Elements of Refusal

Jenny and I have returned from Europe just in time for the start of the New Jersey Devils hockey season. Their first home game was a dud despite winning their first two games in Prague. I’m fairly neutral about the season, not bullish or tepid. I just want to see some exciting hockey. They happen to be in a competitive division especially next to their rich kid cousins across the Hudson so they have their work cut out for them, but even more opportunity for some fun. You can’t take sports thaaaat seriously. Look at how much the athletes get paid, and even worse at how sports teams are money laundering schemes for billionaires, mostly and not entirely. The owners of the New York Rangers don’t even pay property tax, because as we know New York City is run by idiots. Drink a beer at the game, yell at some refs, and cheer when the object goes from one side of the box to the other.

That’s enough of all that. I am here to write about our trip to Europe, specifically Croatia and Munich. Let’s get Munich out of the way. There is very good chocolate to be purchased there, not cheaply, but better than almost everything I’ve ever had here. I kick myself for not buying more. The beer is fine, the food fine, and it is pleasant to walk around town. Their subway system looks like it was designed by someone with a PHD who has zero social and practical skills. But once you get past the chaos it’s convenient. Lastly, the people there stink. I don’t mean they are rude or unfriendly. I mean they literally stink from the businessman in a crisp tailored navy blue suit, Uber driver, hipster barista, and biergarten bartender. On my last day there my senses had enough and I developed a stomach ache from their stank. I’d rather hang on the northwest corner of Washington Square Park next to the bums. In Munich, the BO, to quote Seinfeld, is BBO: Beyond Body Order. I’ll probably end up back there for chocolate, but ideally with a hazmat mask. It shames me that some of my ancestors are Bavarians.

Now onto Croatia. I’m notoriously skeptical of everything. If you told me oxygen was cool I’d hold my breath until blue. People used to tell me Venice was amazing, and I refused to go until my mother asked me to take her. And boy did I eat my words, because Venice is awesome. It was the same situation with Croatia except various things drew me there. We flew into Split. Yeah, it sort of reminds me of Venice which makes sense since it was under their control long long ago. I was told Split is a circus during the summer, and the locals are experiencing the positives and negatives of the tourism economy. But everyone we met was friendly and curious.

The food, if you must know, is not amazing in the way of Italian or some French cuisine. It is simple, fresh, straightforward, and makes you feel good. Double espresso for 1.90 Euros and people watching suffices for the morning. A sandwich of paprika sauce, yogurt, the softest feta I’ve ever had, and cevapi is good midday. For dinner squid risotto, grilled snapper, Pommes Anna, and wine followed by 3 Euro beers at the park overlooking the water. For a changeup there’s always the squid, barley, and lentil soup and lots of bread to dunk. There is of course the olive oil gelato which I had 6 times because no shit I’m the gelato guy. I’ll go back to Split, just not in the summer, though that can be said for almost all of Europe.

Then we were off on a ferry to an island far far away as I could be from proper society yet still have an air conditioner. And to our amusement the ferry was full of French guys headed to a music festival. They weren’t your ordinary baguette holding Frenchmen either. About half looked like the lead singer of Rage Against the Machine Zack de la Rocha, hair and mean mug included. During our two hour ride I watched as they unsuccessfully wooed this or that girl with their smooth talking or bizarrely, a pushup contest. Before you think they were 19 or 25 years old, they were closer to my age. I like to say most Americans never mentally get beyond junior year of high school, and there’s definitely a segment of the European population that has never left the club from their early 20s. Despite all the unwashed greasy jeans and white people dreadlocks, they didn’t smell anything compared to the businessmen in Munich.

Upon landing on the island the sun was slowly coming down. And since the air was damp from previous rain it felt truly Slavic in my mind. That is, reality is permanently set to “Vivid Cool” on your iPhone, everything is a bit grey and chilling. As we walked through town to our hotel I saw some men smoking while wearing Adidas sweatpants and finally I turned to Jenny and said we are definitely in Slavia.

When we woke up in the morning the island was a completely different place. The filters were turned off and someone cracked up the saturation. I swear to you that the Adidas disappeared and replaced with colorful t-shirts, croissants and espresso; and kids laughing as they played along the dock. Everyone had a smile. During our stay I talked to a lot of people and it was nice to experience those who have only concern for what is in front of them or those who are so intensely focused on sharing the things deep in their hearts, at least appearing so. Days were void of advertisements.

I felt an equilibrium rather quickly, for deep inside I am bursting with Mediterranean zeal while outwardly carrying a Nico Bellic cynicism. Going to Croatia was about an element of refusal, a fucking breather from the suffocating chatter of our civilization. And I got some of that, if just for a bit. Where else can I read aloud Rimbaud with fury and fire alongside the Mediterranean? I had a short moment of lamentation while resting in a cove. During my mid 20s to mid 30s I lived in California and specifically in the West Marin County I regularly walked and spent time at the Point Reyes area. It was here I felt the birth at the numbness of being human at the dawn of social media and the smartphone. I’d climb the jagged rocks towering over the beaches and unleash fury much in the same way as Rimbaud.

And in this cove and on this mellow Adriatic island my trembling hands went still, if just for a few more days. I could face fears with calm and a smile. I’m notoriously in poor sync with time, it is the closest thing to a God in my life. It is always teasing, prodding, and warping. I needed to be some place where time is less of a concern and where possibilities can blossom. Croatia offered me that a feeling of possibility.

May elements of refusal find you.