Tomislav Perko
1000 Days of Spring
Author
Tomislav Perko
Title
1000 Days of Spring
Subtitle
Travelogue of a hitchhiker
Translation
Anamarija Brzica
Editor
Daniel Edward Allen
Assistant editors
Julia Schmidt, Alexandra Zetes
Graphic design
Ivan Osman
Cover design
Miroslav Vujović
Photography
Tomislav Perko©
Photography editor
Caroline Perrier
Publisher
Self published
Printing studio
Printera Grupa
Time and place of publishing
Zagreb, 2014.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available in the Online Catalogue of the National and University Library in Zagreb as 881869
ISBN 978-953-58060-1-1
1000 DAYS
OF SPRING
(TRAVELOGUE OF A HITCHHIKER)
Self-published,
Zagreb, 2014.
For you.
PROLOGUE
Tomislav Perko refreshes the Croatian travel-writing scene, which, in the past ten years, has developed to the point where we could actually call it a movement. Perko has imposed himself as a leader of a new wave of travellers, but the huge success he has enjoyed did not come overnight. He entered the scene quite humbly, practically out of nowhere, as a young advocate of CouchSurfing. Thanks to his amazing adventurous spirit, which took him to the places on the globe most people couldn’t imagine in their wildest dreams, and also to his human qualities, he has gathered an army of respected followers. Over the past few years, many generations of travel writers have fought their way through narrow media and literary passages, each of them offering their own, personal and original, story. Some of them climbed high on hardly accessible mountains, some of them walked for thousand kilometres, some of them travelled searching for beaches, others searching for fun, some of them cycled and some of them simply presented their great erudite capacities in the form of travel journals. However, while doing it, each and every one of them had a certain budget in order to realize their travelling projects. Perko offered the world his own version of travelling, with his thumb stuck out, a funfair in his head, a bomb in his lungs and, most importantly, with only a few coins in his pocket. He spent years wandering across the planet, met the most incredible people, experienced so many things that they would suffice for ten lifetimes, let alone the one he has.
You are holding in your hands Perko’s literary debut, in which he completely opens up. He managed to transfer in writing, with his skilful writing techniques, and in a uniquely honest manner, his journey from a boy growing up in a traditional Croatian family, to a great traveller who feels at home wherever he goes. This travelogue is not only a warm and honest personal confession of man yearning for the Road, but is also an excellent guide for every young traveller who wants to discover the world. Having read this book, you will come to the conclusion that it only has one flaw – you will not be able to escape the wish to read the sequel to this warm and interesting story.
Hrvoje Šalković - Shale
Day 794.
“Our next guest is going to tell us how it is possible to travel with almost no money,” Daniela announced. “Ladies and gentlemen, Tomislav Perko.”
The audience got their cue for the applause, and the doors with the “8th floor” sign on them open in front of me. I enter the studio, climb the stage, shake hands with Daniela and sit in the red sofa in front of her.
I am nervous. After all, I am on one of the most popular Croatian TV shows, invited to talk about travelling with some other Croatian travel writers - people who began travelling long before I was allowed to put my foot out of the park without my mother’s permission.
I’ve come to tell my story - the story about the last two years of my life, in ten minutes I was supposed to be on air.
“Tomislav, you are my youngest guest,” Daniela began. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-five,” I replied, exhaling deeply.
“You are in your final year of university,” she continued.
“That’s right. I have one more exam to pass before I graduate.”
“You also have some working experience. Even though today you look quite casual in your hoodie, only recently you could easily be seen wearing a suit and a tie.”
Recently. The notion of time is such a relative concept. I would bet my head that a lifetime has passed since that period of my life. Or a couple of them, as a matter of fact.
“Yes, I worked as a stockbroker and my lifestyle was completely different; I would dress nicely, save money and buy myself pretty things. Luckily, the financial crisis came...”
Day 1.
I’m sitting on a worn old couch still wearing my expensive suit, rolling a joint. That was my favourite action of a day: a few minutes of peace, tranquillity and silence. I considered it a reward after a hard day at work, especially after a day like this in which I’ve become aware of the hopeless situation in which I’ve found myself.
Only a couple of weeks ago everything seemed to be perfect. I was considered one of the most talented young stockbrokers on the market, with great intuition as far as the stock dealing market was concerned. The speed with which I dealt with the transactions earned me my nickname – the fastest finger.
I started with few thousand dollars, and only two years later I had a portfolio of almost a hundred grand. As I kept on increasing the initial amount of money, I had managed to convince my family and friends to invest, and when they invested money I would only take out more loans on their investments. I used to make promises to them saying that you couldn’t lose on the stock market and that it would be a pity not to make use of such an opportunity to make easy money.
And they bought it.
It was all just a big game for me, another way to have fun, an adrenaline rush. The truth was that I didn’t know anything about the stock market, financial reports or indicators. I was an economics student without any qualification to be a stockbroker, but I was excellent at hiding my own lack of knowledge. I would listen carefully to my older colleagues talk about the current events on the stock market: which are the most overrated stocks, which are the most underestimated ones; I would listen to them talk about the conditions on the foreign stock market and the expected movements. In that way, I would kill three birds with one stone: I earned their respect since they liked the feeling of being listened to and appreciated by someone; I avoided all the questions directed to me; and I would also use all their predictions about the stock market when a client asked me for a piece of advice.
I was a day trader; I was interested exclusively in short-term speculations, preferably completing transactions within a day. Many times I would walk out of work with a few hundred, or even a few thousand dollars more in my bank account. My personal record was three thousand bucks, which I earned in less than two hours. My moves, and they were often crazy moves, earned me respect among my colleagues.
In fact, I was a mere gambler who in high school started going around betting houses and later even visited roulette tables in casinos. I was addicted to the excitement and the unpredictability of those situations.
And then, as a freshman in college, I found a perfect replacement, not only approved by society, but even encouraged.
“I’m a stockbroker, you know,” I used to say to the guys at university in order to excuse myself for
being absent for most of my lectures and to justify my lifestyle. I wasn’t a regular student like the others, I wasn’t so keen on passing the exams, and I wasn’t looking forward to getting a degree that would guarantee me a well-paid job and a good reputation. I already had all of those things.
The market kept on growing. Everyone was making serious money, new brokerage firms were opening almost on a daily basis, and there were so many investment funds and opportunities to make money.
And then the black September of 2008 came and everything changed.
The dramatic fall in real estate value, the collapse of the biggest banks in the world, the financial crisis... There was a sudden slump in the stock market, both in Croatia and worldwide. Some stocks dropped by 70 per cent. Many people even talked about it as the worst financial crisis in the past eighty years, about billions of lost dollars on a daily basis, and I heard for the first time the one word that no broker wants to hear – the word that rhymes with dash.
During those days we would only stare helplessly at the screens, holding our heads and counting our losses at the end of the day: ours, and those of our clients. People were losing their life savings in less than a couple of weeks. They would call us looking for some explanation, a way to fix things. But we had nothing to say to them.
The worst thing was that the same scenario kept on repeating from one day to another. The stock value kept on dropping and people could only watch as their money was lost in front of their very eyes. All of us were crazy, to say the least.
The only alternative was to sell everything you had, and in that way, end your suffering – save what was left to save.
That was exactly what I did. I sold all the stock I owned, closed all my margins and counted my losses.
35,000 dollars.
Thirty-five. Thousand. Dollars.
I lay back and light my joint.
Day 794.
I remember the feeling in my stomach that followed those days. In only a couple of weeks I managed to lose the same amount of money that one would earn in a few years’ extremely hard work. Gone, just like that. And I was supposed to get it back somehow. The best way I could.
It all seemed unreal to me. Hopeless. Depressing.
“How can you say that it was a good thing that the financial crisis came?” Daniela wondered.
I recognized the perplexed look in her eyes. If someone had told me that losing all that money would be one of the things I’d be grateful for and that in two years’ time I would consider that situation a positive one, I would have asked for some of the drug they were on. Cleary, it was good stuff.
However, in hindsight, I’m glad it happened.
“Well, I can, since that crisis completely changed my approach to life. When I lost all that money and the things I had grown accustomed to, I quit my job and got a job in a juice bar – that was the one thing that changed me completely.”
Day 31.
“Martina, we need a student to work at the counter,” I heard Mongoose, who was sitting at a table next to me, say, “we can no longer do it on our own.”
The two of them were awesome. They were the owners of a juice bar in Zagreb where I used to go every day during my lunch break. It was only two minutes away from my office but it was enough to take a break from looking at all those screens, numbers and overall depression that, during those days, weeks and months, was a common thing in the office. The bar was my getaway.
“Maybe I could work here,” I said putting down my strawberry smoothie on the painted wooden table.
They gave me a confused look, stopped for a moment and burst into laughter. I joined them not knowing where I’d got the idea from.
“Wait a minute,” Martina started speaking, even though she was still laughing, “you’re a stockbroker, right?”
“Yes, I am,” I said cheerfully.
“You come here every day wearing a suit and a tie and you order a four-dollar juice?” she continued.
“That’s right.”
“And now you’d like to work at the counter and make the very same juices?”
“Yes.”
“Are you a student?”
“Yes.”
“How can you be student and a stockbroker, both at the same time?”
“It’s a long story.”
“How much do they pay you?”
“Seven bucks an hour, plus some other benefits.”
“Like the suit you’re wearing?”
“Like the suit I’m wearing, yes.”
“And now you’ve come here to fuck with us,” Mongoose interrupted her, “you know we can’t give you half the money they pay you.”
“Look,” I started with the same serious tone he was using, “I like this place. I come here every day to take a break from all the shit at the office. I haven’t seen anyone stressed out here. People come here with a smile on their face; they order a juice, pay for it, thank you for the service and drink it with pleasure. Yes, I would like to work here. I know you can’t pay me the half the money they pay me, but I really don’t care about that at the moment.”
Mongoose got up from his table and sat next to me.
“Are you being serious?” He asked me.
“Dead serious,” I replied.
“How much money would you be satisfied with?”
“I don’t care about the money. I want to work and you can pay me how much you can.”
“Okay, so it wouldn’t be a problem for you if you worked for free?” He was provoking me, looking me directly in the eyes.
“Nope.” I accepted the game with a smile on my face, not breaking eye contact.
It lasted for around ten seconds.
“Be here tomorrow at ten to eight,” he said returning to Martina, “your hourly wage will be three dollars fifty.”
I finished my smoothie and got back to the office. Calls from angry clients, red numbers on the screens, bad news on every Internet site. Just a regular day at the office.
I took a pen and a piece of paper, drew a line in the middle and wrote BROKERAGE FIRM on one side and JUICE BAR on the other side. The tension at work on one side, and the relaxed atmosphere on the other. Unsatisfied and nervous clients with a lot of demands, as opposed to careless and happy clients. Work in front of a computer and work behind the counter on the other side. Suit and tie on one hand, and casual clothes that make me feel free on the other hand. Hourly wage of seven dollars plus benefits on one side, and minimal wage that would suffice to pay the rent and hopefully bills.
Life does have an interesting sense of humour. For the past couple of years my life came down to managing money, but the roles, in fact, were reversed – money was managing me. I realized how limited my life had been and how governed by money, especially now that I didn’t have any.
I fell into a trap. I’ve been saving money, and each day I was looking for a new way to make some more, to buy something new, to treat myself to something nice. No matter how convinced I was that I was in charge in that relationship, I was wrong. As always, I had to learn by my own mistakes. The hard way. Thirty-five thousand times harder.
Money. The only reason for keeping my current job.
I threw another quick glance at what I’d written down, took off my tie, got up, knocked on my boss’s office door and quit my job.
“I’m out, guys,” I informed my colleagues as soon as I left the boss’s office. They weren’t surprised since they had also begun looking for other jobs, a way out of the chaos. They were only waiting for the first person to totally lose it and run away from it all. Of course, I was the one – the youngest and in the biggest trouble.
I decided to walk back home. I bought myself a beer and lay down in the middle of the park looking at the sky.
“From now on, the stock market is history for me.” I made myself a promise, knowing that gamblers usually try to dig their way out of the crap they get themselves into with - more gambling.
I took a sip of beer and I felt better. I felt a
s if I had just broken up with a girlfriend in whom I’d had no interest in for a while, but I kept on finding the same stupid reasons not to break up with her. Yes, I was leaving that relationship so deeply scarred that the scars wouldn’t fade away for a long time, if they ever did manage to fade away. Still, I was leaving it.
And tomorrow, at ten to eight, I had a date with a new, more exciting, happier and healthier, although poorer, girl. I was hoping that she would help me get over my ex.
I got up, looked at the green patch on the back part of my pants and carelessly headed to my home.
Day 87.
“Why do they call you Mongoose?” I asked my boss one evening while we were in a secret room in The Jazz Club. We would hang out there until morning, playing poker. The atmosphere reminded me of old mafia movies. We were invisible to the other guests of the bar, hidden in a smoky room where we would drink, smoke and play cards.
Even though I was only a worker in the juice bar, very soon I started feeling as if I were a part of the family. After only a few days I started calling Martina sis, and she called me bro. I was happy with my new job and with my new employers, and I could tell that they were also satisfied with me.
I enjoyed going to work, always did my job with a smile on my face: I enjoyed preparing freshly squeezed juices, having small talk with the clients, and at the end of the day I cleaned the machines, scrubbed the floors and cleaned the toilets. I got an opportunity to meet people whose lives were different, more interesting and more special. They would talk about art, travelling and healthy living. You would never meet a guy who placed himself at the counter with a beer in his hand, gossiping about the locals. You would never sense the nervousness and the constant talk about money, which I grew accustomed to in my last job. I made a couple of new friends and went with them to the theatre, barbecued with them in the suburbs of Zagreb, and Martina, Mongoose and I became so close that every night, after closing they would take me to grab a beer.
1000 Days of Spring: Travelogue of a hitchhiker Page 1