First Blood

The above title has multiple meanings. One of them is unfortunate. More on that in a bit.

Bratislava weather has been absolutely terrible. It's rained for three days straight, and the high temp has been in the neighborhood of fifty degrees. The time has come, the walrus said, to shop for autumn clothes, for parkas, ponchos, jackets, and a new-ass pair of shoes.

I'll begin by regaling you with a brief selection of stories from my final days at Patio Hostel, the worst place I've stayed yet. My earlier assessment of the staff was charitable, it turns out.

As said, they're all rude as hell, and while I'm sure I'd get tired of managing the affairs of drunken Brits, it went a little too far the other night. I was hanging out in the common room and an Irishman comes down the stairs. He's sober as a stick, and he's been more or less babysitting his buddies. He went out with a bunch of his fellow Irish to a bar around the corner, and some Slovakian dudes offered to buy him and his boys a drink. The sober guy went out to smoke, but his buddies accepted, and within ten minutes, they could tell something was wrong. Fortunately they were just around the corner from the hostel, so they made it back intact, but as soon as they got back, they started sweating profusely and couldn't move. This devolved into quite the scene as the sober Irishman was asking for any kind of help, recommendations, anything, telling the receptionist that his buddies had been drugged. The receptionist replied "it's not my problem." There was another guy who had gone out with them, and he'd also accepted a shot from a Slovakian guy...Mark, the sober guy, was trying to find out what room he was in so he could make sure the Irishman in question, Alan, was okay. He said "I'm trying to find out what room this guy Alan is in." The receptionist said "well, why don't you just go find him?" I babysat the guys for a while, and they were a mess. I've been in three hostels so far, and I hadn't seen anything so callous until now. At that moment I knew that I would be changing locations. My lodging expenses have gone up by another $2 or $3 per night, but I'm under budget for Bratislava anyhow. I've been compensating well, especially since I started cooking for myself. But getting drugged at a club. That's some scary shit. That's why I buy beer at the grocery store and just drink at the hostel before I go out.

But the night wasn't over. I finally start to drift off around 2:15, and then there's awful noise in the parking lot followed by awful noise in the stairwell followed by awful noise outside my door followed by awful noise in the middle of my damn room. Four of the Brit boys who have the rest of my room have returned, and they're in their cups. One goes to bed in the bunk above me. The next batch returns, as loud as the last, and one of the new arrivals stands in front of my bed. I hear a smack as he deals his mate one across the cheek and goes to bed. The guy above me starts yelling his ass off and runs into the other room. I hear the sounds of combat, and wouldn't you know it, I have a front row seat. They're punching, kicking, screaming...one of the guys takes a header into the bedpost and breaks his nose. There's blood everywhere. I offer to go get reception (even though I'm sure they would've been helpful like you wouldn't believe), but one of the Brits says "no, we need to keep this amongst ourselves. Don't worry about it, it's not so bad. Go back to sleep." I tell him that it looks pretty bad to me, and he responds with "look, mate, if you tell the reception, the police will get involved, and if the police get involved, our mate here won't be the only one who gets hurt." Cute. I put my hockey stick in bed with me, put a snarl on my face, called him a something unrepeatable and told him "suit yourself."

the icing on the cake...they yell at me the next morning for making too much noise getting up. This prompts me to make more. What turds. One of them stole my sheets, and I lose my deposit if I don't return the sheets. They were all abed, so I wandered around the dorm and took someone else's. Uggh. That whole place just made me feel like I was living in a flop-house.

And here I am in paradise.

Hostel Blues, right across the street, feels like a five-star hotel by comparison. Big, fluffy pillows, friendly staff, blackout shutters in a west-facing room, peace and quiet, and a considerably higher caliber of guests. I guess you get what you pay for. My life feels much less like a comedy of errors since moving here, and I'll be here until the thirteenth. I may extend my stay by a bit so I can see the Slovak National Theatre perform Hamlet.

Now that you know where I am, I'll tell you a little more about my serendipitous miserable day a few days back. Two days ago, I set out in the rain and cold to walk around, buy a jersey, and ultimately attend what I thought was a public skate. The HC Slovan jersey rocks, and I spent the rest of my afternoon walking around in a cemetery, which was peaceful, but not as interesting as I had thought. I came back to the hostel, and put on my new jersey after wringing out my sweater...yes, the weather was that bad. After dinner, I braved the awful weather again and arrived at the rink, only to find out that I had misread the sign; it wasn't a public skate, but something better--skate sharpening. I discovered in my last game how deplorably dull my skates were after losing a couple of easy edges. Trying to tell a Slovak rink employee that I wanted a 3/8" hollow didn't work for two reasons. 1: I don't speak Slovak very well. 2: Slovak is a metric country. Oops. I told him that I play center, and he should do what he thinks is best. He did a fine job. Getting back was an absolute nightmare. I rode the #14 tram, which presumably takes me back to my hostel. For reasons that defy rational explanation, however, I ended up in a totally unfamiliar part of Bratislava. When I realized I should have been back a good ten minutes ago, I got off on Pionerska. To make sure I wasn't crazy, I looked at the tram as it pulled away, and it said #14, sure enough. I looked at the platform information signpost, and the number fourteen was conspicuously absent. So there I was, with squishy shoes, a soaked jersey with nothing underneath, and a rather suspect-looking blue trashbag which held my skates and gloves. I slogged (or squished, whichever verb you prefer) to the station going the other way. Mercifully, a tram ran from there to my stop. However, it wouldn't arrive for another thirty minutes. It merits mention that the tram stop was totally uncovered, and I was already wet and cold. A tram platform in Bratislava is about three feet wide and dead center in the middle of the street. Hence whenever a car would pass, I would get soaked. I haven't been so cold in years. The tram finally arrived, and I made it home fine. To contrast the discomfort, though, I'm pretty sure the shower I took when I returned was one of the best I've ever taken.

The weather was no better the next day. It was perfect for what I did, though; I went to Devin Castle with an Australian girl. To provide a little historical background, Devin Castle was a hub of trade in the Hapsburg empire. When the Turks sacked Budapest, Devin Castle became the center of government for the empire. Napoleon destroyed it in 1809, and it was dormant until communism. Under communism, the castle became the Slovakian equivalent of the Berlin wall. Snipers were posted in the ruins 24/7 to pick off possible defectors to Austria. There was a really interesting memorial to that effect. The castle was a really forlorn place, so the weather was perfect. The ruins were really imposing, and I got some terriffic pictures.

Later in the day I went out with some Irishmen; the city is packed with Irish, since Ireland is playing Slovakia tomorrow. They took a liking to me, and said they had an extra ticket. So I'm going to my first pro soccer game tomorrow, God willing.

Now for the origin of the title. My second game was today, and I'm starting to get my hockey legs back. I was a much more imposing presence on the ice today. The first sense of first blood is the unfortunate one. I already had two assists when I got into a third-period scrap for the puck in front of the net, and one of my teammates wasn't paying attention. Stick to the nose. Ow. I must admit, though, I'm pretty proud of the bloodstains on the palm of my glove. Again, my teammates were surprised when I cleaned it up with some snow and got right back out for my next shift. That was the shift, incidentally, where I made "first blood" have its second connotation. My defenseman, Martin, angled the puck off the boards and I chased it. I knew from the second I got my start that I had the defenseman beat. I deked on my forehand side, froze the goalie, and then backhanded it into the net for a gorgeous goal. We lost, but whatever. The bottle's been uncorked, and now I'm unstoppable...I hope. My next game is Sunday morning. I think I bought my jersey a little too soon. I'm going to have to tighten my belt even more, because the time to buy a new helmet would seem to be upon me. I have two games and two injuries. They seem to be getting worse, too, so I need to get a new face shield before I find myself decapitated. So here it is. Game: 1 goal, 2 assists, +1. Career: 1 goal, 5 assists, +4. Not so shabby, I think.

Get back to me. I'll post again probably on monday. And don't forget to COMMENT!

Be good, kids.

Josh