July, 2015
Venice
Limited time offer
come see it before it’s gone!
If you’re lucky
you might even spot a real Venetian
in its natural habitat.
Would you like a fan?
A mask?
A bag?
It might even be made in Italy!
Here is the Grand Canal.
Gondola ride?
Here is San Marco Square
and the Rialto Bridge.
Would you like to make this moment more special
with a selfie stick?
Don’t forget to visit the gift shop on your way out,
in, and through
Veniceland!
Limited time offer!
July, 2015
Podgorica, Montenegro
I sat waiting for my bus at the station in Podgorica. I don’t remember what I was thinking about, but it must have been gloomy because a woman after waving for a bit to get my attention blew me an enormous kiss, both hands, and smiled and waved at me again. I looked around, but I was the only one in that direction. “Yes you!” her smile said.
She succeeded in cheering me.
Thank you, sweet lady.
July 2015,
Split, Croatia
I sit down at the table near the stall where I’d ordered my sandwich, only to be soon confronted by a waiter of a different establishment to which the table actually belonged. When asked what I wanted I panicked and said “beer” though I never want beer. The first and second sips only confirmed that my taste hadn’t changed. I scowled for a bit at the innocent beverage (Karlovačko) until I remember that morning, I’d been given honey with my tea. Don’t sweeten my tea, but I’d kept the honey packet to put on my bread the next morning for breakfast. So I rummaged through my bag for it and squeezed its contents into my beer. Did it magically transform it to my favourite drink ever? No. But it did make it palatable.
That’ll do.
June, 2015
Albania
I wrote a very silly poem (the only kind of which I am capable) about my first impressions of the country’s capitol: combining two of my favourite things: travel and neologistic collective nouns.
Tirana:
In a confusion of collective nouns
The Marrakech of Eastern Europe
with its clattering of cafés
on every street
patronised, each and every, by
idles of old men
collusions of couples and
intrigues of lady friends
despite it being a working day.
An entropy of motorists
in Skanderbeg Place
play chicken with
a boldness of pedestrians
(huddles or muddles in wintertime)
and on Hoxha Thasim alone is
a bobbing of fruit stands
a swish of shops: mostly second-hand
and surprisingly, to the poetess at any rate
an onomatopoeia of pet shops.
Poor pups pant in their cages
As people sweat out their time
pleasantly ignoring the
haunting of pill box bunkers,
(steel casings with a urine-reek)
sitting in cafés with names like
Dublin
Oslo
New York
Havana
collectively pretending
they are anywhere
but Tirana
Obviously it did not include my trip up to the mountain in a cable car, my appreciation for Albania writer Ismail Kadare and his talented translator, (both seen here)
nor my trip to the old town of Kruje, its castle, craft merchants and that jerk who followed me around, pretending to be a tour guide half the time and asking to see my breast the rest, who, after I couldn’t take the harassment (he called them compliments) I turned around to go back to the modern town, cutting my trip short. I won’t lie, it mostly ruined my day. I went to a café and tried to write, but wasn’t managing much so I decided to write my frustrations and call it a blog. Which brings me to poor traveller guilt. The only benefit tourists bring is money. A poor tourist (me) who buys no souvenirs from craftspeople who obviously need to make a living is worse than useless. Do we, as tourists, invaders and consumers of cultures, have an obligation to spend money on these things? Is it my duty as a tourist? I feel yes, but my pocketbook says no.
“Thanks, I’m privileged enough to travel here but not enough to purchase any of your lovely things, sorry.”
When they say tourism helps local economies, they don’t mean my kind of shoestring tourism- making a 50 cent pack of soup last 2 days. I don’t think my splurging once a day on 100 leke tea really helps the economy.
Note: the barman, speaking in German (our only shared tongue) just said I look like a writer. Thank you, barman for improving my day, even though anyone scribbling away with notebook and pen looks like a writer, but all the same, you’ve given me a positive note to end this entry.