I didn't want to leave. One day, I went to the cash machine, and I didn't have any money left. I was like 'F***! I've gotta go home now, I guess.' That's the only reason I left, mate. Otherwise, I don't know if I would have ever left."
Pete's second trip here also eclipsed the three-week point.
We talked about what it is that draws us to this place; neither of us could put a finger on it. I did meet one other traveler in Istanbul who had stayed here; he didn't get sucked into the Black Hole. Didn't even really get to know Mladen, nevermind Dragana. And I felt sorry for him.
"This place doesn't have anything special," Pete said in trying to find an answer to my question. Why? Why can't some people leave this place? "It's just the feel."
The scene going on around me right now may give a peek into the feel Pete and I both know and love so much. It is classic Three Black Catz. Disco ball spinning, music playing, beer being drunk, cards played, Bayless posting blog entries, Mladen milling about, with some sort of Boo Boo Drew type project involving electronic gadgets. English predominates; Serbian is interspersed here and there between employees and neighbors who are constantly stopping by. Pete is talking on Skype to his friend from America, who he met during his first stay at this place. They both came meaning to stay a few days; both stayed almost a month.
"I was just talking to my new friend from America," I overheard Pete say into the mike. "He totally understands. Meant to stay a few days, stayed here for God knows how long. It's just something about this place, right?" The nameless face was taking it all in, from some far off computer chair, and just smiling. Birds of a feather. He understood what Pete was talking about.
This place is special. I doubt it could be replicated, either by me or by Vincent, should we ever follow through on our talk of opening hostels of our own someday. But who knows? I doubted my memory of Belgrade could be replicated; so far, those doubts have yet to be confirmed.
"Where would you open up your own place again?" Vincent asked from his perch next to the broken mirror behind the common room's wooden table.
"Austin, Texas, baby!" I said in a Vince Young imitation.
"Are there travelers there?" he asked. I pondered my reply.
"If you build it, they will come," I said.
"That's the attitude I like to hear!"
"I'll name it 'Field of Dreams,'" I said on the spot. I smiled. What if? "And you? What would the name be?"
"The Four Black Catz," Vincent answered. "For sure."
What does Sean Paul know, anyway? Who says it's never gonna be the same?
No comments:
Post a Comment