Listening to early Prodigy reminds of Montenegro; concrete-block pool in a bay overlooking the Russian submarine base, and the copper-bitter taste of blood in my mouth as I coughed and watched the stains turn brown on my towel. The pool had a shark-alarm, currents, and after we got out and old man in a worn orange beanie cast a line into the centre and settled against the stands to wait for a bite. We roamed the beach side stalls searching for pirate CDs and booze, and when I finally made it to the doctor he told me it was bronchitis and filled my hands with medicines I didn’t understand.

I listened to music for a jilted generation on loop as we rattled toward then Yugoslavia, the laser guns, whoops and radio chatter in stark contrast to the pockmarked and shattered countryside outside the windows. The legoland hotel we were staying at a gleaming white edifice in a sea of grey, scarred concrete.

Hard to believe that’s more than ten years ago, now. A different world, and one I’m not entirely sad I’ve escaped from.

Posted in Travel on Tuesday March 3, 2009.

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