It’s itchy. Not scratchy and it’s not a show. It’s mosquito season in Salzburg. I’m sitting in a 6 bed dorm room contemplating what had happenned in the past 28 hours or so. Here’s the story, if you wish to read and since you’re already here, you probably should. That’s the polite thing to do.
Yesterday, after a Harry Potter full of dreams, I was up. 6AM, all ready to go. The night before was a mix of trials without tribulations. Coming back from my first trip up north for the season and having spent an excruciatingly nice three days in Glasgow with DN and TS, taking par beyond par picture on the first Naka season, and having Pottered myself to senseless oblivion.
I have read all the Potter books. Not a fan, but it did grip me enough to have actually read and not necessarily bought the whole series. At the end, Potter dies, Ron incestually marries Ginny, Hermione decides that she likes older women, and the one who shall not be said or spelled decides that being bad is hip again, but then goes into a 600 page guilt trip and hangs himself from the chandelier at Hogwarts. How the God loving people of America will allow such book to be read by their munchkins is beyond my concern.
Since the parents were arriving around today to Bon bon and my house, yesterday morning with sleepy eyes mixed with post 24 hour Harry, was a tough one. I did as much as I can to save Bon bon’s faith as the daughter who keeps her house clean and I firmly believe I have succeeded in undestructing the flat as a simple man possibly can. Having done all that, t’was time to goto the airport.
Smoothly it went until about page 130 of Stephen King’s Cell and the flight was delayed. 40, 50, I don’t know. It was enough for me to not give a shit. Trust me. After 4 hours and 20 minutes of sleep the night before and knowing that all there was to be done that day was to reach the hostel by 3pm until they cut off my power of reservation, you really don’t give a day in a fuck.
Blurry vision took over and as I went in and out of consciousness, my body took me to Munich Airport, into the train to West Munich Station and everything was Cell. Good book, gripping, cell phones (I’m doing this for my American readers) are as good as mobile phones. For some reason unbeknownst to me and the funky sleepy brain, I had rested my mobile on the ledge of the train as well as my not so great Marlboro Lights. Got off at West Munich station and 10 minutes later I was without a phone. The irony and karma wasn’t needed, as reading a book called “Cell” was nothing but a piece of curse.
Panic attacked phone calls to Bon bon later to have my phone cancelled, I made my confused way to Salzburg. Note to self: never let your woman handle your business whilst she is on holiday and whilst you are in another country. Especially never when she’s not having the best of days. At the hostel, I was force fed to wait an agonizing 43 minutes until the fuckers decided that they probably should lift off the “Will be back in 30 minutes” sanction and let the poor Korean girls and a poor but beautifully disheveled yours truly. When the nimnuts opened reception at 3:55, it was 55 minutes passed my reservation cut off time. Have they kept my reservation privilege or has it gone to the impoverished teenager who infuriatingly cut in front of me.
Without a hurrah or a boo, my place was secure. Waltzed my dragging self to my room and found out that there was a woman. In case you were not privileged as a child to utilize a privately owned bunk bed fiesta that is the youth hostel (CV, are you listening? You know you my man, son), usually girls and boys don’t mingle in the same room. It’s the holy code of hostel bed arrangement. But there she was, fat and ugly as a tard with lard, an English woman. Not that all English woman are agonizingly fat and smelly but for fact’s sake, she was and it was. The room stunk of something out of the ordinary and t’was hot like yo’ mama on a bar stool in Acapulco. No, my mom jokes always suck. We exchanged pleasantries, I unpacked, her American friend who was as interesting as a cardboard on a rainy day joined in, and I left. Not because I didn’t like them, obviously not. Salzburg was training before their Champions League qualifying match against some Lithuanian team and by God, I had to go.
I did have enough time to get there but I didn’t have enough time to figure out that bus went to the stadium every other time. Ended up going right passed the stadium and 4 stops later, it was 5:55PM. 5 minutes until the training session started, 20 minutes until I was told to leave the stadium because they will be doing some secretive tactical shit which frankly wasn’t all that great.
My mind tumbled and rumbled some and it came into a crossroad: I go or I don’t. Funny how yellowish brown marshmallow you can become after month and a third of not doing football work. The toughest 31 year old on earth was wavering and being pitiful. It’s too hard, I won’t make it, why bother? But it wasn’t hard, I will make it, and I did bother. Took the bus going back to the stadium and this time I got off near the stadium with my 15kg on my suddenly broad shoulder. Welcome back to reality, I said.
Arrived 2 minutes before my time was up and this was reinforced by the security guard who kindly told me that I had 3 minutes. Them Austrians. All was done and called my colleague who was stuck in Salzburg. Time for dinner.
This and that we talked about football, mainly how Japan sucked and how Japan can one day in a world of chaos and travesty reversed will one day play like Brazil on a shoestring. The lives and hopes of millions in the land we don’t associate with “the Rising Sun” and “Emperor is our God” was at stake. When all was said and done, talking to HH was a massive ventilation session and we bid adieu and I still owe him 10 Euros.
Once back in the hostel, a wee man of a wee stature was there. Exchanged pleasantries and for some reason there was a click. The beach whales were also there but t’was not of any importance. The man, Mr. W was an Aussie traveling around the world for some sort of documentary on some sort of addiction thing. His occupation was a life coach which means that he will make you stop smoking. I did ask that but did not receive a straight up ho’s down answer. But apparently it’s not as easy as un deux trois or aaa beh seh.
A beer was needed and it was flowing downstairs. As we drank and sat with the other Aussie congregation, something hit me. Basically, if you don’t speak English, you’re fucked in this world. If you decide to stay in your own non-english doting country, you’re set fo’ life. But if you want to see the rest of the planet and if you want to not feel lonely at a youth hostel, by chicken’s liver ladies and gentlewanks, you gotta shoulda betta speak some Queen’s language. The conversation was flowing, as the South African guy who looked like he was 187cm and 150kg but then in reality was shorter than me but obviously more muscle bound had the snazziest voice in a long mile. Mr. W was encouraging him to do radio or podcast or perhaps even South African Idol. There was also the guy who looked like Chuck’s best friend in Goonies, but then he was sweet as cookie monster. Though not that blue.
When I went out to get some cash and some fresh air and back into the hostel, the conversation for some relatively inexplicable reason changed to Australia. Been there thrice and I do like the down under. What was amiss was that my mojo for my craft since the end of the football reason and the boys from Bris-Vegas (don’t ask me why it’s not Brisbane or don’t ask me why if there is a casino in Brisbane) gave it back to me. There apparently is a gold mining town in Australia that is so so so like hot during the summer that they have created a underground town. No shit, no jokers, none. Hastily yet meticulously drawn napkin map for me to keep, I’ve found my Eldorado. My next project, coming summer 2008. My fingers were already feverish on the mobile phone to Bon bon, but little does she know that we’re not going to Bondai beach. But I’m a man who will keep my words. We will definitely have some koala jerkies. Oui, Bon bon, oui. Yes, baby, we’re going to Sydney as well. I promise.
My evening was finished and except for the hourly and unecessary humans rolling into the bunk bed calls, I slept well.
The morning was slow. Up at 9am, breakfast and a chance encounter with another Aussie. Ms. B was traveling on her own and now that I think about it, reminded me of Maria from my high school. Oh this is good. Ms. E, yet another Aussie was for some reason doing her Sound of Music thing. If you haven’t noticed, I have never seen Sound of Music, yet I was in Salzburg. So the three of us was sitting in the 10:30AM of the daily Sound of Music film extravaganza. I have previously scoffed the idea of this film for being girly and all it’s unmasculine qualities. After 3 hours of “I’ve heard almost all of the music in this film sometime in my wonderful life” moments, I have to say that it is the best and I mean like the number one musical film I have ever seen. And I had the privilege of seeing it in Salzburg. How grand. Julie Andrews is a hottie, 43 years ago.
Feeling peckish, whilst humming “Do a deer a female dear…”, Ms. B and I went into town to grab a lunch. We sat and we spoke and exchanged our fears and joys of traveling solo. The conclusion was that traveling on your own is different to traveling with a companion, neither being better than the other. Additionally, Ms. B agreed that Bon bon and my honey moon should be on Lizard Island off the coast of Kangoala. I love it when I make decision for the both of us. Bon bon, counter recommendations are welcome.
After lunch, she went onto some crazy Chinese exhibition and I, back to the hostel to finish my Cell.
I guess losing my mobile and reading Cell had nothing to do with the past 28 hours, but who gives a fuck, it was a good ride.
T’il next time.
1 Comment
August 8, 2007 at 9:58 pm
There’s no crocodile in this cavern? I would go to the end ofthe world with you ma merveille!!