But now, after trying to go virtually every day (and managing three or four times in reality) since the beginning of this month, I find that I am not going to be disproven. My original hypothesis, which I have been propounding for as many years as I remember, seems to withstand the experimentation phase.
I do not like the gym.
They were Nike sneakers by the way. Originals.
I just spent three days and nights billeted at Buvljak, the flea market next to Vero in New Belgrade, and I have come away with the following inventory: One t-shirt, a plastic box with no apparent function, one cd of dubious and unnamable origin, a bread box, four unassorted pillows, a toilet seat, and a hub cap. None of these items, of course are on my list. And none of the items on my list are checked as being obtained.
On the other Reusch-gloved hand, however, nothing unites us with our seemingly disinterested neighbors, distracted fellow Underground riders, and dyspeptic shopkeepers than being au fait on the latest World Cup babble.
We have them because we are, generally speaking, stinking liars and crooks.
In the past week, much like the dehydrated man fresh from the desert, I have been showered with politeness from people whom I do not know. There are altogether too many people smiling. As a traveler in this not-so-strange land, I feel a growing sense of paranoia. There is just something wrong about all this courtesy.
New Belgrade is soon to join the list, including China, Korea, Nigeria, Indonesia, Japan, Poland, Germany, France, Tahiti, Switzerland, Ghana, Siberia, Alaska, Greenland, and many more countries across the globe who either openly and notoriously or clandestinely consume dog meat.
Speaking at Takovo, celebrating the 2nd Serbian Uprising (where they actually managed a good slap at Ali Pasha, leaving the Ottoman Turks to slowly lose interest and drift home 63 years later), the Deputy Prime Minister said: