I’m sitting in a ‘Mexican’ restaurant, looking at a full plate of nachos with cheese, chicken and jalapenos, and two full beers. Nobody sits opposite me, because Jaro has just inexplicably left me. Wtf? I’m trying to remember how we got to this point, me alone, and him somewhere in the Polish night.
Ok, let’s go back.
Two hours prior, we’re sitting in our hostel with a bottle of Zubrovka Vodka between us, talking about the most basic thing drunk men seem to like to talk about: sex, women, drugs and sex. We drink our vodka with apple juice, because it tastes the best with apple juice. Now and then I sing out ‘Almalééééééééé!’ Almalé means ‘apple (alma) juice (lé)’ in Hungarian.
One hour prior, we’re now properly shit faced and trying to get on the bus back to the city center. Jaro keeps saying something like ‘How did I get here?’ but I can’t be sure, because I’m not really listening.
Thirty minutes prior, we get off the bus and Jaro immediately says, Let’s go back. I look at him, supposing he’s made a joke, and laugh. Yeah right, c’mon let’s go! But he’s standing there steadfast, with a real serious face. No, seriously. Dude. I mean it. Let’s go back. Now.
I have to say, I am utterly surprised at this point. What do you mean, ‘Let’s go back’?! Are you fucking out of your mind?! We just got here! But Jaro is swaying now and looking around with darting eyes, but they don’t dart like a man on speed, they dart like a man squinting underwater. Slow-like.
Jesus Christ man, we’re not going back just yet. Let’s push ahead! And with that, I grab his arm and we start moving forward, passing the buildings that make me feel like I’m in some European dream.
Ten minutes prior, we sit in a Mexican restaurant, watching the Olympics on the television above our heads. I get up to order beers at the bar, and ask for nachos. I doubt this will be good Mexican food (it’s almost impossible to find out here), but I don’t care. I get back to the table, and Jaro is standing, out of his seat.
What is it?
I have to go now.
I’m looking around, wondering what just happened. What happened?
Nothing, I just have to go.
I hand him the extra beer in my other hand. Here, here’s a beer. Drink this and chill.
He knocks the beer down on the table, making a clear resounding CLINK. I look at the sound, then look back at him. Ok…
I’m sorry. I have to go.
But I just ordered nachos! I start to protest.
In the present, he is gone. The nachos have arrived, my beers are slowly bubbling, and the Olympics play above me. I should be happy. I should be eating, enjoying my meal. But my fuck hole friend just left me, obviously drunk out of his mind, to go on some adventure.
Of course, he said he would go back to the hostel to sleep. But I know Jaro better than that. He’ll get himself into some situation, and he will come back to himself, talking his way through his life with some stranger, like he always does.
Oh, and he has the key to the hostel, I finally remember.
Fuck!
These nachos are becoming more and more less appetizing as my mind whirrs ahead of itself. That son of a bitch.
So I mechanically eat, watching what was once the Olympics and has now somehow turned into extreme kickboxing and drink one of the beers. The second, I hold in my hand as I walk out, ignoring the calls of the bartender. I stumble across the main square of Wroclaw and snort at the drunk tourists around me. Stupid tourists, I mumble.
Thirty minutes later, I’m looking up at my room’s window at the hostel, still holding my (Jaro’s) beer. It’s one story up. Two minutes earlier, I learned that Jaro had done just what I thought he would do: He did not go back, and was still somewhere in the heart of Wroclaw. Hell, I can climb that, I tell myself, and proceed to climb up the building, still holding the beer. I get one hand and foot up, and the beer slips and crashes to the pavement. I get down and go inside.
Hello yes, my dumb fucking friend left me without the key, would you please let me in?
Ok, let’s go back.
Two hours prior, we’re sitting in our hostel with a bottle of Zubrovka Vodka between us, talking about the most basic thing drunk men seem to like to talk about: sex, women, drugs and sex. We drink our vodka with apple juice, because it tastes the best with apple juice. Now and then I sing out ‘Almalééééééééé!’ Almalé means ‘apple (alma) juice (lé)’ in Hungarian.
One hour prior, we’re now properly shit faced and trying to get on the bus back to the city center. Jaro keeps saying something like ‘How did I get here?’ but I can’t be sure, because I’m not really listening.
Thirty minutes prior, we get off the bus and Jaro immediately says, Let’s go back. I look at him, supposing he’s made a joke, and laugh. Yeah right, c’mon let’s go! But he’s standing there steadfast, with a real serious face. No, seriously. Dude. I mean it. Let’s go back. Now.
I have to say, I am utterly surprised at this point. What do you mean, ‘Let’s go back’?! Are you fucking out of your mind?! We just got here! But Jaro is swaying now and looking around with darting eyes, but they don’t dart like a man on speed, they dart like a man squinting underwater. Slow-like.
Jesus Christ man, we’re not going back just yet. Let’s push ahead! And with that, I grab his arm and we start moving forward, passing the buildings that make me feel like I’m in some European dream.
Ten minutes prior, we sit in a Mexican restaurant, watching the Olympics on the television above our heads. I get up to order beers at the bar, and ask for nachos. I doubt this will be good Mexican food (it’s almost impossible to find out here), but I don’t care. I get back to the table, and Jaro is standing, out of his seat.
What is it?
I have to go now.
I’m looking around, wondering what just happened. What happened?
Nothing, I just have to go.
I hand him the extra beer in my other hand. Here, here’s a beer. Drink this and chill.
He knocks the beer down on the table, making a clear resounding CLINK. I look at the sound, then look back at him. Ok…
I’m sorry. I have to go.
But I just ordered nachos! I start to protest.
In the present, he is gone. The nachos have arrived, my beers are slowly bubbling, and the Olympics play above me. I should be happy. I should be eating, enjoying my meal. But my fuck hole friend just left me, obviously drunk out of his mind, to go on some adventure.
Of course, he said he would go back to the hostel to sleep. But I know Jaro better than that. He’ll get himself into some situation, and he will come back to himself, talking his way through his life with some stranger, like he always does.
Oh, and he has the key to the hostel, I finally remember.
Fuck!
These nachos are becoming more and more less appetizing as my mind whirrs ahead of itself. That son of a bitch.
So I mechanically eat, watching what was once the Olympics and has now somehow turned into extreme kickboxing and drink one of the beers. The second, I hold in my hand as I walk out, ignoring the calls of the bartender. I stumble across the main square of Wroclaw and snort at the drunk tourists around me. Stupid tourists, I mumble.
Thirty minutes later, I’m looking up at my room’s window at the hostel, still holding my (Jaro’s) beer. It’s one story up. Two minutes earlier, I learned that Jaro had done just what I thought he would do: He did not go back, and was still somewhere in the heart of Wroclaw. Hell, I can climb that, I tell myself, and proceed to climb up the building, still holding the beer. I get one hand and foot up, and the beer slips and crashes to the pavement. I get down and go inside.
Hello yes, my dumb fucking friend left me without the key, would you please let me in?
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