Day 3, Friday the 10th...Still Running (On Empty) With The Sex Tourists

Once again, no sleep to speak of.

I limped around the city trying to find a usb cable for my camera. I have some great pictures.

I met Sasha, a young man to pay for the apartment. He wanted the $2255 up front. I explained that I could only withdraw a certain amount each day. I gave him a grand. I'll pay the balance on Monday.

My new life long friends and I headed back to the Arena. It's Friday nite and Tom said it would be mobbed with women of all types...all stunning.
This day ended somewhat disappointingly for me, read on.

The place was so crowded that it was difficult to get to the bar, indeed to move.
I thought I saw the lovely lady I had danced with the previous evening smiling away at me. I wasn't sure, but Tom said, "Yes. That's her. I don't think she's a working girl." I was buoyed, someone here likes me! We danced the night away. This time I bought her two drinks. At the end of the evening,all of a sudden, she inexplicably spoke English. So we conversed:

I said with little originality, "Do you come here often?:

She responded, "$300.00."
Curses, foiled again.

So Barry, who had dated the doctor the previous nite and I decided to walk home at four AM. Barry told me of his date. The lady doctor was to no surprise, beautiful. She had the bluest of eyes. I warned him that blue eyes destroyed my life, cuidado, Barry. Barry has invited her to travel to Yalta with him when the boys leave on Sunday. He told her he would arrange separate rooms. I didn't care for that.

Once I invited my ex girlfriend that I cannot get over, to visit me in Santa Monica.
I told her she could stay with me... I'll move out.
I never heard from her.

As we were walking along the main drag,three policemen approached us with two more off to the side. One of them demanded our "papers."

I never saw the two standing away from us. I didn't see any guns so I was quite irritated, the ugly American in me wanted out. Neither of us had our passports or something called an immigration card (I had thrown that away at the airport). It's a little piece of paper that one fills out upon arrival at passport control. In Africa and Amsterdam and Russia, it was never asked for.

I was a bit hard on them. Barry was nervous.
I said, "I have my passport at my apartment. Come the short distance with me to see it."

The only policeman speaking in a heavy accented, "That is not my business."
I said loudly and logically, "OK. Stay here I'll go and get it."
Again, "That is not my business."
I said angrily, "Well, what do you want me to do?"
The cop was muttering something about the police station, or something.
I said to Barry loudly, in a nasty tone so they could hear, "What do they want? Money?"

Barry almost passed out. Eventually they let us go. As we parted, I shook hands with the three of them. The speaker's hand was soaked... with nervous prespiration?

I walked Barry home to his hotel. He advised me not to walk ,to get a cab.
Fuck that. I'm a free American. I did nothing wrong. My local paramour turned out to be a trollop. I walked home defiantly.

Two unpleasant events, the girl the cops, plus the crowded restaurant meal was sub average rendered day three not so happy for me.

Oh well, it's already day four.