The Bulgarian conflict

Hypocrite. This is what I became this past summer, in a multitude of ways. In Budapest I held airs of being someone who was well versed in travel, in understanding other cultures, until it tested my nerves. She was tall with curly black hair and I almost hated her immediately. She talked a lot more than I did, and the snap judgement just slammed onto the table. The fatty tuna on the chopping block so to speak.

She just had confidence, and I despised that about her. She would get on her phone, pretend the person on the other line was more important than the people she was with. Or so I thought. All the notions flying through my head had nothing to do with her but with my own insecurity, could my roommate see it, could the other girl from Germany detect my sadomasochistic personality shining through as my enmity for the Bulgarian girl grew. We started to talk, the situation worsened to a spectacular degree. I told her I went to school in Ohio, she told me that was boring. I was furious. She was right though, yet it felt good to posess that anger. It seemed visceral, but most of all it appeared legitimate and important, which gave me a little bit of a spot in life to have made my mark. The handprints on hollywood. She made a couple more jokes, most of them pertaining to the travel I had done. She then told me she had gone to school in Tennesse. Well how the fuck was that any better than the heart of the midwest where I attended school. Passing through the ventricle of Columbus and into the fatty tissue and clogged arteries of Springfield OHIO. My roommate could see the uncomfortable situation. I was caught with my fly down, my limp drooping self-loathing being ignited by this girls confidence. I then went on to smatter her everywhere I went. Any person who would listen, I would regale them with my banal story of deceit, betrayal, and the vindictive personalities of all Bulgarians.

Needless to say, time went by. My story of HATE had matastisized into the perfect form of making this girl take on the pedestal of heinous bitches. I had this smooth polished story. It made people laugh, cry, and all the above. During this time I continued to let her be my punching bag. You see, I had no plumbing in my apartment. Our toilet had broken down and my roommate and I were suffering the affliction of not being able to pass a decent stool in peace. This is what I did. I would go to the bathtub. A huge adobe colored tub that I bathed in often. Like a lesser being I would place a plastic trash bag at the basin of my asshole. I would then push the hard,soft stool or the worst case, diarrhea and just hope for the best. Usually it would land with a thump, but I would feel no satisfaction. I do not want to digress too much but you need to know that in our apartment the toilet had sort of a viewing plateau for poop. I cannot be sure whether this is the norm of all apartments but it certainly held true to our humble abode. We would be able to see the poop, resting softly and a nice thirty second time frame was allowed to judge our poop. To feel the paternal/maternal love of seeing your creation in its form, before drowning it in water. Now this whole beautiful act of god being stolen from me, I wanted revenge so she became the bane of my existence. Until the eighties dance party.

There were two elements to this party. I had a thirty five year old woman tell me in broken english that she was newly divorced and intended to hike up a volcano in Italy the following week. She told me she would probably fall, and I tried to console her by letting her know that she could prevent that with stable climbing shoes and not drinking as much as she was doing at the bar. I then managed to avoid her only to be confronted by me demons, the Bulgarian girl looking right at me. She asked if she could please speak to me in private. I said yes and gave the look of dread to a couple of people dancing. Someone grabbed my balls and I have never figured out who. We took up roost at the side of a concrete railing. The whole building was constructed to the stunted vision of the Soviet Union and there incredibly dull architecture. But, thanks to them they were now supplying us the dance floor to listen to Chris Isaak and other favorites. When we took up a conversation she immediately asked me the question of hate. She was told by numerous source that I found her incredulous and just all around a person who sucked total dilz. I tried to not make eye contact, I thought about scaling the side of the concrete railing and jumping to the fertile ground below and catching the tram back over to the PEST side of the city. Did I mention I was in Budapest, I dont know. I wont look back so I now it is established. I would escape her, have a falafel and go to sleep rest assured that I would never have to answer to her queries again. Something was feeling different. She was talking and I was actually listening to her. All these accusations of snap judgements. Me always having the moral highground saying I never snap judge. My god, this loathing, the abhorence had nothing to do with her. It was me. I hated myself, and then I was back at square one. Here I thought I was a savvy traveler, yet I was what I had always feared. A dumb American. With that said I promised myself a new life, a new perspective and that I would always remember that conversation and use it to make sure I didn't act like a dunce in the future henceforth. I actually felt different. I wanted this to be a model conversation that I would tell people. When this young man learned an important lesson. I felt renewed. I told everyone who asked about our convo, how positive it was. I danced to flock of seagulls with a new fervor. I drank gingerale and Jack with a new slake of thirst. I really moved my hips and thought about my receding hairline with reckless abandon. When the night was over, my roommate, the German young lady and the Bulgarian professor moved towards the night bus, back to our quarters for rest and water consumption to avoid post party syndrome.

As we left a horrible action occured. Some homely fucker stole my Roommates sweater. A cashmere cardigan. An exquisite piece of clothing. I felt bad. I looked for it, the German girl also did her fair share of scouring. As we had to call off the search with the conclusion that someone had stolen it, we made our way home with empty hearts. As we tried to console my friend on his loss, the Bulgarian woman's vocal chords made sounds, it sounded like this, "It's okay you're a rich American you can buy another one." My friend was puzzled by the cutting remark. My brain chemicals were swashbuckled. A new thought had entered in my head, in my mind I remember it clearly,


The words of wisdom, "What a bitch." >

Patch Madras & Soiled Souls

It all started in Phu Quoc. Forgive me for missing the accents if there were any. I have to say that right of the bat my Vietnamese language skills leave something to be desired. the arduous task of making my words have a downward tone as opposed to sounding excited, my classmates accosting me on the proper pronunciation. I learned to be bitter in Hanoi, but I also learned to love. Love I did, and I performed this arduous task of the heart on the island I mentioned a few sentences earlier, Phu Quoc. Located only a small distance of the coast of Cambodia, it is here that much history went down, and much fish sauce, nuoc mam was created. The pungent smell of the fermented fish, the bark of the wild and native dog of the island filled my nostrils and my ears as the fokker landed. Immediately we picked up our bags. By we I mean myself and several other students. I think at the time our sexual frustration with the situation has caused us all to seek out our own fun. The relentless pursuit of Orgasm in alternative form. Some read Kafka, some read Cussler. I however rented a motorcycle. With my long (receding) hair I cast off onto the dirt roads looking for adventure in all the right places, or so it seemed at the time. My bike skidded of the dirt with the same fury as a water buffalo in escape of a crocodile. The wind hitting my face, along with smal rocks, I felt the engine could be pushed. Push it I did. All the way to the speed of 40 mph. I flew down the mud roads. Slipping and sliding as driving rain urged me to turn back,to give up and make my way to the couch with a Sagan or a Grisham. I would not be moved. I would be slighted. I decided to ostensibly screw the idea of returning home by pressing onto the only road Phu Quoc was going north on the west coast of the island. It almost looks like Isla Nublar, where Dinosaurs attacked and nearly killed Jeff Goldblum and Sam Neil during the frightening and harrowing Jurassic Park. I knew without the risk of a Pachycephalosaurus attack to either of my flanks I knew I could survive.

I was twenty minutes in. My tire blew out. I used a lot of foul words. The only regret I have is that I was rough terrain trained enough to have made the repairs myself with my own blood and a combination of tree bark and snake skin. However, I needed to go back to a house a few miles back, which was prepared for these kinds of disasters. They invited me into their home, offered me a puppy, which I politely declined by smiling as if I had shit my pants and then oblidged them by taking a pomegranate and eating that and watching what looked to be some sort of singing contest in which young and attractive Vietnamese women were belting their hearts out.

They changed my tire for less than a dollar. I was impressed, and my wallet could be sustained for the later purchase of Marijuana from a Economics teacher that had been living in Saigon/Ho Chi Minh city for the past few years, no doubt enjoying the humidity with the nice stank of that smooth delicious sticky icky that I would enjoy later in the evening.

I needless to say ventured on. Out of hunger I purchased a sandwich made of Anchovies, Butter, and tomato sauce. I became almost instantly sick but did not let that get in the way. The rest of the story is alot of braking and accelerating, moving through the jungle and becoming more and more frightened as I noticed the light escaping me.

With my stomach in my throat I made it back. I had survived. I then convinced everyone to take the next journey with me, exploring the southern part of the island. No one knew that I had intended for all of us to completely encircle the entire island on our little motorbikes. WIth a young Brown undergrad resting behind me and a Johns Hopkins and a Wisconsin to my right and left we made our way down. We visited a prison museum, which was quite alarming. Then we made our way on a tour of the beaches. I must remind myself that this island was not a party island. Cancun in was not. Panama city was not the capitial of this little place. It was a military and navy installation, that the Khmer people had tried to take, and had failed against the firepower of the Vietnamese army. We also too had suffered a couple coldcocks from Vietnamese forces during our skirmish there way back when.

Deadset on finding a beach, I used my abyssmal skills to ask people where a beach was. There was one, as indicated in my trendy and totally independent Lonely Planet guide that a beach of mythical proportions was right at my toes. Where I could sink my feet into the clear water and know what it was like to be Leonardo Dicaprio. Except for the fact that I am not attractive and that I was not in Ko Pi Pi in Thailand.

The small map was our guiding light. To the beach at least, or the one that I thought existed. I was willing to even lie about its beauty even though at this point I had not yet seen it or even knew if it there was one. When I went to ask, I was puzzled to not see a Valet but instead a small white guard house. I had dealt with these Hampton types before. I was prepared to pay handsomely for a nice parking space, and one where I could literally spread out my towel and be right on the beach. I approached slowly a tank top rubbing against my burnt skin, Persols on my eyeballs and Patch Madras shorts handstitched by Ralph Lauren himself. The guard did not take kindly to me. He yelled, something I could not translate. I merely asked him, where the beach was, which way to the beach. Which in hindsight I was probably telling him that I masturbate with lobsters over and over again. His response was not to give me a parking space but too instead pull out a AK-47 assualt rifle and put it in my face. Poop I did not. Although it would have seemed appropriate. I did have an exchange of words with him ,as in my recollection he did not do a whole lot of speaking,

"Woah, Woah, bro....I just wanted to know where the beach is!"

Guard points gun in my face.

"Shit dude, don't point a gun in my face bro," I plead with him.

Guard continues to point the gun.

I shimmied back to my bike, which was around the corner. "What an Asshole," I told the Brown undergrad. I tried to tell her the story from my point of view. What would you have done, if some pale, lanky, fool had come asking you where the beach was. He obviously did not see me on the guest list. To this day I often wonder what he was guarding. I bet you it was a beach, and I guarantee that some celebrity far more posh than a civilian like me had rented out the whole beach and it would have cost that guy his job if I had gotten down there and spoiled whatever oscars, grammy, man booker, winning person who was done there enjoying their vacation.

Beyond all that, and as I sit here now, sipping tea, occasionally browsing YouPorn, I have failed to notice until this very moment in the present, that I called a Vietnamese solider Bro. Was I bridging the gap? No. Had I escaped my old days of Fraternal Brotherhood or was I the one thing I had always hated in my life. I was. I shrug now and wonder whether I noticed any of the other beautiful sights I saw whilst going thirty five tops in my little motorbike, a friend behind me, in a small secluded part of the world. Yet all I cared about was some trite beach. Horribly absurd.

Goodnight.

Further note: I can't spell or write.