Hungary and the shits

While waiting to cross the border into Hungary, I needed to urinate. Which under normal circumstances, wouldn’t be a difficult procedure. But at the Hungarian border it was, oh it was.  I walked a kilometer from my car to the “WC” building. A small tanned building with thirty Hungarian men casually displaced around the building, created a friendly atmosphere which kindly whispered “come my child, pee here“.  I slither my way through the crowd, cigarette smoke blowing in my face,  perhaps a sexually frustrated man glanced, who knows, I was not there to find a mate. Alas, I arrive to the bathroom door and behold a sign on the door – “one euro“.

I made my way back to the car to retrieve a euro. I obtained a euro from my loving father, who then abide me safe journeys back to the bathroom.

I arrived safely, however  I was slightly pained in the bladder region. There was a plump balding Hungarian lady at the front door of the bathroom whom was in-charge of collecting the urinary fees and returning you a receipt. She yelled aggressively at me, I handed her the euro and took the receipt.

I continued my way to the back of the line. The line was separated into two groups: men and women. The men’s line had a fluid stream of males entering and exiting their bathroom. While the woman’s line.. was static. I looked ahead to casually investigate the delay of urinary movement. The women in the front of the line had their clothes wrapped around their nose and mouths as they moaned in discomfort. I decided not to ruin the surprise by asking what the problem was. As my spot in line slowly increased to the front, the odor became stronger and stronger. Odor is a polite term for the smell that was lingering in the bathroom. Stench. Yes, lets go with that. The stench was mortifying yet reminded me of porter potties at campsites, which left me in this nostalgic feeling of the past. So while everyone else was covered up, I stood proudly,absorbing the stench as a single tear streamed down my cheek.

A tear of shit and lost memories.

death and the bionic asshole

I needed to get my computer fixed, so I called a phone number I found taped onto the window of a bus stop in New Belgrade. The man on the phone had a heavy Serbian accent, which if you are not familiar with, sounds similar to a Russian accent.  On the phone he told me to meet him in front of a mall where a grey car will pull up.  He continued by saying that I would easily recognize this vehicle, as it is the ugliest one in Belgrade. Continuing our conversation, he stated that upon entering the vehicle, myself and my laptop will be driven to the service shop.

At that moment, I found not one thing wrong with this scenario, and agreed to the terms of the arrangement. In fact, I only gained suspicion after the man on the phone said “don’t worry, you’ll be safe”.
I casually stood in front of the mall entrance. The car pulled up, a hand waved out from the driver window, I got into the car. The man in the passenger seat stretched his hand in between the driver and passenger seat and gestured for the laptop. I readily passed my laptop to the man. He momentarily looked at it and with a head nod, signaled the driver to proceed driving. We arrived to a rusty-red brick house, where I was led down a spiraling staircase into the basement.
He fixed my computer.
I then went home and watched a Grey’s Anatomy episode on a women whose receiving a bionic asshole.