It's Prohibition in Prague, y'all! I got here just in time! Seriously, the Czech Republic has banned all alcohol over 20% as of THE DAY I GOT HERE. I thought it was some sort of weird, inexplicable fascist agenda because most of what I know about this country was gleaned from Kundera novels that were written like 40 years ago under Soviet reign, but it turns out it's the product of a public health crisis. Apparently, some bars have been selling bootleg liquor that (for financial purposes??) was made with methanol instead of ethanol and twenty five people have died. Nobody will cop to the crime, so the country opted to ban all liquor until somebody caves. I wonder how long it will take; the Czechs seem pretty pissed off about the whole thing, but perhaps someday someone can write a Boardwalk Empire-esqu series about the experience and sell it to HBO and then we'll all be hooked. I know I will totally use Jill's HBOGO account to watch it.
Jill! My Jiiiill! Did you hear that we've been separated? She's back in the Holy Land drinking mimosas and breaking Israeli soldiers' hearts and I'm here, in Eastern Europe, sharing a dorm with eight Australian men. Don't worry, though, your favorite comedic duo will be reunited soon enough, and in Spain, no less. Gonna eat the shit out of some tapas, you had better believe.
Gosh, it's always so hard to write these blogs when so much time has passed. Do I go back in time and tell you a Turkey story? (I can see Jill's mom vehemently nodding her head in Calabasas.) Or do I just write about today because it is fresh in my memory and I really want to tell you about the sassy Spanish receptionist at the hostel who keeps saying things like, "The password is 69...I wonder why!!!" Do I tell you about my time in a Romanian airport because it was hellish and therefore sort of funny in hindsight? I will say that everyone who told me that Romania is, like, Europe's undiscovered gem clearly (a) has not seen No Reservations: Romania (dis-spells all illusions) and (b) has never eaten chicken in the Bucharest airport. I guess I'll write about Turkey because Katie Rosenberg is kind of my only fan and one must cater to one's audience.
The third or fourth night we were in Olympos after we had carved out a cozy niche in the Cool Bungalow's clique, we went out to a club. Olympos, despite its small size and laid-back vibes, has a lot of bars and clubs. We could always hear bumping Euro-trash music echoing through the very thin walls of our tree house when we tried to go to bed, and it played well into the night (like 3am late). Jarrod, our platonic Australian sultan, said he was going to take everyone to the Orange Bar because they were having a "house party." In the immortal words of one of the Osmonds, maybe I'm a little bit country but I didn't even know what the hell that meant--I still don't--what does a "house party" at a club even mean? Jarrod said there would be cake, and I didn't believe him but I was still pretty disappointed when there was NO CAKE. Alas, they did have bar-b-q but, like, I say pshaw to bar-b-q after already stuffing myself full of something similar at dinner. Anyway, I think "house party" just means you have to pay a cover and a shitty DJ will play weird remixes that make dancing really challenging because--you think you know--how the song is going to go--what the tempo is going to be--but WAIT--you do NOT KNOW! Because it is now a different song! Do I sound like an elderly woman yet? I probably will by the end of this post!
We each paid five bucks to get into the Orange Bar's exclusive house party. The music inside was, like, Bob Marley: RAVE EDITION! and the house drinks glowed in the dark. Jill later became incredibly drunk and speculated the next morning that whatever had made the drinks glow in the dark was responsible. I think we can all agree that she may have been correct. I stuck with beer because I'm a little bit country, and then ran off to the soaking-wet bathroom (see! they're everywhere!) before joining my comrades at a table in the back. The Orange Bar was pretty full at that point, but its expansive, glowing dance floor was COMPLETELY empty. Completely. Our tribe solved that problem in no time, though. We took to the dance floor like a bunch of drunk turtles (literally, the awkwardness of our collective dancing could have, like, shut down the internet or something--it was severe) and attempted to bust a move to the erratic Bob Marley techno (which quickly turned into Adele techno and Gustavo Lima techo, and so on and so forth).
Inspired by our spirited display, a couple of Turks joined us on the dance floor. Jill and Berit went around the room trying to lure people out of their seats, which was hilariously unsuccessful. Only one person took them up on their offer--a long haired Turkish man in a pink polo shirt who spent the rest of the night following Jill around like an ugly puppy who can't dance. At one point Berit was taking pictures and the Turkish guy kept making her snap photos of him and Jill together; Jill kept cheesing her best "this-is-so-weeeeird" smile. Eventually we retired to the corner to have a look at the bustling dance floor that WE HAD CREATED. Is that how God feels? It's pretty satisfying. In hindsight I think the Orange Bar should have refunded our covers BUT WHATEVER. I had to leave because my stomach was doing that thing where it hurt a lot. Jarrod and Jill walked me back to the hostel. They were planning on returning to the House Party but then the rest of the gang strolled in not long after us. Because we were drunk and are in our twenties, we decided to sit in a bungalow and take pictures of ourselves. Jarrod has a very aggressive photographer personality that involves him mumbling about Cat Stevens' album covers and being "nonchalant." Perhaps you've seen his "girls sleeping on coffee table" series on facebook? The photoshoot lasted WAY longer than it ever should have, and there are now pictures on the internet of me at 3am in a bungalow looking "nonchalant" but mostly just looking "dead." I guess I AM sort of young, after all.
But not young enough to stay up any later! After the photoshoot, I got ready for bed. Jill had disappeared fifteen minutes earlier, so when I heard somebody moaning in the toilet-bank I figured it was her, puking. Reader, you will not be surprised to hear that it was. That whole saga is ANOTHER STORY FOR ANOTHER DAY--preferably a day when I am speaking to you in person. Please ask me about it when next we meet.
What else is there to say about Olympos? We met some characters. The Roman Conquerer only got better with time. His real name was Berkam and he may have been the most fascinating person we met in Turkey. If I were Barbara Walters I would DEFINITELY feature him on my end-of-the-year special. Despite speaking no English he successfully managed to convey his homicidal feelings toward Jarrod via pantomime and knives--seriously! He also loved going around the bungalows at night after guests had gone to bed and drinking the warm, flat beer they had left behind. His dad told me that charming tidbit with the same "Oh, Berkam!" doting aplomb that my parents probably used to tell their friends about my charming love of reading. One of my and Jill's favorite jokes on the trip was imagining Berkam on Maury (because he would fit right in on that show) and Maury saying, "Meet Berkaaaam!" and then Berkam running onto the stage with his chunky little legs screaming and the audience booing and--just--maybe you had to be there. Jill and I want to go back to Olympos someday, and we imagine that when we get there Berkam will have taken over. He'll rule over the town like a tyrant and make everyone bring him chocolate bars and warm beer 24/7.
I'll sign off now cause I need to, like, send Jill a picture of me drinking a beer on WhatsApp or something but I will be back SO SOON. I don't think I'll have internet in the next place I go, so I've gotta get it while it's goooood.
all the love in the universe!
