COST OF SINSEMILLA IN ZAGREB, COST OF SUCCESS IN LJUBLJANA

And God saw that man was hungry, so on the eighth day God created ham. And it was red. And ham was lonely, so God created cheese. And it was white, sometimes yellow. And the rest is history. Ham and cheese together proceeded to conquer the world, spreading far and wide, forever occupying the hearts and minds and bellies of their patrons. But is it halal? Is it kosher?

All I really want is a real meal, complete with rice and soy sauce and fresh-cut veggies kissing the wok with light hot licks. My stomach’s growling, but I’m so bored with bread and cheese that I don’t bother to eat. I eat a lot of apples, but that’s boring, too. Such are the whinings of the not-so-intrepid traveler. They used to say that the way to a man’s heart is through is his stomach, and while that may or may not be PC-OK to say in reference to women any more, it certainly applies to geography. I’ve been spoiled by years in Asia, with fresh hot cheap healthy (?) food readily available on the street, or close to it. European-style bakeries are nice for a change, but really can’t compete in the long run. Pizza makes a valiant try to be the universal standard fast food, but with mixed results. When they start coming out of bakeries, not pizzerias, complete with ketchup on top like I’ve seen here, I start looking elsewhere. I think I’ve even seen mayonnaise on them here, but I don’t want to know any more than that.

I almost got run over crossing the street in Zagreb because I thought I saw a Chinese restaurant on the other side, but it was a false alarm. Then I found a real one, but the prices were in geo-stationary orbit over Iceland. I’ll survive without it I guess. At least the veggie pizza here has broccoli, and there seems to be local cuisine with some of the same names as those in Bosnia, so I may venture into the restaurant fray if I find one with a ventilator. But the real food story of this trip is about blood oranges. I discovered them in Italy, found them again in Tunis, then Mladen had some from home in Dubrovnik, and now I find them in Zagreb. Is this something radiating outward from Italy? Why haven’t I ever seen them in Asia or South America, places with many sizes and types? Thailand even prides itself on refining oranges to the ultimate sweetness and the thinnest skin and the least fiber possible (any comparison to their women would be inappropriate since my wife is Thai. If we ever break up, then look out!).

Well this sounds like an opportunity for the enterprising adventurer, so I imagine myself taking carefully selected seeds back to Thailand and starting a new life as an orchard magnate. When I see them in the market today, in varying degrees of redness, I figure there’s no time like the present so invest in a kilogram (Th. ‘lo’) of them, some that are light red. There’s only one problem. THEY’VE GOT NO SEEDS. I JUST INVESTED IN A KILO OF SINSEMILLA (the word ‘sinsemilla’ means ‘seedless’ in Spanish btw, nothing more nothing less. Any connotations of sensual derangement are pure pig Latin). So where does the redness come from? Are these hermaphrodites or something like that? Do I get to manipulate my orange trees’ sexuality? It’s sounding more like Thailand all the time. Of course even sinsemilla has a seed or two of course, and in a half kilo so far I’ve found three. This orchard may be a slow starter. I also figure out that the redder the better, or at least, sweeter.

Darko Rundek has a song called ‘Sinsemiglia’ which gets all mystic and mysterious before ultimately playing out into Balkan over-dramatization, but still he’s quite fun to listen to. He’s one of the few local boys to find some currency in the current world music market. I planned to catch him in Sarajevo tonight but now I’m not there. He’ll be here in Zagreb tomorrow night, but I haven’t seen any posters for it, so make no plans, except to continue on to Ljubljana. I almost left today, but thought better of it. Compared to S’jevo, my current digs suck- no wifi or cable TV, just a lot of Croatian stuff and some sitcoms like The Nanny, Reba, and similar fare from UK and Spain, but at least the weather’s better. Ultimately any place worth stopping is worth staying, at least for a day. You can quote me on that. So I do. Zagreb’s pretty nice really, almost like Prague or something, but cheap lodging is scarce, not uncommon in capital cities- Santiago de Chile comes to mind. If the international groovers ever get tired of Budapest and come here instead, some competition may help. Me, I’ve got up such a head of steam after achieving the escape velocity to leave ‘S’jevo’ and booking Africa for next month that I’m having trouble slowing down.

Well, the big news in Zagreb is that sales of U2 tickets have lines of buyers backed up all over town, camping out and causing the web-site to crash. I’m not sure it’s worth all that. In Kenya someone who looks a lot like Bosnian Serb war criminal Radovan Karadzic’s general Mladic has been spotted after being on the lam for nearly fifteen years. And on the home front a new Chinese store has opened but they misspelled the word ‘Chinese’ in Croatian. Instead of ‘Kineski’ they spelled it ‘Kienski’, the ramifications of which I’m not sure of, like ‘Chiense’ instead of ‘Chinese’ in English, no big deal, but if it were like ‘Chiens’ in French, then that would be different. To blend into a new place seamlessly, you need to know enough of the language to GET the jokes, not be them.

Zagreb and Croatia feel like Europe again, a welcome change after a string of sometimes-not-so-beautiful cities in the Balkans. Ljubljana and Slovenia should be even more so, complete with higher prices. At least they’ll be in €uros. I’m tired of counting all this funny money, Monopoly money, shopping certificates only good on the day of the sale and at selected stores. Mostly I’m tired of being in the dark, an ironic curtain, in a region that really shouldn’t be so. I’m constantly reminded of the line in the Coen brothers’ film ‘Brother Where Art Thou’, “we ain’t got no radio here.” That kilo of orange sinsemilla cost about two bucks George W btw.

Ljubljana does not disappoint. Say that three times really fast and try to pull your tongue through the loop. We’re definitely not in Kansas anymore, Toto. This is pure Europe, Europe at its best, maybe something like a cross between Amsterdam and Venice without all the girls in the windows or water lapping at your toes. You can hang out in sidewalk cafes till the cows come home. You can go to the Saturday market and not only find veggies and dairy products, buckwheat bread and preserves, but stained glass and ceramics, way cool. Myself maybe I still prefer the Sarajevo Turkish quarter’s kilims and copper, but that’s an anomaly of time and space. This is a pleasing creative blend of past and present, Europe that is. A river flows through it, too, without trash lining the banks or plastic bottles caught forever in the infinite flows and eddies. Chaos and turbulence may be inspiring for off-beat rock bands and movies, but does little for tamer esthetic sensibilities. The weather’s nice, too, not so cold to begin with AND heaters in the room. Comfort- now there’s a concept.

It’s too nice; that’s the only problem. At only a quarter mill, the place fills up with tourists fast. I don’t think I’d want to see it in high season. Even now you almost hear more English than Slavic in the tourist area. My little bit of Serbo-Croatian doesn’t help much here with the Slovenian language either, which diverges greatly. My hostel room doesn’t help much either, just a bit too institutional for me. At first I feel weird staying in the private room while everybody else is bunking it, but then I realize half of them are hanging out in the cafes eating expensive meals, so it’s a trade-off. Me, I’m so excited at seeing some instant noodles in the grocery store that I even pay the w/bowl price. It’s an acquired taste. Finding a grocery store open on Sunday is something of a miracle in itself. Then I find a Chinese restaurant with reasonable prices, semi-takee-outee. Then I find a special train fare to Zurich for only €29. I’m on a roll. There’s a documentary film festival in town focusing on human rights. Maybe they’ll open the doors on the last day and make it free to all.

My reservations about Ljubljana have nothing to do with Indians, certainly not the ones from South America here in town posing as American Plains Indians while playing songs from their CD entitled something ‘Mohican’ that seem to have nothing to do with any tradition except that of the flute and New Age music in general. It’s not bad, but no more ‘Mohican’ than it is Bolivian to my knowledge, the war bonnets serving what purpose I know not. I’ve seen similar acts in Buenos Aires and Barcelona within the last year or so, the others from Ecuador. I guess work’s work, and I’ve even been accused of ‘sacrilege’ in my career as a folk art entrepreneur, but still… what’s the point? Carlos Nakai doesn’t need to wear war paint to get his music across; it speaks for itself. The word ‘nakai’ means ‘Mexican’ for God’s sake. Who cares? I don’t mean to be judgmental, but… somebody needs to be.

Then the rains came. As if things are not dead enough on Sunday already, the rain puts a damper on the little bit that’s left. And it rains for forty hours and forty minutes. That’s okay; I’ve got a train ticket and a belly full of sweet-and-sour chicken to my credit on the balance sheet of life. Finally it stops shortly before dawn. Maybe I’ll get to do some sightseeing today in Ljubjlana before my train leaves after all. If so I’ll show you some pictures. Deal? Next stop Zurich via Austria via Liechtenstein, two more countries to check off the list. I’m on a roll.

HYPER-TRAVEL, NESTING INSTINCTS, AND THE ETHNIC CLEANSERS OF REPUBLIKA SRPSKI

Fortunately Bosnia/Hercegovina has a local cuisine, presumably via the Turks, similar to what I saw in Kosovo, saucey almost curry-like dishes which, except for goulash, have names that I’m not familiar with, and are not altogether unlike some of the Muslim food that enters Southeast Asia and gets transformed into Thai and Padang (Indonesian) cuisine. In addition to this are moussaka and the local version of lasagna among others. Desserts include baklava and halva and others with difficult names, which should confirm the origin of the influence. Since I discovered the local cuisine and started eating actual meals- not in restaurants, mind you, as that would involve adding smoke to every dish- I realize I’ve been eating like a horse, and I don’t mean apples. At first I figure that must be because of the cold weather- you burn more fuel to stay warm. But mostly I think it’s just that I’ve been eating less simply because a traveler’s diet is so boring. Moral of the story: the boredom diet works.

We Westerners wonder why obesity is such a modern problem while trying to decide whether to order the cheesecake or the tiramisu for dessert. My problem is more one of eating cheaply and healthily at the same time. Eating small but frequent meal-ettes has been vindicated as not only acceptable but actually beneficial to people with weight-control issues. The problem is eating healthily. Pizza is not the answer. Fruits and vegetables are. For a hyper-traveler this helps control costs also. My friends rag on me about how I’m such a tightwad, yet at the same time so unusually rich that I can travel all the time and all the world, while they rack up three-figure bills at the sushi bar, wishing they could travel some day, too. Go figure. Do the math. Get a clue.

Of course for the true backpacker self-catering is the thing, but you have to have a kitchen to do that in style, or at least a mini-fridge and a microwave, almost standard features in US hotel rooms now, much to my approval. Next to internet, this is the most important ingredient of any good hostel. But what good’s a kitchen in an area that doesn’t have instant noodles or rice cookers? That’s half my diet right there. Of course there is a tradition that pre-dates hostels that still persists in some parts of the world and is also a good alternative to the typical businessman’s hotel.

I’ve got the killer deal on local digs here in Sarajevo, in-room internet and cable TV en suite WITH BREAKFAST for less then twenty bucks. Only problem is it’s not right in the Turkey Quarter, with all the other tourist turkeys, so I get malls and supermarkets instead of tourist sites. This place is a part of a tradition that pre-dates modern hotels and restaurants and clubs, when the local inn served all those functions (did you know that the first restaurant in Europe opened for business less then three hundred years ago?). Places like this still exist widely in the UK, rooms above pubs, though mostly outside, or at least on the outskirts, of London. Many even serve ‘full English breakfast’, aka ‘full Irish breakfast’ (don’t light any matches). Their existence may be in peril with the advent of later bar hours, since you could also drink late there if you had a room. Considering the post-smoking fate of many pubs, however, there may be a counter-trend of conversion to hostels. I hope so. Of course the TV here is mostly Serbo-Bosniac-Croatian with assorted European channels, but that’s half the fun, watching the Italian military weather and German reality TV. At least I’ve got the History, Discovery, and NatGeo channels, and for news I’ve got al-Jazeera. It beats Fox hands down. What would a time-lapse movie of this place for the last century reveal? Probably some things you wouldn’t want to see.

This area’s got some heavy karma to deal with, specifically the Yugoslav Wars of the 1990’s and consequent ‘ethnic cleansing’. I saw a program on al-J today about the systematic rape and imprisonment of Bosnian women, not as a random act of violence, which I had assumed, BUT AS AN ACT OF ‘ETHNIC CLEANSING’, TO ENSURE THAT THEIR OFFSPRING WOULD BE SERBIAN (a moment of silence please while I get a towel. If tears could turn turbines...),

(space intentionally left blank)

as if religion were transmitted sexually. These hate children are being raised as Muslims of course, and soon will begin asking questions. Aside from any slight ethnic admixtures the Bosnians might have gotten from the Turks, and the Croats from their Italian neighbors across the Sea, and the Serbs from their eastern first cousin Russians, the groups are indistinguishable of course.

It’s time for a new religion, one to unite all the others. When I mention ‘the war’ to my hotel hosts, they clam up like oysters, jaw muscles quivering. Who knows? They might be Serbian. The memories carry weapons; at least the future has some variables in the equation. For better or worse Bosnia & Hercegovina is effectively divided into at least two parts, the recognized Bosniac/Croat government and the Serbian-dominated ‘Republika Srpski’. I guess I’ll have to pass through there just in case they become a UN-recognized independent country one day. Is this what ‘Balkanization’ is all about? It sounds like a process for hardening rubber or something. Ethnic cleansing will harden you or something.

Sarajevo is not a beautiful city, but by regional standards it’s not bad, and has its share of bright spots, mostly around the ‘stari grad’ Turkish Quarter, all gussied up for tourism. The rest of the city is basically Bolshevik Modern Concrete Cell-block, but it could be worse. At least the apartment complexes tend to be color-coded. Of course it’s amazing what a little sunshine can do. The temps have hit a balmy 10C-50F the last two days after hovering only 2-3 degrees above freezing before that. It’s supposed to snow 5-8 inches tonight then warm up later in the week, maybe even ABOVE 15C-59F! Bring on the sun block! Of course by then I may be long gone or… maybe not. I’ve got about two weeks of travel left to accomplish in over three weeks, so I’m idling with the engine running, next stop either Split or Zagreb or Ljubljana, Africa pretty firmly on the back-burner until next month, probably Ethiopia and maybe Kenya, too, along with northern Europe. Ethiopia Airlines will pretty much give you another destination and a stop in Addis Ababa for little more than the flight to Addis itself. You heard it here first. I just bought a water kettle, so I’m getting domestic, wherever that happens to be. The Bosnian word for ‘signature’ is ‘potpis’. I like that.

All good things must come to an end of course. That’s okay. I couldn’t look another ham and cheese breakfast in the face anyway. Sarajevo falls short of a true epiphany regardless. For that I need to blend into a place, not just occupy a corner in its periphery, or just satisfy a financial angle. I need to be inspired linguistically also. Dabbling in Serbo-Croatian is okay, but ultimately just a primer for Russian. I think my hotel wants to get rid of me. The breakfast portions have been getting smaller every day. Then the Internet went out again yesterday, just like the beginning of my stay here. They’d already warned me that a crowd was coming for the vikend, but that I could probably move to another room; sounds ominous. I book onward passage. I also book that long-planned flight to Addis Ababa for a month from now.

I had planned to book on through to Nairobi on Ethiopian Airline, but when their credit card procedure glitches on me, I go back to the drawing board (Expedia), and end up booking on Turkish Airlines, with a long stopover at IST on the way back, something I had previously failed to accomplish through the airline’s website itself, all for the simple ADD price (and less than the Ethiopian options). A little less Africa is fine, since it tends to be intense, and I’m inspired by the Turkish element in Bosnia. Hopefully I can make the Black Sea loop, pending Russian visa. If that’s multiple-entry, then I’ll try to pick up St. Pete on the Scandinavia loop. Since I’m on a roll and my Turkish Air flight lands back at Stansted instead of LHR, I go ahead and book a Ryan Air flight connection to Stockhom on the same day. What the Hell, it’s only fifty bucks. This is hyper-travel.

The next day dawns clear and bright, a perfect day for travel. Finally I find the Chinese, their stores lined up on the edge of town, preparing for the invasion. Don’t forget the chopsticks. Soon we’re driving into snow of course. You don’t get out of Sarajevo without the ritual baptism of snow. It’s like Flagstaff, I checking the Weather Channel constantly. Its checkered past is like Mississippi. Then it hits me- this may not be my epiphany, but at least it’s my catharsis, forcing me to face up to the dark recesses of my own past. I’ve been at odds with all the places I’ve ever lived, so maybe now I’m trying to get even by going to them all. Catharses can be messy.

Somewhere along the way to the Croatian border we start traveling in the same downward direction as the river, the Mosques grow fewer, houses are occupied instead of vacant, and small garden patches under the till appear.

The postal drop-boxes say ‘Republika Srpski’. Maybe the Serbs are bitter at their own tortured past. The words ‘Slav’ and ‘slave’ are cognate, you know; now you do. Crossing the border into Croatia is like turning on the lights, cleaner and brighter. The sun comes out accordingly. We’re on a super-highway now, heading toward Europe, heading toward the future. Me, I’m still looking for an epiphany. Best bet now is Nice, France. It doesn’t sound very ‘me’, but then neither did Vina del Mar or Montego Bay on my last two trips. The future has an infinite number of mathematical possibilities. The past, well… the past sucks. That’s a technical term. Maybe I should go to Cannes instead, thoroughly mix my metaphors. Stay tuned.

15-DAY BALKANIZING, LOOKING FOR… ELVIS?

The bus is pulling in to Mostar, Bosnia and Hercegovina, scene of much violence back in the ‘90’s. There are a few touts for guesthouses there, but no Elvis, the guy who’s supposed to pick me up. I finally decide to start walking since it’s not so cold and my ‘motel’ is not so far. About then a car pulls up to a stop in front of me. It’s Elvis, no impersonator. I ask him if that’s for Presley or Costello. He says he assumes Presley. I tell him that’s too bad since I know all the words to ‘(What’s so Funny ‘Bout) Peace, Love, and Understanding’. He’s not impressed. I tell him I’m also from Elvis Presley’s home state. He asks what state that is. I tell him Mississippi. He’s still not impressed.

“But now I live in California.”

Now he’s impressed. “Oh, California is very nice state. Mostar is like California, always sunny. We have famous song, ‘Mostar, California’.” It’s amazing the cache’ California carries overseas, especially LA, i.e. Hollywood.

I tell him I haven’t heard that song, but privately I fail to see much superficial resemblance. Mostar seems more like a Muslim fairy tale, minarets dotting the skyline, at least in the old town, with snowy peaks in the distance. It’s quiet now at least, after the Serbian reign of terror, a mix of old and new. Its big claim to fame is the old bridge, known as ‘Stari Most’, Bosnian for… you guessed it… old bridge. Elvis takes a detour to show it to me by the night’s light. It’s beautiful, sure enough, slim and gracefully arching over frothy waters. Elvis is having fun making detours to the ‘motel’, totally eliminating any chance that I’ll actually remember the route, but that’s okay; he’s having fun. When we finally get to the ‘motel’, it looks like a real place of business, not just somebody renting out some flats and converting it to a hostel. The three parking spaces out front hardly qualify it as a ‘motel’ in my opinion, so I feel justified with the quotation marks.

Elvis soon splits, having done his thing, and despite the fact that besides him the staff speaks little or no English, the room is killer, just like downtown, even a shower stall that looks like science fiction, bells and whistles, massaging me in places I didn’t know water could even reach, everything but… the heat. I can’t coax any heat out of the air conditioner no matter how hard I try, no combination of modes, temps, whatever… so I’m shit out of luck. All I really really want is just some heat in my room, or rather a room with some heat in it. There’s no substitute for that, and I haven’t had any since Kosovo. And sun-bathing doesn’t count. I thought I was leaving the cold by heading to the coast. It turns out I was heading into it. I’d rather have 0C-32F outside and 20C-68F in my room than 10C-50F average in both.

I’m looking for a place to settle down for a week or two, and so far I can’t find it. If I find nothing soon, then it’s on to Ethiopia, or maybe South Africa. My nesting instinct is as strong as my traveling instinct, perhaps heightened by the psychological competition. ‘Home’ is a constant search, a carrot strategically placed. I don’t know but what all my travels are ultimately about finding home, that place where I belong. On the road itself, however, temporary homes are nice, and suffice. Constant travel itself, losing self in the movie screen of images and sounds, gets old. It’s nice to find a place to kick back, buy some groceries, and wash some clothes. It’s just a matter of finding the right combination of low costs, good temps, and interesting activities. But being cold for a week is not attractive and the problem is not outside; it’s inside. Heat is optional in hotels here, like showers in France. 10C-50F is tolerable, especially if that’s the LOW temp, but not comfortable. They probably figure THEY don’t use heaters, so why should the guests? Get a clue- guests don’t have kitchens. Almost any heat source would help, but a TV is not enough, except to maybe dry the socks. I make plans for onward travel to Sarajevo. That may be my last option to kick back. If it’s not suitable, then I may bail.

Mostar is too small anyway. There’s not much to do besides viewing the bridge, dining by the river, and wandering the streets. At least the coffee’s good, rich espresso for less than a buck. Of course a single espresso doesn’t do much more than chase away the withdrawal symptoms for me, so I guess I should do double shooters, or quit altogether. Maybe it’s my imagination, but Bosnia seems friendlier. Maybe that’s what religion does for you, and there’s plenty of that here, both Muslim and Christian, even madrasahs for the kids. The Muslims have small graveyards at every mosque, complete with white pointy headstones, while the Christians have larger detached ones with black headstones. That’s what you wanted to know, right? It seems like I’m the only tourist in town. Hotels are empty and so are the restaurants. I watch TV and hear about AIG bonuses to greedy corporate pigs apparently being rewarded for their ability to screw over the very people making sacrifices to bail them out. I wonder if there’s a connection between that and the slow tourist season. Duh. “Without Communism to keep it honest, capitalism no longer is.” Maybe it’s time for socialism to make a comeback. Just don’t call it ‘communism’, since that’s a dirty word. Reagan’s dead and so’s his ‘revolution’.

Mostar shows heavy scars from the war with Serbia of 1992 and the racist policy of ‘ethnic cleansing’. The irony is that Bosnia and Serbia and Croatia are all the same race, with some notable cultural differences, specifically religion. Most violence is committed within the family, isn’t it? Unfortunately you can’t rebuild history like you can buildings. You’re stuck with the memories, and they die hard. The same is true on a personal level. As I sit soaking up afternoon sun in a Mostar Islamic graveyard I reflect on all the people who have come and gone in my life and wonder why. Then I realize how much time I’ve spent in other countries, a stranger in a strange land, trying to make sense of things ‘back home’. Is this what travel ultimately means?

Be careful what you ask for; you might just get it. If Beograd is cold, and Kosovo freezing, then Sarajevo is absolutely Arctic. If Mostar is the Islamic fairy tale, then Sarajevo must be paradise, virgins optional, with its snow and ice and lofty peaks. I first heard of Sarajevo from the 1984 Winter Olympics. Then I next heard of it during the 1992 War. How could it be the same place, fallen from the heights of international fame to the depths in such a short time? Racism/nationalism is a powerful force and ultimately negative. Religion’s not perfect, but it’s better than that. Unfortunately people of the Book are sometimes on a different page. Sarajevo is like the other Beirut, a modern progressive city brought down by sectarian violence, provoked by those who’d rather condemn than tolerate.

For all their faults, cities do generate a certain psychological warmth that’s attractive, in addition to the heat island effect, the warmth of anonymity in crowds. My room has a heater in it also, though it’s probably not sufficient for the large room. Still a large room is nice, especially with Cable TV and a double bed with breakfast for $20. Unfortunately the Internet’s down, ‘local only’, whatever that means. It means no ‘w’s, no e-mail, no half-dressed web-cam girls in the Philippines staring vacantly at their screens waiting for the signal ‘customer online’ while baby cries in the next room and Grandma tries to calm him. Sarajevo has a well-defined tourist area in the ‘Turkish quarter’, with plenty of budget accommodation, so I may move in closer if Internet stays down here. It’s not exactly Khao Sarn road there yet, but that’s good. I have to decide today whether to stay on or bail out, or at least I feel that way anyway. How can I travel Ethiopia in less than three weeks? I could of course if it were just Ethiopia, but not Somaliland, Djibouti, and Eritrea, too. Of course that’s no more countries to check off the list than I would postpone if I were to exit Europe early anyway, and Ethiopia is not a country to rush. Logic says to be here now. Something else says to get warm now.

My return date to the US is already set, unchanging inviolable, being a frequent flier freebie. If I stay then I get to study Slavic language case endings and conjugations, probably the most fun I’ve had since re-learning differential equations to teach them to my wife’s son, even if it didn’t ‘take’. Maybe then I’ll tour sites of winter Olympics, Innsbruck and Torino after this, just to back-fill some logic onto a rather unpredictable situation as if I planned it like that all along. Unfortunately the Chinese haven’t gotten here yet, or the few that have don’t realize the potential of their hot wok nor their hard work. Then I’d feel right at home. Maybe the Turkish ‘oriental’ cuisine will suffice. I’ll be looking for the real meal deal today. But the rugs are incredible, something I had no idea of, even after a career of dealing handicrafts. They call them ‘kilims’; I wonder why. I wonder if they’re really made here or just imported for sale through Turkish marketing connections. Surprise me.

Internet’s back up and I’ve got work to do. I’ve also got decisions to make, specifically whether to jump ship Europe and bail out to Africa while there’s still time to enjoy it. I can’t decide, so I try to postpone the decision creatively. There’s a bus to Ljubljana Sunday overnight. If I did that I could still get to Rome by the 24^th to catch my theoretical flight to Africa, instead of going to Rome via the ferry to Ancona. That way I can hang here another day, maybe longer if that’s the ultimate decision. This kind of non-decision can have further repercussions in my hyper-travel. Already planning my next trip next month, probably to whichever part of Africa I forego now, if I go at all, for a month with another month in Europe, but the most northern Scandinavian part, assuming the dollar holds up, which right now is questionable, since it’s slid sometime in the last week while I wasn’t watching… but I could at least commit half the way to London, which is where all the cheapest flights originate, and which has NOT re-valued against the dollar like that pesky old Euro has.

Coincidentally today AA sends me a special offer to fly RT to London before July at regular price $800+ and get 25,000 frequent flyer miles worth $250+/-, but now I find British Airways has a RT on the same dates for only $548 TAX INC and then I can continue on to either Johannesburg OR Addis Ababa for less than $600 OR BOTH considering the flight between them at African rip-off prices is twice that. Hell, I can do that. I’m always ready to commit half-way. Today’s the first day of spring and snow is falling here in Sarajevo. There is no logic. Which button do I push? The bus to Ljubljana leaves without me. I guess that’s my non-decision. I find a cafeteria line that’s got all the local food on display with names attached, so I can just point-and-click, learn as I go. It’s not bad either, Muslim food, and reasonably priced. I left Athens on 3-3. When I arrived in Bosnia two weeks later, this was my eighth country within that time, nine if you count Kosovo. What do I do now? I need a line, Trinity. At least it’s warmer now. That’s the nice thing about Internet. It’s warm inside.

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.

GETTING HOSTELS WITH THE HOMIES IN SOFIA AND BEOGRAD

Bulgaria is a bright spot in a sometimes dismal Balkan landscape. Away from the heavily touristed Dalmatian Coast of Croatia, Balkan Europe is an area best known for its senseless internecine squabbles and Yugoslav Communistic past. Like Albania, Bulgaria remains apart from all that, and is something of an enigma from the get-go. Named for the Eastern steppes tribal marauders who invaded the area not long after the Roman Empire’s collapse, and straddling a region comprising Greeks, Thracians, and later Turks, Bulgaria beame a conduit for Slavic immigration and to this day has the reputation as the oldest of southern Slav cultures. But they were never a part of Yugoslavia, and have moved quickly to distance themselves from the past.

Modern Sofia never sleeps. On the morning I arrived the Bukowski Bar next to the entrance of the hostel I’ve booked is still going strong from the night before as mid-morning creeps up. It’s taken me that long to find the place after a long walk from the bus station and the confusion arising from multiple McDonalds when directions depend on such landmarks. Alas and alack that hostel is full, but they’ve got another around the corner that shares an entrance with an Irish pub, apparently presided over by a real live Irish person, or at least a Brit. That’s who the patrons are. Thus a proud tradition finds fertile soil in the Balkans, that of the British ex-pat, scattered far and wide across the globe, putting down roots wherever the soil is deep enough to park an elbow and the beer strong enough to mitigate any regrets. This has been going on for years, as much a part of the Pax Britannica as limes and baked beans. I doubt sterling will drop so far on FX markets to change that any time soon.

Sofia’s not bad, maybe like a po’ boy’s London or at least Birmingham, plenty of decent food and coffee, bakeries as good as anywhere I know. After starving myself in Albania, too lazy to deal with currency exchange, I’m gorging in Sofia, plenty of foreign exchange since the transport companies won’t take €, and I had to cash a wad. I’d like to go on to Prishtina in Kosovo, but it looks like there’s no direct route so, since I’ve already passed through Skopje, I’m favoring a detour to Beograd in Serbia. That’ll be better any way, since I don’t want too many simple passes in my quest to ‘do’ every country, hopefully every major culture, in the world. Regional transportation is all flakey. The bus requires a transfer in Nis. The train won’t sell tickets until the hour before (?). It seems like I’m spending all my time in Sofia at the bus station.

So finally I decide to buy a bus ticket and try to enjoy the rest of my time in Bulgaria. There are lots of other places in the country to visit, of course, but winter’s hardly the optimum time to do it. Trying to wing it in a country without the local tongue is a test of will, also, as much as ability. It gets old. So does the surliness of the counter help. Would it hurt to smile a little or say ‘thank you’ once in a while? It’s just as easy and twice the fun. Maybe it’s a leftover of Communism, or maybe it’s part of the collective personality. Who knows? Strangely enough it seems in the Balkans that the more English they speak, the politer they are. Just the opposite is true in Thailand, where English is the language of aggression. At least now I know why Albanians considered themselves the nicest people in the world. They were comparing themselves to their neighbors! Sometimes personality traits like these are learned, not given. At least they’ve got nude women on TV after midnight in Sofia, so capitalism accomplished something. Thank God for small miracles.

By now I’ve got pretty good at reading Cyrillic, so that helps keep the belly full. Some words are almost the same. Except for the broken leg MAPKET is easily recognizable as ‘market’, pronounced exactly the same. I assume it’s a loan word, so it should. From there things gradually increase in difficulty. It’s like learning a secret code you invented as a child. PECTOPAHT is ‘restaurant’, pronounced exactly the same. It gets weirder than that of course. ‘Bar’ is 6AP and ‘bazaar’ is 6A3AP, all pronounced like their Latin cousins. Now they’re looking more like techie passwords. If I had a Cyrillic keyboard we could go on, but I don’t, so you get the idea, right? Of course there are some incongruities like ‘HOBO’ (pronounced ‘novo’= ‘new’ of course), advertising new merchandise in fashionable boutiques. About the only food they bother to write in English is pizza, assuming that’s all we eat I guess. Sometimes it seems like that’s all THEY eat, not even bothering with the tomato goop in Cuba. It’ll fill you up at least. It can also constipate you. I may be used to the dry little goat pellets that pass as traveler’s turds, but that doesn’t mean I like them. Drink lots of liquids. Or you can smoke lots of cigarettes like they do. That’ll keep you slim, if it doesn’t kill you first. It’s killing me.

I left Sofia… and headed for Beograd, but not without some trepidations. The reign of terror by Slobodan and his slobs is still fresh in the memory and apparently on the maps with references to things like ‘Republika Srpski’ and other entities that I have no knowledge of. Apparently buses from Beograd to Sarajevo stop on the outskirts, on the Serb side of town. Huh? What century is this? But still it feels like a heartland for something, in contrast to the tentativeness I’ve felt so far in the countryside. There are black cemetery head-stones and red-tile roofs in Serbia, and garden spots well defined. But this bus is half empty, like most I’ve been on. At least they tend to run on time. I have to change buses half the way in Nis so I’m assuming that’ll be a self-evident process. It’s not that easy, but I figure it out and continue on, despite the fact that no one speaks English. By the time I get to Beograd it’s mid-afternoon. By now I’ve gotten wise and book a hostel right close to the bus station. That helps for blitzkrieg tours. The place is bright and cheery and since the private rooms cost triple the dorm price, I opt for the dorm. I figure it’ll be good experience, and it is.

The only problem is the staff’s constant cigarette smoking, but other than that it’s way cool except for the loss of privacy. There’s got to be a trade-off, right? It’s all men, too, from Germany, Australia, and one who I later find out is Mexican, from Guadalajara. Like I say the G8 of international travel is now expanding to G30. I consider that proof of justice in the world. He even speaks good English. I’ll feel hurt if he rebuffs my Spanish, of course, but go for it anyway, Psycholinguistics 101. It’s getting harder to speak foreign languages, at least for an American, with the advent of world English. But we’re cool, talking about things Latino into the night, fueled by the jug of decent Serbian beer being offered. I decide I like hostels; they give a safe haven and source of information to travelers and interaction with others where such is almost impossible with locals. I might open one in LA, which could probably use it.

Beograd is pretty uninspiring, but not so bad. It could use a coat of paint. They say nightlife is the big attraction, but that doesn’t much work for me any more. Alcohol is poison; handle with caution. I see no bragging rights involved in being able to ‘handle your liquor.’ If that’s the goal, then what’s the point? Me, I got travel plans, on to Kosovo, soon to be the newest country in the world, all the while thinking about Ethiopia, so bored I am with the cold weather I’ve had the last month. That Ethiopian visa is burning a hole in my passport. Stay tuned.