there's a pervasive stench of smoldering rubber as i walk through the entry of the terminal. the bearing on someone's roller luggage has gone and the friction of the wheel dragging has it hot enough to burn skin if i'm any judge. i should know - i've tasted this smell before. my fault for buying cheap-arse luggage in Singapore a long time ago and a suitcase i left far, far away. at least the trip out to Gatwick was painless - in fact it was so easy it barely even registered until i was already there. there's sod-all queue at the check-in counter for Croatian Airlines and i wind up getting chatty with the attendant who's keen to know the secret to my weight-loss (i take the opportunity while we're chatting to hop up on the luggage-scales, to find out that i currently weigh in at 84.5kg while fully clothed and with my pockets full of gadgets) and in the doing i manage to get an aisle seat in a row of 3 with an empty seat in the middle. score!
20 minutes and the standard security procedures later (you don't seem to need to emigrate from the UK - i've only been stamped out once and that was when i was leaving by ferry of all things) and i'm killing time with the zombie hordes in the dead-zone of the departure lounge at Gatwick Airport. an unadvertised upgrade made to the security scanners in the late-80's was a psychic hack which turns your brain to mush, making you pliable and obedient until you walk through the magnetic coil at the other end which reinstates your free-will. this is why they always ask you to remove your headgear when you go through security: it stops you from hiding a tinfoil hat under your fedora. unfortunately this security feature can be counteracted by being particularly stupid and possessing no discernable imagination, being nicely brainwashed in advance or by reciting particular passages of religious verse to yourself backwards in Sumerian. i swear this is why everyone i see waiting around an airport looks like they're moments away from going Resident Evil on my arse.
i count 3 different WS Smith bookshops, all with more or less the same collection of crap. there's a Buy-3-Get-4 deal going and i can't find more than 2 in any of the 3 stores that i'd want to read, much less spend money on... and they're all marked up by a 3rd anyway. i should be fairly well stocked for books on this trip - i'm packing a Charles Stross book that i know i can read twice if i have to, and a copy of Orcs that The Grey Man threw me the other day that looks big enough to use as a life-raft in case the boat sinks.
aeroplanes traditionally have the worst coffee on the planet and Croatian Airlines might actually be the worst i've ever had. that said, no matter how bad the coffee is on the flight i'm always compelled to have a second cup, or third if i'm on yet another of the Qantas post-Red-Eye-Horror connections i used to take far too often on my way from Perth to Canberra and back in years gone by. it's not a desire for the flavor... or even the caffeine, i think. it seems to satisfy some metaphysical need in my soul that craves recycled coffee grounds that've been cut with sump oil and mud harvested from the Glastonbury Festival, cursed in the name of an elder-god for good measure and had a thimble-full of plastic UHT milk stirred in, served in a plastic cup by an Air Hostie Barbie with a Slavic accent.
the plane was only an hour late in leaving and the food would be best-described as a crime against gastronomy, but i had more leg-room than i think i've ever had in economy short of being in an exit-aisle. the seats are of an older design and you can see the fabric starting to fray but i'd trade all the built-in cushions and plush faux-velour for having the ability to stretch out like this next time i'm flying long-haul. today i'm not - it's a little over 2 hours flight from London Gatwick to Split but for once i was comfortable in an A320-100 and that in itself was golden. the pretty-boy sitting in the window seat has tracks shaved in the the sides of his hair. he looks like a reject from this year's Eurovision, but he offered me a mint after massacring his meal so he's obviously friendly enough.
i'm through immigration and customs with a nice new stamp filling in some of the blank-space on page 4 of my passport (and completely throwing out the chronology - the next free page is 13, dammit) and throw 5 Euros at the bus driver to take me into town. it would have been nice to get here with a bit of daylight to spare because it's a lovely little place, even if it's a pigwhore to navigate. white limestone streets and buildings breaking into tight alleyways lead all through the centre of town. the main bus/ferry port is at one end of the Riva - a long, brightly lit promenade neatly laid out and built into buildings that look like they've stood since the Schizm, lined with palm trees and walked by well-dressed Beautiful People. i'll be here for an evening again in a week so i should get the chance to find somewhere to hang out where i don't stand out like a sore-scum.
i have some directions fossicked from the web last night at somewhere around 3AM, but without a printer i wasn't able to print out the Google Maps output so i'm reliant on finding people who a) speak english and b) know the streets. an english-speaking local with (amazingly) more technology hanging off him than me pulls out his GPS-phone and shows me the way, but it's still half an hour before i find the hostel i managed to book into last night. Meri, who owns and runs the little guest-house, lets me in and even takes me down to find somewhere to get a quiet bite at 10PM, which is how i've fetched up sitting in an open square outside a little cafe playing dance hits from the 80's. a quick glance at the menu gives me the feeling that i'm going to be OK here - coffee costs the equivalent of a pound, pints come in at around £2.50, which is what it cost me for a couple of massive slices of pizza down on the Riva.
at least my street-smarts haven't failed me. they've been developing nicely in the last few months, but i reckon i'm going to need all of them and more in the next little while as i venture out of the UK and out into Europe. that said, it feels really good to be a little off the beaten track, in a place i'd only ever heard of in "Where in Europe is Carmen Sandiego?" before a couple of months ago. i think i'm going to have to see if i can find someone who'll make me a coffee and sit around in this little square for a while, listening to the group of guys a couple of doors down who've just started singing in close harmony - a song i've never heard in a language i don't understand in a place i can barely point out on the map.
life is good. travel is better. Split, on the other hand, is fucking gorgeous.
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