Socially Anxious Solo Traveller #1

I’ve heard Ari Shaffir (stand-up comedian and traveller) talk about loneliness when travelling. I prefer travelling alone, you don’t have any expectations to adhere to. Loneliness, however, is still a thing. Mr Shaffir mentioned a tip: “Head to a bar and have one drink; by the time you order a second, you’ll be talking to someone.” I tried that out. 

                        ******************************************************************************************************************

I’m four doubles deep. Maybe it is the earphones, the book in my hand, the vest, the tattoos, my foreign, anxious face, but no saviour has started to converse with me. I guess it isn’t up to them to cure my ailments. I wonder, imagine I talk to a Croatian girl at the bar, and she takes me back to her group of friends at a table. I just go over and unconsciously demand the table speak in English. Look, I know they speak English perfectly, but still. We really are the toddlers of the world. Me, the stranger, changing the language of the table. Do you realise how insane we are? We can’t flip a switch and communicate in another dimension…they can. Even when I try to speak Hrvatski, they reply in English. Because to them, what’s the point? “Yea, a wee round of applause for you, but you wouldn’t understand my response to you in Hrvatski, so let’s just speak Engish, okay?” 

“Dajte mi molem kava” - Give to me a coffee please *also, only reply with a yes* 

Anyway, maybe for the socially anxious, it is four drinks until a human helper appears. “So what are you guys like?” I think about asking. “What the fuck are you? Say things to me! I’ll say things back to you!”. I take my earphones out, The Silent Young Man Without Earphones. Maybe that’s the trick. I almost immediately put my earphones back in. Who am I kidding? Now, I move my fingers in such a way to suggest I may play an instrument. Looking like a cool guy, a cool guy thinking everyone is thinking about him. 

*******************************************************************************************************************

Well, the alcohol took over. I did infiltrate many groups of strangers that night. As I left one pub, a bald, stoic-looking man asked if I were from the states. I later found out he loves the USA after a decade stay in California working as a bouncer. He said he wanted to be a bodybuilder and mentioned liking Arnold Schwarzenegger. Now, when he mentioned this, it flared my suspicious ‘he might be gay and wants to fuck me’ thoughts. I’m not proud of these thoughts, nor do I want them, but they happen. When men approach me, me- drunk, in a vest, I think, aw fuck. I am easy pickings. 

We started exchanging fight stories- mostly from him. His name was Robert. A lot of his stories involved gangs and guns. He bounced in Hollywood, and if you know anything about Los Angeles, you’ll know Hollywood isn’t like what you see in the movies. Hollywood is a shit hole riddled with crime. 

Finally, the guy comes out to me. I fucking knew it! He mentioned being bi-sexual, which I ascertained was one of the many reasons he loves America. I asked him the usual questions, “when did you know you were gay? When did you come out?” I commended him on having the courage to be himself, considering how masculine the culture is in eastern Europe. Plus, the guy was like fifty. He tells me he would have sex with his twin brother when they were fourteen. The best part of this is I managed to pull off a causal nod as if he had just told me why he prefers almond milk over cashew milk. I’ve never had cashew milk, but almond milk has fucked me a few times. Anyway, he buys me, and a Latvian man/boy I also befriended, a glass of Rakija. It tasted earthy, but if you know anything about me, I’m not capable of describing taste in much detail. It was alright. 

We say our goodbyes, and I go off with the Latvian and his two friends. He tells me how one of them bought an old BMW for two grand or something, and they are travelling with it. I believed them, and I believe them even now. It is funny how sceptical I am when drunk people tell me stories. I don’t remember much of the rest of the night, with them anyway, but we said our goodbyes and I went inside a pub. The Latvian did get my number and said he would phone me that night to come to meet me once he charged his phone- my phone died minutes after he said that. Who knows, maybe I would have fucked that Latvian man. Maybe he would have fucked me. Maybe I would have joined them the next day in their old BMW. I did discuss with them my love for eastern European women, however. A love they also shared. So, perhaps sex would not be part of my night with the Latvians. 

The best part of the night came when I was inside that pub. I only now remember that it was some public holiday in Croatia. The third holiday I saw during my month in Zagreb. Public holidays are different here. People actually celebrate. Most stores are closed; the only ones that remain open are grocery stores, and even they close at 12pm. In Britain, we are closer to working on Christmas Day. On holidays we have sales. We are fucking shit, and I hate it. 

So I’m standing drinking too much whiskey whilst everyone around me is dancing and singing. A band is playing, what I am told, is old Yugoslavian songs. Everyone knows the words. The bartenders are singing as they pace up and down their podiums. The men dance with the women without perversion. They just all want to dance. You couldn’t wipe the smile off my face, pure exuberance. I was literally tearing up. The guy beside me, presumably seeing how taken aback I was, says, “Croatia is a very specific country.” His English wasn’t the best, I had spoken with him earlier that night, but something about that sentence seemed more fitting. It isn’t unique; it is specific. 

The night ended elsewhere. Nothing exciting. Some pub or club. I was dangerously drunk; the hangover put me off drinking for eight days. 

*******************************************************************************************************************

The Ari Shaffir quote I mentioned earlier in a bitter, drunken rant. Well, it works. A week or so later, I was sitting reading ‘the return of Philip Latinowicz’ by Miroslav Krleža halfway through my second pint. It is a very famous Croatian novel. I thought it was okay. Anyway, after one pint, the guy beside me starts talking to me in Hrvatski. I do my usual limited response, informing him that I am shit. This pub was not in the city centre, so perhaps this is where you can get chatting with people. He brings up Charles Bukowski. It is a nice feeling to realise you are a well-read person. Like, him bringing up an author from whom I’ve read three books. I’m a pretentious wee cunt, but I enjoy those moments. His name was Ivan, and, despite him mistaking me for a Croat, I like to think he spoke to me out of respect. Similar to the man at the pub the other night where I nearly cried. They saw someone trying to take in the culture. 

Ivan told me how he had been drinking since seven am that morning. By the way, Robert from the other week also told me a similar thing. Man, they love to drink. They are resilient people; plus, here, most drinks come with an obligatory glass of water. Same with coffee. 

Two more exciting snippets from that night. Ivan told me that 80% of Croatians own property. Not sure if that is true, but that is mental if it is. Also, the bartender was a member of Mensa. She never went to university or anything; just one day, her psychiatrist told her to take the test. A diamond in the rough. 

I like it here. Life is slow. 

Cheers.