The dirt on living in Costa Rica and backpacking Europe. If you want pretty descriptions of beaches, green tree frogs, and 'pura vida' reflections this is the wrong place.
Additional irreverent travel advice includes hitchhiking disasters, getting drunk with locals, four-hour border crossings and other fun topics.
I don't like to write for tourists. I wrote this for my friends.
The concert took place inside Espresso Planetka pub. But that's not where the party was.
My musician friend, Robo Patejdl, and I hosted a great hour-long concert with many old and new friends on that warm August night in Bratislava, Slovakia. After that we had to relocate. Anyone who has been out with me in that neighborhood will tell you that bars, restaurants and houses that we drink at are all just filler. The heart and soul of our Ružinov parties is Drinking Hill.
Where are the other pictures?
I don't remember most of the concert, since I'm always in a nervous, panicked blur before I perform. I do remember people taking pictures and filming, but for some reason only one picture has surfaced from that night. It's my skinny ass...probably singing Lady Gaga for the millionth time. If anyone has more pictures from that night, please send them. Deki moc!
Rather than try to recall the events of the particular concert, I'm just going to wax nostalgic about Ružinov Drinking Hill. *sigh* People accuse me of many faults: excessive drinking, womanizing, fear of commitment, inability to grow-up, being easily distracted...
Uhhh, where was I? My worst addiction would be nostalgia. Nostalgia for places, experiences and, most importantly, people. I constantly think of the good old days with friends and how I can relive them. Traveling feeds this addiction. Somewhere down the next road is something better and more exciting than what I have already experienced. Every time I return to Ružinov I hope that the next party will be better than the previous ones...
Here is nostalgia at its worst. In pictures, this the legend of Ružinov Drinking Hill:
First we gather lots of alcohol. Russians are famous for their drinking, but their Slavic brothers in general (of course Slovaks) have an amazing capacity for drink. In the United States I'm called an alcoholic. In Slovakia I'm a "weak bitch."
"Alcohol Poisoning!"
Czech-Slovak Beer served American House Party Style
Bring lots of food and start grilling in the park. This would seem logical to any American (ahem 'Murican). However big, American-style outdoor barbecues are not a part of Slovak culture...yet.
Parky a Paprika
The "front yard" of my Ruzinov flat
Take the party back inside your Communist-era panelka flat. Since barbecues aren't normal in Slovakia, the police often saw it as a danger and would break up the party. Or the weather would suddenly change. This only encouraged the bad behavior.
The Smoking Section
The Toast with Fancy 'Murican Imported SOLO Cups
Take the party back OUTSIDE the apartment. Slovakia has a law that prohibits loud noise in buildings after 10pm (22:00). Around 9:50pm we had to stage a massive exodus for our drunken troops. A little hill in an adjacent park became our refuge since it possesses a magical ability to hid people from the police...
10:00pm - Ready to Begin the Drinking Hill Voyage
Heading to The Secret Rendezvous Point with Buckets of Beer
Party at Ruzinov Drinking Hill. I can't tell you what happens at Drinking Hill...most likely because I'm too black-out drunk to remember. There was usually a Slovakian lady and a lot of alcohol involved. Everybody who has been there has their own debil story about the people they met or the stupid things they did. All I know is at some point the next morning I would return there after some wild voyage around Bratislava's bars to collect evidence of the party. There was never much left...
One Lonely SOLO Cup Is All That's Left
I miss these times and the people who were there. Bratislava, Slovakia is not a place that most people put on their Top Ten travel lists, but for me it's one of the best. And it's all thanks to the people who are there. This song is for you guys. I played it at the Ružinov Concert and I will play it the next time I see you, because I always gotta feelin'...
I need a cold shower. Quite frankly this is sexier than all that American booty dancing.
Selma Bajrami, my fantasy Turbo-Folk girlfriend
The Balkans were formerly part of the Turkish-Ottoman Empire and still has a lot of Turkish and Middle-Eastern influence. I had a Serbian friend tell me that Bosnian and Albanian girls are the best dancers in the former Yugoslavia because of their Arabic origins. If that is true then Turbo-Folk singer, Selma Bajrami, is a fine example of that kind of dancing. By chance I met her in a club in Sarajevo, Bosnia in 2010. I'm still smacking myself for not asking for her phone number that night.
My current Bosnian baby wasn't mad anymore. She lay on top of me, moving her hips against mine and touching me under my shirt. I likewise ran my hands under her clothes and quietly whispered in her ear. She caught my eye from time to time as we moved together to some psychedelic hippie funk she had put on Youtube. I lay down in anticipation while she continued her Arabic grinding. My hands moved lower.
"Hey you American fucker. Get a room...but not here."
I have some great Serbian friends. My friend told me there was Russian Couchsurfing couple in Nis who had a car and were heading for Belgrade within an hour. I vaguely remembered meeting a Russian couple during the last 2 days of insanity in Nis. Nis is always a blur. My friend explained the deal succinctly, "Ride with them and pay only gas, or wait and pay more for a bus...Fucker."
I had friends I could stay with in Belgrade, and now I had a quick way to get there.
After my friend gave me a travel update, he left me alone again with my Bosnian baby. We continued moving and grinding together for as long as time allowed. I wanted her and - as with many others I had meet - I knew it wouldn't happen. At the moment I needed to see her naked and bare and dancing in front of me. We were kissing and touching out of urgency and raw emotion. The chaos of the moment inappropriately made my mind conjure up images of NATO planes flying over Sarajevo. This girl needs a rescue mission.
Those dreams evaporated in the incredible heat of the Southern Serbian summer. Before I could reflect further, I was in the back seat of the Russian couples' little car, staring out the window and cursing myself for desiring a wild life of women, drink and dance over a simple life with just one woman who I truly desired. I am still thinking about this.
To avoid highway tolls, the Russians drove on the service roads that followed the main highway to Belgrade. We were in no hurry and stopped in several small towns for sightseeing. We took pictures in front of historical monuments and they recalled their previous visits to Serbia. They were a happy couple...one of many Russian ex-pats who lived on the Southern Adriatic beaches of Montenegro so that they could escape the bitter cold of the country they were from. Serbia was just a brief vacation for them to arrange their paperwork to continue their ex-pat life.
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The Russian and I spoke in English of our countries long love-hate relationship with each other while his girlfriend periodically snapped at him in Russian. She couldn't speak English but was able to understand everything. As we approached Belgrade, they checked the map frequently to make sure we were taking the right way to my friend's apartment in the city center. They wanted to continue sightseeing so we choose a hilly backroad that followed the Sava River. Although I could see the urban mess in the distance, the winding road we were driving on felt very provincial. One side of the road dropped off into the glistening river below while the other side meandered away into several green farm plots. The houses were small, quaint, terracotta constructions that looked of the era before Communism took hold.
The tranquil beauty disappeared as we entered the city limits. Small rustic houses gave way to the typical clunky, multicolored Communist blocs I have seen in so many parts of Slavic Europe. The hilly topography of the land contributes to Belgrade's disorder as it makes the city appear to be falling into itself. Apartments awkwardly pile up and start to tumble head-over-heels into each other. Trash collects in corners of the streets while the smell of cigarettes and coffee seeps from the cracks in the buildings. The single road we were driving on ceased to meander in one direction and splintered into a million little spiderwebs that got swallowed up in the urban decay.
It's all so wonderfully, beautifully, ridiculously chaotic. The 'White City' is falling apart all around me. I want to fall apart with it.
We've just seen the imposing, soaring beauty of Orava Castle in Slovakia. Now its time to focus on something much simpler, but equally beautiful in Orava. My Slovak friend invited me to his family cottage farm outside Dolny Kubin for a day. I wish it could have been a lifetime. I'm too cynical and sarcastic to use words such as charming, quaint, whimsical and idyllic, but these words describe the little family cottage very well.
Most tourists in Central/Eastern Europe will never experience this kind of building. They focus on the usual giant castles, museums and central squares of Europe. When venturing away from the tourist areas they look in disgust at the classic "Communist" blocks, or panelka, that are quite typical in countries affiliated with the former Soviet Union.
Charming in their own way; I feel like I'm visiting Pee-Wee's Playhouse. The irony of these "Eastern" European buildings is that their design originates from a "Western" architect from England. I guess Stalin was just very impressed with the economical advantage of these buildings and it quickly propagated throughout the region. If you do go to smaller villages you will see the old, rustic small cottages from the pre-Communist days.
The small cottage I found myself at is self-sustaining. It sits on a long, thin plot of land where my friend's family grows their own fruits and vegetables. A short walk to the backyard treats you to a variety of berries, legumes, greens and fruit trees. On that particular day I snacked on fresh gooseberries I had plucked from a bush out back.
All of this fresh food makes for great meals. My friend's family treated me to some homemade Slovak cooking. I'd never thought of dill as a good way to flavor food, but it worked very well as a sauce with meatloaf and Slovak knedl'a, a soft dumpling bread that's perfect for soaking up sauce. In addition to this I stuffed myself with korbaciky syr, a salty string cheese that's everywhere in Orava.
It's excellent comfort food when paired with a Pilsner beer and shot of Slivovica. If you try it in the capital of Bratislava it just won't compare. Unfortunately most tourist don't even give Bratislava a chance, much less the rest of Slovakia. Come out to the countryside for some simple living and discover why I like this little country.
