Trencin and Pohoda
Thursday afternoon I escaped Bratislava with the other interns for the Pohoda festival in Trencin. I didn't want to miss a day of work, but supposedly there was this big medieval performance Thursday night at the castle. Anyway, we get to Trencin and I find out that Dani, James, and Catharine don't want to stay at the hotel we booked - they want to stay at the festival. I see the hours I put in searching for the only available hotel for 5 people going to waste, wonderful. Stella did want to stay in the hotel though, so we left the others, found a taxi, and went to check in. I was pissed but our hotel was in the middle of this adorable little spa town, and after a fairly credible salad at one of the cafes I was relatively happy. After dinner I found out from Dani that the performance at the castle was cancelled due to Pohoda. Great, I missed a day of work for nothing, I could have spent that extra day in Milan, or Graz with people I don't dislike. The next day, Stella and I took an early train into Trencin to see the old town and the castle. The old town was similar to Bratislava's (not very interesting). But the castle was rather special, completely restored and very, very old. My boss just told me that there is this Roman inscription from Marcus Aurelius on one of the walls, but I didn't see it. We wasted as much time as possible lingering over drinks in little cafes and walking along the cobblestone streets. I realized something in the middle of all of this - I don't like Stella. She is 2 years older than me but acts like a goody-goody seventh grader. Hanging out with her is like babysitting. She takes no responsibility for the world around her, and makes no effort on her own behalf. It seems that she expects other people to do almost everything for her.
I mention all of this because when we were eating dinner on Friday evening I met a boy from Kansas who asked me where I was from and didn't believe me when I said Texas. I found this challenge rather endearing so I gathered myself up and struck my best intimidating pose (harder since I was in workout shorts, and a wife-beater but I am always a little formidable) and asked where he thought I was from. He looked me up and down incredulously and said "California". I laughed, happy to be talking to an American, especially a cute American with backbone. I asked him if he was here for Pohoda like the rest of us, but he was actually an English teacher, and he gestured to his table where a bunch of ten year olds sat looking at me like I was a particularly vile monster. Stella came over, then, and tugged at my sleeve and I knew she wanted to go, she didn't want this cute American around. I said a quick goodbye, leaving him with the ten year olds, not asking for his number, leaving him looking a bit crestfallen. I am a fucking idiot of course, I have an overdeveloped sense of loyalty to girls, not even girls I like, just any girls. Couple that with the lack of ability to commit to a boy for more than a few hours (last weekend was a perfect example) and my present predicament was written in the stars. Would I have been happier ditching Stella to hang out with that farm-boy? Absolutely, but I still couldn't do it.
Luckily the Pixies were my consolation prize. They were amazing. Stella and I stood almost in the front, and were tossed around a bit by the mosh pit. With a couple drinks in me, I was really getting into the show, but the asshole behind me wouldn't stop screaming in Slovak and yelling "Where Is My Mind?". It must really suck to have one song you can't escape. Every minute of their performance was inspired, and I screamed along to all the songs and artfully dogged the flying beer and moshing idiots. There is a reason for a boyfriend if I've ever seen one; your own personal bouncer. None of the girls with boyfriends were assaulted by the mosh pit. Usually my venomous glares keep people away, but it was rather dark. Anyway, after the Pixies, I saw a few minutes of Zero 7, but trip hop was incomparably dull after the Pixies so around midnight we went back to the hotel.
We woke late on Saturday, ate lunch, and took a nap. We got to the festival around 7:30, so I could get a liter of wine and see the International Noise Conspiracy. Stella pulled me away from Falun Gong people who were minding their own business like they were going to pounce on me. There's an indoctrinated Chinese girl if I've ever seen one. Anyway, all the English speakers turned up to see INC and they put on a pretty good show (the lead singer was channeling Mick Jagger). I really liked INC when I was wearing fishnets and plaid skirts so for me it was all nostalgia. We were in the front row so I got to shake the lead singers hand; this would have been more exciting if he wasn't a damned commie. We then saw a few minutes of some American hip-hop guy whose name I don't remember and on our way back to the Orange Stage we picked up a straggler. This tall, Slovak guy with disheveled dirty blond hair in ripped jeans and a t-shirt came up to me to ask where I am from. All the travel advice recommends that you lie and say you are from Canada, but I never, ever, ever do that. I always say I am an American and this time is no exception. He says (rather genially) "Bush is a shithead". At this I am more amazed that the term shithead had entered colloquial Slovakian English, but I don't really disagree so I sort of shrug and he takes that as a gesture of goodwill. He explained that he is a punk/surfer. Great, I can't even escape them in landlocked countries. I wonder to myself if I will always attract surfers since I was born in San Diego. I wonder if they can smell it. I was sort of amused by the idea of a Slovak surfer, though and he was more nice than creepy so when he asked if he can walk around with us I said yes. Stella, of course, didn't look happy so I knew I had to ditch him soon. I am trying to put off the inevitable, because at this point I find him better company than Stella. If he was coming on to me, he was at least doing it subtly and that is a really nice change. Stella kept trying to whisper in my ear that we should get away from him, and I finally comply, winding through the crowd fast and skillfully enough that he can't follow. We stayed for some of the Skye concert, and she was good, not really my kind of music, but she was very pretty. We then went to see a few minutes of Emerson because you can't go to a dirty European festival without seeing some electronic music. I had about a bottle and a half of wine before entering the techno tent, but it didn't help. I think you literally must be on drugs to appreciate it.
Anyway my little brother didn't think I would be able to hang at a big festival with a bunch of Europeans. He thought that I expected to sit around sipping wine with clean, well dressed people discussing the Velvet Underground's best album, and generally being a pretentious snob. But I think I did pretty well. I found wine (sold by the liter in plastic cups), I showered twice a day, I wore clothes that I am putting in the washer as soon as I get home from work. I stood at the front of 2 concerts, got pretty drunk, and still came home yesterday at a reasonable hour. Not a terrible weekend. Not jazz fest, but then, what is?
I mention all of this because when we were eating dinner on Friday evening I met a boy from Kansas who asked me where I was from and didn't believe me when I said Texas. I found this challenge rather endearing so I gathered myself up and struck my best intimidating pose (harder since I was in workout shorts, and a wife-beater but I am always a little formidable) and asked where he thought I was from. He looked me up and down incredulously and said "California". I laughed, happy to be talking to an American, especially a cute American with backbone. I asked him if he was here for Pohoda like the rest of us, but he was actually an English teacher, and he gestured to his table where a bunch of ten year olds sat looking at me like I was a particularly vile monster. Stella came over, then, and tugged at my sleeve and I knew she wanted to go, she didn't want this cute American around. I said a quick goodbye, leaving him with the ten year olds, not asking for his number, leaving him looking a bit crestfallen. I am a fucking idiot of course, I have an overdeveloped sense of loyalty to girls, not even girls I like, just any girls. Couple that with the lack of ability to commit to a boy for more than a few hours (last weekend was a perfect example) and my present predicament was written in the stars. Would I have been happier ditching Stella to hang out with that farm-boy? Absolutely, but I still couldn't do it.
Luckily the Pixies were my consolation prize. They were amazing. Stella and I stood almost in the front, and were tossed around a bit by the mosh pit. With a couple drinks in me, I was really getting into the show, but the asshole behind me wouldn't stop screaming in Slovak and yelling "Where Is My Mind?". It must really suck to have one song you can't escape. Every minute of their performance was inspired, and I screamed along to all the songs and artfully dogged the flying beer and moshing idiots. There is a reason for a boyfriend if I've ever seen one; your own personal bouncer. None of the girls with boyfriends were assaulted by the mosh pit. Usually my venomous glares keep people away, but it was rather dark. Anyway, after the Pixies, I saw a few minutes of Zero 7, but trip hop was incomparably dull after the Pixies so around midnight we went back to the hotel.
We woke late on Saturday, ate lunch, and took a nap. We got to the festival around 7:30, so I could get a liter of wine and see the International Noise Conspiracy. Stella pulled me away from Falun Gong people who were minding their own business like they were going to pounce on me. There's an indoctrinated Chinese girl if I've ever seen one. Anyway, all the English speakers turned up to see INC and they put on a pretty good show (the lead singer was channeling Mick Jagger). I really liked INC when I was wearing fishnets and plaid skirts so for me it was all nostalgia. We were in the front row so I got to shake the lead singers hand; this would have been more exciting if he wasn't a damned commie. We then saw a few minutes of some American hip-hop guy whose name I don't remember and on our way back to the Orange Stage we picked up a straggler. This tall, Slovak guy with disheveled dirty blond hair in ripped jeans and a t-shirt came up to me to ask where I am from. All the travel advice recommends that you lie and say you are from Canada, but I never, ever, ever do that. I always say I am an American and this time is no exception. He says (rather genially) "Bush is a shithead". At this I am more amazed that the term shithead had entered colloquial Slovakian English, but I don't really disagree so I sort of shrug and he takes that as a gesture of goodwill. He explained that he is a punk/surfer. Great, I can't even escape them in landlocked countries. I wonder to myself if I will always attract surfers since I was born in San Diego. I wonder if they can smell it. I was sort of amused by the idea of a Slovak surfer, though and he was more nice than creepy so when he asked if he can walk around with us I said yes. Stella, of course, didn't look happy so I knew I had to ditch him soon. I am trying to put off the inevitable, because at this point I find him better company than Stella. If he was coming on to me, he was at least doing it subtly and that is a really nice change. Stella kept trying to whisper in my ear that we should get away from him, and I finally comply, winding through the crowd fast and skillfully enough that he can't follow. We stayed for some of the Skye concert, and she was good, not really my kind of music, but she was very pretty. We then went to see a few minutes of Emerson because you can't go to a dirty European festival without seeing some electronic music. I had about a bottle and a half of wine before entering the techno tent, but it didn't help. I think you literally must be on drugs to appreciate it.
Anyway my little brother didn't think I would be able to hang at a big festival with a bunch of Europeans. He thought that I expected to sit around sipping wine with clean, well dressed people discussing the Velvet Underground's best album, and generally being a pretentious snob. But I think I did pretty well. I found wine (sold by the liter in plastic cups), I showered twice a day, I wore clothes that I am putting in the washer as soon as I get home from work. I stood at the front of 2 concerts, got pretty drunk, and still came home yesterday at a reasonable hour. Not a terrible weekend. Not jazz fest, but then, what is?