I set the alarm on my phone for eight thirty to get an early start on our first day in Zagreb. At seven forty I wake up to highly accented, belligerent arguing in English downstairs. For the next fifteen minutes I’m in and out of sleep, a turbid state of mind; wondering if the hostel staff are really threatening each other with physical force, even a bullet to the head. At this point I realize I’m famished and must eat some breakfast before I even begin to process what is happening on the first floor (and on occasion spilling onto the stairwell and second floor).

I open the door to my room and step out into the well-lit and spacious kitchen on the second floor. I reach into the refrigerator and grab eggs, milk, and the oddly colored bacon we bought at the store the night before.

“…with your friends smoking weed while guests are here! That is not how you run a business, you fucking don’t know anything.” (Imagine a 350lb Dutch guy.)

“Don’t talk to me asshole, you’ve only been here for one week, you don’t have a clue! What the fuck do you ever do here except sit on the computer and yell at people.” (Think a 120lb attractive Croatian girl.)

I start with the eggs, first spreading butter across the pan then cracking the shells spilling the yolk out with a hiss as they immediately begin to fry. I hope Werd is hungry because I’m making two big plates. I push down four slices of bread in the toaster and start cutting through the packaging wrapped around the bacon.

“J brings her dumb ass drug dealer friends over here while she works. You and her do whatever you want, that’s disrespectful to T, and you’re a bitch and have no idea what you are doing.”

“Oh yeh? How many times have you threatened J or me, and you spilled beer on the computer yesterday you fucking idiot! We have to buy a new one. Don’t talk to me like that. I can’t deal with you right now, just leave.”

I’m able to find some crushed red pepper and salt in the pantry. I start boiling water and pour coffee grounds into the French press. I flip the eggs and sprinkle on my newly acquired seasoning. The toast pops up golden brown. I put two pieces on each plate and spread butter across the top.

“I’ll come back here and kill everybody! I’ll fucking shoot you in the head!”

“Just leave, you’re crazy!”

With difficulty I separate several slices of bacon and carefully lay them parallel across the pan. Quickly the room begins filling with smoke and I start to wonder if this bacon is cured and not meant for frying.

“You don’t know me! I went to jail for six months for assault. I’ll shoot you in the fucking head!”

“Get out, you’ll never work here again. Get the fuck out!”

A layer of smoke hangs visibly from the ceiling. I decide to put an end to my bacon project, and begin to serve up the cooked pieces onto the plates. After the water boils I pour it into the French press and let it sit for a couple minutes before I press the grounds to the bottom and pour two cups of black coffee. I take a sip and steal a piece of bacon off of Werd’s plate. Suddenly I am able to begin dealing with the day just as the maelstrom on the first floor makes its way towards my breakfast in the form of 350lb tire-stack figured Dutchman P, thundering up the stairs.

I lean against the counter and coolly sip my coffee.

“Hey man how are you doing? How’s your stay?”

P reminds me of a cocaine freak at the end of a twenty four hour bender, desperate to continue feeding his addiction, and so whacked out of his mind he asks questions about the weather, sports, my girlfriend, and other unimportant bullshit, all the while trying to avoid the giant elephant in the corner (in reality the death threat he just dished out to the girl downstairs), which is the fact it’s four am on a Sunday and he’s buying two grams of powder.

“Oh it’s good man. This is my first time in Zagreb. I want to check out the city, maybe take a trip up the mountain. Who knows?”

“That’s great man. Hey, have we met before? I’m positive I’ve seen you somewhere. Have you ever been to New York?”

“Yep.”

“That’s it! I was one of those guys in Central Park trying to get you to join the gym.”

“Is that right? Small world, eh?”

“Yeh, that’s funny.”

This guy is completely off his rocker.

With that P heads back downstairs.

“What are you doing? Who are you calling?” Patrick queries.

“I’m calling T. He needs to know that you are going crazy at his Hostel.”

“Put the fucking phone down! Don’t bother T with this. Hey DON’T FUCKING TOUCH ME! DON”T TOUCH ME!”

“You are crazy!”

The door slams.

I stand at the top of the stairs wondering when this work dispute turns public and I can run downstairs and hit that lunatic across the face with one these folding chairs.

I take a quick inventory of the kitchen counter for viable weapons, and decide a hot toaster thrown accurately from the stairwell would suffice if I need to intervene.

With a somewhat plausible plan constructed I have a sip coffee and continue breakfast in Zagreb.