Absurdistan

My body aches. I can't pinpoint where—everything hurts. I wake up on damp grass, stabbed by the cruel needles of pine trees towering above me. The brilliant sunrays stab at my eyes, and the air around me reeks of mud, alcohol, urine, and tobacco—not necessarily in that order. My head pinned to the ground, I muster the strength to resist gravity and lift my emaciated, battered body upright.

Mandala. Where am I? India? No cows.

A mandala on the wall. A mural. I remember discussing mandalas last night with some kids obsessed with mystifying art. They were stubbornly infatuated with tattoos, murals, sketches, and other static representations of the mandala concept, completely overlooking its essence: that a mandala is meant to be wiped away in a single stroke. Kids. They told me how this wall, inexplicably adorned with an Indian symbol, had sparked a generational conflict among them. The core question: "Whose wall is this?"

Originally, a young artist supposedly painted a late theater bard on it, only for someone to deface it with a single dot. Then, another youth painted over that with "Whose wall is this?" before adding something new. This triggered a town-wide quarrel, and the wall was repainted and covered three more times. Yet, considering the other kids I recall from last night, the "Whose wall is this?" conflict seems almost healthy. Away from these kids struggling over the ownership of art, a young man waved an axe aimlessly, while in another corner, a girl writhed on the grass as if Castaneda himself had penned her script. The wall, it seems, is the least of this town’s problems.

I get up with my trousers hanging halfway down my thighs. Am I in the Bronx? No black people.

Barely dragging my legs, I stagger out of the city park—dubbed, I suddenly remember, “Ace Bar.” Ace, like winning in obtaining sexual intercourse, they explained. Casting a final glance at the last mural, I notice this wall of youthful turmoil belongs to the city library. So, who owns the library? Alexander the Great? No, this isn't Egypt.

At the library entrance, a poster reads: "Every deliberately shattered illusion has a price." Whose illusions—mine or the city's? But if this is my city, why don't I recognize it? Am I in a delusion? No pink elephants.

I spin around, searching for something to anchor me, some clue to indicate where I am. Everything seems familiar but I still don’t know where am I. My gaze lands on what resembles a city square—or used to be one. Could I be in Dystopia? Yet everything seems orderly.

Massive stone blocks confuse me. Gray monolithic buildings, asphalt, stone, and marble staircases. It feels like communism is alive and well. On one building, there's a mosaic of some victor. What did they triumph over? Communism itself? Am I in Moscow during the 1930s, amidst the construction of socialism? But no. Neither am I a bricklayer, nor is this Rio de Janeiro. (reference to The Little Golden Calf by Ilf and Petrov)

Descending uneven stone steps, I find myself at the grand entrance of a theater. I like this city; everything is conveniently clustered: fornication, the city wall, the library, the theater... Surely the cinema, concert hall, and brothel must be nearby too.

On the theater's main entrance, a sign reads: "The performance of The Pig is canceled. The Hen will perform instead." At the service entrance, a pig crosses the street. A literal pig. It's healthy but lies about being sick. The notice board displays pictures of the hen in the play. Could I be in 1984?

While pondering whether Animal Farm is being staged, a low but firm male voice, marred slightly by a gentle mumble, interrupts my thoughts: "Got a cigarette?"

I turn and meet the gaze of the first local figure in this familiar but unknown city. The man introduces himself as Fischer. Dressed in a long, elegant black coat, polished shoes, and a shirt, he is impeccably bald, with his high blood pressure visibly painted on his flushed face. In his hands, he holds a bag of groceries and a Bible. "Got a cigarette?" he repeats, breaking my fledgling profiler career.

I regretfully realize that everything I had—cigarettes, drinks—was consumed the previous night, leaving me unable to assist. Instead of expressing my remorse, a hollow "No" escapes my lips.

"Thanks," says this walking enigma of a man. I can't let him leave.

"Mr. Fischer," I call out, "Where are we?"

Fischer laughs loudly, sincerely: "You don't know where you are, and I don't know who I am!" With a dismissive wave, he disappears.

As I watch him vanish, a folk song's blaring melody pierces my ears, growing louder with each passing second. The sound emanates from a taxi covered in Superman symbols. The driver stops in front of me, and it's visually clear he's shouting, though the music drowns him out. I yell back, asking him to lower the radio. He, in turn, yells louder, finally overpowering the folk:

"Sorry, but I can't! If I lower it, I won't be able to turn it back up later! Need a ride?! Sorry! A ride?! To Palestine!"

"Excuse me?!" I stammer, my mouth agape.

"I'm Superman," continues the man, screaming at me.

He's not wearing a Superman costume, but there's no reason not to believe him. After all, who among us really knows who Superman is? I don't claim to be him, but I have to admit it's intriguing—Superman and I have never been in the same room together. But if this man insists he's Superman, then I surely can't be.

"Come on! A ride to Palestine!"

What Palestine? Are we in a genocide? Superman, with a wave of his hand, hits the gas in perfect harmony with the blaring folk music, leaving me with no choice but to cross the street and step onto the marble expanse.

I walk slowly down the center of the square, recalling how the kids last night told me their parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents once gathered here—on these granite steps—to socialize, play music, sing, and talk to each other. I think to myself, if my mother and father were from here, they would have strolled along this promenade in their youth, while my grandparents would have danced. Those memories hit like déjà vu. Times change quickly, and it seems I’m growing old, unable to remember my origins.

On the square, I hear someone calling out for Carlo. Carlo? Italy? No boot.

A woman with a child walks past me. They talk like best friends. From their conversation, I gather they are fully aware of the absurdity of this city. She, too, speaks of Carlo. It’s the boy’s first time seeing him.

“Do you see that man over there?” she asks.

“I do,” answers the precocious boy with interest.

“Well, that man is a psychiatric patient. And yet, none of the townsfolk have ever seen him acting problematic, rude, shouting, or behaving inappropriately in any way. He’s a quiet man. Look, it’s 40 degrees outside. He’s wearing shorts, a T-shirt, and slippers. Seems normal, doesn’t he?”

“Completely,” the boy replies, still intrigued but now a little confused.

The woman continues: “Now, do you see that woman walking past him? She’s wearing a formal mini-dress, high heels, fake eyebrows, eyelashes, lips, and breasts, and she’s got a Chinese buttocks implant. Even though it’s daytime, her evening makeup is melting down her face. So now, tell me, my dear—who among them isn’t normal?”

The precocious boy smiles triumphantly and replies, “Her.”

“Exactly, my love. That’s how it is. None of us really knows who here is normal and who isn’t. But whenever you see Uncle Carlo, greet him and wish him a good day.”

I don’t doubt the words of this charmingly blunt woman. Carlo is surely one of the town’s most important characters. And I’m beginning to notice the peculiar mental traits of this city. But what city is this? And why does it feel so familiar?

To the left of the square, I now see a building whose first floor is labeled "Belgrade," the second "New Yorker," and the third "Peking." A little farther stands another building labeled "Paris," while next to me, rows of café terraces unmistakably scream "Blue lagoon." A wave of panic or hysteria—or perhaps anger—grips me. These people are mocking me!

It’s impossible to orient oneself, to gain or reclaim a sense of belonging, when even the city’s residents themselves haven’t agreed on what they belong to!

I’m sweating profusely, and now, instead of exhaustion, I feel an overwhelming desire to grasp the incomprehensible. Maybe I’m fighting something abstract! Panic drives me to flee, and I quickly decide I must escape this city to avoid losing my mind here—I’ll lose it somewhere else.

To my right looms a skyscraper—gray, powerful, dystopian. Its doors, however, do not lead to Dystopia, but to something even more terrifying: Hell itself. At the top of the building, illuminated letters once spelled out "HOTEL," but most of the lights have burned out, leaving only three fiery red letters glowing: "HEL." Am I in London? No, there’s no Queen here.

Between New York, Paris, Beijing, Belgrade, and Blue Lagoon, my need to escape—combined, I admit, with my curiosity—drives me urgently toward Hell, believing that answers must surely exist there. I dash into the lobby of Hotel Hell and begin to laugh hysterically, for Sartre was always right: Hell is indeed empty.

Silence, darkness, cold. Suddenly, a warm female voice begins to coldly recite numbers: "13, 20, 3, 30, 1..." Unsure where these Bingo-drawn numbers are coming from, I file the occurrence under “torture tactics.” You sit in Hell, eternally subjected to a warm-cold female voice listing numbers.

Before me drags a tired face—some kind of butler. No, a waiter. As he waves a pristine white cloth before me, I wonder when the war even began for it to now be over. But instead, I ask, “Excuse me, where am I?”

“Looking for the restroom? This isn’t a public toilet; it’s a hotel,” the waiter replies, surrendering further with every word.

“Excuse me, but why is no one here? Where are the guests? Where are the staff?”

“You must not be from around here. You’re strange,” the waiter says, giving me a personal description and abruptly dragging me into an intimate conversation. What did I do to deserve this? He interrupts my thoughts to continue:

“This is a hotel, but it has no rooms.”

“How can it be a hotel then?”

“It just is. There are rooms—”

“Wait, so there are rooms or there aren’t?”

“Technically, yes, but practically, no. There are rooms, but they’re not rented out. The restroom’s downstairs.”

As I inhale to explain that I don’t need the restroom, a shadow looms behind me, mirroring the architectural form of Hotel Hell.

I turn to find myself standing at the base of a massive statue of some great conqueror.

“You must leave this place,” the conqueror tells me. “If you don’t, they will take you.”

“Who will, Sir Great Conqueror?”

“They, the citizens. In my time, I proudly stood at the center of the square, and the city bore my name. But some of them preserve history, while others change it. They can’t even agree on that, so they’ve hidden me here, behind the museum, for the past 30 years.”

“Sir Great Conqueror, but what is the city called now?”

Sir Great Conqueror sings: “Video killed the radio star.” And as he finish he says: “Absurdistan. The name of the town is Absurdistan. And now you must leave.” “So, I’m in absurdity?!”

“That’s right. And now you must go.” Great Conqueror retreats back behind the museum.

“Excuse me, Sir Great Conqueror, one last thing—where is the airport?”

“The airport is a few kilometers from here, but it’s closed because we don’t have planes. Cross the river.” And with that, he disappears.

Everything I’m wearing is soaked. I no longer feel panic or hysteria—this is paranoia. Thoughts race through my mind with the speed of an Australian mouse: “A hotel without rooms! An airport without planes!” I begin to run like a madman, desperate to preserve at least one functioning brain cell. Fortunately, the river is nearby.

I dash past a building labeled "Progress" that clearly looks more like "Regress," over an asphalt bridge they call Wooden bridge, and alongside the river they call Child’s river—named, they say, because the Turks once threw children into it. I burst into the bus station building, slamming into it with the force of hitting a wall.

Inside, the atmosphere is identical to that of the hotel. Silence, darkness, cold. Where are the workers? Where are the passengers? In a room no larger than a washing machine box sits a greasy, mustachioed woman. My racing heart begins to calm as I approach her, though a deep-seated fear of what she might say lingers.

“Good day,” I greet her. “When does the first bus from Absurdistan to anywhere depart?”

The greasy, mustachioed woman, without lifting her gaze from papers that appear to be blank, responds with minimal effort:

“There are no buses.”

“But isn’t this a bus station?” I ask, swallowing hard.

“It is a bus station, but it’s not operational because we don’t have buses. Try the train station—it’s just next door.” She offers no further explanation.

Dragging my feet and with my brain utterly drained, thoughts swirl through my head like fog: “India, Egypt, delusion, Dystopia, Moscow, Rio de Janeiro, Palestine, Italy, Belgrade, New York, Beijing, Paris, Blue Lagoon, Hell... A hotel without rooms, an airport without planes, a bus station without buses…”

I feel unwell. As I ascend the empty stairs of the train station, I feel nothing anymore. When I step onto the platform, it no longer matters. I sit on a bench and remain silent and motionless for hours. Nothing happens. Night lights flicker on, and a faint mist rises halfway up the hotel without rooms. At its highest point, above the mist, the glowing “HEL” still shines beautifully.

At last, a white-bearded old man, dressed in worker’s overalls, approaches me slowly. Now I realize he had been standing near me all day by a small kiosk. He sits beside me and almost inaudibly asks, “Man, are you okay?”

I no longer know the answer to that question, so I don’t respond. Silence. The old man tries again, gently: “What are you doing here?”

The words spill out of me as though I have no more breath left: “I’m waiting for a train from Absurdistan to anywhere…”

The old man exhales. Silence.

“Son…” he whispers cautiously, “trains neither depart from Absurdistan nor stop in it.”

This doesn’t surprise me. I have no feelings left.

The old man continues: “That’s why I opened this kiosk here where no one buys anything. Whoever is born in or comes to Absurdistan—never leaves it again.” And he falls silent, staying seated beside me.

Thoughts swarm in my mind as dawn begins to break. Everything still looks so familiar…I’m thinking: "Whoever is born in or comes to Absurdistan—never leaves it." So, I am a citizen of Absurdistan. That is why everything feels so familiar. But if that’s the case, why don’t I feel like I belong here?

The old man is still beside me, quietly chewing on something from his pocket, staring into the void. I can no longer endure the silence.

“Why?” I ask, not really expecting an answer.

He turns to me, his eyes gentle yet weary:

“Why what?”

“Why, in my own birthplace, among my own people, do I feel like a stranger?” My voice cracks, as though that question held the last remnants of my soul.

The old man remains silent for a long time. Then, he smiles faintly, barely audibly:

“Because here, my son, everyone has become a stranger. Only some haven’t realized it yet.”

He stands and vanishes into the mist as the light on the hotel finally goes out.

I look at the city—its buildings naming cities, faceless people, ownerless walls. Nothing has changed. Neither have I. But the feeling? The feeling of alienation is the only thing that seems real.