Story: My Name is Daniel

My story "My Name is Daniel" was published in Fredericksburg Literary and Art Review this year. If you have not read it online yet, you can now read it here on my website. I hope you do. Please enjoy.

My Name is Daniel

by David H Weinberger

            He rides the U-Bahn from the start in Pankow to somewhere past Potsdamer Platz, maybe even to the last stop at Ruhleben. Sometimes he gets off earlier. I get on at Pankow, the beginning, at the same time as him. He is always alone and always talking. He carries two overflowing canvas bags which he sets on the seat next to him. As he talks to himself, it seems that he is staring at his bags, but as I later learn he notices a great deal.

Normally, I exit at Potsdamer Platz, but on this Wednesday I had a day off. I sat next to his bags, listened closely to what he was saying, and planned to ride the U2 as long as he did. What follows is a journey across Berlin with his monologue, as best as I could understand it.

***

            Early morning. I got my favorite corner seat on the U2. I usually take the corner seat and one more. That way I can spread out a bit. Cross one leg over my other leg and get a bit comfortable for the U-Bahn ride. I can get the corner seat because I get on at the start of the line in Pankow, where I usually sleep. Very few other riders get on at the stop. Nearly empty train at that point. Ride it to the end at Ruhleben. Or I get out before. Times the train gets too crowded I get out. Common for that to happen in Berlin. Lots of train riders. My name is Daniel. Nobody calls me that though. They call me crazy. Or lunatic. Or nothing at all. I just sit and talk. I’m not crazy. I talk quietly to myself to keep me company. I think everyone else hears mumbling. A group of young men get on board at Eberswalder. They all have long black beards. Youngsters like long beards these days. Not like me. I don’t shave because it is too much effort. They intentionally grow it long. Looks like Taliban to me. I know they’re not, but still. I don’t think I look like Taliban. I look like a crazy man because my beard is getting long and scraggly. But I’m not gonna shave it. Too much effort. Just have to watch out for lice. They crawl in your hair. Lay their eggs. Nothing to do about it. Life on the streets. Nothing in my beard though. Couple just got on with a dog. They’ve been out in the rain. They smell damp and the dog has that wet dog, rotten earthy smell. They sit near me. Couple seats down. I think they can hear me but they don’t look at me. Ignore me. They don’t know my name is Daniel. I once had a dog. Named Clemens. Irish setter I think. But it was yellow. Could it have been an Irish Setter if it was yellow? I don’t know. Cloudy memory in my head. But the dog was good. Obedient and friendly. Liked to have its belly rubbed. This wet dog here looks friendly. Bet it likes its belly rubbed. I wouldn’t do it though. That damp grainy fur. Doesn’t feel good. Even though it looks like a good dog. Like Clemens was. Too many dogs in Berlin. Shit all over and no one cleans up. I hate stepping in it. Soils my shoes and I have a hard time cleaning them. Sometimes I want to lay my blanket down behind some bushes but there’s too much dog shit. I get frustrated. This wet couple with the dog have little blue bags on the leash. Tells me they pick up after their dog. Good for them. Wish more were like them. Four stops now. More people on the train. Difficult to hear my own voice. But I still can even though I don’t shout like some other crazy people do. It’s almost at a whisper. I like it that way. I will leave when I can’t hear it anymore. It’s all I have, hearing my voice. I don’t like hearing the crazies yell. Makes no sense and hurts my head. They should be in a hospital or something. Not on the street. Not riding my trains. My name is Daniel. This is my corner seat traveling through Berlin in the U2. End of the line is my goal. Where’s everyone else going? They don’t tell me but still I wonder. I’m just going to another stop. Until the end of the line. But I have to get some food. Didn’t eat this morning before I got on the train. Maybe I can get some lunch. If I can find something. Six people sit across from me. I see them out of the corners of my eyes. They all have their faces in their phones. Those things are not just for calls anymore. I don’t know what they do with them though. Staring at them all the time. Sometimes their fingers move rapidly on the screens. Fingers shudder like they have Parkinson’s disease. Lots if iPhones. I can tell by the apple on the back. I’d like to make a call. But who would I call? My childhood buddy Martin. Hello Martin. This is Daniel. What’s up? Nothing here. Just riding the U2. How’s your mom and dad? Oh, they died? Sorry, it’s been a while. They were always so nice to me. Feeding me lunch because my parents never did. Those were good sandwiches. Remember when they drove us to the lake? They let us swim all day. They were nice folks. Well, good talking to you Martin. Talk again soon. Bye. That’s how it would go. Then call another. But I still don’t get the finger dancing on the phones. Can’t imagine what they are doing. Another stop. People off, more on. People come and go. All in their own worlds. They don’t listen to me. Just ignore me. There’s a man like me by the doors. ‘Cept he’s drinking a beer. Not supposed to drink on the trains but lots of folks do it. He looks like he doesn’t need that beer. Can hardly stand up. Probably already had a few. I don’t drink. Can’t afford it and it’s not good for me. Used to drink. Always got in trouble. One time got in a fight in a bar. Got the shit beat out of me because I was talking to some guy’s girl. He told me to stop, leave her alone, but I didn’t listen. Then I touched her arm. He dragged me outside and beat the shit out of me. I was plastered. I laughed the whole time even though it hurt like hell. Woke up in the morning in the street. Bloody and hung over. Haven’t had a drink since. Still smells good to me though. Music at the other end of the train car. Saxophone and electric piano, sounds like. I can’t see them, only hear them. Boring music. Wait, is it boring? Not really. Sounds a bit like jazz. Jazz that I know. Ellington? I decide it’s not too boring. I like it. They play a bit then stop and ask for money. They don’t ask me cause I’m too busy talking. They stopped playing but music is coming out of a boom box. They supplement the basic music with their instruments. I think that’s cheating. But you can’t bring a whole band on the U2. We finally stop at Potsdamer Platz. Always a big stop. Waves of people off and on. We wait for what seems like minutes. I know it’s not. If I keep talking the time will pass. But the crowds get deeper. Reminds me of when I lived in New York. Trains always busy. Body to body. Everyone touching. It made me feel unhealthy. But Berlin can get that way too. Rush hour the trains are just like they are in New York. Extremely full like in a small elevator with twenty people. No way out until the next stop. That’s why I like the corner seat. Crowds might push on my legs and shoulders but that’s all. They leave the rest of me alone. The man next to me usually gets out at Potsdamer Platz. Not today. He just sits there staring out the window. Wonder why he didn’t get out. Must have other plans today. Hope he doesn’t talk to me. Not much chance of that happening though. That rustling I hear. Sounds like reading a paper. But I don’t look up to see. I stare at my bag and hear the rustling. Lots of papers in Berlin. Some about the city, some about the world. I used to read the papers but not anymore. They say the worst things. So much going on it frightens me. I survive in Berlin. Anywhere else, I don’t know. Maybe I wouldn’t make it. Maybe I couldn’t survive. But someone on this train is reading a paper. Discovering the next calamity. Perhaps reading about a train wreck somewhere. A place somewhere else I hope. I have to get off this train soon. Too many people. Too much pushing and shoving. Too much noise and distraction. I can’t think. I can’t hear myself. Why are they so loud? They bother me so. But we arrive at the next station and many leave the train. Not so many enter. Quieter now. I can stay another station or two. Don’t have to leave just yet. Where do I want this train to take me? It never drops me where I want to be. Always another place which holds no meaning to me. Another empty space. Not empty of people of course. Empty of meaning. Of significance. Any place on the map. A symbolic colored dot on a map signifying a place with a name. A place with no meaning. So where to go? I could go back. Back in time to when I was married. Could this train take me there? To Janice? To her smell and her feel? She loved me I know. She took care of me. I met Janice in a bar of course. We were drinking gin and tonics. Or just gin. I can’t remember. But her presence made me forget myself. I bought her several drinks. We went home together. Janice and Daniel. Stayed together for years. How many years I can’t remember. She looked like the young lady leaning on the doors over there. Blond hair, smooth glowing skin. That all changed. I messed it up with my drinking. One day, no more Janice. No surprise. I have nothing to offer. Didn’t then, don’t now. The train keeps moving. Rattling through the underworld of this city. It’s where I feel the best. I don’t like it outside. Above or below the trains. Don’t like the light. The pressure of the air and the rain pulsing on me. Expecting of me. I need the rattle of the train. The endless bumps and violent shudders of curves. I need to feel tossed about by a train, not by crowds of people. That’s the feeling I like. The feeling I need. The constant pulsating that keeps track with my voice. The dog people finally leave and with them the memory of Clemens. It’s like I need a presence to remind me of my past. Like a ghost standing in for my past. But where do they all go? They get off the train, these ghosts, and travel away from me. I forget as soon as they are gone. Not like a ghost that haunts endlessly. A ghost who teases. Chases my thoughts and memories and then abruptly disappears along with my thoughts and memories. So long nice smelly dog. So long Clemens. Does anyone smell what I smell? A dank, musty smell. Is it me? Someone near me? It’s putrid. It can’t be me. My neighbor, perhaps. Maybe the one who replaced the dog people. Hope he leaves soon. I once had a neighbor who always made goulash. Beef goulash, chicken goulash, mushroom goulash. But always the same smell. The smell of garlic and paprika filled the floor. Sometimes it made me gag but sometimes it made me so hungry. He never shared the food, only the smell. It’s like now, someone is sharing their smell. But I guess that’s normal on trains. Even the trains have distinct smells. Each one a bit different, yet somehow the same. The U2 smells sweaty and aromatic. Not like the bad smell I am smelling. More like a homey smell. Like walking into your apartment after a week or two of travel. Empty except for the smell of closed spaces. I like that smell. Of course, I haven’t lived in an apartment for years now. I don’t like the smell I’m smelling now. But it could be me so I don’t complain. I wouldn’t complain anyway. I’ve not showered for weeks. Only washes in bathrooms. I try to stay clean but maybe I missed something. Something lingering. Hanging on to me regardless. I can’t understand the damn announcements. Not because they are in German, but because my ears don’t work so good. Never did. I always saw my parents’ lips moving but could barely hear a word they were saying. It was like a silent film. And then they hit me. When they were near me, I could hear them say they hit me because I don’t listen. But I listen. They didn’t understand. So, they spoke wordlessly and they hit violently. Didn’t change a thing. Still didn’t hear them. Any stop could be my stop. I don’t decide. The stop calls to me. Or the train is too crowded. Or I don’t like someone sharing the train. Lots of reasons for getting off a train. I have no reason to right now. Perhaps I’ll ride it to the end. And back again. Perhaps the next stop. Next stop is Zoologischer Garten. Always a big stop with lots of people coming and going. Ignoring me. No one knows my name is Daniel. I could get off here and have a meal at the soup kitchen. Always crowded but good warm food. Maybe I’ll wait. But the doors close so it’s too late. Don’t have to decide. The train rumbles on. Not many stops until the end of the line. Then I will need to exit or ride back. Get off at Zoologischer Garten to eat. Then back on to Pankow. A morning of riding. Train empties a bit more at each stop. Soon I will be the only one. The only one to hear my talking. Talking to Daniel. No one talks to me. I do.

***

            He exits as he said at Zoologischer Garten and I ride the U2 back to Pankow. Who knows, maybe I’ll talk to Daniel someday. Or maybe I’ll just listen. Perhaps one day I will say, “Good morning, Daniel.”

END

The Reader Berlin

I just had to write a bit about The Reader Berlin headed up by Victoria Gosling. I have taken a class from them, participated in their first ever writing retreat in Greece, and have been lucky enough to be mentioned by them for Eye to Eye which was recently published by The Ravens Perch. Victoria does great work and I am sure is not fairly compensated. She has a writing competition which ends July 31 with the theme of Home Is Elsewhere. How about writing and submitting? See you at the awards ceremony.

Eye to Eye

Appearing online at theravensperch.com is my third published story, "Eye to Eye." I am so pleased that the team at The Ravens Perch appreciated my story enough to publish it. Please log on to their website and read my story as well as the many other stories they have on offer.

Writing Cave

I finished up my writing retreat last week. It was an incredible experience, with tons of inspiration, new writing prompts, and lots of new story ideas and conclusions. Below is a picture of my apartment throughout the week. It looks a bit cave-like but was actually a wonderful place to spend hours writing on my own each day. The Reader Berlin hosted the event and I am very thankful to Victoria, Callie, and Dimitra who organised and led the workshops.

My Name is Daniel

My second story was just published by Fredericksburg Literary and Art Review. The story is called "My Name is Daniel" and it explores the inner thinkings of a homeless man riding a Berlin train. I am very honoured to have it appear in the Spring/Summer 2017 issue. It can be read online and a print copy can also be purchased.

Writing Retreat, Pinakates, Greece

This Thursday, I leave for a writing retreat in Greece sponsored by The Reader Berlin. Lots of work planned with workshops, writing, and readings. I would think a bit of exploring the mountain village as well. Posts will follow during the week.

The Fatigue of Hope

I love the process of finally getting thoughts onto paper. The Fatigue of Hope is the name of the second collection of short stories I am working on and I wanted a story with that title to accompany the collection. I have been thinking about this for over one year and finally, today, some writing arrived on the page. There is a long way to go but the beginning is ever so sweet!

Not So You'd Notice

My first short story collection manuscript. I have sent it out to one publisher, after which I received a polite rejection. But I am ready to send it out there again!

Tasting Vis

A couple of summers ago we visited the island of Vis, Croatia. We had a great time and this story is what I have remaining from that trip.

Tasting Vis

I am sitting at Grandovac Beach with a beer in my hand and the sun in my face. I have one week in Vis, Croatia, escaping Berlin city life and the crush of people. I simply need some down time: see another way of living, another way of doing things. Berlin is a beer town. Vis is a wine island. The current beer is just for the afternoon. Tonight, I need Vis wine. Wine that is the most famous, at least in the eyes of Vis residents, in Croatia. It is by far, the best way to become acquainted with a place and its people: through their wines.

I leave the little village of Kut and walk into Vis town to book a tour. Vis wine is diverse and extremely personal, and I understand it is difficult to arrange visits and tastings so I need a knowledgeable guide. One who knows Vis wine and viniculture intimately.  I found what I was looking for with Josip and his Local Vis Tours. Local Vis Tours offers kayak, city, island, and as I had hoped, winery tours. His promotional photo album promised a ‘wonderfully picturesque and romantic wine tour, visiting the best, yet unknown wineries Vis has to offer.’ I already know Vis is picturesque and I am in no need of romance but I decide to book with them.

I approach the sales assistant standing off to one side. She is attractive and happily low-key in an island kind of way. Maybe I am in need of romance. But I keep to the tour. She sells me the tour including visits to small wineries and vineyards, tastings, and a dinner at the end of the tour. Sounds good. It’s booked for six this evening with Josip.

Josip is late. While I wait I think about what I have done this week in Vis. A circumnavigation motorboat ride of Vis with a lunch visit to the smaller island of Otok Veli Budikovac. A bike ride into the fishing village of Komiža, the city on the opposite side of the island, for lunch. Lots of beach visiting. Vis has plenty of beaches and beach bars. Perfect to relax and enjoy the view.

Six-thirty. Josip appears with an introduction but no apology. No problem. I had a good time reminiscing. Josip is wired, like a four year old on Christmas morning. Manic, jovial, good-natured. Tells me to follow him. I follow down narrow, serpentine streets to his place of business. Once inside, I am overwhelmed by the confusion and clutter of the place; it is a mix of an office and a shut down dilapidated bar. It is full of old nautical equipment, signs, and dated maps of Vis. Very cool. Empty wine bottles everywhere. More bottles of different sizes, shapes, and various colors of liquids fill many bottles. Clear liquid like fresh mountain spring water to nearly black liquid the quality of a black pearl. Reminds me of a medieval apothecary shop.

Josip insists on giving me a drink and promises to arrange the tour after my first indulgence, which makes me immediately think that he has not seen the same photo album I have seen. I think he should have the tour arranged already but I accept the offer of a drink. Josip studies the shelf above the opposite wall with his forefinger on his lips, pulls down a bottle filled with an amber hued liquid. He pours and assumes I am familiar with Prošek. I assure him I am not. Josip explains that everyone on the island makes his or her own Prošek. His upstairs neighbor makes the one I am drinking. No vineyard of her own. Buys the grapes and makes the Prošek.

He begs me to not confuse Croatian Prošek with Italian Proseco, which apparently is a big problem. He assures me the two are very different and cannot be compared at all, regardless of what the European Union thinks. He emphasizes that the two wines look different, are made through different techniques, and taste incredibly different.

I do not know Italian Proseco but I know that the Prošek I am drinking is incredibly tasty. It is warm and sweet and I enjoy it as Josip is busy in the back room, another cluttered room overrun by chaos and Josip’s frantic behavior. He returns with an unopened bottle of something he says is a secret, and a small wooden box holding two wine glasses.

We head out the door and through more narrow winding streets to his clearly overused, aged Suzuki Samurai. The Samurai is a small version of his office: weathered and cluttered. But I fit comfortably. And so does he. We head inland to places I have not yet explored.

For conversation I tell him about my bike ride to Komiža and my taxi ride back. Long downhill coast into Komiža. Then fish soup for lunch. Taxi ride back to Kut but with a stop at the taxi driver’s winery. Tasted an enjoyable white wine and purchased a bottle for later in the week. Also enjoyed his Prošek but he had no bottles to sell. Josip assured me I could buy lots of Prošek tonight. He knew the driver. Edo is his name. Good at driving and at producing wines he tells me.

Finally, Josip stops just atop a small rise with an olive grove just below us. A Zen garden laid out for olive trees. Circular rake marks surround each tree and circles meeting in-between the rows and columns. Each tree an identical height and manicured to perfection. I want to meet the owner but Josip explains that he sells the olives locally and makes olive oil for local consumption but he does not like visitors. Especially outsiders. He will occasionally show his operation to a local but that is rare. Josip has seen it but not many others.

Back to the Samurai and a little further upland to a spot that looks over the island of Budikovac where I had lunch earlier in the week. A very small island inhabited by one family; they raise goats, they have a vineyard, and they make wine. Lunch was fresh fish from the grill with lemon and olive oil. Fishermen had dropped it off hours before my arrival. Slavenka, one of the owners, shows me how to eat the fish by deboning it, picking up pieces with my fingers, dipping it in the olive oil and lemon juice, and popping it in my mouth. Don’t know how I will ever eat fish with a fork again. I enjoy this view Josip offers and remember the lunch as well as the complex Plavac Mali that was served with the meal. The island looks rather peaceful. Wish I could be enjoying a dinner there right now. Josip assures me I will eat and drink well throughout the evening.

Back in the Samurai, we head down a roughly paved mountain road. Josip stops in the middle of the road and leaves the vehicle. He yells out for Ranko who does not answer. He tells me Ranko is the owner and winemaker in the vineyard. Josip keeps calling but still no answer. I see no one. Josip gets back in the car. Tells me that many local winemakers do not cooperate with him. They produce enough wine for themselves and a little to sell on Vis. They have no desire to increase production or to welcome tastings and strange foreigners. Josip is of the opposite opinion: allow tourists, share what they are doing on Vis, and allow tastings. Right now, I support his yearning. I am, after all, on a wine tasting tour.

As we drive onward, Josip explains his frustrations with local winemakers. They are stuck in small production. He appreciates their old methods of grape growing and wine making but he wants the wine business to expand. Move outside Vis. He is talking nonstop. He is passionate. But then he stops and leaves the vehicle again. Another vintner friend. Josip gets his attention this time but he wants nothing to do with a visit and a tasting. This is repeated three or four more times. It’s as if Josip has no real agenda this evening aside from attempting to lure vintner friends into allowing a visit from a tourist.

We drive to Josip’s next professed surprise: his own bit of land for growing grapes. He lapses into a lecture about the terroir of the island. Soil near the shore is very sandy and upland is rocky contributing to various aromas and tastes. Josip has a nice small vineyard. He seems very proud. But he only shows it through the window of his Samurai. No one has visited his winery and he offers no tastings: I was not to be the exception. I think he should set the example but he tells me it is all simply for his family.

We move onto a massive, dry, clear-cut parcel of land. Quite large with hundreds of young bare-root grape vines. Many are dead or dying. Josip believes it is because the growers are not following local ways of making wine by choosing the perfect planting location, growing the correct grapes for the area, tending to the grapes in the local fashion. He tells me no grapes will grow here, and obviously, no wine will be produced. I assume Josip believes there is a happy middle ground between local methods and mass-produced methods but he does not elaborate.

Josip drives me to Hum, the highest point on the island. This is the romantic part of the tour so Josip apologizes, but assures me I will enjoy the wine and the sunset nonetheless as there is to be no romance between the two of us. Funny guy. I walk up the small hill with a glass of Josip’s homemade Prošek. At the top of the hill is a 360-degree view round Vis. Outstanding. Clear blue water as far as one can see and several outlying islands heading towards the mainland. There is a small relic of a one-room church and outdoor benches, which I relax on while I drink the Prošek and watch the sunset. Both are stupendous. I head down the hill and enter the Samurai. Josip informs me that below us is a friend and vintner, another one, who might let us visit. I relish the thought, as I have visited no wineries since I have been with Josip.

Miklos is the vintner and friend and he is sitting outside enjoying a glass of wine. Josip calls out the Samurai window to see if Miklos is available for a tasting. With a shrug and an arm wave he invites us in. Josip tells me that Miklos is on board with the tasting room idea and has done a commendable job in beginning the process of welcoming tourists. Miklos meets us at the door and invites us in. It is a metal walled building surrounded by dirt and barren trees. Inside it is dusk-like but I can see that it is one large empty room. Straight ahead stand several stainless steel tanks, spotlessly glimmering in the faint light. To the right of the door, a small office space and many oak barrels. Neat stacks of bottles and boxes. A few refrigerators in the small space too.

Left of the door is the tasting room, unlike any tasting room I have seen before. Along the wall that includes the windows, is a window height shelving unit, as long as the length of the four small windows. A chaotic mess of papers, books, magazines, and cat food: bags of cat food, cans of cat food, and plates of uneaten cat food. No cat. A small table in front of the shelves, also overflowing with books and stacks of paper, and a small refrigerator. The refrigerator is an apartment sized half-fridge caked with dirt and grime. The complete opposite of the spotless stainless. The refrigerator holds plastic bottles of white wine, Prošek, and water.

Opposite the interesting wall of unlikely tasting room décor is the sitting area, Miklos believes that having a cozy seat in a living room setting is more conducive to wine tasting. The furniture consists of two matching armchairs and a matching couch. Old aluminum deck furniture basically. The frames are dirty but in good condition. The cushions are ratty and a bit beyond repair. To dress them up, Miklos has covered the fabric with empty burlap coffee sacks, draped over the back cushions as well as the seat cushions. Between the chairs and couch is a small table supporting a few papers, empty drinking glasses, and a couple packs of cigarettes. Overall, the impression was surprisingly favorable; homey in a certain relaxed, unkempt sort of way: inviting, as if Miklos was not just offering wine tastings but entry into his inner sanctum.

Miklos spoke Croatian and a little bit of English, more as the hour went on, so Josip did some translating for the both of us. The first thing on offer was cigarettes; Miklos offers all guests cigarettes. I refuse with thanks and Josip explains to Miklos that I am a healthy sort of person: I had ridden a bike to Komiža and had run up and down the switchbacks. Miklos seemed impressed but continues to smoke and offer the cigarettes throughout the visit. Josip joins him in smoking. The small area slowly fills with smoke so I know I cannot stay more than an hour.

Josip suggested to Miklos that he serve his Vugava, a local grape variety that produces a nice bodied, slightly sweet white wine. Miklos serves in mismatched glasses a golden colored liquid from a plastic water bottle from the mini-fridge. I drink the Vugava while Josip and Miklos drink gemišt, white wine diluted with water. Josip explains that they drink gemišt because the wine is so strong and they drink all day. As a tourist, I did not need to dilute my wine. Didn’t plan to. Miklos refreshes the glass as soon as I am done. Clearly more than a tasting.

Miklos grabs his Plavac Mali, a red wine, as I was finishing my second glass of Vugava. His Plavac Mali is a beautiful deep red wine. Delicious, full body, round in the mouth, abundant flavor, and tannic. Again, a second glass as soon as I finish my first. Certainly a gracious and attentive host. Continued conversation as well, both in English and Croatian, although I couldn’t follow the Croatian.

I Tell Josip I need to eat but he insists I try Miklos’ Prošek first. Miklos glows with this suggestion. I am able to refrain Miklos from pouring a full glass, however, it is the best Prošek I have tasted this evening. We left Miklos and reload into the Samurai. Josip drives to Andela’s, a local legendary winery and restaurant. The hostess greets us with wide smiles and open arms. I order a bottle of Plavac Mali and look over the menu. Josip sat down but told me he had to be going; the restaurant owner would drive me back to town. Josip thanked me for joining him and I thanked him with words, a friendly hug, and a tip. He seemed to appreciate all three.

 I ate a delicate John Dory off the grill, fueled by old grape vines, which paired well with the house’s Plavac Mali. Dinner went well into midnight. I paid the bill and asked for a ride home. The waitress told me that her brother-in-law was prepared to take me to my hotel, the price included in the cost of the tour. I climbed in his car and off we went, realizing fairly late into the ride that the brother-in-law must also have been enjoying the Plavac Mali.

 He rattled on with liberal doses of well-meaning expletives and talked enough that I did not have to. He spoke the entire drive: about island life and how great it would be to live in Berlin. His driving was quite good, especially since he was so animated in his speech and hand gestures.

I climb the stairs to my room and am overcome by the immensity of the evening. I feel as if I were a Vis local for a night. Just friendly Vis residents and business owners sharing, or not sharing, their lives and success. I think I’ll have one more Prošek before I go to bed.

END

Kronprinzen Bridge

Thrice Fiction was gracious enough to publish my first story, "Kronprinzen Bridge". You can find it on their website at thricefiction.com. All their material is available as free PDF's so there is lots to enjoy.