Hidra – ostrvo magaraca

Malo, hrabro ostrvo magaraca i ljudi, iako sam ga uvek zamišljao kao vlažno i močvarno jer u igrici Heroji III močvarni grad kao najjače stvorenje ima upravo višeglavu hidru. Sam ulazak u luku srpastog oblika, sa tvrđavom na jednoj strani i mnogo belih kuća okruženih kamenim zidovima rasprostrtih po padinama koje se uzdižu od luke ostavlja snažan utisak. Ovo nisam očekivao. Na ovom ostrvu je nekada živeo i čuveni Lenard Koen i još neke poznate svetske ličnosti, a kasnije sam otkrio da je sa ovog ostrva potekao i ustanak protiv Otomanskog carstva i da je ostrvo, koliko god malo bilo, a ne broji više od pet hiljada duša, dalo pet grčkih predsednika! Što reče jedan moj drugar, oni su k'o Crnogorci: nema ih mnogo, ali su na svim vodećim funkcijama. Ratna flota Hidre je odnela nekoliko važnih pobeda protiv Turaka. Tu je sašivena i prva moderna grčka zastava koja je danas izložena u gradskom muzeju...

Prvi susret s pločnikom doka odiše mirisom magaraca i konja. Na ostrvu su zabranjeni automobili i motocikli. Ima svega par vozila – jedan smećarski kamion za celo ostrvo i par opštinjarskih džipova. Ovo je prava oaza za odmor od prelaska atinskih ulica i strahovanja za sopstveni život, čak i na pešačkom prelazu. Užurbani centar liči na neki gradić iz starih filmova o američkim ili britanskim buržujima i buržujkama u poseti zemljama trećeg sveta, negde u Africi ili na Bliskom istoku, možda zato jer je sa luksuzom prtljaga i odeće posetilaca teško spojiti vonj konja, magaraca i njihovih gazdi što spretno vezuju nove Samsonite kofere na leđa životinja i elegantno ih sprovode do hotela gosta. Panoramom dominira zvonik sa satom u mletačkom stilu, mada ne tako visok kao onaj u Zanteu, na Zakintosu. 

Voda mora je ono što me uvek fascinira. Modro, mastiljasto plava, a pri obali zelenkasto azurna, prozirna voda sa svetlo oker bojom kamenja koje se vidi duboko u moru... a more se pomera kao želatinasta masa u koju želiš što pre da uroniš. Shvatio sam posle dugo godina da more koje volim nisu dugačke, dosadne peščane plaže, već kamenite, sa kojih se u vodu ulazi na bar jednom pristupačnom jezičku obale i gde dno ne možeš da dohvatiš ni na metar od kopna. Ovde su skoro sve plaže takve, a prva je na samo pedesetak metara od ulaza u luku. Vijugavi put koji vodi na tu stranu prolazi pored svih najboljih plaža ostrva, a svuda se može stići pešice. Pogled sa puta naniže ka moru je nešto čemu se ne može odoleti.

Dok sam ručao u jednom omanjem restoranu, malo uvučenom od samog centra, konobar ili konobarica, nisam još uvek siguran, širokih nozdrva i tankih zidova nosa, s nekoliko dlačica po licu za koje nisam siguran da li izbijaju iz podvoljka, sa obraza ili ispod mačijeg nosa – sve u svemu, osoba ima mačiju glavu (čovek bi možda na jednom ostrvu ovog tipa pre očekivao da vidi konjske ili magareće crte lica, ako već mora da liči na životinju), pričao mi je o tome kako je ovo vrlo sigurno ostrvo, kako se ovde ne dešavaju krađe jer – kako ćeš da pobegneš sa ostrva!? Nema automobila. Samo brodići. Kaže da na Hidri nijedna banka nikad nije opljačkana. Kako da pobegneš sa novcem? Zato su ovde banke sigurne. Niko ih ne pljačka. 

Da... informacija je jedno, ali toliko puta mi je ponovio, tj. ponovila ovo sa bankama koje niko ne pljačka, da sam počeo da razmišljam u tom pravcu. Potrebna je samo dobra organizacija. Odmah mi je na pamet pala sjajna ideja. Gledanje filmova nekad ima svoje prednosti. Kao što su krijumčari droge istu krijumčarili tako što bi je privezali ispod korita broda u džakove koji su bili napunjeni težim materijalom da ne bi izašla na površinu, tako se može otpremiti i novac ukraden iz banke na Hidri do Atine. Greška krijumčara droge bila je u tome što su drogu vezivali ispod svojih brodova. Dakle, plan bi se sastojao iz dva koraka: pronaći brodić koji češće saobraća do Atine. Nije bitno da to bude prečesto. Malo četovati sa meštanima, videti kad idu do grada, upoznati njihove barke i gde ih ukotvljavaju kad uplove u neku (i koju) od atinskih luka. Pripremiti džak ispod njihovog broda ili ispod nekoliko brodova, za slučaj da neki od njih isplovi baš kad se nađeš na džadi s džakom para u rukama i policijom koja galopira na mazgama prema tebi. Pljačku izvršiti brzo, novac strpati u pripremljenu vodootpornu vreću i baciti se u more odmah. Ako sve prođe kako treba, tj. ne naprave razliku između tebe i ostalih kupača, od kojih se niko ne kupa u luci, onda možeš samo da čekaš po atinskim lukama... Strpljenje je ključ. Nema nervoze. Ako brodića nema, nemoj da se vraćaš na Hidru. Čekaj. Ako su otkrili tvoj ingeniozni plan, barem si na slobodi. Popij kaficu ili dve sa nekom lepom Grkinjom u marini Alimu, u jahting baru Skipper's i čekaj da tvoj kapetan uplovi u mirnu luku...

Odmah da odreknem svoju odgovornost za korišćenje ideje! Ovo je samo fikcija dostupna svim manijacima na internetu, a plan je stvarno dobar, tako da me ne bi začudilo da ga neko i sprovede u delo. Da ste se ranije setili da pročitate ovu priču, možda taj neko ne bi nikad ni uspeo. 

Tako... odoh sad malo do luke da prošetam. Volim miris mora.

Por(n)os - the English version

Ancient Greek culture did not shrink away from the pedantic rigidity of the petit-bourgeois society. Before Hugh Hefner fought his way through to the best pieces of the world’s meat, throwing only the leftovers from his table to the rest of us perverts in the form of artistic photographs that cover more than they uncover, the ancient Greeks freely expressed their sexuality three thousand years ago, carrying it along everywhere without being ashamed or embarrassed. Bora Čorba tried to relay the echoes of that freedom in Serbia with the words of his song “dick, pussy, ass, tit”, but the echo died in the deaf wall standing firmly before the Serbian nation…

I remember that in school we didn’t learn of the Mycenaean coffee cups with porn positions – an extremely valuable gadget for coffee-drinking with your next-door and further-down-the-road neighbors. I mean, they certainly did convince me that if a girl wants something from you, then she sends you a subliminal message like “Wanna go have a coffee?” or “When are we gonna have a coffee?” or something along those lines. Now, I interpret all such invitations as the primal propagation call and I try to smile as much as possible – yes, that, too is supposed to portray a subconscious desire for coupling and the primal mind of your potential partner will know how to decipher those signals, so just shut up and let nature take its course.

A perfect example: during my recent visit to the island of Poros, my attention was captured by the postcards depicting the acts found on the above mentioned cups and home utensils in Mycenae, Crete and the surrounding Cyclades. Aghast, I gaped at the orgies at the central square: threesomes, twosomes, oral analyses and many variations complemented by vivid scenes of the lonely rider, solitary jerk and… a few postcards of the island sneaked their way in there, too.

I hesitated not and bought two of them on the spot: I didn’t want to buy the rest since I’m a serious man. I will try and give a couple of proposals for the titles or captions thereof:

“No, don’t come closer, or the white will be on you all over!”

“Just… just stay over there, ok? I can manage it.”

“But ho! Are you sure you can take it?”

“Here I go with the thing on my own…”

“Big cock opens the chastity belt as well!”

“She who knows, gets two… in one.”

If you find this inspiring, write your own suggestions in the comments section. If not, how about we go get a cup of coffee?

Granada - English version

The air smells different in Granada; a lulled atmosphere permeating with artisan leather bags sold along the narrow “Moroccan” streets, a hundred different teas from all over the world, , kebab – the famous “schwarma”, mixed with the dank, rich spices of Morocco and Pakistan, Sierra Nevada and hope…

It seems that time stands still there, as if there was no hurry for anything: ragged hippies in the winding callejones of Albayzin, on the little squares next to the fountains and on the viewpoints fill the already dreamy air with melancholic tones of their mainstream and alternative instruments. Even the church bells toll slowly. The streets belong to them, and most of them came from all over Spain, Europe and the world; they found their own self, they feel at home and act accordingly. Granada is their home.

And you are probably a tourist? Pretend that you understand. Be cool, sit on the sidewalk. Start a conversation. Look, as if hypnotized, at the maestro’s fingers playing flamenco guitar. Take photos of him with your pro camera - as if you too are an artist, only in the world of photography or amateur film, among the indigenous people, whose customs you want to present in your own village back home, and everything is cool. Everything is immensely cool.

So the years go by. If you’re not careful, you may wake up one day in Granada and understand that your life had passed in inebriation with life, in the open, in parties, in flamenco nights, long walks, immeasurably long observing of the Alhambra and “the most beautiful sunset in the world”, as the criminal Bill Clinton phrased it, from the mirador of San Nicolas. A plate was placed at San Nicolas to honor him, something like “Billy was here”…but it’s no longer there. It wasn’t me, I swear!

Is Granada more sun or rain? Sun, lots of sun. But there is rain as well. The boring, seeping rain that can go on uninterrupted for days on end in a lackluster, melancholic way. And then, the sun will rise and the smell of paella, seafood and who-knows-what, prepared on garlic (the trademark of Spain) will fill the narrow Arab streets. That same garlic bothered Beckham’s wife while her husband played for Real Madrid: “Spain smells of garlic! Yuck!” sayeth Victoria and fell in disgrace with the Spanish people. It happened recently, a few years back. I told you, time is relative in Granada, and it feels as if it had happened just the other day, when it actually happened once upon a time.

And then, one more day breathed in to the fullest. I walk down the steep streets of Albayzin; I don’t know where I’m going, but I know I’ll go past the “Teteria”, i.e. the Moroccan tea and Andalusia Arab tourism street, reach Calle Elvira, with super-alternative bars, go left to Plaza Nueva or right along the Elvira.Or I might just walk straight down to Gran Via Colon, the largest street in town, cross it at the Cathedral and then sneak in again in the small tea, silk and velvet streets, fancy shops, souvenir shops, among the tourists and the Granadine semi-snobs (Gran Via Colon is the border between the Hippie Empire and ordinary people). Small and big squares take turns to the left, right and straight ahead, and then everything ends with the line at Burger King. From that point on, the town is starting to get serious a bit, taking the shape of an ordinary European town. The stores are lined up along the three rays of streets, one of which leads all the way down to the Garcia Lorca Park, namesake of the Spanish poet who loved  Granada and spent most of his life there.

I’m already thinking of whether to go back from where I came, make a left turn to the bull arena, and find El Nido del Buho bar (The Owl’s Nest), where some of the best tapas in Granada are served, abundant and tasty. For 2 euros, as the price was some time ago, i.e. for 2.20 euros (what can you do, it’s the crisis time) today, in 2012, you get a 0.33 l draft beer and a nice plate of food. My all-time favorites include: salmon with cream cheese, salmon with red sauce, paella (if available), and surely the Iberian prosciutto (jamon iberico). The choice is magnificent, almost like Suleiman the Magnificent: there are hamburgers, hot-dogs (oh, yeah: they call them “perritos calientes”, literally, hot dogs!?), avocado, skewers and what not.

After three years I am back in Granada. What a flash! No wonder that while I lived there everything felt like a dream. The atmosphere is just like in Alfred Tennyson’s poem “The Lotus Eaters”. Tennyson actually got inspiration for this poem on a trip to Spain: the sailors full up on lotus, or, to translate it into English – on henbane, grow so numb and fall into a state of blissful day-dreaming, isolated from the rest of the world… Almost nothing has changed. I am walking the same sidewalks along Gran Via again, I see the same shops, the same tourists, only in the body of somebody else, I recognize the faces of some of the shop-keepers…

And so I was and I was not. At times it seemed that only a shadow of me was walking those streets where once upon a time Cedomir Pusica, the owner of the body who sleeps somewhere in Serbia, in Italy, in Greece, in Hungary, in Matrix, studied and fooled around. Something changed. Me. Joder…