Even Homeless People Need a Coffee Break; and Other Things I Learned on my Eurotrip

That Fateful Day - see bulletpoint #3

Oh hello, I’m back from my 2-month Eurotrip. Back to reality where money has to be made rather than spent on French wine, inflated museum admissions, and Croatian conditioner, the latter which I mistakenly used as shampoo for about 2 weeks. Feats accomplished:

• Accidently visited a male strip club/potential gay brothel in Rome
• Realized that sour cream does not compliment a day at the Croatian beach (should have gone with the container that said “Jogurt”
• Was homeless with a guy named Jeff for 22 hours in Croatia. He wasn’t homeless; we got separated from our two friends who had the address and directions to the apartment we rented. Though I write this now in good humor, let me just say that you would probably never want to get lost overnight in a foreign country while wearing a little black dress. That being said, here is the postcard that I wrote to my best friend while Jeff and I were taking a homeless coffee break.

Sunset over the Adriatic Sea - Photo by Me - For Actual Postcard Please Visit MyiPhoneDeletedHalfofMyEuropePictures.com

JUNE 12, 2010

The arrow that you see on the front of this postcard is where I slept this morning from 6 to 8am today. Yes, this means that June 11th, the day of my birth, was spent walking the streets of Zadar in Croatia (never go here) trying to find the location of the obscure

Aw, look how happy I was just hours before wanting to KILL MYSELF

“B&B” where we paid for 2 nights, without an address or street name, only the first name of the 62 year-old proprietor “Jozo” who we met at a bus station upon arrival in Zadar (don’t go here). The night began swimmingly with wine and bread and cheese, and I saw my first sunset over a sea — the Adriatic. Myself and a Canadian named Jeff left our 2 friends to use the banya, and that’s when we last saw them. However, our friends were kind enough to leave us our bottle of wine (minus half) and a pack of cigarettes, which would sustain us for the next 15 hours of wandering the city. We still haven’t found our friends. We don’t know where we’re sleeping tonight. I love you, wish I talked to you on my birthday. [Then I bought a phone card and called her]

• Decided I hate Croatians At Work:

Croatian Taxi Driver: “My shift, it is over. You must go. I will leave you here” [at a random neighborhood bar miles away from town]

Croatian Train Worker, Job Description Unknown: [Enters train compartment, mutters something in Croatian, I pull out my ticket and give it to her]. “Passport.” [Eyes close halfway in annoyance. I give her my passport.] “You must take off your shoes before you put on the seat.”  I completely agree. These chairs are nearly spotless, there are definitely no pen marks or mysterious streaks of brown crud embedded into the casino carpet -colored upholstery.

And any attempt to order a coffee from a Croatian Barista has been an absolute sham. The response to “espresso with cold milk” or “espresso with milk and ice” — even spoken in Italian — is always “No.” Is there a run on ice in Croatia?

"Really? Did you really just flip me the bird? And get down from there, don't even pretend like we're the same height, because we're not"

• Saw major French penis at a nude beach then bought some pretty perfume
• Rode the train through Tuscany listening to this Ludacris song
• Had an affair with Italian chips
• Decided against kidnapping a stray dog in Venice and naming him Ciao

Of course, while travelling I Found Myself blah blah blah — no, but mostly the trip emphasized something I had learned a couple years ago while travelling within the US. No matter where you go, everything is exactly the same. Whether you’re in Massachusetts, North Carolina, or Arizona, shopping plazas are the watering hole of suburbia, Walmart is always down the street and you’re never completely lost until you don’t hit a Starbucks or Dunkin Donuts after 5 minutes of driving. It’s good to get the f–k out of the US every once in awhile, or at least once in a lifetime. I personally can’t wait to go back. :)

Manarola, one town in the Cinque Terre, Italy

Trevi Fountain, Rome

Hot Dog only 3,50 - Street Food in Paris

Cape d'Ail, my favorite beach in the South of France

Noli, a beach in Liguria Italy

A Day at the Brain Doctor’s Office

Yesterday, me and my pal Restless Leg Syndrome climbed into the car and dropped in for a visit to my doctor at South Shore Neurology.

Walking into the waiting room at 851 Main Street is an enjoyable experience which I look forward to every six months. Don’t get me wrong, there are times when I wish I could be Michael Keaton in Multiplicity and go shopping while my clone is left to leaf through a decaying People Magazine for a couple of hours. Despite the waiting, people-watching in a neurologist’s waiting room is fun. There are cute old people accompanied by their younger handlers, attempting to keep the flighty wanderings in check with inconsistent success. There are middle-aged, be-lipsticked working women impatiently bobbing their high-heeled feet. Yesterday there appeared to be a couple of divorcées on their 4th date, evident by the liberal laughter in response to the man’s second-rate jokes, and the absence of a goodbye kiss as the woman departed to get her brain checked out. But the most fun in people-watching at 851 Main Street comes via my vivid yet drastic imagination. It’s kind of a pleasure to imagine the crazy nonsense that is occurring behind each of my fellow patients’ skulls.

Old Mr. Pennyloafers to my left is undergoing the first stages of dementia. Somewhere in his brain, a group of synapses are munching on York Peppermint Patties while watching reruns of The Price is Right. Meanwhile Mr. Pennyloafers’ daughter, Elise, is downloading an iPhone app that will estimate the value of her father’s estate for when he croaks in oh, 2, 3 years. Across from me, Sharon Gladstone-Perry and her migraines might find relief in a new drug heavily promoted by Redbook. As for the lovers in the corner, Amy has decided to save her tidbit about narcolepsy for a later date in the relationship.

The nurse calls my name. I am led down a hallway to a familiar room which, though the building was built only ten years ago, still appears to be from the seventies. Leather-bound books with titles such as “Restless Leg Syndrome and You” and (in excessively large and visible lettering) “DEMENTIA,” line the walls. I settle into a chair and become entranced by a paperweight on my doctor’s desk. Is it very windy in this part of the building? At one point in the day does my doctor desperately scan his desk for something of just the right size that will secure flyaway papers to his desk, something other than the equally heavy stapler and book that are also within reach? At this time Dr. Herman enters the room and we exchange hello’s.

The conversation gets a bit off track with a discussion about the pitfalls of German cuisine. Such is the manner of Dr. Herman; our last visit was mainly about the two Canadian DJs who prank called Sarah Palin, peppered with a bit of discussion about my RLS. (For a man of sixty, my doctor really knows his way around YouTube.) He recommends Berlin for my upcoming Eurotrip, we advance to the screening room for a more comprehensive version of the sobriety test, and then it’s back to his office for the icing on the cake.

This is the part where Dr. Herman dictates a letter to my primary care physician into a tape recorder, which I assume is later typed up by some unfortunate medical assistant. I am still unsure as to why my presence is necessary for this portion of the visit, but I enjoy it nonetheless. As a man of sixty, Dr. Herman has probably been doing this tape-recording-shindig for decades. And at one point in time it was probably a cutting-edge technology. Dr. Herman begins. After every sentence, he says “STOP.” It sounds very official and I can perfectly visualize said unfortunate medical assistant rolling her eyes. Last is the update on my vitals. This is the part where Dr. Herman strings words and numbers together into a mess of gibberish. If you asked me if he were describing a 22 year-old girl or the approximate size and weight of a lawn chair, I would not be able to tell you. Click. He stands up, we say our goodbyes and I find myself once again in the waiting room.

As I make an appointment with the receptionist for 6 months in advance, I am saddened by the fact that I may have to cancel. (I’m aiming to flee Massachusetts for a warmer climate and better job market come Fall). My only hope is that Dr. Herman can refer me to a doctor’s office that is just as much fun as 851 Main Street.