Appros | New York. Same me.
We eventually arrive in a part of the city where the girls seem to have more limbs than personality.
I never date other creatives, she explains to me as I try not to process the comment as an insult. I think to myself why self-described ‘creatives’ couldn’t think of a more inspired term to describe their monolithic group of Apple headphone-wearing selves. I don’t say this though, instead I just nod uncreatively.
We’re at a Serbian restaurant in the East Village which is appropriate because Jasmina is Serbian. But at the same time, when it's my turn to pick our next date location I won’t be suggesting an Australian Outback Steakhouse. I think I’ll go for something a little more creative. The place is cosy though. Which is nice because its unseasonably cold in New York at the moment. Its my first time in the city, so I wouldn’t know what’s seasonable from what’s not, but Jasmina assures me of this fact. The lighting in the restaurant is so bad that it's accidentally ambient and the walls are covered in memorabilia from an era that only Serbians seem to remember. The sign at the front door, I’m told, is written in Cyrillic but to me it just looks like a note from the Zodiac killer if he had dyslexia.
After I make a comment that the food looks like Croatian food she scolds me. She doesn’t say I’m wrong though, she just scolds me. After this I let her order the food and when the waiter comes over they begin speaking in what a layman would assume was Russian. I decide to keep this observation to myself. I can’t help but get the feeling that they’re laughing at me when one of them makes a joke while looking at the menus and they both start laughing. But I tell myself that they’re probably not.
As I look around the restaurant I notice that the crowd is strangely uniform: groups of short-haired men with serious round faces laughing louding to one another while their dates, all tall beautiful-looking Eastern European women, sit next to them looking much more serious.
The waiter brings over two small tulip-shaped glasses with a clear liquid in them. I assume Jasmina ordered them but she tells me she didn’t. The waiter explains to us in English –for my benefit, I assume– that it was paid for by the large group in the corner.
Rakija, Jasmina says, thinking the word alone is an explanation. I continue to look at her dumbly as I pick up the drink to investigate. It’s a Serbian drink, she explains more dutifully.
Ohh, I say as if this triggered some latent understanding of Serbian culture, before I raise the glass to the table and shot it like tequila. This unleashes a loud roar of laughter from the men at the table, and even a few of the women sitting with them forfeit a smile. Jasmina explains that rakija is meant to be sipped, like a brandy.
Something is yelled in Serbian between Jasmina and the group. I manage to discern the word ‘Australian’ in whatever she explains to them. She turns back to me and says nonchalantly that they want us to have dinner with them. I’m confused, she shrugs, and we get our things and join their table. Aleksandrija, the apparent alpha of the table, beckons me over to sit next to him and introduces himself.
Alexander, nice to meet you mate, I say adding what is an unnatural Australianism at the end of the greeting for his benefit.
Aleksandrija, he corrects before grabbing my hand with both of his hairy palms for a handshake that would break a lesser man.
Much is said at the table for the next hour that I don't understand explicitly, however I still manage to infer a lot tacitly. The men and their partners are celebrating something. Or mourning someone. They’re all be Serbian except one man at the end of the table, Boris, who is Russian. Or his wife is Russian. Again, it’s hard to know for certain. None of them refer to one another by their names; Aleksandrija’s wife –or girlfriend– sitting next to him is always referred to as ‘her’. The men refer to one another as ‘him’. It’s frustrating at first, I can’t learn anyone’s names to contribute but eventually I realise it's actually easier: I don't need to remember anyone’s names to contribute. They all seem to also punctuate the end of their sentences with ‘–actually.’ for no apparent reason at all. This though, I don't start doing as well.
A conversation breaks out where the group is making fun of Jasmina for moving to Slovenia from Serbia when she was a child. Slovenia?! One of the men asked loudly, the Uruguay of the Balkans! Another adds, Yugoslavia’s Hong Kong! I’m not sure why this is so funny to me, perhaps because they’re speaking in English and I understand. So I add: Qatar of the Balkans, and the table roars with laughter, presumably more because of my involvement than my wit.
I quickly realise that they all love it whenever I swear. Fuck this, fuck that, I say. Fuck those motherfuckers in response to someone’s comment about Albanians gets a roaring laugh.
After the food has come and gone, with a number of rounds of drinks as well, one of the tall Serbian women next to Jasmina begins to tell her about the groups plans after dinner, It’s a new venue, it’s opening night is tonight, she offers before adding, a very historic DJ is playing. No one could tell me why the DJ was historic, or who the DJ was. No one cared.
Yes, you come! Aleksandrija said loudly as he slapped me on the back with his hairy gold-ringed hand. As he waves the waiter over he reveals a wad of $100 notes from his top pocket, which he sees me staring at not so inconspicuously. This restaurant only accepts cash, he assures me, before adding They’re criminals! He laughs at me before covering his mouth and whispering something to the waiter in Serbian, while also passing him enough cash for the entire table’s cheque plus a generous service tip in the process.
In a moment the waiter is back with eight more of the small tulip-shaped glasses which he assembles around the table in front of each person, although this time they are all empty. Aleksandrija nods slyly at Boris at the end of the table who brings what looks like an old water bottle from a bag beneath the table and begins filling each of the glasses. Jasmina says to me that it must be home-made rakija, which she clarifies as always being better than the bought stuff — if it doesn’t make you blind as well, she adds. The seriousness of her tone hard to read as ever.
The filled glasses are then passed back around the table and a toast is made in Serbian, I grunt something non-linguistic in approval —possibly in esperanto, I’m not sure— and this time a comment is made that we should all shot the glasses. I take this as a comment about my own style, for some reason pleased to have had an imprint on these strangers. This shot tastes different, a chemical flavour, more familiar. I look across to Jasmina who seems more surprised than I am by the foul-tasting liquid. I lean across to her and joke that her grandmother’s version I hope tastes better to which she replies that that wasn’t rakija.
Aleksandrija overhears us and laughs before clarifying, I’d hope her grandmother’s rakija tastes better than that as well –that was just Molly and water!
I take stock of my situation, having just been drugged by what amounts to a random Serbian man in a foreign city. Could be worse, I figure.
Shortly after we all stand and shuffle outside, putting on ballooning winter coats. The MDMA is starting to hit and I laugh to myself how these tough looking Serbian men all look like marshmallows in their puffy jackets. We cross town in two cabs, paid for again in cash by Aleksandrija. Everyone in the cab is speaking Serbian to one another and I am left to think to myself and my increasingly drug-induced thoughts. As we stop at red lights between the blocks of buildings I realise that to call any other city in the world a city after seeing New York would be inaccurate. Suddenly everywhere I have ever been feels like a small-village and I am overwhelmed by a feeling that for the first time in my life I am a part of the whole world. Staring out the passenger window I look one way and then the other, seeing nothing but towering bricked buildings with metal fire escapes lining the streets, their dotted street lights seem to go on until a distant horizon. I continue gawking out the side window of the cab until we eventually arrive in a part of the city where the girls seem to have more limbs than personality.
