The ubiquitous Eastern European triangular head hung low with the weariness of a thousand overtimes. Outside, the city was slouching into winter. Earlier some gypsy kids stole my last few french fries as I stood near the tram stop in an irritating pin-pricky rain. The language was comically impossible, but not much else was funny. The war felt like it ended a week ago.
Thailand - The afternoons were ripe with an energetic torpor that secretly wanted to be restlessness, but never quite worked up the steam. The big hairy monkey was starting to show through all of the disguises. Blinking into a white blinding glare off of a burning silver sea, I felt wonderfully stupid - hello, big hairy monkey. "Why not?" The local lingo. It's funny for a while, this excuse for everything, until you realize it isn't a joke. Maybe the heat brings it out, but the scale of the world cannot be faced without the monkey.
Thailand
This guy's one and only appearance seemed to tie in somehow with Mrs. Tong's arrest earlier in the day. The cops had stormed in and shut down her little card game, forcing a weary and fully resigned Mr. Tong to brush off his bribing skills down at the island hoosgow. Meanwhile the mystery man silently piled back some Mekhong whisky and Krong Thips, acting like he owned the joint. Maybe he did.
Cueva de Nerja, Spain
Ignoring the illustrated warnings that hinted at all manner of horrible industrial death, we ventured beyond the construction zone to find an unpopulated hillside growing wild with giant foliage - a complete contrast to the manicured gardens of the tourist-infested park. The stunted grass was a faded green military brushcut that crunched underfoot, leading down a sharp cliff to the sea. Large, unfamiliar seabirds shrieked dementedly overhead, describing wide spirals in the sky. They seemed to be protective of this solitary outcrop. Or maybe they thought we had some smelt. We stayed awhile, as fishless as we were.
In the morning the old guys would hang around in the shade waiting for the cafes to open. They wore starched white shirts and smelled of old-fashioned soap and shaving lotion. Standing on the hotel balcony in my boxer shorts, eyes blasted by the Mediterranean glare, I might get a wave and a smile from one of them. They were proud of their little corner of Andalucia. They'd lived through wars, famine, and Franco, spending their days now being quietly Spanish.
Tokyo
On the train to the train that would take me to the train that goes to the airport, the endless grey smear of city rushing past the window, I could feel the sensory overload finally losing its juice, running down like an exhausted battery. As a salaryman quietly konked out on my shoulder I became transfixed by the charmless cartoon character on the young girl's case. It was like looking in a mirror.
Amsterdam
The place stank of failure and sour surrender. The greasy British gargoyle taking up too much space at the bar kept loudly demanding some "proper music" because it was his birthday. His solo celebration eventually drove us out into the freezing rain and the equally frightful weather in our heads made finding the hotel a bit of a challenge. It was somewhere in this slippery Red Light District maze that I noticed that the room key's metal fob looked a bit like a silver penis.
Andalucia
Stunned and sleep-walking between the pillars of Hercules - from this imaginary coast I could see an imaginary Africa. She looked right at home here, wavering like a mirage in the heat. She was made to stand against the impossible colour scheme. The colour is all I remember, but it's never the same.
Asilah, Morocco
A man with a pen and notepad followed us around that morning, taking notes and doing very little to act clandestine. Before disappearing, our tout's last words were "trust no one." That wasn't difficult. I knew that there was a script somewhere and that my part was already written, that I was the straight man in an elaborate production. If I had only known my lines.
(Trivia: this piece appeared in the X-men II film. Yes, I am a sell-out.)
Zagreb, Yugoslavia
The second day it rained cigarettes, falling from the "Dunhill" hot air balloon above, landing everywhere around the cafe and on down the narrow street, some on balconies and rooftops. The Belgians were not there for the freebies, still sleeping off last night's vicious raid on our defenseless minibar. The kava was powerful - coffee on steroids, devouring the cream like a black hole sucking in a dead star. By the last day I was incapable of getting off the bed and drank my pivo alone while watching the Flintstones in Italian. When the Belgians came I couldn't answer the door. I never made the night train to Munich.
