Posts Tagged ‘Nikola Jajic’

Music and Madness in New Orleans

Posted: September 30, 2015 in Jazz, New Orleans, Nikola Jajic, NOLA, Travel, Vacation
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I’m drunkenly smoking outside of a random bar on Bourbon Street, when I notice her speed walking in my direction. It’s hard not to miss her, and even in my inebriated state, I know this is going to get weird.

We make eye contact, and I realize much too late that I should’ve looked away. She has those Bourbon street, shark eyes. The sort of eyes that are looking to simultaneously hustle a tourist and find a safe place to hide.

“Hey! I just need to stand here for a minute!” The woman shouts, coming to a sudden stop a few feet before crashing into me.

She’s a tall, pasty blonde, with giant fake boobs, a gold tooth, and weird hair. My friend Rob will later remark that she used to wear cornrows, and her hairline must’ve been thinned out because of that. His theory seems plausible. Although, I’m fairly certain he’s just spit-balling possibilities.

“Um, okay.” I respond warily, not sure what her play is going to be, but preparing a polite “No, thank you”  to whatever it is, just in case.

I watch as a tall, African-American man, walks by and glances at her for a beat too long, before turning and walking off.

“You see that shit?” She nods her head in the fleeting man’s direction.

“See what?” I ask.

“Pimps, man! They don’t take a hint!” She asks for a cigarette and I give her one. She lights up.

“I gotta find a white boy every time, and they’ll leave my ass alone for a minute, you know?” She is also white, and no, I don’t know, but now I want to head back into the bar and find my friends.

“That’s um, okay, whatever. Are you alright?”

She looks up at me, and lets out a loud laugh, as if to say Are you fucking kidding me, dude? I smile and laugh as well. We finish our cigarettes, as one of her friends, and one of mine, show up at either of our sides. We nod our goodbyes and head our separate ways.

In a couple of hours, I will witness a sloppy street fight, while eating pizza from atop a garbage can, which I am using as a table. I will experience the most amazing live jazz performance of my life. I will watch as newlyweds dance lovingly down the street, while a marching band plays them further into the night. And I will try to keep up with a city that’s too big to handle, and too easy to get lost in. But I’m getting ahead of myself, and that’s easy to do when trying to recount a lost weekend in New Orleans. A lot of the trip now resides in that part of my mind reserved for blurry scenarios and hazy conversations.

How it Started

Tim, Rob, Dan, and I, had this trip on the books for months. It was to be the first guy’s trip we had taken since the last guy’s trip, which was three years ago, and landed us in Myrtle beach for a drunken weekend on, well, the beach. Rob and I were the married-with-kids contingent of the group. Dan, was the knowledgeable music buff, and the closest thing we had to a New Orleans expat (He visits the Big Easy annually for Jazz fest), and Tim was our wisecracking wild card.

So after months of waiting, a tedious slug through O’Hare, and a quick cab ride, we finally arrived, with our baggage and expectations in tow.

Our hotel was in the French Quarter, and it had a pool. These were the consensual sticking points for everyone in our group. We checked in, dumped the baggage, but kept the expectations, and let out into the night.

First thing on our list was food. We wandered over to the Acme Oyster House, but the line was a block long. We scanned the street and headed to Felix’s across the street. We hungrily ordered as much fried seafood and raw oysters as we could handle. After having our fill, we decided to take our chances on Bourbon Street. My stomach was queasy as we began to bar hop. Half a dozen drinks later, and I was on top of the world. We people watched and cracked wise as we went, stopping periodically to fill up on booze.

The deals never stopped coming our way… the Bourbon Street Carnival barkers shouting them at us, while brandishing large signs with the same deals on them. Covering their bases, just in case we were hearing impaired or blind.

“Two for One Beers!” followed by “Two for One Hurricanes!” Followed by “Multiple Grenades!” Followed by “Two for one tits!” Followed by “Topless and bottomless and well drinks too!” followed by “Don’t be scared!” And on and on it went.

A wild yet gregarious atmosphere, the street was the embodiment of a drunken uncle. Late into the evening, we decided upon a to-do list of sorts. If we limited our stay to Bourbon Street, all of us would be in need of more life insurance and a liver transplant by day three.

The list consisted of a few things we all wanted to do. Hit Café Du Monde for Beignets and Café Au Laits. As well as a walk around the market and Jackson Square, and take in the best live jazz show we could find, and of course eat and drink ourselves stupid. I also wanted to get my fortune told. But I was alone on that one.

The Puking Man Play-by-Play

We found ourselves sipping grenades on a random Bourbon Street balcony. To say the drink was sweet was an understatement. I wasn’t sure what would hit me first, the diabetes or the booze. While we drunkenly shot the breeze, I noticed the puking man, and being the sophomoric man-child that I am, I managed to film him, as he added to the stagnant puddles of tourist fluids that line the corners of Bourbon Street.

Here’s the poor bastard in the act: Part 1. Where I realize how lucky we are:

 

And part 2. Where we break it down:

 

Preservation Hall and a Sad Song

Just off of Bourbon Street lies Preservation Hall. A legendary jazz music venue situated in an intimate, two hundred year-old building.

We waited in line on our second night, and just missed the cut off for the 8pm show. Knowing we couldn’t stand in line for another hour for the 9pm show, we made a pact to wait as long as it took on our last night to get in. On the last night, our luck improved, and we found our way to the standing room area.

Inside the venue:

Preservation Hall

At first, a bit of claustrophobia began to set in, and I found myself taking deep breaths, subconsciously fighting it off, while trying not to think of the fire hazard we just trapped ourselves inside of. Soon however, the musicians made their way to their seats, and after they began playing, all was okay. Live Jazz has a therapeutic, perhaps even a healing effect, or at least that’s my takeaway from the handful of live performances I’ve seen.

That’s the good part of a live show. The bad part is sometimes you’re stuck next to someone who wants to make a shared experience about them and them alone. Tim and I exchanged a look as the middle-aged spaz in front of us, clapped his hands rapidly in the air, and let out high-pitched yelps, during the quieter and more nuanced moments of the concert. Tim shook his head and took a step away from the man, as did I. To be too close to his neediness was to become his neediness. Or something like that.

All of the musicians, most of whom were in their twilight years, gave it their all. And to my newbie ears, they were the Jedi masters we were looking for. The clarinet player in-particular caught my eye, or ear, or both eye and ear in this case, or whatever. Anyhow, I never heard a clarinet sound like that before, and given the fact that the guy looked to be nearing 100 years old, I thought it was quite the accomplishment.

My oldest son has recently taken up the clarinet, and I couldn’t help thinking of him, and how much he would’ve loved this performance. I vowed to take him and his brother to a live jazz show in the near future.

Late in the show, the bandleader announced they would sing a sad song. It was the St. James Infirmary Song.  And it was sad, but sad in that special kind of New Orleans way, where even if you’re fighting back tears, you still might be tapping your foot to the beat. Dan later filled me in on a couple of the gloomier elements in Louis Armstrong’s life, and the song resonated even more.

Here’s the Louis Armstrong version:

 

To the Bachelors and Bachelorettes Everywhere

There is something distasteful, or at the very least, odd, in wearing matching outfits with a dozen other women. Throw in a random tiara and my cringe dial goes to 100%. It’s like a very small cult that worships a penis straw deity. I know these facets of the Bachelorette party are tradition, but so was cannibalism at one point.

I don’t have much more to say on this subject, except that in the future I hope a bill is passed, which somehow relegates all of these parties to Las Vegas. It’s the only place that does this sort of buffoonery justice.

Not to be outdone by the ladies and their phallic accoutrements, here’s a video of a bachelor party-boy playing with a blow up doll by the pool:

 

The Old Guys at the Concert

On Dan’s suggestion, we cabbed it to a concert on the westside, which featured Dumpster Funk. They were a great funk band that had us head-nodding and half-dancing between pulls from our beers.

There were a couple of takeaways from the concert that were clearly obvious, even to the half-dancing and fully-inebriated. One, People’s Blues of Richmond (the opener), was an amazing band. Someone remarked that they were kind of like a young, coked-up Led Zeppelin. And I remember thinking that was a decent summation. They played as if there were thousands in attendance. There were probably forty of us at the show.

The second, and the much sadder takeaway, was that we were most likely the oldest people there, and we’re not even forty. The average age of the concert goers seemed to be around 21 years old. People that young gross me out. Mainly, because I know I gross them out, and fuck them for being grossed out by the inevitable. I’ll do the judging around here, damn it.

Regardless, we drank our beers and listened to our funk. And the show proved a good experience, even for the crusty old farts in the back.

 

Café Du Monde and the Violinists

We sat waiting for our beignets and café au laits. Our collective hangover growing stronger by the second. If we didn’t shove fried dough into our bodies soon, our sickness could very well become sentient. On the scale of Global catastrophe, Skynet had nothing on the Tequila flu. It’s the super flu, only with Tequila. Game over, man.

Lucky for us, and the rest of humanity, the beignets did come, and they were exactly the type of fried goodness that can cure hunger, centuries long conflicts, and even our hangovers, within a few bites. Soon, we were caffeinated and back on the street. After hovering briefly outside the window of a praline shop (They looked like what I imagined snowflakes in Candy Land would be), we made our way toward Jackson Park.

While in the park, we heard what sounded like a violin in the distance. I couldn’t be sure, because I never heard a violin sound like that before… except for maybe on the soundtrack for Last of the Mohicans. We walked with purpose toward the sound, hypnotized like Odysseus’s men to the sirens.

There was a couple in the square. They played their violins in unison, as we sat with others in stunned silence. A couple of us managed to pull our phones and record a portion of their performance.

The Sirens of New Orleans:

 

They worked their instruments effortlessly and in the sort of union that I hoped bled into other areas of their lives. I imagined them traveling carefree through a strange world, together. Making enough to comfortably live out each night. Only to wake and make music in some other park, the next morning. And so it would go, until they were old and world worn, and their violins, the same weathered ones they played in New Orleans all those years ago, followed them to their next gig.

And a longtime from now, they will be in New Orleans once more. And it will be the home that they hoped for. And their violins will sit on a dusty shelf, except for special occasions, or when the morning is just right, and then they will take them down and reminisce.

 

 

The Coffin Factory

Posted: September 8, 2015 in comedy, Halloween, horror, Nikola Jajic, Road Trip, Travel
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It was a coffin factory. I was in an honest to God, coffin factory.

I had made the call two days earlier. A shot in the dark, but one that I took every now and then. New business is often without aim. A target floating in the ether, waiting on that lucky bullseye.

I was tipped off to their general whereabouts from an old colleague of mine. The casket company appeared to be doing quite a bit of welding. And if you’re spot-welding, then you’re most likely using a lot of welding consumables. These parts are made from nonferrous metals, and need to be changed out often, due to the large amount of current, and heavy force, which this particular process of welding entails.

Brass tacks: Sooner or later you need new parts. We happen to make those parts. Buy them from us and we’ll love you forever.

I should have put one and two together. A casket company, is most likely making caskets. But the word casket sounds a little too much like gasket. And my mind glazed over the word lazily. I assumed it was automotive needs that I would once again be trying to fulfill.

The company was located in a rural area of Indiana. An area which most recently made headlines for the staggering amount of new HIV cases that were popping up in its various townships. Apparently, the numbers rivaled those of New York City. The only difference being there wasn’t nearly the resources, medical personnel, or awareness, that most major cities have. Long story short, the CDC were setting up shop.

Not that any of this had a bearing on my situation. I wasn’t planning on sharing needles or genitals anytime soon, but still, news of this sort always carries a bit of doom and gloom with it. The fact that I was driving through rural Indiana in the midst of a downpour didn’t help either. My eyesight isn’t the best, but I’ve staved off the opportunity to don hip eyewear for this long, and I tend to keep that going, at least until the DMV advises otherwise. Unfortunately, a downpour can be challenging for those of us not blessed with sniper-like peepers, especially when the street signs are mostly lying face down on random dirt roads.

Although, my frustration at the amount of attention needed for the simple task of driving quickly fizzled, as I stumbled upon one of the stranger sights I had seen in some time.

While stopped at a red light, an Amish couple turned and clopped down my street, riding on a horse-drawn carriage. This was my first encounter with the Amish, and their means of transportation (Not counting Kingpin), and I stared wide-eyed in fascination. My jaw hanging and the light changing, as I took it all in.

The rain was flying in at a 45 degree angle. The drops were  the size of mini-water balloons, coming in quicker than a Cuban little leaguer’s fastball. The Amish couple kept low, their hat and bonnet impossibly glued onto their soaking heads, as the gusting wind fought to rid them of their ancient accessories. The man handled the reigns capably, as his wife, or sister-wife, or whatever it is with the Amish, held the umbrella up and out like a makeshift windshield. The scene was equal parts human innovation and cultural stagnation.

The other party in this shit show was, until now, an unseen trucker. He laid on his horn from behind me, reminding anyone within earshot, that we all have somewhere else to be. Even the Amish.

Moments later, there I stood, soaking wet inside of a coffin factory. The Amish might’ve remembered their umbrella, but I did not.

The head of maintenance, I’ll call him Jimbo for this blog, greeted me with good ol’ boy charm.

“Gotdamn. It sure as hell is coming down out the there, eh?”

“Yeah it is.” I replied warily.

“Well, come on then, let me show you round.” Said Jimbo, as he spun and headed deeper into the factory.

I followed Jimbo through the maze like turns of the offices, until we finally spilled onto the shop floor, where I was promptly greeted by hundreds of open coffins.

The sight was a slap in the face from the bony hand of the Reaper himself. I let out a stunned stammer, trying not to let my mortal fears show. Jimbo turned and smiled brightly, reveling in my surprise.

“Lots a damn coffins, amirite? Shit, we build and ship em all over the gotdamn world. This is the house of a thousand soon to be corpses. Heh!”

I just nodded and smiled, as he went on. Jimbo really loved his job.

“Imagine if this place flooded, eh? Whole damn county would be screaming and running for their lives. Floating coffins everywhere!”

Jimbo chuckled hard at his imagery, and I couldn’t help but let out a snort and laugh as well. I believe it’s known as gallows humor, and it does the trick in a pinch.

Soon, we strolled around the shop, as Jimbo showed me the manufacturing process of coffins. All the while, the coffins traveled back and forth, over our heads, and all around us, on various conveyor belts, like a conga line from hell.

Jimbo showed off the really custom ones, which, according to Jimbo, went for upwards of fifty thousand dollars. The big man shook his head when he dropped that number. He looked like a man who wished he had some chew to spit at that moment, but settled for just shaking his head again.

“Can you believe that?! Fifty grand! Hell, if it was me, I’d take that fifty grand and throw a party instead. Dancing girls, my man!”

“A lot of money.” I said, as I nodded in agreement.

I found myself morphing into an extra from King of the Hill. A yes man of sorts. Agreeable to the end. “Yup, what you said, Jimbo.” Or “Damn right, Jimbo.” It was an easy transition to make, Jimbo had ideas enough for the both of us.

And there was no doubt that Jimbo had thought out this scenario, and probably most scenarios that had anything to do with the funeral trade.

Unfortunately, our meeting ended abruptly, when Jimbo was pulled away on an urgent matter. A matter that would presumably result in an angry conference call with one unhappy deity or another, and thus perhaps resulting in a bold move toward cremation.

And Jimbo would let out a frustrated sigh and exclaim “That’s the gotdamn death business for ya.”

I drove back to my office under a sun-filled sky, with clouds like cotton balls. I hoped to steal another glance at the Amish, who undoubtedly made their own coffins, but it was not to be. Instead, I settled for a guy with a funny mustache, at the first Starbucks I could find.

Close enough, I thought.

A Road Trip to Stratford, Ontario.

Posted: September 4, 2015 in Nikola Jajic, Ontario, Road Trip, Shakespeare, Stratford, Travel
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Stratford, Ontario. 2012

On the long and desolate drive, I kept myself occupied with a book on tape, or a cd in this case. I hadn’t discovered audible yet, and podcasts still weren’t a thing. The book was No One Belongs Here More Than You. A collection of short stories by Miranda July.

They were odd and strangely beautiful, but these stories were the type of reading better suited for warmer months. And they proved all the more heartbreaking, when listening to July’s tender voice, as she read them aloud, on a very cold, and very lonely stretch of highway.

This trip would prove to be the first of my driving-while-cry-vacuuming spells. An affliction where the afflicted, has too much time on their hands, and listens to, or thinks of, something that leads to an emotional swell. While also moving at a very rapid rate of speed, in a large, and potentially deadly, motor vehicle. Cry-vacuuming is the process in which the vacuumee fights off the sudden threat of tears, with a complex maneuver that bears a striking resemblance to an allergy attack in reverse.

It’s an inner-battle that is difficult to describe, but one that most of us have had to contend with at one time or another. The trick is to think of your face as an emotional vacuum cleaner. Turn it on, and suck up your tears and snot, leaving the weight of those emotions in the vacuum bag of your gut. This will most likely kill you over an abbreviated lifetime. But hey, at least you’re not crying like a baby, on the side of the road.

In company, I’m mostly a conversationalist. A pop-culture fueled blabber-mouth, who might resemble an extra from a Judd Apatow film. Although, when planted in the solitary confines of my car, for an extended period of time, moodiness will have its way.

I debated whether or not to pull over as I cry-vacuumed the tears from my blurry eyes. Deep breaths, calm shall conquer all. It was her words, or more likely her voice, that caught me at a moment of weakness. My eyes continued to well, and I was already too far gone.

I thought of my wife, as she gave birth to our first son, Aleks. There were slight complications, and an emergency caesarian was called for. Maria, drugged and beautiful, whispering to me. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Over and over again. Why I replayed that scene is beyond me. But in those moments, when true art delivers a swift kick in the pants, we can’t help but recall something from the past. Something that might be beautiful and terrible and real. It’s a fucked up game of tag we sometimes play with art.

After a few hours in the car, I become susceptible to either laughter or tears. This is dependent on a few factors: What I’m listening to, what I’m daydreaming about, the weather, human contact, and what I’ve eaten that day.

On this day, there was a slow, constant rainfall. It pattered rhythmically onto the windshield. Earlier, doing my finest imitation of a Burmese Python, I swallowed a quarter-pounder with cheese, somewhere in Northern Michigan. I was now in a different country, and the roaming charges alone, were reason enough not to call anyone. And for some reason, I was thinking about a scary blip in an otherwise pretty okay life. And the damn rain would not let up.

The dependent factors had given word from on high: My battery was in need of charging, and in all likelihood, this was going to be a miserable day.

I pulled over on the side of the road, and paused the book. I quietly cursed Miranda July. I cursed her voice, and her words. She needed to get out of my head. I quickly ejected the cd, and threw it in the back seat. I lit a cigarette and put in another cd, one featuring a bunch of songs I burned for just such an occasion (The road trip, not the cry-vacuuming).

I was back on the road, and it was time to rock out. After a while, I honed in on Shelter from the Storm. Dylan’s bleating vocals and lyrics boring their way into my subconscious. It was on repeat for the rest of the drive. He was a traveler too. And his storm was biblical in its telling. I tried to memorize each word as I sang along through multiple cigarettes and cold coffee.

I imagined myself singing it un-ironically during karaoke at a bar. Perhaps with my wife, and a few of our friends. Maybe a girl or two from the past, were there as well. How would the scene play out? I was no longer some drunken day player at a karaoke bar. Go big or go home. This was my fantasy after all.

His lyrics, now mine. As I sang along to the song in my tone-deaf way. I was Dylan, and I sang a song about a foreign land, and my own crown of thorns. Perhaps a crush from a lifetime ago was watching intently, the passion of the moment taking her, as she realized much too late, that we had something special there, for a second.

My wife and I locking eyes, and knowing in that split second, that there was more to it all. That the adventure was just beginning. And of course, there were the assholes from different eras of my life. As they looked away sheepishly, ashamed at how they did me wrong. Soon though, like most juvenile fantasies, mine lost its imaginary steam. And the daydream sputtered out, without so much as a whimper or a croon.

After a time, I found my way to Stratford. I navigated the town and ended up at a small hotel known as the Queen’s Inn.

Upon check in, I walked through the Boar’s Head pub, situated on the first floor. I noticed it packed with locals, working their way through what I assumed were after-work drinks. I passed on a drink of my own, and headed directly for my room. I threw down my bag and lay on the bed. After a few minutes of staring at nothing, I jumped with a start. My body’s self-preservation mechanism had kicked in. Something was not right. I scanned the room.

There were way too many fucking doors. The room had four separate doors. There was the front door, which I walked in from. Two doors on the wall in front of me, and a fourth door to the small bathroom on my right. After thinking it over, it did make sense. One of the other doors was for the closet, and the other, a connector for the rooms. Still, it seemed like way too many doors for one room. Usually, there’s a turn or even a second room, which splits up the amount of doors from the hotel patron’s view.

This was unsettling. I stood, and moved to open the closet door, and then thought better of it. I imagined a black hole. Ready and waiting to swallow me up into the abyss. Or maybe a tiger. I wasn’t sure which would be worse. I needed to walk.

Stratford was a bit different, even for Canada. I hadn’t researched much about the city before I arrived. The fact being, I was there for a work-related meeting. So, I was taken aback when I noticed how many restaurants and theaters were condensed into such a small town. It was considerable overkill for a population of perhaps 30,000. I stopped to read some of the signs and posters around town.

There was quite a bit about Shakespeare. Again, it seemed like too much culture for a town of this size. And I was fairly certain the bard never got out this way. So, I didn’t think it had anything to do with historical sites on his behalf. It was all very curious. This was a case that needed solving. One that would require my finest deductive skills in doing so. Plainly put, I would have to ask someone what in the hell was going on.

The city itself had more of a European feel, architecturally, than a lot of what I had already seen of Ontario. It felt as if the town was transplanted from Switzerland, or perhaps Belgium. I had never been to either Switzerland or Belgium, but both of those countries seemed right to me for some reason.

I ate dinner at a small restaurant. I took my meal at the bar. It’s not as sad when you’re eating alone at the bar. A person, by themselves at a table, always looks as if they were just stood up on that first date, but they’re going to finish their meal anyhow. The stubborn sort, which may explain why they were stood up in the first place.

The bartender was good for a bit of company. Although, the TV news was going on about election coverage. And all he seemed to want to do was snort in disgust at anything one of the TV pundits uttered. I couldn’t blame him however, pundits have a knack for bringing out the inner-snorter in any moderate individual.

It was 2012, and Obama was owning Romney in the polls. I guess I was pleased by this. The bartender, knowing I was American, wanted a partner in his political discourse. I am not a fan of politics, nor snorting, and even less a fan of political discussions with strangers. This topic of discussion always seems to begin with that strange feeling out process. Is he one of ours? And this was further complicated by an international context, even if in this scenario, the countries were bordering one another.

Soon though, we both commiserated over the fact that neither of us liked Romney all that much. Albeit, this wasn’t a difficult common ground to find. Unfortunately, I could tell, in that salesman-y way of mine, that the politics flowed passionately in my bartender. I tried to divert our path, but it was not the success I had hoped for, and I left soon after. I made sure to over-tip, and hoped this would lighten his thoughts on folks south of his border.

It had begun to snow, on my way back to the hotel. Big flakes, dancing slow and gracefully down onto the street. There was no wind, and it was quiet, almost silent outside. A nice night for a walk, and a pleasant town to do so in. And I had it all to myself, for a time.

I stopped downstairs at the Boar’s Head for a drink. I bellied up to the bar, and had a nice conversation with a grizzled older fellow. He cared less about politics, and imposing his will on the world, and more about passing a cold night with warm conversation. He told me of the town, and the famous Bieber kid, who came from it. A twinge of pride evident, even in his ribbing of the beebs.

He answered my questions on Shakespeare’s strange influence, here. And he told me about the Shakespeare festival, and of the tourists from around the world, that would flock to it. I made a mental note of going to see more plays in general. The only one I had actually seen in person, not counting Blue Man Group, or carnivals, was a version of True West performed by a cast of college theater kids at Lewis University. A friend of a friend performed in it, and while it was entertaining enough, It left me underwhelmed.

Piece by piece, the puzzle that was Stratford came together. Its doors opening, each one revealing a bit more of its history and its people. Or what a traveling salesman from Chicagoland could put together of it, in the brevity of a single night. Still, the city had stories to tell, Shakespearian and otherwise.

I finished my drink and went outside for one last cigarette, before calling it a night. A night that found a second wind and its third act.

I watched, as across the street, a man and woman stood by their parked cars, hoods popped, speaking to one another as the snow fell. Jumper cables connected their cars, and batteries were being charged.

 

 

Tooth & Nail Thursday: BATMAN vs. SUPERMAN

Posted: July 23, 2015 in Batman, Batman vs. Superman, comedy, Comic Strip, Nikola Jajic, Parody, Superman, webcomic
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I recently figured out what TBT stands for. So, I thought I should jump in the time machine and share an old T&N comic strip of ours, especially since it features a scene from the upcoming BATMAN VS. SUPERMAN movie:

 

1 Night in Venice

Posted: July 15, 2015 in Italy, Nikola Jajic, Travel, Vacation, Venice
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Florence was in our rear view, and Venice would prove to be the final stop in our journey through Italy. But first, there was Santa Maria Novella railway station to contend with.

Maria and I waited patiently in line at the ticket kiosk. Ahead of us, occupying one of the perplexing contraptions, was a young Asian couple, who were having a rough go of it. Behind them, and directly ahead of us, was a very short, very impatient, and very flamboyant Italian gentleman.

He let out an exaggerated sigh, and irritably shook his head at the couple’s failed attempts to purchase tickets. A moment later, he snorted loudly, further rattling the already anxious couple. Maria and I exchanged glances. This guy was an asshole.

A ticket machine next to the couple opened up, and the man claimed it like a caffeinated Napoleon. But instead of going about his own button mashing, the man decided he would first explain to the couple his unwritten rules of the Italian railway system.

He gestured wildly, and raised his voice, intimidating the young couple. He then went on a prolonged rant about letting people who knew what they’re doing, cut in front of you and purchase their tickets first.

This was absurd on a couple of different levels:

A: The man’s grasp of the English language was lacking. “You no know how! Me go! You wait!”

B: He obviously didn’t know that schoolyard rules clearly state: No cuts, no buts, no coconuts.

C: Read the next paragraph.

The man continued his diatribe, while simultaneously trying to procure his own ticket. His tirade came to an abrupt conclusion, when the man realized he was at a ticket kiosk that didn’t accept cash. He punched buttons, and muttered something in Italian, which was most likely “Shit. I look like such a fucking tool, right now.”

The couple finally figured it out. They grabbed their tickets, and shot a satisfied glance at the man, who was still not hip to the fact that he was now holding everyone up. The line behind the man grew, and soon he left his machine, and took a sad journey to the end of the line. There he waited for another ticket kiosk to open up. One that accepted cash. It was comeuppance on a cosmic level.

On the train ride to Venice, Maria flexed her photography muscles, and snapped what might’ve been the best photo of our entire trip, or at the very least, the most impressive.

Quick math problem: A train is traveling at 190 mph (which, according to my math, is roughly 8,000,000 km/h). A man is riding his bicycle in the opposite direction of the train. He is traveling at 14 mph. How much time do you have to snap a decent photo of the cyclist? Answer: Fuck if I know. I’m terrible at math.

Behold:

"No hands. No shirt. All man."

“No hands. No shirt. All man.”

 

1 NIGHT:

Actually, it was about 3 p.m. when we arrived at St. Lucia station in Venice… but 1 Night sounds much sexier. Anyhow, Maria and I waited in line for the vaporreto boat to take us to the hotel. For those who may not know, you won’t be getting to, or from Venice, any other way. And me with no boat shoes.

The city was beautiful, and completely different than any other place I had been to. I recalled the first time I heard about Venice. My father telling me about a trip there with his soccer team, in the early seventies. Back then, he was just a poor athlete in a strange city. He said it was a maze, and there weren’t any roads, just rivers everywhere, and it smelled bad.

He probably told me more about Venice, but I was ten or eleven, and an attention span wasn’t my strong suit. We arrived at the hotel, and Maria was quite pleased. I went the extra mile on this one (basically, I spent an extra hundred bucks).

Soon, we were out the door and exploring a new city. Unfortunately, our earlier explorations (i.e. all the damn walking), had taken its toll on our feet. My favorite pair of boots were starting to fall apart, and my bloody blisters were almost too many to count (more than three). Maria, going the flip flop route, was not in as dire straits, but her feet had also seen better days. Unless you’re some horny foot fetishist, and in that case, you should know I won’t be sharing any of those photos.

Regardless, we would not be deterred from what could prove to be our only opportunity to visit Venice. I hadn’t read up on the city as much as I would’ve liked. I was planning to read “City of Fortune: How Venice ruled the Seas” by Roger Crowley, but only had time to skim. Books on Rome and Florence had taken up too much of my free time. I was a cliffs notes version of myself. So it goes.

I knew the basics: Piazza San Marco, Rialto Bridge, Doge’s Palace, and lots of shopping.

Considering, I got us lost on multiple occasions in both Rome and Florence, and the fact that Venice was like the Bermuda Triangle meets the Labyrinth, I quickly realized that a map was needed. Within five minutes of walking, even with frequent glances at the damn map, we were still lost.

At this point in our journey, I recall glancing up from the map at Maria, and noticing a very specific look on her face. One that said: “Look at this dope. He thinks he’s Indiana Jones, because he’s wearing cargo pants and has a map. Jeez, what have I gotten myself into?” Still, I managed to get us to a small café. One that served cold beer. So now, my plan was to get her drunk, and even the playing field a bit.

After that, we felt our way to Piazza San Marco. It’s rather easy to feel your way through the streets of Venice, as long as you’re able to shake off the claustrophobia. Exhibit A:

The walls are closing in, maaaan!

The walls are closing in, maaaan!

Once in the square, a common occurrence took place. Our jaws dropped, and we spun in very slow circles. We took in the majesty of another historical kingdom. The piazza hummed with activity, as the church and palaces towered over us from every angle. We toured the square in our slow, meandering way. The selfie-stick men tried their best sales techniques, but their tricks were old hat to us. We didn’t have the time required to visit each of the sites, but Maria snapped away, as we went.

After a couple of hours exploring the area, we decided that Rialto Bridge was next on the list. Now, all we’d have to do is get there. Lucky for us, various signs pointed out the right direction. I still managed to momentarily get us lost. That is to say, until we came to the realization that the hundreds of stores that seem to line every street, would sooner or later deposit you onto the bridge, especially if you were trying to avoid spending money in any of them. Of course, we stopped occasionally to finish our souvenir purchases. Local Murano glass was a popular, and at times, affordable choice.

Once at the bridge, we looked around and nodded agreeably. The sight was now seen.  It wasn’t that we were underwhelmed by it, but after finding yourself on a bridge, where the sun and moon are simultaneously setting and rising on either side of it (See my earlier blog: 3 Days in Florence), you become a little spoiled. And sometimes, a bridge is just a bridge. That said, the area north of the bridge (I think it was north, I wasn’t exactly a compass on this trip), was a very fun spot to grab a drink and hang out amongst the locals.

We sat on a canal bank and watched as the gondolas and vaporretos drove past. We listened as gondoliers serenaded their passengers. And all the while, the buildings across the canal stood defiantly, with their ancient facades and unknown tales.

Soon, being the lush that I am, I noticed a contingent of twenty-something bohemians lounging near us, sipping their beers and bellinis. I politely asked one of them, where two weary travelers might procure such fine refreshments. They pleasantly pointed me toward a booze stand in the old square near us. And so began, the sitting on the dock of the bay phase of our Venetian evening.

An alternative to the gondola ride.

An alternative to the gondola ride.

During our stint drinking at the edge of the canal, we noticed a young woman speed up next to us in her boat. She expertly parked it against the canal wall. Quickly tying it down, grabbing her gear, and jumping off, like a Venetian Navy Seal.

The only proper way to describe her is as follows:

If Lisbeth Salander from The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo was an actual person, living out a new and dangerous adventure in Venice, she would be this girl.  And when our Canal Racer wasn’t bringing social justice to crooked Northern European assholes, she liked to spend her afternoons buzzing around an ancient city in her trusty old boat. Yep, that starts to do this woman justice.

Our heroine in action:

New Millennium book: Girl who drives boats really fast, while being badass in Venice

Anyhow, back to the story. After our drinks at the canal, we decided to find a decent meal. The hotel suggested a couple of different spots, and after a few wrong turns, we found one of them. It was good, expensive, and very touristy. But this late in the game, we were fine with touristy. After all, who were we to deny our nature.

Our voyage home loomed over us, but we were both excited at the prospect of being with our kids, in our own home.

The next morning, we would need to be at our vaporreto stop by 6 a.m. From there, we would take the water bus to the airport, then a flight to Zurich, a quick train to the other side of that infernal airport, and another flight to Chicago.

As the reality of these travel plans sunk in, we thought it best to take the long walk back to our fancy hotel, and have a good soak (The tub in our room was impressive), and then we would finally call it a night.

Venice was a unique city. It had a certain mystery to it. The city’s narrow walkways in lieu of streets, the absence of any automobiles, and the maze-like structure of it, were just some of the intricacies that separated Venice from other cities I had been to.

When I think of science fiction novels, and the strange lands that are dreamt up in those pages, I’ll think of Venice. An alien city. And I write that with the loving naiveté of a tourist eager to return.

Perhaps, it was by circumstance. Venice was built where it was built, no choice in the matter now. And perhaps, in a world of similarities and replicas, the fact that a city like Venice still exists, is the main reason it stands out. A city that defies the rising of the sea. A city, where the fragility of man’s design dances dangerously close to nature’s wrath. Where land and water merge in the most delicate of ways.

And where, at least for a little while longer, travelers will have the good fortune of finding themselves, even when they appear lost.

 

I hope you’ve enjoyed my long-winded account of our time in Europe. Thanks for reading. -Nik

3 Days in Florence

Posted: July 12, 2015 in Florence, Italy, Nikola Jajic, Renaissance, Travel, Vacation
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Our brief reprieve from travel had expired, and our time in Rome was at an end. Florence lay ahead. Preferring a train ride through Tuscany over a flight anywhere, we would need to navigate Rome’s Termini station in order to find our passage there.

The train station was abuzz with travelers, refugees, and vagabonds (Not sure on the latter two, but it reads cool, eh?). The initial chaos of the train station caught us off guard. I spent my first few minutes at Termini, slowly spinning in place. It was a desperate attempt to collect my bearings, while also locating the spot where a couple of newbies could purchase train tickets. Of course, we had spent the last three nights drinking and eating too much, so I quickly stopped with the spinning.

Soon, Maria was pointing us in the right direction. I broke away from the random sign I was trying to translate (I think it said something about paninis) and followed her to the kiosk, where we were able to secure our tickets.

The train ride was picturesque, and I couldn’t help thinking about the possibilities of a train that could go all the way to Chicago from Italy. Maria mentioned something about science and the many other impracticalities of my new universal train theory, but I was fairly certain someone would figure all that out. When the idea started to seem a tad naïve, even to me, I mumbled something about Elon Musk, and left it at that.

DAY 1:

We arrived, and checked into our hotel on a Monday afternoon. Most of the major museums we were planning to visit (The Uffizi and Accademia) were closed. We hit the streets, with an improvised agenda. A few blocks later, and we were strolling through the Palazzo Vecchio. Maria, the better photographer, snapped away as I followed along. Soon, we were outside the Palazzo, admiring the sculptures. Perseus, holding Medusa’s severed head, stuck out. Mainly, because it was quite badass.

I had read about the Firenze Card, and wanted to buy them, so we could pass the ticket-buying lines on our subsequent days there. The cards were over 70 euros each, and while they allowed admittance into most of the museums, my frugal nature won out, coming to the conclusion that lines weren’t all that bad.

The scooters raced down streets, as we walked the city (and eventually got lost). We watched as college students flirted. At one point, we stumbled into what appeared to be an amateur video shoot. One college-aged tourist, took a video of her friend, as she strutted down a street confidently, tossing her hair dramatically from side to side. Her lack of irony made me cringe. She was living out her own imaginary cover shoot. We went on our way, giggling about college kids in general.

We followed the crowds to the Duomo, and were stunned at the grandeur of it. We stared at the baptistery doors for a long while, trying to make out each panel. Afterward, we just walked in circles around the square that the Duomo lies in.

Later, we walked the Ponte Vecchio Bridge. I held my wallet close, as we window shopped at the gold and silver shops that line either side of the bridge. After browsing a bit, Maria lost interest, and I breathed a sigh of relief. We ended up at a more affordable market of silks, purses, and other touristy knick-knacks.

The bronze boar was in this market. And as the legend goes, if you feed it a coin and rub its snout, you will return to Florence, one day. I remembered our near miss at the Trevi Fountain, a couple of days earlier, and realized that our adherence to the ‘Do over’ rule had paid off.

Hey pretty lady, I'm your little pig.

Hey pretty lady, I’m your little pig.

Maria rubbed the snout, gave it a coin, and even a peck on the cheek for good measure. The fates had seen to it, and our cup overfloweth with good vibes.

 DAY 2:

There was a lot of Renaissancing to do and little time to do it. We were out the door early. First stop was the Uffizi. With no Firenze cards, we bought reservations, grabbed a cappuccino, and headed back at our scheduled visiting time, an hour later. As with Rome, our phones were abundant with Rick Steves audio tours, including the Uffizi. We strolled through the museum and listened to the guide’s interpretation of the legendary paintings and sculptures that stood only a few feet away from us. Soon however, the audio tour and the museum took different paths. Apparently, a lot of what was in the tour had been moved around inside of the museum. So, we went it alone, silencing Rick Steves and depositing him back into our pockets.

There were many standouts in the museum, the birth of Renaissance paintings, Botticelli, Michelangelo, Da Vinci, etc. But Caravaggio, who always gave me the creeps, didn’t fail to do the job again in the Uffizi. That guy really had a penchant for painting rape and murder. Maria was not his biggest fan, though I knew that the technical brilliance and life-like quality of his paintings amazed her just as much as the rest of us.

Knowing that Caravaggio creeped her out, and being the obnoxious twelve year-old that I am, I soon developed a devious Caravaggio impression (Think Roberto Benigni meets a pervy Hannibal Lecter). My Caravaggio was half-Christian, half-sadist. He spoke passionately about his hobbies and interests with Maria. She didn’t like him very much, or at least not my impression of him, but it came naturally, and I had trouble parting with it.

Carvaggio's famous shield: Medusa with morning breath

Caravaggio’s famous shield: Medusa with morning breath

After hours of walking the museum, we adhered to our siesta rule. We were on the streets once more in the late afternoon. We ran into a dozen or so Hare Krishna’s. I hadn’t seen this many Hare Krishna’s since that Airplane movie. They played instruments, sang catchy songs, and danced through the streets. They were very happy. They also had some sort of portable sound system, and soon the street vendors, shop keepers, locals, and tourists alike, were all taking in the show. The songs were fun and catchy, but the lyrics were mostly just the words “Hare Krishna”.

Full disclosure: Neither Maria or I knew exactly what a Hare Krishna was. They kept it funny and breezy though, so they got points for that.

That night we shared a giant plate of Bistecca Florentina at a small restaurant in St. Croce square. Maria overheard the couple behind us talking about how large the entrée was. As is in my nature, I made a dick joke.

The meal was amazing. Rustic Tuscan food at it’s finest. Let it be known: If someone was to say that they saw me in the square on that night, and I was stuffing my face, with tears of fat-kid joy streaming down my cheeks, I would not dispute it.

After dinner, we walked through another area of the city. We sat and enjoyed a bottle of wine in a piazza off the beaten path. We listened to locals, as they had boisterous conversations all around us. A Transgender woman sat with friends and enjoyed the night, even as she shooed away a disheveled homeless man who wouldn’t leave her alone. Two dogs began to ferociously fight in front of a church near us. Their owners finally breaking it up, as everyone, including the disheveled homeless man, stopped to watch. Seconds later, the crowd was back to their night, as were we.

DAY 3:

The Reanaissancing was still upon us, and we, the humble travelers, would heed its call. The day started out with the Gallileo Museum, a cool little spot near the Uffizi. The most interesting artifact, in my morbid opinion, was Galileo’s middle finger, which was encased in glass, and according to a certain guide book, eternally flipping off creationists everywhere. It was a pretty long finger… uh, just sayin.

Later, we visited the Bargello, a museum inside of a medieval castle, which is the home to amazing sculptures by Donatello and Michelangelo. Here, the ghost of Bistecca Florentina from the night before, decided to remind me that it still possessed a certain part of my body. I turned and faced walls, lifting a leg subtly, and then hurrying away like a spy after a hand-off. I disappeared into the distance from time to time, and reappeared next to Maria seconds later, while others sniffed at the air and shook their heads in disgust. Maria occasionally took deep breaths, holding them like an expert diver, as I left my scent with the castle’s history.

After that, another siesta. These were quickly proving to be one of my favorite parts of the day. In the late afternoon, we went to see David at Accademia. I was a little worried about this, of course I wanted to see it, but I wondered how different this sculpture would be from the imitation that sits in front of Palazzo Vecchio. Would it disappoint? I wasn’t going to lie to myself if it did, I knew that much.

It did not disappoint. The sculpture did what I heard and read it would. It inspired awe. We had seen many scultptures of David, by other talented masters of the craft, but there was something different about this one. It seemed to have the final say on sculptures, hell, maybe even on Renaisance art. It was a high point, for two random people, who are not art experts, and aren’t all that religious either.

That evening we had dinner in the Oltrarno neighborhood, on the other side of the Arno River. While walking back over the bridge toward our hotel, we realized the sun was setting on one side of it, and the moon was rising on the other side of it. There was a metaphor at play in that moment. One which I still can’t grasp. We sat on that bridge for a while, and watched as the sun set and the moon rose.

My lanky arms double as selfie-sticks in a pinch.

My lanky arms double as selfie-sticks in a pinch.

Michelangelo’s David, like much of the art we saw in the last two days, was transcendent in a way I couldn’t fully articulate or understand. We stared up at them, these paintings and sculptures that shaped a world. Each of them leaving us quiet and reverential. Even my well-practiced Caravaggio impression took a backseat.

I’m vividly reminded of a book I read, as I write this. “The Goldfinch” by Donna Tart. Actually, I’m reminded of a passage from it that struck me as especially poignant. I was thinking about this passage while we were leaving Florence:

“And I add my own love to the history of people who have loved beautiful things. And looked out for them. And pulled them from the fire. And sought them when they were lost. And tried to preserve them. And save them.

While passing them along from hand to hand. Singing out brilliantly from the wreck of time, to the next generation of lovers… and the next”

Our experience there felt like that.

The art and history of Florence swirled in our heads. And the most important thing I can remember isn’t any of those details. It’s that we were standing there, in the soul of that city, a city that once inspired the world, and we were in its presence, taking it all in, together.

 

Continued later this week in: 1 Day in Venice

 

 

3 Days in Rome

Posted: July 7, 2015 in Italy, Nikola Jajic, Rome, Travel, Vacation
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After a delayed flight in Belgrade, another brief stop in Zurich, and a frantic gallop to our gate, we were safely on our way to Rome. Or as safe as you can be, when you’re 30,000ft in the air and have seen way too many disaster movies.

We had only brought carry-on luggage for our trip, thinking this would save us a maddening wait at the baggage claim, but Swiss Air had other plans, unpleasant ones. Being the quasi-robot people that they are, the Swiss attendants determined our baggage to be a centimeter or two oversized. Alas, we spent our first hour in Rome at the mercy of FCO’s baggage claim.

Still, after months of waiting and daydreaming, we were finally in it. Surrounded by the Eternal City. Just two people among the masses. The ghosts of an empire haunting our every turn.

There’s a saying: Everything that is old becomes new again. And this was indeed the case when we arrived in Rome’s Centro Storico area.

DAY 1:

The history books, the travel guides, the restaurant and neighborhood suggestions, all of it, or at least the snippets that we somehow managed to retain, swirled in our collective heads, as we dumped our bags and headed out into the night.

Maria and I had decided on the flight over, that our first day, albeit an abbreviated one, would begin with a stop at the Pantheon. Then it would be dinner near Piazza Navona, and a long walk through the city, afterward. Of course, there would also be occasional stops for wine, when we needed to cool our heels and maintain our buzz.

Our hotel was a couple of blocks from the Pantheon, and when we stumbled upon it, our jaws dropped. It was a juggernaut. Standing ancient and proud on one end of the piazza. It dwarfed the tourist cafes that surrounded it. We stared up at the ancient temple for a time, taking it in, as street vendors tried in vain to sell us selfie sticks and glowy thingys (more on that later).

I was fairly opposed to spending money at the touristy cafes, wanting to opt for more authentic Roman trattorias, but an opportunity to sit and enjoy a drink while the Pantheon loomed over us, was too tempting an offer to pass up.

Next up, was dinner at a small hole-in-the-wall pasta shop near Piazza Navona. We had a carbonara dish, and it was everything we were told it would be. The piazza was electric with tourists, locals, and a fairly perverted clown. We people watched, while also dodging the selfie-stick guy’s advances (he’ll get his, just wait).

Soon, we were strolling down ancient streets, stopping here and there for a drink, and that’s when it happened, nature called, and I was its captive audience. The thing about Rome is the public toilet situation is less than ideal. I had read about this in one of the travel guides, but paid it no mind… until now. It took a few euros, two drinks, and a seat at a busy trattoria, but I found the washroom, seconds before impact. This is what I was faced with:

Et tu, toilette?

Yep, no toilet seat. Like most of the public restrooms we encountered, something was always off. There might be a seat, but there was no sink, there might be a toilet and a sink, but you wouldn’t be wiping with paper in that one.

It was as if the public restrooms were a staging point for some strange experiment on bodily functions in foreign environments. And we were their unknowing test subjects. Still, this was a small issue, and from then on, I meticulously timed my body’s more disgusting operating systems.

All in all, our first night in Rome exceeded even our lofty expectations.

DAY 2:

Our day was planned. Cappuccinos to start, and the rest of the morning would be spent exploring the Colosseum and the Roman Forum. I purchased Roma passes from one of the kiosks along the way. This was paramount in evading the longer ticket buying lines, but we still had to evade multiple selfie stick guys (Just wait).

I had downloaded the Rick Steves audio tour for each ancient attraction. We ear budded up and explored the ancient empire. And while the audio tours were a tad cheesy, they were also informative and added to our overall experience.

The weather was quickly climbing toward a balmy ninety degrees, but regardless of the heat, both the Colosseum and the Forum were sights to behold. Even Indiana Jones must’ve been clapping like Gilbert Grape the first time he toured these ruins.

The Forum be like: “I’m gonna photo bomb these suckers.”

During our sweaty walk back to the hotel, we hydrated at various street fountains, and ate what was possibly the best pizza of our lives… and we’re from Chicago.

Upon reaching our room, soaked, pizza stuffed, and exhausted, we decided to follow a typical Roman schedule. A siesta was in order. Napping is not something I do frequently, but I took to it like Caesar to knives (Too soon?).

After a brief recharge, we wandered the streets of Rome once more. When our legs and stomachs couldn’t go any further, we stopped in for a bite at a trattoria in Campo de’ Fiori . Later that night, Maria and I planned to stop in at the Trevi Fountain, and toss a coin for our guaranteed return. Unfortunately, the fountain was closed for repairs.

I couldn’t help thinking this might prove an unfortunate omen for a return trip to Rome. I quickly pushed the thought away, deciding instead that a busted fountain counts as a ‘do over’ in our favor. When in doubt, revert to schoolyard tactics.

DAY 3:

We began our day, like all of our subsequent days in Italy, with delicious cappuccinos. We channeled our inner Fellini, as we sipped the morning away. Once the caffeine took hold, we walked to the Spanish Steps. There we realized, that in Rome, like most major cities, very rich people enjoy shopping for very expensive things.

We walked up the steps, and enjoyed the view. Soon, a flower salesman of the highest order (this guy could bring timeshares back) was congratulating me on marrying such a beautiful woman.

He then tried on multiple occasions to sell me a rose for her. When he realized I wasn’t going to fall for his advanced sales techniques, he offered Maria a rose at no charge. This guy was good, I thought.

She accepted and I cringed. He had won this battle.

Moments later, he was taking our picture, as Maria held a dozen of his roses. All in all, I was down a couple euros, and Maria was stuck carrying a couple of roses for the rest of the day. Hey, at least it wasn’t selfie stick.

That's the smile of a beaten man.

That’s the smile of a beaten man.

After a pasta lunch, and a siesta, we were back at the Pantheon. Ready to enter it, and take another audio tour. On the way in, the selfie stick man once again blocked my path.

This time however, I didn’t need to brush him off, or perform a well-practiced sidestep. A guard, noticing that the selfie stick man was selling too close to the Pantheon, clapped him on the neck, and tugged him away by his shirt, shoving him further off into the piazza. All the while, he hissed Italian curses in the selfie stick man’s direction. S.S.M (At this point an abbreviation is in order) hurried off, clutching his selfie sticks like a 20 year old girl with too many Instagram followers.

Normally, I wouldn’t want to see a struggling street vendor get treated like that, but there’s something about selfie sticks that brings out the worst in me. I turned and smiled gloriously at Maria. She shook her head disapprovingly, and we went on our way.

Later that night, we strolled over the Tiber River to Trastevere, in search of a local Roman scene. I refused to check the map, two days in Rome and I had it all figured out.

We got lost. Or at least that was Maria’s version.

Two older ladies, who spoke no English, helped me with directions.

We got lost again.

One of the things that we came to understand about Rome that night, was that you always end up somewhere interesting, and you’re guaranteed a small adventure along the way. It wasn’t so much about getting lost as it was about discovering something new. That’s my version, anyhow.

Continued next week in 3 Days in Florence

 

2 Days in Serbia

Posted: July 5, 2015 in Nikola Jajic, Serbia, Travel, Vacation
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Maria and I have always wanted to travel to Europe together, and the stars finally aligned this year on our tenth anniversary. So, we began planning a trip through Italy (Rome, Florence, and Venice). This mostly required a bit of clever budgeting, timing the trip with my Mom (our very free, and very awesome babysitter), brushing up on our history (both antiquity and the renaissance), and an overdose on Rick Steves travel books.

But first, if we were going to cross the pond, we would need to plan a stop in Serbia to visit my relatives.

I had been to Serbia several times in the past, but it had been fourteen years since I last visited. Before that, I had been there in 1995. Both visits were after different wars in the Balkans, and all of our time in Europe during those visits was spent with our family, refugees of the Bosnian war, now living in a village named Stepanovic.

This time however, my wife would be with me, and we would only be staying for two days.

Day 1:

We flew into Zurich, and then caught a connecting flight to Belgrade. My Dad, who was visiting there as well, and Baja, a bear of a man, with an impressive mustache and a fun loving spirit, were both waiting for us at the airport.

Stepanovic is about ninety miles north of Belgrade. The village is close to the city of Novi Sad, known outside of the region mostly for the Exit Festival. One of the largest music fests in Europe. We were greeted in Stepanovic with a table full of food and drinks, as my grandmother and great aunts and uncles smothered us with hugs and kisses. It was as warm and true a reunion as I could have hoped.

We immediately began our night of catching up, drinking, and stuffing ourselves. Admittedly, my Serbian is a little rusty (I sound like a Balkan Yoda), but I did my best to translate for Maria, as multiple conversations erupted around us.

At one point, Deda Nikola, my great uncle and namesake, surprised at how much my Serbian had deteriorated, decided to let me know what I now sounded like.

His impersonation went like this:

He scrunched his grizzled, and mostly toothless face, and said “Waaa waaa waaa waaa.” And then he pointed and laughed at me. His impression was spot on.

Nikolas

Me and the Serbian Frank Caliendo.

A few Slivovic shots later, and I remembered an old joke about a man on the side of the road. In my slurry Serbian, I attempted to tell it. I’m not one to embellish, but this was a Herculean effort.

The old joke:

A man, sits next to his goat on the side of the road. He is approached by another man, who is driving a scooter. The driver asks the man with the goat for the time. The man, still sitting next to his goat, lifts its testicles and says 10:30. The driver thanks him and leaves.

A few moments later, the driver pulls back up to the man with the goat, and asks him how he can tell the time by lifting his goat’s testicles. The man tells the driver he’s moving them out of the way so he can see the clock from where he’s sitting.

It may not be as funny written in English for a blog, but trust me, when you mime moving goat testicles to the side, this joke works.

Day 2:

It was mid-morning, and I was a bit hungover. I sat outside the house in a small shed, that doubles as an outside kitchenette, with my great-aunt Duska. We smoked and drank Turkish coffee. Life was good.

Later in the day, Maria and I left for the city of Novi Sad to do a little sightseeing with my dad and Baja. In the city, my wife was lucky enough to witness her first bribing of a police officer.

We were pulled over after about ten minutes of driving in the city. A police officer came up to the car, he noticed the license plates (American), and wanted to know if we had insurance, and if this was indeed our car. The car was ours, but unfortunately our insurance was expired. I remember thinking that first world problems were sometimes also third world problems.

My dad and Baja exited the car and spoke with the police officer. I sat in the back with Maria, and translated what I could. A twenty euro handshake was administered, and we were free to go. My wife’s expression during this was worth every one of those euros.

Soon, we got around to the sightseeing. We strolled around an impressive old fortress that sits on the Danube River. After that, we walked around the old city, ate ice cream (more on that later), and listened to a couple of talented mandolin players.

After a quick stop at a village pub, we were back in Stepanovic. Maria and I sat with Duska once more, sipping on our coffees, as Baba Mica (my grandmother) napped on the couch next to us. Soon though, she awoke and looked up at me, groggily. She asked if I had eaten, and I told her that we had ice cream in the city. She sighed, and said “Fuck ice cream.” And then rolled over.

My grandmother has a beautiful way with words, especially the colorful ones. To be more specific, she swears like a sailor and it’s fucking spectacular.

Fuck ice cream became the catchphrase for the rest of our trip. It followed us through Italy, and it may even follow me to the grave, chiseled powerfully atop my tombstone. The perfect epitaph.

Our last evening in Serbia was spent socializing and barbecuing. In the morning, it was heartfelt goodbyes and some tears (not by me though, I’m very manly). And after the last of our farewells were complete, we were off to Nikola Tesla airport and ready to begin the second leg of our trip.

We say "fuck ice cream." Saying "cheese" is for pussies.

We say “fuck ice cream.” Saying “cheese” is for pussies.

…continued next week in 3 Days in Rome

Thanks for the support!

Posted: March 8, 2015 in BP DEATHMATCH, Broken Pencil, Broken Pencil Magazine, fiction, Nikola Jajic, Reading is fundamental
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A big THANKS to all of my family, friends, and social media peeps! Your support and votes during Broken Pencil Magazine’s​ Indie Writers’ Deathmatch carried me to victory. And it was one helluva ride.

Most of all, thanks to everyone that took the time to read our stories. It’s a special feeling to know that something you wrote has been shared and enjoyed by others.

I was fortunate enough to have my story selected for the tournament, let alone make it to the finals. Along the way, I met some very talented writers, and a lot of great people. I can say with confidence, that out of all of the deathmatches to be a part of, I’m lucky I was in this one.

All of the stories and poems chosen for this tournament were unique, well written, and deserved to win, just as much as my silly little story. There were nearly ten thousand votes this week for our competing stories. That alone blows my mind.

Like so many commenters pointed out, this was basically a popularity contest. Our tastes are subjective, and winning votes doesn’t make my story better or Talita’s worse. It’s simply the nature of the beast. It is THE DEATHMATCH.

And while there was no death (thankfully), the comments section was rough at times for all of the writers. That being said, I put myself out there when I entered my story into this contest. I knew what I was getting into, but at times it still stung.

Overall, it was a fun experience, and it’s nice to win. I’m also quite happy it’s over with. I suspect all of the other finalists would agree with me on this.

I’m reminded of a Hunter S. Thompson quote: “I have long understood that losing always comes with the territory when you wander into the gambling business, just as getting crippled for life is an acceptable risk in the linebacker business. They both are extremely violent sports, and pain is part of the bargain. Buy the ticket, take the ride.”

I’ll certainly hold onto my ticket stub. If only for the memories.

Thanks again.

Be so kind and rock the vote for me!

Posted: February 9, 2015 in BP DEATHMATCH, Broken Pencil Magazine, Death Match, Nikola Jajic, Reading is fundamental, short story
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Hey all!

I was lucky enough to have a short story I wrote chosen as one of the 8 finalists for the 2015 Indie Writers’ Deathmatch by Broken Pencil Magazine. For those who don’t know, the Broken Pencil staff have chosen their favorite stories, and now these stories have been pitted against one another (Hence the deathmatch), and are currently being voted on by readers.

If you’ve followed some of my silliness here, and would like to see some more of it on a bigger stage, head over to Broken Pencil Magazine and give my story a read:
http://www.brokenpencil.com/deathmatch-2015-quarterfinals-round-4

Now, onto the rocking of the vote. Here’s what to do once you’ve went to Broken Pencil’s Deathmatch page:

Step One: Read the stories.
Step Two: Vote for your favorite (My story please). Vote repeatedly. You can vote once every hour.
Step Three: Sound off in the comments.
Step Four: Blog, tweet, tell all your friends – help your favorite author win!
Step Five: Repeat until an Ultimate Winner is declared and all others lie bleeding in the dust.

The literary kumite has begun!

Please vote for me. I want this belt!

Please vote for me. I want this belt!

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