WELCOME TO WARM SNOWY KOSOVO, CHILLY SUNNY DUBROVNIK

A long lonely road leads from Beograd to Kosovo, like some silly cliché being spoken for the umpteenth million time, but lending some credence to its claims of independence, regardless of the ethnicities involved. But first we go more than half way back to Nis before turning west, aggravating my ‘no backtrack’ sensibilities a bit. It seems like somebody in Sofia, Bulgaria, could organize a connection to Pristina at least as good as what I had to Beograd. I guess they did; it’s called Macedonia. At the de facto border Serbia checks me out, but I don’t think I ever got checked in, just glanced at. I guess the UN doesn’t do that; only real countries do. Kosovo has still got a ways to go. Immediately the scenery changes, though. Instead of the well-defined countryside of Serbia, with its tilled soils and trash-strewn roads and streams, we’re back into the mixed town/country hazh-pazh like Albania. I guess it’s part of the ethnic character of these ethnic Albanians. Is city planning hard-wired into the DNA?

So I get into town after dark and get a taxi up into the hills overlooking town where ‘the professor’ runs his guesthouse/hostel. He’s a nice old man who studied engineering in the UK, doing graduate work some time back in the 70’s. Hey, wait a minute… I graduated college in the 70’s. Do I look that old? Anyway, he’s got a nice enough place with real radiated heat in the rooms. We need it; the next day the first thing I see is snow coming down. The problem with hostels is that they’re frequently far removed from the center of town, necessitating bus rides or long walks. Fortunately I like to walk. That doesn’t help much late at night of course, but I don’t do late nights much any more any way. The good thing, in addition to their reasonable cost, is the chance to meet other travelers and/or to more or less have an apartment in a foreign country on a temporary basis. They come in all flavors, from sub-leased flats to extra rooms in somebody’s house. The ‘profesor’s place is more like the latter, complete with instructions to remove shoes. I tell him that’s no problem after living in Thailand for ten years. I think some of these people get a kick out of seeing an old geezer like me still trucking.

Kosovo is not exactly a hot spot for travelers these days, not yet at least. Right now it’s more of a joint project between the UN and EU, keeping the Serbians at bay, the EU presence in evidence everywhere. As such it’s the largest preserve of second-language English speakers between Athens and Dubrovnik. If this improves its possibilities for tourism, that hasn’t happened yet, though the possibilities are there. Transportation agents just assumed I would be returning, as if I were another UN operative, as if they’d never seen a tourist buy a one-way ticket. The food here is good, thanks to the historic association with Islam and Ottoman Turkey. In addition to the ubiquitous kebaptores and their meaty grill smells wafting over the streets, there are gulashes and musakas and other saucier dishes that are all quite good and reasonably priced. I had one of the best hamburgers in years here, one of the first in years, too, for that matter. There are also local versions of Italian dishes such as lasagna. So the question still remains of the Italian connection with Albanian culture. Is that a product of colonialism or long-standing relations or did I perceive that because they took me for an Italian in Albania?

Certain the Albanian/Illyrian culture is as ancient as the Italian and has long been in contact. They too were around long before the Germans began pouring in from the north and the Slavs from the East. They even kiss and hug all the time just like Italians. They hang out in cafes all day just like Italians would do if the cafes would let them. Though the language contains many superficial resemblances to Italian, though, most of that are the buzz words of trade, not core vocabulary. And while Albania itself may have a greater Italian influence than Kosovo, I think that Albania DID take me for an Italian, especially after I started speaking it in the market, for lack of options. The Kosovans take me for a German. Is Albanian culture the missing link between northern and southern Europe? I’ve always wondered where the French negative pas comes from. Well, there it is, right there on the Nescafe machine in Kosovo- pa/me = with/without (sugar). At least they ended up with a country of their own, maybe two. The Celts were the big losers, despite Irish claims to their heritage.

Mother Teresa is the Albanian region’s main claim to fame and statues of her abound. We certainly needed some divine intervention on the bus trip out of the country. Usually when you cross a border you pass one country’s gate and the other is a few minutes away- not here. Not only did we climb the narrowest steepest mountain pass that I’ve EVER been on, it just happened to be at the border between two countries, and it just happened to be snowing at the time. Oh shit! This is nothing like the little dusting Mladen and I got back in Macedonia. This is real! Snow banks are piled up on the side of the road, plows are operating steadily, and many passages are one-lane-only. Most of the other traffic was eighteen-wheelers! Okay God, here’s the deal: just one more favor and we’re even, okay? I promise! When we finally get to the other border gate I’m wide awake from anxiety and fear. But mostly I just want some warmer weather- sunny beach or bust! I’m swearing off long johns forever! As if the weather weren’t bad enough, the drivers have got some screeching local music DVD on ‘replay’ to well past midnight and the seats are cramped enough to give a dwarf thrombo-phlebitis.

Somehow we make it of course, and soon we’re down in the Montenegrin coastal city of Ulcinj at 5am. From here I’ll go on to the town of Pudva, the center of the Macdedonian ‘Riviera’. But first I enlist one of the local dogs to take me on a tour of downtown Ulcinj in the early morning hours to see what I’m missing- not much. At 7:00 my bus takes off up the coastline, through Bar toward Pudva. Me, I’m drifting in and out of consciousness after a night on the bus from hell. It almost feels like I’m back in Europe now, back from the hinterlands. Pudva itself is a construction site, building up faster even than Pristina, much of it Russian money they say, not surprising seeing the penchant for casinos. I’m not sure why I’m here, except that there was a hostel bookable online and I need a day’s sleep after a night’s travel. There is a ‘stari grad’, an old town here, with wall and all, just like the textbook model, built to withstand attack. Now they’re just tourist attractions. Who says our lives haven’t gotten better through the course of history? Many do, imagining some romantic past without the Romans, full of fairies and runes and Venus figurines that meant we all loved each other in a perfect state of natural bliss, uh huh.

I get a killer room for less than U$20, but I’m still cold. Seems in the more moderate climes they don’t bother with heaters, and these concrete block apartments hold in the cold, nice in the summer but bad in the winter. I’ve never used an air conditioner for heat before, but… it works. Unfortunately there are no kitchen facilities and the town is a long walk. Hostels are pot luck. Even the computer room is down in the owner’s living room and the TV doesn’t work. What the Hell, it’s only one night and they give me coffee and baklava on arrival, so I can’t complain. They aren’t getting rich off me either. He gives me books to read, including a travel book by Henry Rollins in which he’s hanging with Black Sabbath during their reunion, mostly exclaiming, “Wow! This is so cool!” So now that I know that I’m a better writer than Henry Rollins, I feel somewhat better, though still cold. Will I have to go back to the mountains to find a room with heat so I won’t freeze to death on the beach? It’s tolerable, but I just can’t get much work done trying to type under the covers, and that means you I’m talking about.

It looks like I will. In Dubrovnik they give me no remote control for the air-con, so I’m at the mercy of Nature. Fortunately temps are getting up to 15C-59F at least, so not freezing. On the way up the bus passed through Kotor and the surrounding fiord, which is one of the most beautiful spots I’ve ever seen in the world. I wish I’d stayed there instead of Pudva, but Dubrovnik makes up for it. Whoever said that it’s the ‘pearl of the Adriatic’ is right, beautiful views from every angle and a ‘stari grad’ for the record books. Unfortunately this pearl is a bit too shiney for me, too polished and tidy. It feels like Switzerland or something. We’re definitely back in Europe now, prices and all, fast food limited to bakeries. Gone are the shish kebabs and the Turkish hamburgers. Gone is the gulash and moussaka. It’s back to pizza and European pastries and bureks if I’m lucky. I’m scouring Expedia for a flight to somewhere, if not Ethiopia, then maybe South Africa, which ironically is even cheaper, ironic because it’s farther. Airlines are hurting. So am I. Jai yen yen. Cool your jets, Hardie. First I’ll go to Mostar in Bosnia, and maybe even Sarajevo. Can I find warmth in the former site of a Winter Olympics? We’ll see. But first a guy named Elvis is picking me up at the bus station in Mostar, so that’s cool. We should have a lot to talk about. Sometimes it’s nice not speaking the local language, just to see what it brings; but not often.