I have been drowning in patriotism all week.  It was the Independence Day, the Fourth of July.  And while I love any excuse to potentially blow off my finger with fireworks, it was almost too much this year.

Oh, Mr. Obama, it all started with you.  After holding hands with Hilary in Unity, you saw fit to come to Independence.  This time all by yourself.  And what did you talk about?   Patriotism.

It was my duty to head out to Harry Truman’s hometown to cover Obams’s speech.  A speech, where he as a man running for the highest office in the country, had to defend the fact that he loved and supported his country.

So let me say at this at outset of my remarks. I will never question the patriotism of others in this campaign. And I will not stand idly by when I hear others question mine.

The Democratic presidential candidate went on to give a nuanced view of patriotism.  To summarize…The argument about patriotism is an argument about who we are as a country and our ideals. Obama, and he says most Americans, have a gut instinct love for their country, but as you get older, you see the ideals not being upheld.  Dissent doesn’t make a person unpatriotic, but it should make one try harder to live up to their vision of the country.

Obama included this great quote from Mark Twain, “Patriotism is supporting your country all the time, and your government when it deserves it.”

My country?  That’s easy to support.  The US government?  I have my moments.  But patriotism?  Yuck.

I’m tired of how it’s represented.  Red, white, and blue everywhere.  Hand on the heart for the Star Spangled Banner.

I’d prefer the Bill of Rights tact up on the front door.  Or better yet the Declaration of Independence, the most punk rock document in our country’s history.

Check it out yourself.  NPR’s illuminati reading the Declaration of Independence.  Tell me this doesn’t make you well up with patriotism.

Maybe next year, I’ll print it out and nail a copy to the front door of City Hall.  Or better yet Congress and the White House.

My friend Kristin and I met up at the Lake of the Ozarks.  Besides a loose time to meet under a big Indian, all of our pre-planning involved food.  Deep fried catfish was Kristin suggestion. Ice cream and fudge were mine.  Other than that we were at our own whim.

Skeeball was played.  Kristin dominated Indiana Jones pinball.  I took the title for South Park.  We even through in a little Dance, Dance, Revolution for good measure.

But the highlight of the trip was food, mounds and mounds of food.  It started and ended with a quest for catfish.  I’d done some research and found Camp Bagnell Fish and Steakhouse,  allegedly where the locals go for such delicacies as catfish and frog legs.  After driving down a deserted dirt road, we found it was closed on Wednesdays.

But we persevered, ending up at J. B. Hooks. It promised seafood and a view.  We were starving and both sounded great.  Alas, there was no catfish on the menue.  No, only fish from the actual sea.  Kristin got a huge plate of muscles and I settled on a burger.   I left very full.

And then we went and ate ice cream.  After discussing our flavor options with the fellow, I settled on a cup of Moose Track ice cream.  Chocolate ice cream with peanut butter cups and fudge swirls–what was there not to love?

So what are two girls to do after eating lunch followed by ice cream?  Buy fudge of course!  Ater sampling a few different types Kristin and I both settled on bring home some Snickers fudge for our friends and family.  It prety much tasted like the best snickers bar ever.  A thick layer of chocolate fudge topped with gooey caramel and peanuts.  I’m drooling just thinking about it.

Then we took a brief break from eating.  We headed to the arcade and then the outlet mall, which was its own form of gluttony.   But by dinner we’d returned to our face-stuffing ways, finally finding catfish at the Happy Fisherman.  A restaurant where your catfish is served by barely intelligible baba’s in a kitschy mixture of old nautical supplies and finding Nemo curtains.  The service was a bit slow but you can’t expect Grandma to move like she used to.

Kristin and I split a catfish meal.  It wasn’t the best friend catfish ever, but it wasn’t half-bad either.  Plus, I like to believe there was a little old lady frying it up in the kitchen.  After declaring myself stuffed, Kristin asked if I wanted desert and was easily talked into strawberry shortcake.  To be honest, I don’t think I’ve ever turned down strawberry shortcake.  I can take or leave the whipped cream or ice cream, but there’s something about a warm biscuit topped with juicy fresh strawberries and sugar.  Good god, what a divine way to end the day!

Kristin and I parted ways, our belly’s full and our future’s in competitive eating looking bright.

Gluttony–the most delicous sin.

Two weeks and a lot of mailbox checking later I finished watching the short-lived but timeless Freaks and Geeks—the most honest portrayal of high school for the rest of it.

It was 1999. The 30-somethings of 90210 were wrapping up their Beverly Hills existence of popularity, parties, and Porsches. Brenda, Brandon, and the rest of the gang were wrapping up their time at the Peach Pit.

Enter Freaks and Geeks.

Not one of the main characters was popular or a jock. No these kids were the others. They drove junker cars, smoked pot, or played Dungeons and Dragons. They either resigned themselves to their lowly social standing or tried to hop on the path, if not to popularity, than to moderate acceptance.

Lindsay walked the line between our two groups of lovable losers. The show is her rebellion. Her transition between a goody-two-shoes geek and a slacker. She wore her dad’s old army jacket and had given up on god. She was the schools best Mathlete (a term I adore!), despite not trying too hard. She hung with the stoners but only smoked up once. Oh, the similarities!

Like some of my favorite shows (RIP Twin Peaks and Firefly), Freaks and Geeks ended too soon. But in those 18 episodes is perfection. Characters were still just coming into their own and so many questions about everyone’s futures are left unanswered. All the potential of those episodes never ended in a 3rd season disappointment of convoluted plot lines and awkward transitions to college.

Kind of like high school. You leave young idealistic, still wrestling with who you are and how you can wedge yourself into this thing we call society. Stop life there and even a complete fuck up is full of potential. (C’mon he can turn things around! Just a little hardwork and perserverance!) Continue on 5, 10, 20 years, and most of us have wasted our fair share of opportunities. Hopefully, we’re doing all right in the world, but let’s face it sometimes we’ve all gotten the shaft and for some people that’s a deep, dark hole.

So, how does my own personal Lindsay Weir story end?

Not how I imagined it in high school, but not too bad either. I haven’t changed the world in any significant way yet. I never played guitar college punk band. I’m not wearing a lab coat or working out physics equation in front of a class.

But things change. And I changed, for the better mostly. I’m still a freak. I’m still a geek. But I think those two sides of my personality have integrated themselves into some strange amalgamation that’s me.  The public-radio-reporting, Doctor-Who-loving, Stranglers-listening me.

How you entangle my mind

and guide me off my chosen path.

I fought your warm embrace.

No more, now you will be mine.

Okay, remind me never to write poetry again

Now, down to business. I meant to keep writing on the blog when I got back from my trip. Nothing ambitious. Not a daily post, but maybe take a shot at once or twice a week. Somewhere to order my thoughts and write like I can’t for radio. Swear, opinionate, forget grammar, and generally be free. Well, it didn’t happen. I got busy. Started a week long project repainting my tiny bathroom. God that took forever. Then I meant to the next week. Then the next and next and next. Now it’s a few months later and this is the first blog post.

This blog will be my distraction. Oh sure, I’ve got distractions galore already, facebook, askmefi, blogs of friends, imagined friends, and people I’m a little afraid to meet. But with those I’m just taking it in. This is my active distraction, contributing to the pablum of the internet pop culture. What inspired this post? Talk of the Nation with guest Linda Barry. She’s an illustrator and basically said at some point people need to lose their fear of writing, drawing, whatever and just be okay with being bad. In fact, it probably won’t be that bad. Writing for the experience and not the final product.

So here it is my absolute worst, most horrible writing.

Enjoy!

So it’s come to an end. My 24 days flew buy, and it’s hard to believe I’m back in Kansas City. I’m safe and sound. KC’s pretty much the same. Somehow I expected it to be different in 3 weeks. It’s not. It’s the same old Kansas City, modest, comfortable and filled with delicious barbeque.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy to be back. Thrilled to see my friends. Glad to sleep in my own bed. Even okay with waking up before the crack of dawn and come to work. But I miss the carefree disorder of traveling, not knowing who I’ll meet or what I’ll find in a day. Of course, I don’t really miss some of the lumpy beds or cold showers.

I know I’m lucky. It’s rare to have a job where you can take almost a month off.

Enough has been said about this trip already. Now’s it’s time to check out some of the pictures! Just click here.

But first a preview…

By the time I got to Prague, I just wasn’t in the mood for it.

Prague’s yet another lovely European city, but a lovely European city with cheap beer and a slough of British boys flying in to partake. Thanks to RyanAir and EasyJet thousands of young English lads can descend upon the city for a few nights of boozing. Nothing wrong with it. I just didn’t feel like drinking myself silly with 20 year olds. There are plenty of bars in Kansas City where I could do basically the same thing.

There’s actually a name for this phenomenon–”stag weekends.” It would explain all the advertisements for “cabarets”. I guess there are also “hen weekends” for the ladies, but I didn’t see any of those. These parties go on other places in Europe, but Prague is ground zero.

My hostel was loaded with boys looking to get drunk and stumble home in the early morning hours. It was also located about 2 feet from the train tracks. Mind you not two feet from the actual train station. No that was a bus ride away. Just two feet from trains that passed by at all hours of the night. I probably wouldn’t have slept if hadn’t been for earplugs. That’s my one travel trip for hostels–always bring earplugs! You’ll sleep so much better.

I went to the castle in Prague and walked across Charles Bridge. Both were scenic, beautiful, and requisite, but my favorite spot was the Museum of Communism. Informative and kitschy have rarely been combined so well. It starts out with some of the dreams of the Communist forefather of Marx and Engels. Then, it shows you the harsh reality of life under communism. Okay, the school didn’t seem so bad. We’re all indoctrinated with something from a young age. But the empty store shelves and the waiting in line seem rather inhumane to any red-blooded American like myself that demands 100 varieties of cereal be in stock at any given time.

Then there was the second currency. There was the normal currency that the Czechoslovakians used to buy needed goods at the empty grocery stores. But the government introduced a second currency to be used for foreign goods and other higher quality products. It was supposed to be a one-to-one exchange rate with the local currency, but ended up being something like 8-to-1. The funny example they gave…If a prostitute got $20 for a night’s work with a foreign fellow, she could change it to some of this second currency. Then she could basically sell the second currency for enough that it equaled the average monthly paycheck for a Czechoslovakian laborer. Seemed like being the right kind of whore was a pretty good deal back in the Communist days.

Anyway, the museum finished with the crumbling of Communism. And I learned about the Plastic People of the Universe. The Plastic People were this Czech art rock band in the late ’60s and early ’70s that was more or less crushed by the government. They played in secret locations but were eventually arrested and then released after international protests. There music helped solidify and inspire Czech dissidents, including playwright and future president Vaclav Havel. Totally rock’n'roll! I’ve only heard one song, but I want to be their new biggest fan.

The best part of the Museum of Communism? It sits directly over one of the greatest capitalist symbols on the planet. That’s right, it shares a building with McDonald’s.

I also visited the Museum of Torture. It’s really quite amazing all the ways humans have invented to inflict pain and humiliation on each other. This was all Midieval torture devices, but it seemed to have such relevancy in the modern context of Guantanamo and waterboarding. Something pretty similar was used to get confessions back in the day but was considered one of the gentler forms since there was no physical damage done.

Prague’s art museum had a double exhibition going on of Salvador Dali (not so great, mainly reproductions and some drawings) and a really fantastic showing of Alfons Mucha. He was a painter who specialized in ethereal femininity and advertising.

There’s one museum I missed. The Museum of Sex Machines. It was 9am when I walked by along some side street. The museum wasn’t open yet, but I can only imagine what waited inside. I wonder how much it has in common with the Torture Museum and if they’ve ever considered a joint exhibition.  Well, maybe next time I’m in Prague I’ll drop in and check it out.   I imagine it will be me and a gaggle of hungover English boys, pointing, laughing, and describing who would used the hand cranked vibrator. I can’t wait!

So Prague wasn’t entirely my seen, and I had a solid four or five days scheduled there. So I backtracked to the start of my trip and Ljubljana. Thank god for the relatively cheap Slovenian railways! I visited my friend Janko and checked out a few sites I missed, including the city’s Roman wall circa 14 a.d. and the Slovenia’s Natural History and National Museum. My advice skip the Natural History museum unless your a biologist or something. Stuffed birds and tree bark don’t really look any different in Slovenia than anywhere else, especially if you don’t know what those things are in English to begin with.

The National Museum of Slovenia is definitely worth a visit. You can learn about the country’s history from pre-history through it’s establishment as a country in 1991. Slovenia lies at an intersection in Europe and has been at various times ruled by Celts, Romans, early Slavic people, the Austro-Hungarian empire, and of course Yugoslavia.

One of the most fascinating parts to me was the importance of Slovene language in the development of the nation. Slovene was the language of the common people, but once it started being written down it seemed to start some nationalist pride. This really gained traction in the 19th century as poets and authors started writing in Slovene.

I suppose it’s fitting then that in the heart of Ljubljana is Preseren Square, where a statue of Slovenia’s greatest poet France Preseren sits. He’s hovered over by a muse and looking across the square at a carving of his unrequited love Julija.

I got into Krakow around 6:30 in the morning. I’d shared a couchette car with Pavel, a Polish highschool soccer coach. He’d studied English in school but said he’d only actually been speaking English for four months. Four months? Seems kind of random. Until I learned he had a girl in Budapest. She doesn’t speak Polish. He doesn’t speak Hungarian. Ah, but English and love–the two international languages.

Pavel called it a night after cracking open a Polish beer, and I did too. Unfortunately, I didn’t sleep much. Usually, I’ve slept pretty well on train, but oh not that night! Fitfully at best. I think part of the probelm is my ipod has lost its juice. Hayley had the charger, and since it ran out of power around Belgrade I’ve been without at . With the ipod, I can put on music and have fun, tune out, or fall asleep anywhere, but without it my chances are 50/50. I finally fell asleep around 4am and woke up around 6am to a knock on the door.

Once I was awake, there was no way I was falling back asleep, so my backpack and I wandered around Krakow for a few hours before I knocked on the hostel door. Once I got to my room I slept the sleep of the dead for a few hours. Then I woke up and did the total tourist thing. The main square, the castles, the Jewish quarter. I came back and fell asleep pretty early.

The next day was Auschwitz. It’s one of those things you have to do when you’re in Krakow. I’m glad I did, but it was emotionally draining. It’s horrifying enough to say more than a million people died there, but it’s absolutlely terrifying to see how people suffered and were used.

Jews arrived at the camp after basically being told they’d were being relocated to a new Jewish area. They grabbed whatever belongings the could. Once they got to Auschwitz, they were unloaded and separated into two lines. Men on oneside and women and children on the other. They were told they’d see each other again. Then a doctor gave each person the thumbs up or the thumbs down. Those who got the thumbs down, the elderly, crippled, children, and pregant women were sent to the gas chambers.

It was all so horrible. The Germans put on such a show that this was such a normal thing. You need showers. Strip and remember where you put your clothes. You’ll have to comeback for them. Then people were lead to the gas chambers.

The worst part is they might have been marginally luckier than the ones sent to the concentration camp. They had squalid conditions. Unheated buildings. Little food. Fourteen hour work days. Hours spent standing in the cold for head counts. Eight to a bed. Disease and dysentary was rampant.

The display that really hit me in the gut was this mound of human hair. The Nazis shaved the women’s head and collected the hair to make into socks for sailors on submarines. Several tons of it were found. The mound was huge and this is just a fraction of what was found.

God, that was a downer. I don’t even really know how to describe how I felt afterwards. Just sort of lonely and hollow.

That night I had a few drinks with a girl from the hostel. I tried both of Poland’s local brews–Tyskie and Zywiec. We were getting ready to do a shot of vodka to finish the nigh but we were too late. We missed last call. The bar closed 12:30. It seemed really early, but there were lots of people out on the street then, so I think all the bars closed pretty early. Disappointing.

The next day…hi ho, hi ho, it’s off to the salt mines I go! I loved the salt mines. It’s kind of like a cave but with all these beautiful carvings by the miners. They’ve been mining this area for 900 years. Salt, the exact same chemical composition as what I buy at the grocery store for under a dollar and last me years, made kings rich. Salt paid for the big castle in Krakow. Salt’s ability to preserve meat was a pretty big deal before refrigeration.

I’m in Prague now. There’s beer for about a $1.50 in the hostels refrigerator. It’s Budweiser. No, not that one. It’s the Czech Bud!

Randomness: Usually, I wake up and the BBC is on. I’m at work and NPR’s always in the background. I read the Star. Skim other local papers. Do the same for the New York Times. Usually, I know what’s going on. But for the past two weeks, I’ve been in a vacuum. I barely know who won the Iowa caucuses and the New Hampshire primaries, let alone what it means for the various campaigns. Oh well, I’m sure there will be time to catch up when I get back.

The best part of Budapest was not the stunning architecture or lovely cafes but hanging out with the people in the hostel. The weather in Budapest sucked. The first day the cold found it’s way under yor skin. I think the high temperature was something like 23 degrees fahrenheit. It was miserable. The next day it had warmed up just enough for freezing rain. It was a slippery, sloshy mess. Both days sightseeing was tiring.

Both days trudging back to the hostel, I felt a bit defeated. I was flying the white flag. Me vs. Nature, and Mother Nature had kicked my ass. But both days I felt a little better to find the allied forces at the hostel were also in retreat.

The first night some of us were talking and in walks Scott, a rugby-player from New Hampshire who now lives in Germany. He’s wired from his flight from the states and wants to do some drinking. Scott and an Australian guy run next door for drinks and come back with a bag full of Hungarian beers. The party ensues. We’ve got our two girls from Quebec who just spent a semester in Amsterdam. Arnaldo from Sao Paolo but studying law in Spain this Semester. Two Peruvian girls also studying in Spain. And a couple of other people who stop by but don’t join in for long. Before we know it, it’s 2am. Most of the people head out to hit a club. My nose is still stuffed up (only at night now) and I decide to hit the sack.

The next night is pretty much a repeat, minus the club but with watchingI Heart Huckabees and Pulp Fiction.

Really, what could have been two somewhat miserable nights were lots of fun. I was lucky. Traveling with someone else you have a partner in crime. Someone to rely on for a little entertainment, conversation, ideas for something to do, but alone its just you and finger-crossing for luck.

My final day in Budapest, the sun was out the temperature was above freezing and all seemed well in the world. Arnaldo and I walked to the Szechenyi Baths.

The walk itself is amazing. It seems like just about every building in Pest (it’s technically two cities, Buda and Pest, and this is on the Pest side) was built to be an example of some style of architecture.

The baths leave me speechless. You walk in and you think you could be in a five star hotel. Really, they’re run by the city of Budapest. And luckily for us, they’re warm enough to go swimming in even when it’s barely above freezing.

After a slighlty confusing trip through the locker room and winding route through the indoor medicinal pools, Arnaldo and I arrive outside. We’re in our swimsuits. It’s about 35 degrees. We make a mad dash for the nearest pool.

Oh sweet warmth! The water’s wonderful. I dip my head under and am a little surprised when I come up and the cold air hits my face. It’s bizarro land. I grew up near spring fed rivers. I’m used to hot days and freezing cold water, not the opposite!

The water in the first pools says it’s 38 degrees, just above body temperature. I have the brief thought that no one could tell if you peed in the pool. Then I put that slightly disturbing thougt out of my head. The warm water and cold air make create a thick layer of fog over the pool. In one corner, old men in Speedo’s play chess in the water. And along a particularly foggy edge, young couples are cuddling and smooching. Suddenly, pee in the pool is not my biggest concern.

Arnaldo and I decide to try out the other pools. We get out. Motherfucker, it’s cold! And scurry to another pool. This one is a little less warm but more fun it has a current you get in and float around in circles. And sometimes airbubbles start coming up from the bottom and everyone goes and stands on them!

It’s fun but after a couple of hours we head back to the hostel. Arnaldo has to catch a train to Vienna that afternoon. And in a little bit after that I’ll be on the overnight train to Krakow. Hopefully, my luck won’t run out.

I break out my directions. Mladen at the hostel in Belgrade says the metro ticket checkers don’t start working until 6:30 or 7, so I illegally board the metro. I get confused and get off a stop too early. I get back on and go to where all the lines meet and get on the train to my hostel. I get off. I check my pocket for directions.

Holy fuck! Where are the direction?

No good. I break into my bag. I had circled the general area on a little map. I start wondering around. I’m definitely in the right area, but I don’t have the address. After heading a kilometer or so down one street and back, I stop at a hotel and ask for help. They’ve never heard of the place, but they say I’m exactly wher the circle is. I head down another street. Sweet! Unicredit Bank and a billiard hall! That’s what I remember from the directions. And there it is. Goat Hostel. I owe karma one.

It’s still crazy early so I decide to walk around until a more reasonable hour, instead of waking up everyone before day break. I head to this indoor market pick up some fruit and a little Hungarian sweater for my niece.

I head back to the hostel around 8:45, check in, and crash for two or three hours.

I wake up. This nutty girl who turned…wait, guess my age! No, just guess. Nobody ever gets it right. What 24? That’s funny most people usually guess younger. Oh, how old am I? It’s my birthday! I just turned 22. YAY! So I’m from New Jersey down near Philadelpia. Where are you from? Oh, Kansas City. I knew you were from the States. I’m studying in Italy this semester…and….and…and

I think karma just evened the score. That was more mental energy than I had at this point. Plus, I was gross I needed to shower. I’ll deal with perky after I shower. this was a much needed shower. Somehow showering at the 3 Black Catz seemed like a faux pas, so I was gross and greasy. Maybe I was just lazy. Anyway.

Clean, I decided to hit the town. First order of business, Budapest Card. Basically a card that gives you free public transportation and museum admission. I go to the subway ticket window. It says Budapest Card sold here. I wait and ask for one. I get the shaken head no. I have some Hungarian teenage translate. Apparently, no one has given her the cards for 2008. Fuck! That means things just got more complicated.

I have to buy a ticket for the subway and get one that will take me on at least two lines and get it validated at all the right spots. This is a little difficult with my non-existent Hungarian. I just pick the most expensive ticket. I assume its the right one and validate everytime theres a chance.

I get off to transfer lines. I’ve got my little tourist book in hand and am looking at the map. Oh holy shit! I’m in a karmic hole now. A ticket inspector telling me somewhere along the way I’ve messed up. I charm her with my smile, naivete, and sincere desire to see her city using the Budapest card. She tells me no fine. I pull myself out of the hole. She says the ticket office here will have them. They don’t. I need to go to the tourist information center. Where’s that? Out the door, left, then right. And fall write back in. I head that way I don’t see it, but I end up on the main pedestrian drag. I know it’s close.

But I’m hungry and there’s Burger King, like some shining beacon from home. The king he’ll make things simple. I head in and order a number one. Hmmm, sweet whopper goodness. You have to pay 70 forint (about 45 cents) for ketchup that’s too sweet, but whatever I didn’t eat breakfast and it’s 1pm. I’ve never reflected so much over fastfood in my life.

I wander around the pedestrian drag. I buy a hat at H and M. It’s so exotic! We don’t have one of those in KC. Eventually, I backtrack get my Budapest Card and do a little bit of sightseeing, including the first McDonald’s in the Eastern Bloc. The Hungarians were very proud of it. Maybe that explains why there so many McDonald’s in this town. [Side note: Sarajevo was very proud to NOT have a McDonald's. It was in there brochure something about maintaining their identity. It was really clear whether a McDonald's had been offered, but whatever.]

So in my day of fast food I get a shake at McDonald’s and plot what I’m going to do when. Most museums are closed on Mondays and a few things are closed on Sundays. I have this epiphany, I’m not sure I really want to go to the castle. So I start looking and there are all these amazingly odd museums. Telephone Museum. Secret Hospital Museum. A transportation museum. I’m not sure if I’ll make it to any of them, but I think I’m going to try at least one. That is unless karma has anything to say about it.

It started off well. I stumbled down the alley and up the crumbling stairs to my hostel to find a party in full force. Rock! The Peace Corps kids I rode the bus with were hungry, so we went in search of food. That basic need fulfilled we headed to an Irish pub with a No Doubt cover band. It was packed. It was fun, but after two beers (not even the big .5 L ones), I was tired. I walked back to the hostel around 1am. The party was still going on but had quieted down from the rager it had been. I climbed into my bunkbed, shoved earplugs in my ears, and fell fast asleep on the lumpy matress. Everyone else was up until 5am.

This is pretty much how’s it been since I’ve been here. The next night my friend Adam’s friend Visnja and I made plans to go out around 10pm. I’d been sightseeing all day and decided to take a nap around 6:45pm. I figured I’d be up by 9pm at the latest. Around 10:15 one of the hostel workers is shaking me awake to tell me I had visitors. Awkward. I apologized threw on my shoes, ran a comb through my hair, and was off.

We went to the Idiot Bar. What a great name for a bar! I mean if you don’t show up that way, then hopefully by the time you leave you live up to the name. It was brick, underground, and some old-school garage rock was playing on the stereo. I was having a good time. I had two Jelen Pivo. [Note to Adam: Visnja would not let me drink the Beogradskovo]. When I was pondering a third Visnja said she was tired and we should go. I arrive home and on the short car ride I realize I’m exhausted. This is pretty abnormal. Usually, I’m up for a late night no problem. But I’m exhausted so I head to my lumpy bed.

I wake up the next morning with a stuffy nose and still tired. Fuck. A head cold. But after an hour or so I’m feeling a lot better. Maybe it was just the smoke. Dear god, let it just be the smoke! Serbia apparently has the second highest smoking rate in the world. Everyone smokes everywhere. My weak American lungs can’t handle it! The stuffy nose that sometimes happens after a night at a somky bar in the states. I shake off any thought that I might be sick and head out for the day.

I head to the Military Museum. The Serbians are proud of their military heritage starting back in the 8th century or so and continuing to today. It was mostly in Serbian, so I’m not sure I got the full impact. After touring a thousand or so years of Serbian weapons and uniforms I came to more recent events.

There’s part of an F-117 that the Serbs shot down and some American military equipment they captured. They’re also a sign in Serbian but it’s pretty clear that NATO forces heavily outweighed Serb forces and so the Serbs are pretty proud of whatever they accomplished. Also, a lot of people here are not so fond of Bill Clinton because of that. I was expecting more W hating, but when a guy bombs you’re country I guess it makes sense.

The other place I went to see that day was the Tesla museum. Tesla’s on the 50 dinar bill, worth a little less than a dollar. I read a book about him when I was 11 or so. I don’t really understand everything he did, but he’s responsible for a lot of things, and according to a Supreme Court ruling for inventing radio. I guess that makes him pretty important in my life! Anyway, I was the only English speaker on the tour, so I felt bad for everyone else waiting while the tour guide explained everything again to me in English. It was fun. There were lots of demonstrations, including a Tesla coil.

He was pretty important in electricity and magnetism. Basically, he did all the fundamental stuff for alternating current and motors that will run on it too. He also has 9 of the 13 patents used on the power plant at Niagra Falls. Also, he built the first remote control thing–a little boat. Yeah, he was cool!

So I came back to the hostel after that drank a little homemade rakija. It’s basically a plum brandy. You’re supposed to sip it. But damn it burns to much to do that! My runny nose is back and I’m already tired. I decide I must have caught a bug, so I decide to take it easy and hang out at the hostel because although it’s a little smokey in the main area, it’s much less smokey than most places .

Mladen, the hostel guy, is so nice. He gives me movie options.

I end up watching this awesome documentary Shutka. It’s a about a gypsy town in Macedonia. where everyone’s a champion. Goose fighting, vampire killing, old man love-making (just use oil!), tape collecting, disco dancing, they’re all champions. If you ever get a chance, watch this movie. It’s great. I can’t do it justice. Shutka’s a town of characters, and you’ll love everyone of them.

After that we watch Jim Jarmusch’s Night on Earth. It’s great but ends on a most depressing note. I head to bed to around 11pm. I’m determined to kick this virus’ ass and a good nights sleep is the only way. I sleep like a rock but wake up tired.

I grab some burek for breakfast. Then head to the apoteka (pharmacy) for some drugs. I explain my nose is stuffy at night but runs during the day to the pharmacist. She understands enough English. And hands me something called Kaffetin Kola. I’m told to take one four times a day. I’m a bit skeptical of Kaffetin Kola but I look at the ingredient and one looks like pseudophedrine, so I figure I’m good to go. I pick up some Vitamin C. Montage forward 6 hours…a visit to the Serbian Ethnographic museum, filled with 18th century serbian festival costumes and an old home distillerym, the Museum of Applied Materials, furniture, jewelry, and architecture–oh my! (I was looking for things to do indoors that were close by and inside, don’t judge) Yeah, montage forward 6 hours I’m feeling a lot better and I’ve got to go get ready for my train to Budapest. It leaves at 10pm.

Bye!