I had gone to bed at 1:00 and woke up at 10:30, so I was feeling pretty good. Osi and the Nigerian were already awake and I went into the kitchen to find something to eat. The Nigerian came in to assist me and I made some tuna and bread and beans. An interesting combination.
After I ate I started to clean up and the Nigerian came into the kitchen to show me "which sink to use for washing" so I could "get used to the house." This was after he had gone out to buy shampoo since he didn't have any. Considering his initial response to my crashing at his place, he had done a pretty quick turn-around. Maybe I was wrong.
I left the flat after eating to try to do a little job searching but got initially caught up with "GEBT UNS ZURÜCK WAS UNS GEHÖRT MONTEZUMA'S FEDERKRONE." At least, that's what the sign said. I have no idea what it was meant to be, but there were two men, a woman, and a little girl all in full Indian costumes-- three-foot headresses (except for the girl), elaborate boots, grass skirts, fancy shields, and clubs. At first there was a call-and-response with a guy banging a drum and calling and the other men responding by blowing through shells. Then there was either a war dance or a rain dance, which was mostly just twirls and fancy footwork, but which went on for 20 minutes and which the audience loved.
And, of course, there was a chalice in between them all with smoke coming out of it.
These people were obviously not even remotely Native American, but the audience freakin' loved it-- 80% of the people gave money, I would guess, when yet another person in Indian costume came by with a bowl. It was completely bizarre, mostly because I wouldn't pay a cent to people immitating Native Austrian culture. Those silly Austrians.
I went to a few hostels to look for work but hadn't brought any identification with me, which meant it was mostly pointless. So I went back to the University and fiddled around on the computer, waiting for a response from a English or History professor. Which didn't arrive.
After a while I gave up and headed back to the flat. The Nigerian had made rice for dinner, which was something like an African rice with tomatos, onions, chili pepper, fish, and tomato stew. Making it fifteen times more delicious than the rice mess I tend to put together if I'm ever lucky enough to have rice to put together.
While we were eating the Nigerian asked when I wanted to go to church in the morning. I told him I hadn't really been planning on going at all, and he was appalled. He started telling me all the ways that going to church has helped him and all the ways it would help me if I went with him, and I cut him off right there. "OK, fine, I'll go."
After eating we went to buy beer for us and cigarettes for him, and before we left he showed me how to open the door of his flat. For the third time. I get it. I told him I had come home the previous night and gotten in, hadn't I, and he said that his brother had let him in. No, his brother had just happened to arrive right after me, I told him. For the third time. It was unbelievable. Showing me how to wash dishes, how to make tuna and beans and bread, how to open the door, how I should just go back to America, I get it. I don't have a work visa and it's going to be hard, I get it. Just let it go.
When we got to the cigarette machine the Nigerian realized that he didn't have any money with him. I lent him €4, which is fine of course in general, but not for cigarettes. Not really.
We parted ways then and I went to get the beer, and when I came back he was lying in bed with the lights off and talking to his girlfriend. I put the beer in the fridge and went to find a warm place-- a metro station, it turned out to be-- to write.
I returned in about an hour and found him in the same position, still talking on the phone. It was only a one-room flat and it would have been rude to stick around, even though I wouldn't have been able to hear him if I were standing two meters from the guy. So I took a beer from the fridge and went up to the main square.
I walked by a dude who was playing the guitar and singing. Actually, he was playing three chords over and over again and saying things like "Why do I have to pay €5 for a pint" and "Why can't I smoke what I want to when I want to." I thought he was either hilarious or an idiot, or maybe both, and he was speaking English. So I went over and talked to him.
I asked him if he was playing a track off his Greatest Hits compilation and he said "This? No, this is just improv-- just protest music." You don't say, huh? He said he wants to make a record but doesn't "want to be like Mick Jagger, you know, and have all that money." I said I didn't think it was just his forsaking of material possessions that was stopping him from being quite like Mick Jagger. Boy was I on a roll.
This dude was from Michigan and had been in Spain for two years, and he said he was done with America but that if he ever went back he would be a teacher. Gee, where have I heard that before?
I asked him what he's been doing for all that time, and he said he was traveling for a while but after about six months he decided he didn't really want to go back, and he's been playing the guitar on the street to support himself ever since. I found that impossible to imagine but didn't think it would be nice to tell him.
Anyway, he was a pretty decent guy, and I was intrigued by his time-line of giving up on America after six months and still being here a year and a half later. Which gives me about four more months to go in Europe before it becomes eternity.
Before I left I asked him if he had any ideas about how to make some money. He asked if I had a guitar and I said no, and he said that was the best way he could think of. But then he thought a bit more and, when he asked if I could make an investment, said that I should just sell drugs. It would cost a bit at the start but I'd make a killing. So there's my fallback, I guess.
I went back to the flat then and the Nigerian was STILL on the phone. His girlfriend said she wanted to talk to me, and the first thing she said was "So is Ike nice?" And, I'll tell you, I was THIS close to asking who Ike was but thought better of it. So I said "Yes, and he's a good cook." I looked up and Ike, as it turned out, was smiling.
Because, as I'm sure you've noticed, I didn't know his name. I mean, I had no clue what his name was, I really didn't. He had told me a couple times before but each time I didn't understand him, on account of the stutter and the overall near muteness, and after asking him to repeat himself a couple times, both times, I gave up. And it really was too late to ask him again.
(To be honest, I said "Huh, what?" more times to Ike than I had to any Austrian or Hungarian who didn't even speak English as a first language. Which, for those who don't know, Nigerians do. It was unbelievable.)
So now I knew Ike's name. He had said he wanted to go out that night, but when he finally got off the phone past midnight he just sat on the bed in his boxers, watching the television. I asked him if he still wanted to go out and, not surprisingly, he said he didn't.
So now I needed to get a bit more energy before going out, since it would just be me, and I figured I would finally take that hour-long nap from the night before. And, of course, when the alarm went off in an hour I could barely make it to the bed let alone out the door. So I called it a night. Again. A wasted weekend. Again.
And I blame Axel for this particular wasted weekend. Still exhausted from my night in the garage and still mentally exhausted from dealing with it all. And now he took my weekend.
Oh, and my iPod.
********************************
The crazy thing is, after berating Axel for using CouchSurfing.com, I finally had a similar experience. Staying with Ike was literally like staying with a couple grandparents. Maybe because he was-- get this-- actually 36 years old. Oops.
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