Ten years ago today I left my safe sheltered midwesternly town by myself and went on an adventure ultimately changing my life forever. I started tearing up when I left my mother’s safe arms. I walked down a steep staircase onto the tarmac. The tiny propeller airplane sat in front of me. I looked over my shoulder and could make out my mom waving frantically through the tinted windows. I had to duck down when I entered the plane and found my seat: 3F. I tried to stop crying but fear and concern wrecked my frame of mind. Before we even left the ground my nose started gushing blood. The entire flight I had a bloody nose. Luckily it was a short flight.
At the Toronto (my first time in OH Canada!) airport looking at maple leaf decorations and maple syrup. I boarded the Lufthansa with my boarding pass (Bordkarte!) in my hand. During the transatlantic flight I wrote in my diary. It must have been a rough flight because I cannot read what I wrote. I attempted to read a book named Amsterdam, that I found very boring. I only bought books through Britain Amazon because I wanted my favorites to be spelled as favourites, surprise as surprize, color as colour, and apartments as flats. Blame my obsession (which just ended before my journey, I swear) with the Spice Girls, mainly Sporty Spice.
I grew up in the upper midwest where everyone’s wardrobe consists basically of t-shirts and jeans. I grew up not having to wear anything other than jeans, t-shirts, sweatshirts, not even owning anything for church attire since we never went. I wore men’s 501 button-fly jeans before I hit puberty. Nothing was more comfortable. I wasn’t into pink v-necks or anything in the girl’s department at Kohl’s. I still dress like a prepubescent boy. After catching an early flight in Frankfurt, I landed in Zagreb Croatia with my Spice Girls calendar and nothing but t-shirts, jeans, several pairs of Nike Air Max, a pair of Teva’s and shorts. Sloppy.
The first jet lagged night I spend at some outdoor dining place where I met several hundred (it was about 20 but felt like so many more) of my father’s friends. They came baring gifts for me, some of which I still have. I had a very hard understanding their thick Croatian accents. Most of the talk wanted to know about me and America. Mortified at the attention I received, I pretended to like the party they had for me. Luckily a son of one of the many Vesna’s arrived and he brought his girlfriend. Although older than I, they took to my side trying to talk to me in their heavily accented English. Luckily I started to escape the limelight and soon the party dissipated and the couple took me to a real European Disco. I’ve never been so uncomfortable in my life. I felt so small and realized how much I stood out in my DKNY shirt, khaki shorts, Nike shoes, and nose stud. All the women looked like women and not teenage boys like me. Luckily it was dark, but for someone who doesn’t dance or drink (at the time), it was torture. I wasn’t able to decipher or decifer anything in their thick accents with the loud electronic music booming. We left and sat outside for what felt like (and was) hours in the darkness. They finally drove me back to my father’s apartment or flat in their tiny hatch backed bumpy stick car around 0430. I had a key but could not figure out the European lock. I tried one more time and finally unlocked the door around 0600.
I can only hope those two don’t remember me ten years later. Hopefully they have met others who represent the American culture a little better than me in my teenage boy attire.
Dad knocked on my bedroom door early wanting to get an early start on a drive to Mošćenička Draga. I felt dead. In my tiredness stooper I ended up packing no underware, bra, and one t-shirt. At least I had my nail polish. Knowing how much I loved the beach and sea my dad drove me to the most beautiful crystal clear water and postcardesque place I had ever seen.
The beaches were covered with smooth small rocks. My dad took his shorts off revealing a black Speedo and I just about lost my lunch. This time period was before 9/11 when blending in with cultural norms while traveling was not common. I nearly died. I painted my toes carefully not to notice anything about the Speedo and adjusted my bruising bottom on the rocks. Several small Croatian girls came over to admire my nail polish collection and they said something sounding like “Look at all the colors” and I worried to my dad I was attracting the locals. My dad re-assured me they most likely had never seen my color nail polish before and they were interested. I quickly hid the nail polish under my towel careful not to crack the bottles on the rocks and went snorkeling.
The hotel we stayed at had double door windows, beautiful views of the Adriatic sea and a salt water swimming pool. I realized while looking through my things I only had one t-shirt to wear the whole stay. Too embarrassed to tell my dad about my lack of clothes but I don’t think he noticed, I wore the same thing to dinner that night as I did the day we drove there. Awkward.
We walked on a stony boardwalk of some sort for over an hour around the cove on the edge of the sea to an outdoor restaurant. I constantly worried about seafood poisoning and not drinking any of the water so my father ordered. First we had tomato soup. This most likely was the best tomato soup I’ve ever had. Thick and rich with cream and perfectly seasoned I slightly forgot about the threat of poisoning. Continuing with the tomato theme we ate a tomato salad that was the best tomato salad I have ever had. I will forever crave this tomato salad! Another plate of appetizers came and I have regressed most of this memory out of shock. I sort of remember squid, eel, several different kinds of fish (with fins!), and liking it all. My journal I kept so faithful doesn’t have any details of this meal. (more on this later) The main entree arrived completely covered in sea salt. The waiter cracked the salt off using two tools from the Flintstones cartoons. Underneath was a large sea bass (head, fins and eye ball included!). I have never tasted any seafood as good as that night. And no seafood sickness! I’ve never had authentic seafood since and crab cakes don’t count.
Looking back I regret not taking more photos, I quite possibly forgot to bring my camera along.
Dad drove us back to Zagreb on very narrow mountainous roads packed with large trucks with circle stickers on the back warning drivers this truck cannot go more than 50 kilometers per hour. I began my search for no gas water (one can tire quickly of Coke and Coke lite) and readied for my six week stay in Vienna (Wien!). I would attend a school to learn German (DEUTSCH!) as a beginner, and would enter the German speaking country of Austria (Österreich!) not knowing one word of German. To call myself frightened doesn’t describe the fear. I had never felt so alone and far away from my mother’s open arms. One cannot learn how to arrive at adulthood and dress age appropriate without going through a period of sloppy, awkward, Spice Girls obsessed, prepubescent boy issues and learn how to live without mommy’s safety. I learned quickly when I was dropped off at Gentzgasse, Kolpinghaus that I had to adapt.
