animal of the party

Those who actually look forward to reading my stories may have noticed a gap of several days last weekend. No, I did not embark upon an adventurous road trip. Nor was I kidnapped and held hostage by the local drug cartel. Less, exciting, I know: I was getting indoctrinated into the local entertainment scene—what else would one expect of a foreign tv commercial star? Yes, two weeks later and I’ve only just begun to party… As a result my bedtime shifted several hours later, and my alarm clock never knew so many snoozes were allowed.

It all began Friday night with something I haven’t done in years. No, this is no reference to any illicit drugs. We skipped the mafia-hosted (and you thought I was joking about the drug cartel reference) Playboy party—apparently everybody was well-dressed anyway, so we didn’t miss much. Instead, Vaja, Vlad, and I went to the opening of a very crowded club called Plastic. After finally leaving the restaurant at two o’clock, we arrived in time to stand in line (Vlad had given away his VIP invitation). As one might guess, the lines for clubs here are much as they were at the football game I went to: everybody vies for first, resulting in more mob than line. Inside was no better. This being opening night, everybody who was anybody was here. So we did what Serbians do at clubs: we made a loop through the place to see who showed up. I hoped I might run into an old friend as Vaja did, or maybe just the odd acquaintance of whom Vlad met fifteen—I was not surprised to have my hopes dashed. He was at a distinct advantage with his extra foot of height—I imagine it was much less claustrophobia-inducing up there to boot. We spent the hour like salmon (the wild kind) returning to their birth place (minus the spawning part at the end), and in that time logged perhaps 300 meters on our pedometers (hmm, fish don’t use pedometers—perhaps this analogy was overplayed). In any case, the cold night was both figuratively and literally a breath of fresh air.

Saturday night found us at another club, this time with a decent dj, though the crowd was, in all ways, less to admire. The watered-down plastic cup drinks reminded me of why I often refrain from any sort of mixed drinks that haven’t been made by one of my trusted bartenders (maybe college kids to play a drinking game to these stories: you know you’re an alcoholic when…). We stayed somewhat longer this time, the bad taste of the prior night all but washed away.

Sunday night I had to pregame with a cup of green tea (no, I still haven’t given in to coffee). Viktor, the Russian Kazakhstani-born grill cook that worked the dinner shift with me that week (I tend to spend service working by the grill cooks, who alternate lunch and dinner shifts weekly), took me to a place he likes: a rock bar called Scandal. Turns out Viktor and I have similar taste. Though it was karaoke night neither of us took the microphone. Instead we drank beer after Montenegrin beer (good stuff), and sang along to the live band’s accompaniments (Viktor knows far more American and British hits than my Serbian repertoire holds, so he would have won any contest between the two of us). The bar itself was a really cool subterranean hideaway, and I can’t wait to go back. You know you’re in good company when you consider it a success that you were able to pay for two out of six or seven rounds of beer (who was counting anyway?). It’s okay: we agreed that I get to buy when he comes to visit in the US.

I’m really happy to be in such great hands out here—everyone is super-friendly and making sure I enjoy my time here. I only hope that I’m able to do the same for my visitors in the US.