Ah Nice, how I love thee!

Is it any wonder that artists have always flocked here? Good lord, this place is perfect. Seriously. Perfect. Everyone's happy here. The sun always shines, the temperature hovers around 75 all the damn time, the food is probably the best and the freshest in the world, nobody's in a hurry and nobody's terribly slow, either. The city's just right. A little edgy, but not Miami edgy (not to knock Miami, but c'mon, this is France, people!).


This is the perfect place to disappear and find oneself. And so this I have done.

I've also done a little shopping, visited Eze and Monaco (I've seen Grace Kelly's grave and the roads that killed her) and hung out on the beach to my heart's content. That's all. Not much to report. And isn't that what a relaxing holiday is supposed to be?

I have taken in a few art museums, landed myself in the middle of a jazz festival and bought french underwear, perfume and my first bikini as an adult. When in France...

I declare myself an honorary French person. I sunbathe topless, I smell like armpits and expensive perfume, I have strong coffee and a croissant for breakfast. This afternoon I'm getting a French hairdo, surrendering to the will of my new hairdresser, who kindly put up with my broken French request for a cut and color until I asked if he speaks English. Why yes, of course! Such a doll. I loves him already.

I still need shoes and a bag to go with my dress for the wedding, and I must figure out how and when I'm getting to Aix. Ooh la la! So much to do. I'll be home in less than a week, but I will forever return to the French Riviera in my mind.

J'ai trouve mon coeur dans le Cote d'Azure!

Okay, so I can't quite figure out this keyboard to put the right accents on those words, but I found my heart here, y'all! Yeah, the necklace was tucked away in a little satchel inside another one, and I'm wearing it again. And I have found my place in the sun. Y'all can have all of Italy. You can have the Dalmatian Coast. I'll take the South of France and I'll even share it.

It probably helps that I have a rudimentary grasp of the language. I was watching Sesame Street and Scooby Doo this morning with my coffee, and I could pretty much understand all of it. So, give me a four year old to converse with, and I'll do fine!

By the way, I'm in Nice. And I've decided to stay here. For a week. I rented what amounts to a little efficiency between the train station and the sea. It's a perfect base for exploring neighboring villages and the city itself. Prices are high here, but with my own kitchenette, I am having so much fun and saving so much by doing my own shopping and cooking! La vie est tres belle!

Yesterday I spent a lot of time recovering from Italy and the train ride. Too much air conditioning, too much snoring, and a bourgeoning sore throat left me feeling pretty punk. Now I feel much better, and ready to take on Provence! Looking to get my hair done and buy some shoesies.

Yay and more yay!

I lost my heart in Sarajevo.

That city is my favorite I've encountered on this journey so far.

I landed myself right in the middle of its film festival, an event that began 12 years ago during the Seige of Sarjevo. I saw a couple of bad films; they're doing a tribute to Abel Ferrara, and he sucks. In person he sucks, too. Only bad direction could make Juliette Binoche and Forrest Whitaker bad. And the film "Mary" truly sucked. My new friend Mariana, a Bulgarian film critic, said she thinks he's the kind of director who got into the business to get women.

I also managed to do a little backpackers' tour of the city and we had a marvelous tour guide who is my age, which means he was a teenager during the Seige. During the four years in which the city was surrounded by Serb forces and snipers who shot anything that moved in the street that stretched between the Holiday Inn and the Old Town, life went on. No schools shut down, and despite no food, water, electricity, gasoline or communication with the outside world, people survived. Sheer will and ingenuity. They built an underground tunnel to the airport, one meter wide and 1.6 meters high, through which people escaped. It filled knee high with water and they ran lines of electricity and gasoline through it. Yikes. Yet no one who used it died. A lot of them hit their heads, but no one died. I got a chance to pass through a part of the tunnel that's been preserved. Extraordinary.

They called Sarajevo the Jerusalem of Europe because within 100 square meters you'll find the city's main mosque, Catholic church, Orthodox church and synagogue. Outside every mosque, fresh spring water fountains trickle; this is part of the reason Sarajevo never fell. Despite absolute useless measures to deliver aid, in the form of things such as U.S. army cookies from the Vietnam era and shipments of condoms, those who were brave enough to risk passing through sniper alley to get water from old town into downtown managed to keep people alive by transporting buckets of water.

Learning about this terrible history really opened my eyes. I vowed to myself not to ingnore news reports about the horrors going on in parts of the world I've never seen. It also made me not feel sorry for myself as I slept in a shed with the words "Bin Laden" spray painted on the outside of it and a mangy yet happy dog keeping watch in the yard. 20 people shared one toilet and shower, and I shared a room with three other women: the film critic from Sophia and two backpacking, alcoholic Brits. God love Mariana--she stayed there because she's a freelancer and had to pay her own accomodation for 9 days. The beds cost 10 euros per night. Don't let me complain about the meager pay I get per story; she gets $20 per story at best.

Seeing the city and learning more about the Seige truly made me question journalism and the way we do our jobs. Why didn't the world step in sooner? Why weren't people paying attention, me included? I think statistics, the 5 w's don't tell the story with the kind of urgency necessary. People stop hearing the death tolls in Iraq, in Lebanon, the facts aren't alive for them--how can we make stories come alive for people so they pay attention? I suspect I'll struggle with this my entire career.

It was hard to leave that magnificent place. Don't get me wrong, it's still devastatingly bombed out all over the place; but to me, this is the most beautiful city I've seen. You can have pristine Prague and its picturesque castle, you can have Dubrovnik, the pearl of the Adriatic and its walled city; I'll take Sarajevo any day. If I had any money to invest, I'd help revitalize it and return people to their homes.

The 8 hour train from Sarajevo to Zagreb is actually a 12 hour train, and don't let anyone tell you differently. It creeps at a snail's pace. I think without my luggage I could have run it faster. I met an arrogant Canadian--you think they're all submissive and friendly, well they're not--who tried to tell me everything about everything on the way. Thank God he got off at Banja Luka, a mere five hours into the journey. He's speed travelling--seeing as much as he can so he can say he's been places. He's actually spending most of his time on trains, poor lad. I didn't even bother suggesting this to him. He doesn't hear anything.

But once he left, a group of old boozers joined me in the cabin. I'm talking knock-me-over-with-their-stinky-alcholic-breath, 70-something-year-old dudes. They must have passed a dozen plastic liter bottles of generic beer among them. And it sounded like they were talking politics. It was that kind of heat. To complement the literal heat. That cabin was like an oven. Sweating just from sitting there. And everyone smoked right next to the no smoking signs. The windows only opened a crack. I nearly passed out.

As it got dark and cooled down a bit, one of the boozers tried to talk to me. He knew about five words of English and I know one word of Serbo Croatian. This guy looked remarkably like my father's dearly departed Uncle Jack, so I instantly took a shine to him, despite his odor. He told his boys about me, and all of a sudden I was part of the party. One of them brought out a little bottle of water, and I thought, huh? Water? Turns out it was more of that moonshine, and they insisted I drink with them. So I did. The only word I know in their language is "Hvala," which means thank you, so what are you gonna do? It were good stuff. When we finally got to Zagreb, it was well dark, and Uncle Jack insisted on showing me where I needed to go to catch the train to Venice. Such a doll.

The sleeper car to Venice was dreamy compared to the Bosnian oven train. I slept like a little lamb in between passport checks at the borders--in and out--of Croatia, Slovenia and Italy. I shared the cabin with an Aussie and two little, smelly German backpackers. But it was grand. When we got off the train and wandered out of the station, the Aussie wouldn't shut the hell up. She grew very loud and exuberant, the kind of loudness and exhuberance only youth breeds, and she asked me if I wasn't excited, like, Oh my God, we're in Venice. And of course, I was stunned, literally stunned by the green canals and architecture just right outside of the station. I was taking it in. The expression comes later for me. But I didn't bother explaining this to her, I just walked away.

I am getting so good at losing losers. It's a necessary skill as a lone traveler. Yesterday, sipping a $10 capuccino at a cafe overlooking the water at the Piazzo San Marco, a dude wandered up and sat down beside me for a chat. He couldn't afford the prices at the cafe, so the waiter made him leave. After I paid and left, he caught up with me and wouldn't leave me alone. He told me all about himself--he's an architecture student and he hates his job in a bakery because he's a good worker and his employers fuck him because he's a good worker. Men in nearly every country I've been in start up conversations with me about how much they hate their jobs. Do I look like I care? Do I look like I want to listen to your woes instead of taking in the beauty of Venice? I said as much with my body language. Then he asked me what I do. "I hate journalists. They're all liars," he said in response. So I cut him off and said, "Well, perhaps you don't want to spend any more time with me." That got rid of him. Italian riffraff bitches.

I also got yelled at by a fruitseller in the street. I made the mistake of touching his apricots. I couldn't help myself--they were so plump and beautiful, and I had every intention of buying the ones I touched. Yikes. Italians like to yell. It seems to be the best way to express whatever it is they need to express. Italian Americans in New York are the same, but Italians in Italy are louder.

So I've been eating Gelato instead. Those guys don't yell as much. And I went to a grocery store, because I always go to grocery stores in new places. It was a beautiful thing. The things the Italians do with ham and cheese are fucking astounding. Ricotta lemon cake. Yum. A million kinds of prosciutto. Gorgeous hard cheeses and fancy marinades for mozzarella with all sorts of olives. Some bread and a bottle of wine, and that was me for the day. All the restaurants I've found are so touristy, complete with tourist prices, so I made my own meal. And I was a happy girl. Went to bed watching BBC news, and my day was complete.

The beauty of this place is enough to knock a girl out. And so it did. Today I took it easy, did some laundry, wandered around some more, and now I need to go find something to eat. It won't be hard. Tomorrow I take the overnight train to Nice. I've got a rough itinerary planned for my week until the wedding. Hopefully I'll find a wireless spot so I can post some photos. I've got some great shots.

I also literally lost my heart in Sarajevo. You see, I like to bring little mementos from loved ones back home when I travel. And I've been wearing a lovely silver necklace with a heart pendant my dad gave me for Christmas last year. It disappeared in Sarajevo. A sacrifice to the travel Gods. I hope someone finds it and wears it as a symbol of hope for tomorrow. The kind of symbol that means more when found accidentally in Sarajevo.

How Bosnia is like Texas

1. It's hotter than hell.
2. People there in small towns sit on their porches and wave at passing trains.
3. Those bitches can drink.
3. They'll give you the shirts off their backs, lead you in the right direction, and share their moonshine with you, even if you don't speak their language.
4. The people aren't at all what you'd expect if you pay attention to media images of them.
5. Red dirt, rocky hills.
6. The people ain't in no hurry to get nowheres.
7. They're resilient, independent minded, will and have defended their land and way of life to the end.
8. They seriously question the wisdom of the U.N.

Returned from an alternate universe.

I have seen God, people.

(How's that for a lead?)

You see, I've been to the land of Medjugorje, a once sleepy little village in the mountains of Bosnia. In 1981 The Virgin Mother of Christ, aka The Blessed Mother, aka Our Lady, appeared to a group of teenagers and gave them messages. Word spread fast, the communists henchmen went after the kiddies but didn't get them because a holy Franciscan priest named Father Jozo, a man known to many as "a living saint," a man who was totally skeptical about the apparitions, hid the kids away. He got picked up, jailed and tortured, and now he runs a home for 5500 orphaned girls--throwaways from the war.

The story goes that Our Lady of Medjugorje continues to come down from heaven every day at 6:40 p.m. The teenagers are all moms and dads now, but a couple of them are still receiving messages. It's the only place on earth that she continues to visit, they say.

And by "they" I mean a gajillion and a half faithful Catholics, mostly from Ireland, Italy and Croatia, with a handful of Canadians, French, Americans, Polish thrown in. The Church doesn't officially recognize the place as an apparition site, unlike Lourdes, Fatima, Knock, to name a few, but they can't even begin to investigate until Herself quits showing up. House rules.

So I rolled into town, skeptical journalist and skeptical believer that I am, at the urging of a very dear friend of mine who has very dear friends who live there. They didn't know I was coming, they knew nothing about me, but when I asked the lady at a tour agency in town about them, she rang them up--had them on speed dial. "Honey, come home," they said, and rushed to pick me up. I only meant to spend the day, perhaps a night. Five days later, it was hard to leave.

I hung out with priests and nuns and lots of Irish and Italians who pray the rosary more than my Grandma does. We went to mass twice a day, said the Divine Mercies at 3 p.m., did the stations of the cross up a friggin' mountain before dawn, ate only bread and water two days of the week, went to the evening service that lasted from 6 to 11 p.m. and included mass, adoration, the rosary, confession if you wanted. . . . Holy Mother of God! (I confessed to an Irish priest who was a dead ringer for Teddy Kennedy. Can you imagine? Confessing your sins to Teddy Kennedy?)

It got to be a bit much by the fifth day, honestly, but these people were so loving and so accepting and so devoted and kind, it was hard to leave. They put me up, they washed my clothes, they fed me, they blessed me, they hugged me and kissed me and petted my face, they prayed over me, they brought me to Father Jozo who gave me a special blessing: "We love journalists. Be a beautiful journalist," he said. The Blessed Mother has come down from heaven to tell you that she loves you just as you are, they said first thing when we met. Yikesaroony. That's love, people.

And so all the pilgrims and the messages and the apparition and the validity of any of it is entirely beside the point, as far as I'm concerned. There's a whole lotta love in that strange little protected place. And that, to me, is all the God I need to know or see or feel with my heart of hearts.

Today I arrived in Sarajevo and it's astounding to be here. Bosnians are remarkable. It's their custom to treat visitors like family. Why that horrendous war happened here, I'll never understand. It was and is becoming again such a vibrant, diverse place. Mosques next to Orthodox churches next to Roman Catholic churches next to discos. The sound of church bells ring out along with the call to prayer. Can you imagine? Not too long ago there was nothing here but the sound of sniper's shots and bombs. The whole city was shut down. International journalists holed up in the Holiday Inn and an underground tunnel to the airport was the only connection to the outside world.

Word on the street is Our Lady of Medjugorje has said only prayer and fasting can stop war. Hmm. I believe we have to transform our own hearts--find and make peace within ourselves--before we can make a larger impact to effect change in the world, to stop war. But those of us who have the privilege, the knowledge, the ability to be peacemakers. . . . well it has to be up to us to act, doesn't it? And not just by sitting at home praying the rosary and eating bread and water, methinks. I guess we all must have our own beginnings.

I think mine is here. Seeing it for myself. Getting closer to an experience that is so far removed from my own. And struggling with trying to figure out what I can do about making it not happen again. How's that for a tall order?

Marvy Mostar.

I love it here. It's shockingly beautiful, cheap, the people are laid back. This is my kind of town.

I stayed in a lady's house not far from the bus station last night. A little noisy, but nice. Her mother in law greeted me with Turkish coffee when I arrived. It's so cheap that I offered to pay for two beds so I could have a room to myself. Why would I want to share a room with any old scuzz coming off the bus?

I met a couple from Chicago at the house, and they were a delight. At the end of a few hours wandering around the city together, we parted as they caught the train to Sarajevo, but before they took off they offered to let me stay in their Wrigleyville condo anytime I come to town. I heart Midwesterners.

We ate Cevapcici on a terrace overlooking the emerald Neretva River and Stari Most. Cevapcici is the kind of food drunk Chicagoans would totally go for. It's lots of short, fat fingers of spicy lamb sausages stuffed into a thick, soft pita bread served with onions and pimento sauce. So yummy. And fills you up for days. Almost.

Before the 1990s war (as it's called around here) and the destruction of that 16th century bridge, men would jump off it into the river as a badge of virility. Now they're doing it again, and I caught a couple of dudes in speedos doing cannonballs. Made my heart glad.

But it sure as shit ain't all gladness around here. Lots and lots and lots of bombed-out buildings have not been rebuilt; parts of the city still look like a war zone. I've seen several Muslim cemeteries in which all of the tombstones reflect the same date of death: 1993. Chilling.

Yet these are the liveliest, most charming, welcoming people I've met on this journey so far. Sometimes it's the people who have gone to the depths who can most consistently embrace the possibilities of the day.

I am so glad to be here.

Last night in Dubrovnik

So I've landed myself in the Hilton Imperial Dubrovnik to catch some Wifi. It's working. And it's happy hour. There's a guitarist playing with a sax player whose beauty puts that Croatian dude from ER to shame. No one seems to know or mind that I'm not a guest here. The beers keep-a-coming, and the beautiful people around me keep smoking.

Yesterday I went on a little three island cruise. I drank homemade brandy and wine, flirted with the captain of the "ship" and met a couple of very civilized English English school teachers from Leicester. Lots o' fun, sailing, fresh grilled fish and Croatian moonshine for lunch, swimming and sunbathing in the afternoon. I witnessed my first nude beach ever, and I do believe I saw a woman's uterus. Walking around a cliff and looking down I saw pie to the sky, kittens. Took me back to my Planned Parenthood days, so it did.

An aside: I've seen about 20 Italian Paris Hilton look alikes walk into this lounge, all decked out in white cowboy hats, rhinestone jeans and dangly earrings, with smokes and red bull as their most important accessories. Or are they glitterati Croats? I don't know. There is something of an arts festival going on right now. In fact, I saw a whole bunch of folks decked out in traditional folk costume doing dances in circles in Old Town Square. The men wore dented felt hats and ties while the women looked like peasants from any old where. Did you know Croats invented the necktie? At least, they claim it as their own. When men went off to war or whatever, their lady friends would tie a tie around their necks as a symbol of fidelity. Or maybe it was a threat: the tighter the tie. . . .

I'm ready to move on. After a nice sail on the Adriatic, walking around the Old City walls, plenty of swimming and sunning on the pebbly beaches, some local eats and drinks and new friends, I'm geared up to move on. Mostar. First thing in the morning. I must see the rebuilt bridge with my own two eyes. And I'll wander into Medjugorje, see if the Virgin has something to say to me, before I head into Sarajevo. I looked into staying at the Holiday Inn that was the last stand for journalists during the war, but I need to save dough for Italy and France. I'll probably stay in somebody's house. That's the way they do here--people just register their homes with the local tourist board and then take in strangers. It's the cheapest way to spend a night in these parts, although a bit dodgy for a lone gal. The Brits I met let some dude they met at the bus stop haul them to his house and it worked out great. I just don't think it'd be prudent for me to do the same, alone. But there's an agency at the bus station in Sarajevo that can recommend places, so I think I'll do that. The Brits were each paying a quarter what I paid for my dingy little hotel. Though it sure is nice to have my own bathroom and breakfast every morning. I'm sure it's all worked out for the best.

From Sarajevo, I'll take a bus to Split, then either island hop a little bit, or head straight to Venice on a ferry. I could see more of Italy if I wanted . . . start in the south somewhere and make my way north. But I don't know. I'm itching for France, I must admit. I want to leave myself enough time and money to do the South of France properly. By that I mean not penny pinching too terribly. I want Bouillabaisse, people! And the real stuff costs something like $100 for two people to slurp, and they only serve it to two people at a time, so I'll have to pick up some fool who will partake with me, or just slurp enough for two (though I suspect the French might frown upon that). 'Course, if I run out of money, I can always lollygag on the beach and keep working on my Mediterranean tan as I read my books. Costs nothing. Actually in Nice, they make you pay to lounge on the beach, but here they don't.

Croatia is not nearly as cheap as I'd expected. Hungary costs far less. Although I am in what is the next Nice. Perhaps in Zadar or Zagreb the living is less dear. But not as easy. . . .

Sometimes a cloudy day in paradise is what you need

Dubrovnik is lovely, perhaps even "paradise on earth" as GB Shaw declared some years ago. That must have been before the hoards of Italian and Hungarian tourists showed up on big buses with their loud proclamations about everthing and their three-pack-a-day habits. I wish it were just all the quiet, elderly, cappucino sipping couples and me. Ah well.

After a day of sun, swimming and reading Naipaul on the pebbly beach not far from my hotel yesterday, I'm off to explore the old, walled city. But now I'm sitting drinking Croatian beer before noon at an outdoor cafe. The coolness of the sea air feels good on my sunburned legs. And damn this beer is good: Ozujsko pivo they call it. Tastes like fruit to me. Mind you, I haven't had a drink since Heviz, so I'm due. Now it feels like a holiday.

The funny thing about travelling alone--especially as a single woman--is it's stressful. I have no problem taking myself out for a meal and sitting alone in a restaurant full of couples and families, but it does wear on you after a while. And it's a big responsibility to get yourself from one place to another, to keep your clothes clean and dry, to keep yourself fed and safe. And it takes a little while to get adjusted to a new place. A little while. And it is the nature of a traveller to get an itch to move on as soon as she begins to feel comfortable in a place. Or maybe that's just me.

Dubrovnik is a tricky place to navigate. Taxis are rip offs, and public transportation is limited to a few buses. It's set up so that you're best off taking tours to the surrounding islands and into Bosnia if you like, but I can't stand tours. I want to get away from the crowds! So that means setting off on my own, which takes a lot more effort. I guess I never said I wanted the easy way, now did I?

Although swimming in the Adriatic sea first thing in the morning and then reading the greatest living writer all day in the sun ain't so bad.

Damn.

Here's some photos from Budapest; first inside the Gellert baths and second is a view of Buda from Pest:

Croatia, baby!

I've been to Lake Balaton, Heviz, Budapest again and now Dubrovnik since last I wrote. I soaked up a lot of thermal mineral water, steam, radioactive mud, and I expect I'm now healed from whatever might have ailed me. I've gotten used to getting a massage every day.

So now that I won't be massaged every day, it's a good thing I've got something pretty to look at. I'm so glad to be at the seaside. Even though I played in lots of water, I still knew I was in a landlocked country.

An interesting Hungarian human rights lawyer took a shine to me on the flight last night. He's way more interested than I am. Damn! Why is that always the way?

I passed on the candy, liquor, perfume and cosmetics at the Duty Free shops yesterday in the interest of picking up some books in English. They're quite a treat, really. And I've read "A Moveable Feast" twice now. Now I have some V.S. Naipaul and Umberto Eco to keep me company on the beach. Yay!

I probably should go out and see the sights right away, but honestly, I just want to lollygag. The beach is calling. . . .

I heart Hungary.

No, that's an understatement. I fuhriggin' looove it.

I walked across the Danube today. Twice. How cool is that?

Budapest has just the right combo of grit, old world beauty and spas. This is my kind of town. If I didn't think there might be something more beautiful ahead, I might never leave.

After the overnight train--uneventful after I actually got on the train; waiting at the train station was like night of the living dead; I saw dirty feet sticking out beneath a toilet stall, scary--I had a little bit of trouble finding my digs, but that's ancient history now. To recover, I got myself to the nearest spa, which just happened to be the Gellert, Budapest's oldest. And I spent the next four hours swimming in the Parthenon, steaming, saunaing, cool baths, hot thermal spring baths, and receiving a marvy "medical" massage from a very nice lady while she sang along to "Eye of the Tiger" on the radio playing in the big room where other naked ladies were getting rubdowns. I love hanging out with unselfconscious naked ladies. We're talking hot babes mixed with old fat bellied, skinny-legged grannies with the somewheres in betweens like me, all walking around, hanging around, swimming around totally naked. Joy!

Then I walked from Buda, where the baths and my hotel are, to Pest--hence the Danube crossing--and found myself some Hungarian food. They always start meals with soup, so I had a liver-dumpling in clear broth soup before my meal of chicken, veggies and berry dumplings covered in custard for dessert. I also bought myself a pastry for breakfast at the train station. I picked it, not knowing what it was, because it had the word "turd" in its name. This, for some reason, delighted me. And it was delicious. Not at all stale. One more point for the Hungarians over the Czechs! I also think I discovered that "turd" is Hungarian for raisin. Tee-hee.

After din-dins I walked around some more until I stumbled into St. Stephen's Basilica--right into a mass. So I went to mass, and I think this place is the most beautiful church I've ever seen. Mind you, I've seen a lot of friggin' gorgeous churches. Maybe it's just that each new one is always surprising in its beauty.

I walked around some more and now I'm back at the hotel/hostel, which is really just a dingy old dorm in the university section of town. But what more do I want for a private $20 room with a sort-of view toward the river? Breakfast? Sure, I could have that for an extra $2.50, but I'd rather venture out on my own for more turd pastries.

I'm also falling in love with Hemingway as I read "A Moveable Feast." Picked it up at an English language bookstore in Prague before I left. Love it.

Anybody read it?

Last Night in Praha

Why is it that the last night is always the best night? Dang.

Kiki and I finally got around to drinking absinthe.


In a fabulous little dive bar called Hany Bany that served up big, roasted sausages with potato pancakes and cabbage for a buck a pop. Loved. It.


Okay, so the green shot wasn't so easy going down, at least for Kiki; but we both felt fabulous, like, three and a half seconds afterward. Good. Buzz. And no hallucinations to report, somewhat regretfully.


Before landing in the pub, I hauled my ass to the Franz Kafka museum, because I knew I'd regret it if I didn't. Very interesting. I'll have to read more of his stuff now.

There was a nice statue out front of two dudes with moving buttocks pissing together.



Is this Kafkaesque? I'm still not sure I understand the full meaning of that adjective.

I also was disturbed this morning after Kiki left for the airport by a very large, very angry, very blond Czech woman named Sharka. Funny how names always seem to suit people. She demanded I pay another night's rent thinking I had only booked the place for the month of July. Good Goddamn thing I had a copy of my booking form on my laptop to show her. Then she got on her cellphone and raised holy hell with the agency I booked through. Then she got nice and apologetic and told me I could leave my bags in the flat for the afternoon, but that she's got Italians moving in later in the afternoon. Whatevers.

I am so getting out of Dodge.