I went out with a friend to Hvar Island.
Times have changed since we were prowling clubs in Washington DC, many of which have closed.
Back then a phone number had a reasonable chance of leading to a date and not every club was built around table service.
Flaking and cockblocking weren’t yet nationwide epidemics.
There aren’t a lot of club options in Hvar.
Before 12 am you have about four or five clubs where you can actually approach women and then after 4 am you only have two clubs.
The most popular club is Carpe Diem.
I quickly found out that if you don’t have any prospects before going to the club at 12 am, you’re in for a tough day.
The only issue at the club was the seating.
There is a ring of elevated benches around the patio that girls like to sit at.
I tried a couple approaches but the girls had too much positional power.
The queens didn’t put one scrap of energy into the conversation.
I was starting to feel a bit of pressure because in Hvar I had yet to bang a girl, even though I didn’t care much for the mostly Anglo women on display.
It took a while for my mind to get used to the idea of capturing an Anglo flag instead of a new Eastern European one.
Some british girls stood in front of us.
“Are you from Hvar Island?” she asked, defaulting to a standard hostel conversation.
“This is our fifth day here.”
“Only in Hvar?”
“Yes. When planning the trip we wanted to pick one place where we could visit without having to hop around. I know a lot of people want to see as many Croatian islands as possible, but for us it’s just about hanging out. We haven’t seen each other in 18 months.”
“Why haven’t you seen your friend in 18 months?”
“I’ve been living in Europe during that time while he’s still back in the States. I convinced him to come and visit me. You’re from England right?”
“Yes, London.”
“You guys can take a 30 euro flight on Easy Jet to come here, but for us it’s at least a $1,000 round trip, sometimes more. A lot of Americans stick to the Caribbean or Latin America when it comes time to take a vacation. When are you leaving Hvar?”
“Five days and then I go back.”
“Go back to work?”
“I don’t have a job right now.”
“What do you do?”
For a split second I paused, debating if I should give her the playful answer or honest answer.
“I’m a writer.”
“Oh cool. What kind?”
“I do mostly travel writing right now. I stay in a country for a few months and put out a small guide, mostly on the parks and museums and other things.”
“What is the name of your guides?”
“You don’t want to know. They’re very offensive and opinionated. I don’t let my sister read it.”
“Okay. But you make money from it?”
Almost every girl asks that. They find it hard to believe that you can make a living from writing.
“No. My parents send me $10,000 every month to fund my lifestyle.”
She gave me a confused look, not sure whether to take me seriously or not.
“I’m just kidding,” I added.
“My job pays the bills.”
During the conversation I caught glimpses of her petite body.
She was wearing sandals, a summer skirt that went to the middle of her thighs, and a blue tanktop.
She had not much in the way of a chest so I was curious about her ass and if it was big enough for my needs.
Her father is Israeli and there was a hint of it in her face, with a strong chin, large almond eyes and long eyelashes.
Her black hair was slightly curly and pulled back with a fastener. She told me she was 24.
“Do you have any stereotypes about America?” I asked.
She paused.
Knowing what she was thinking, I added, “And it’s okay if they’re negative. I’m not a sensitive American.”
“Well, Americans are loud. I see them on the internet and they are always the loudest ones.”
“What do they talk about?”
“Just random stuff. They seem to get excited at the smallest things. The girls also have a weird way of talking, almost nasal like.”
She imitated the speech, which I quickly identified as the Valley Girl accent.
“Yeah that gets annoying even for me. I don’t say ‘like’ or ‘really’ to foreign people because it makes it harder for them to understand what I’m saying. I like to think I speak the Queen’s English, all proper and grammatically correct.”
She laughed and I took that as a cue to move closer to her.
I looked over to my friend, who was doing fine holding court with her other friend.
“Also, the American humor is a little obvious,” she said.
“It’s not sarcastic like the British. Your humor is more funny, it’s not typical of Americans.”
“I get that a lot. In America we like to announce jokes by implying, ‘Okay here comes a joke so get ready to laugh!’ I think that takes a lot of fun out of it. Sometimes it’s okay to make a joke that the other person doesn’t get.”
My drink was empty but I was still holding onto the glass.
“What do you think of British people?” she asked.
“I don’t like British guys. You say Americans are loud but they are worse. They also get semi-violent when they drink. I haven’t had much experience with the girls. They seem American at first glance.”
“We’re definitely more reserved than American girls. Right away they start telling you everything about themselves even if you didn’t ask.”
“It’s only with an American where you can know about their sex lives within the first conversation of meeting them. We’re also self-absorbed. We love talking about ourselves. If you’re in a group of American people, no one will listen. It becomes a competition to talk. It’s sad, really, like they didn’t get enough attention as a kid or something.”
I looked at my friend and asked him how he was doing.
He didn’t seem interested in the girl so I knew he was keeping them entertained for me.
The club was filling up with guys, mostly from Norway and Sweden, and it seemed like the British girls wanted to go somewhere different.
I felt I had built enough rapport with my girl, Tanya, to let her know I had some interest in her.
Until next time.
Your man,
-Elijah “The Realist”
