The smothering hostel atmosphere forces me to leave to seek something fulfilling. It’s a nice place, but it’s as if the small accommodations have attracted a diverse wealth of odd balls. A cast of Batman characters. Was I one of these misfits? Have I been cast out of society into the black hole of unfulfillment and despair? A traveling waster with too much to say for myself while I nervously laugh at my own jokes and try to lick my ear? Surely not. Perhaps I needed another good look in the mirror. To misquote ‘and I’; “I was indeed drifting into the arena of the unwell.”
Olomouc has a nuclear fall out shelter. I decided to visit that in an effort to cleanse my soul of the dafties. After locating it and finding it locked up (open only on Thursdays and Saturdays), I marched round to the tourist information to see what was up.
“One ticket for the fall out shelter please.”
“How many are you?”
“Just one.”
“No sorry we’re fully booked.”
I was wondering what response I could have given her that would have made them not be fully booked. If I said “a half” would I have got in? I attempted to get my head round her line of questioning as I went and bought a book.
I managed to find a decent store with a good English section. I’ve not read a book in years, as I just can never be bothered to battle through the first few pages and get to the good part. I’ve read a fair bit, but if I’m going to improve my writing and get published, I’m going to need to learn the trade and stick my nose into more literature. But where to begin? The market seems awash with hideous airport novels and cheap porn. Then as if by magic, like everything else on the shelf faded away, the spines of two books shone like a beacon for my inspiration, the authors names calling to my influences.
Hemingway and Bukowski.
The store assistant was gorgeous with enormous breasts. I paid with a smug expression, as if she would recognise my incredible taste and fledgling potential to paint pictures with words and fuck like a train. She betrayed no emotion and didn’t even brush my hand as she tossed the coins into the plastic change tub. I felt defeated, and the little door bell sounded more forlorn as I slunk out of the shop. Perhaps a new arrival at the hostel would be more appreciative. I walked with the front cover of the books on display. That’s right. I’ve just bought some books. Yeah.
Sitting in a bar sometime later and I’ve nobody else to socialise with but the misfits. Now look I must stress I know I’ve been doing some Aussie bashing lately, but I genuinely don’t have anything against them as a whole. It’s just recently been astounding just how mental they can be. They bring it upon themselves.
“Who are you to ask that question? I don’t know you. I’ve just met you. Why the hell are you asking that question to me? I’m not going to tell you the answer. I don’t know you and you don’t know me.”
This was after two hours of drinking and in following a lull in the conversation, I politely inquired if he was planning on ‘popping the question’ to his American girlfriend when they move to the states together in the coming months. He was slurring his words like a champ, almost frothing at the mouth, but still looked ready to kill, and it took some intervention of other hostelers to explain the absurdity of his retort. I had no idea I could offend so easily. I’m going to try and do it more often.
Hemingway and Bukowski
The smothering hostel atmosphere forces me to leave to seek something fulfilling. It’s a nice place, but it’s as if the small accommodations have attracted a diverse wealth of odd balls. A cast of Batman characters. Was I one of these misfits? Have I been cast out of society into the black hole of unfulfillment and despair? A traveling waster with too much to say for myself while I nervously laugh at my own jokes and try to lick my ear? Surely not. Perhaps I needed another good look in the mirror. To misquote ‘and I’; “I was indeed drifting into the arena of the unwell.”
Olomouc has a nuclear fall out shelter. I decided to visit that in an effort to cleanse my soul of the dafties. After locating it and finding it locked up (open only on Thursdays and Saturdays), I marched round to the tourist information to see what was up.
“One ticket for the fall out shelter please.”
“How many are you?”
“Just one.”
“No sorry we’re fully booked.”
I was wondering what response I could have given her that would have made them not be fully booked. If I said “a half” would I have got in? I attempted to get my head round her line of questioning as I went and bought a book.
I managed to find a decent store with a good English section. I’ve not read a book in years, as I just can never be bothered to battle through the first few pages and get to the good part. I’ve read a fair bit, but if I’m going to improve my writing and get published, I’m going to need to learn the trade and stick my nose into more literature. But where to begin? The market seems awash with hideous airport novels and cheap porn. Then as if by magic, like everything else on the shelf faded away, the spines of two books shone like a beacon for my inspiration, the authors names calling to my influences.
Hemingway and Bukowski.
The store assistant was gorgeous with enormous breasts. I paid with a smug expression, as if she would recognise my incredible taste and fledgling potential to paint pictures with words and fuck like a train. She betrayed no emotion and didn’t even brush my hand as she tossed the coins into the plastic change tub. I felt defeated, and the little door bell sounded more forlorn as I slunk out of the shop. Perhaps a new arrival at the hostel would be more appreciative. I walked with the front cover of the books on display. That’s right. I’ve just bought some books. Yeah.
Sitting in a bar sometime later and I’ve nobody else to socialise with but the misfits. Now look I must stress I know I’ve been doing some Aussie bashing lately, but I genuinely don’t have anything against them as a whole. It’s just recently been astounding just how mental they can be. They bring it upon themselves.
“Who are you to ask that question? I don’t know you. I’ve just met you. Why the hell are you asking that question to me? I’m not going to tell you the answer. I don’t know you and you don’t know me.”
This was after two hours of drinking and in following a lull in the conversation, I politely inquired if he was planning on ‘popping the question’ to his American girlfriend when they move to the states together in the coming months. He was slurring his words like a champ, almost frothing at the mouth, but still looked ready to kill, and it took some intervention of other hostelers to explain the absurdity of his retort. I had no idea I could offend so easily. I’m going to try and do it more often.