ESCAPE FROM THE COLD COLD ALPS

The train offers a unique and spectacular view of the Swiss landscape. The more pressure Africa puts on Europe the more these mountains just keep rising skyward, while renegade India covers the eastern flank doing the same thing in the Himalayas, sliding in and under like trying to steal a base. But for me Switzerland is defined by its lakes, not its mountains. They’re everywhere, pacifying the violent rugged landscape. It’s like a movie where the actors are natural landmarks and the acts are tectonic movements, all occurring in geologic time. It’s like a movie in 360 degree Sensurround happening right outside the train window, for Europe is defined by its train travel, too. Buses are typically only local here. It’s like a movie where all of Europe plays a partial supporting role, each major nation occupying a corner of the country and meeting somewhere in the middle. There’s a reason Switzerland is historically neutral. It has to be, with component German, French, Italian, and Romansch ‘other’ sections. This is Europe in microcosm, their pride and their prejudice, their heart and their handicap. While Switzerland learns four languages, America and the English-speaking countries create the popular culture that the world lives on, that serves as its operating system.

We’re moving into the Italian-speaking part of Switzerland now, a part I’ve only seen briefly before, crossing the border at Chiasso. Borders are only a formality now, and not even much of that, maybe a Customs or Immigration officer looking at a passport or poking a bag, MAYBE. Sometimes they don’t even wear uniforms, just flash a badge. It’s only a few minutes to Milano from here, where I catch the train to Torino. The industrial heart of Italy doesn’t offer too much more than that, if I remember correctly, though it was one of the great new cities of the Middle Ages, along with Paris and London. That’s young by Italian terms. I’m traveling light now for the first time this trip, all my road food gone and no reservation for the night. Whether I’d have made the reservation if I’d had the Net to do it, I’m not sure, but I won’t pay the price of a meal to use the Net for an hour unless it’s absolutely necessary. I still don’t know why the cost of living can be so high in some countries in Europe, typically cold low-population Germanic ones, and not others. I’ve almost decided it’s all ultimately based on real estate values, but I’m still not sure, and that in and of itself doesn’t really answer much. Why is the real estate expensive? Italians complain bitterly about prices going up with adoption of the €uro, and that seems correct, perhaps explained by an increase in real estate values, or just merchants taking advantage.

At least trains are cheaper in Italy, but nothing fancy like those in some other countries. The clickety-clack of rails and tracks is hypnotic and soon I catch myself nodding off. Then I catch everybody else nodding off. Exccept for one or two people, THE ENTIRE COACH IS ASLEEP! I feel better and cop another wink. People ask me what I do to pass the time on trains. I nod. Outside the sky is clouding up and soon it’s raining. At least it’s not cold like Zurich. The sun is still high in the sky and we’re running on schedule so I’m not too worried about finding a room. I only worry if it’s late and/or a weekend and/or high season. Worst I’ve ever done was a $129 room close to Stansted Airport outside London. Ouch! At least they picked me up, nice of them since I was half dead already, rigor mortis setting in and that smell emanating. I almost booked a $60 place in Torino several days ago from Ljubljana, but hesitated on the final click, deciding to keep my options open. I may regret that decision. If I’m lucky they’ll have a booking service at the train station. They do. I request a place with wi-fi but back off that quickly to keep the cost done and snag a place for $50+change. Italy still considers Internet a luxury, not a necessity, another reason to go with hostels. They’ve always got Internet if not wi-fi, usually free. Why not? They don’t pay by the hour any more than the hotels do for TV. Internet spots in Italy tend to get lumped and marketed with video games and other juvenile pursuits, like Thailand where Internet is considered play, not work.

By now of course it’s pouring down rain, but at least my place is close, or at least not TOO far. The nice lady there asks if I can speak Italian but before I can explain my twenty-five percent-and-rising level, she proceeds to proceed with her 30% Simplified English, filling in the gaps with extra thick linguistic molasses, sweet nothingness the consistency of axle grease, but so gooey you don’t want to bust her chops, since this is something she obviously loves to do. That’s okay, Psycholinguistics 102; I’ll be conversational in both French AND Italian by the end of this trip, Insh’allah. My main problem now is that I’m ssstttaaarrrvvviiinnnggg, since I had no time to eat in Milan. I’ve got to get a ticket for a train tomorrow to Cannes also, so I’ll grab something on the way. There the ticket seller can’t or doesn’t want to speak English, so we do that in Italian, my confidence growing. At least the street food is reasonably priced again and the pizza is made by real Italians, so I get into the Italian fast food swing, pizzerias and pasticcherias, talking funk and eatin’ junk. Other than that I try to see what I can of the city in the short time I have, a city made famous by a Winter Olympics a few years ago, and trying hard to live up to its fame. Tourism is way up in the Piemonte, they say. Italy has so many interesting places, it’d be hard to see them all in a lifetime. The few images I have here will have to suffice. My train leaves early tomorrow morning and I’m dead tired from an early departure from Zurich this morning, so when I click the light and hit the pillow… zzzzzz…

Somewhere there’s a beach, warm and sunny, with all the fresh fruit I can eat, sweet and sour, and a fat ol’ massage mama ready to pounce on my back and pound the kinks out of me, pound the kinks out of my tortured psyche, turn me into mush… aaahhh… I’m melting… Then the clouds begin to roll in and the sky grows black. But it doesn’t rain; it snows. Everybody packs up and goes back to from where they came, but I don’t know where to go, so I just get on a train going to some place I’ve only heard of, written in an alphabet I can’t read, everybody speaking a language I can’t speak. All I know is that I’m heading south. I know that by the location of the sun. But instead of getting out of the snow it just keeps falling harder. And instead of going downhill, we’re going up, past cactus and agave, juniper and sage, into tall straight pines and tall smoking chimneys. ‘Welcome to Flagstaff’. That’s what the sign said as we hit a bump in the track. That’s the last thing I remember as the screen goes black.

When I wake up we’re stopped on the tracks somewhere. It’s snowing. The sign on the train station says ‘Limone’. Well there’s a contradiction in terms, ‘Limones’ in the snowy mountains. It’s beautiful, though, I’ll have to admit, even though my main objective right now is just to get warm. I’ve been gone a month and a half on this trip, been to Tunis, Malta, and Athens, and have yet to see a day of 20C-68F. Now it’s snowing again as I head south. Oh boy! Then we go through a long tunnel and the other side is like another dimension, like we traversed a cosmic worm-hole. Snow is gone and a different language occupies the signs lining the tracks, lining the roads, lining the walls of my perception. Welcome to France. We straddle the border for a while, even changing trains again in Italy, but that line continues to define, even more so down the road. Soon the loudspeaker announces ‘next stop Monaco/Monte Carlo’, and then we enter another tunnel. When we stop I get a brief glimpse of the country of Monaco outside, one of 192 that are members of the UN and therefore on my list. Otherwise why would I be here? I’m just passing through on my way to Cannes and the south of France of such world renown. Though it hardly sounds like ‘me’, that’s a changing and ongoing concept, subject to constant revision. When you travel constantly, some comfort and superficial attractions are welcome. Welcome to Cannes.

NIGHT TRAIN TO ZURICH

I’ve woken up partially several times throughout the night, starting as we entered Austria and the ticket checker wanted to see tickets. That must have been Villach. That’s when the bozos got on and started reading something in German that must have been hilarious, since everybody was laughing so hard. I don’t know why getting on a train means it’s party time. I just wanted to sleep. That’s not easy when the seats don’t lean back and all the lights are on. Fortunately no one’s sitting next to me so I tie my scarf around my eyes and go for oblivion. That’s AFTER taking my secret sleeping pill. If I want to pass out fast and hard I just start studying Arabic; puts me out like a light, every time. I don’t know why. I wake up drooling and my Arabic language book’s on the floor somewhere. Don’t try this with your laptop. We’ve been stopped a while now. I wonder where we are. WE’RE IN FELDKIRCH! That’s where I had originally planned to get off to go visit Lichtenstein until I found out that the train goes right through Lichtenstein already. Sounds good to me. But that means that I’ve slept the whole way through Austria! Sure enough there’s a little glow on the horizon, meaning the sun’s starting to rise. It all starts to make sense.

The train lurches to a start and I get my last chance for a glimpse of Austria; sho’ is purty. Next thing I know we’re approaching another town but don’t slow down at the train station. The sign whizzes by- ‘Schaan-Vaduz’- that’s Lichtenstein! Then we cross a river and approach another town. This time the train slows down and we pull to a stop at the station. The sign says ‘Buchs, Switzerland’. So much for Austria and Lichtenstein. I’m glad I saw the little I got to see. I may have even passed through Austria before in the night, on the way from Prague to Budapest five years ago, but to this day am not sure. The sun’s rising higher now and a Matterhorn-like peak comes into sight, craggy pyramid like a golden eagle’s beak shining in the sunlight. I thought there might be a lot of snow on the ground since we got so much rain in Ljubljana the last couple days, but there’s none, plenty on the hills, though.

Now that I’m officially out of the Balkans it might be a good time to reflect on the highlights and low points. Yesterday certainly wasn’t a high point, being stuck inside all day because of the rain. It’s better than being stuck outside in it of course. Late night rides are always problematic, killing time waiting before, then trying to function normally the day after. The savings of a night’s rent isn’t always worth it. Then while I was waiting some local guy comes up and gives me a hard luck story about how he only needs €2.70 to get home, and nobody will help him. Since I was feeling good I wanted to believe him. In the US I’d never give money for a hard-luck story to some slob with a slur, but this guy seemed so neat and spoke such good English… I saw him again about two hours later. I guess he missed his train. This time he slides right past without so much as a glance. I know that vacant look, that studied gait, every step a calculated risk, every second a calculated eternity, an algebra with no variables. JUNKIE! He’d lie to his mother to get what he wants, then forget it just as fast. That’s why he’s hitting on strangers in the bus station. But you know all that. Remember Samuel L. Jackson in Jungle Fever? So I decide to follow the guy into the ticket office and see if by some chance he’s actually buying a ticket, but… he’s gone, disappeared, vanished!

Then there was the guy at the bus station in Pristina, Kosovo. I was waiting for the bus when a nice-looking woman comes and sits a few seats away. Well not three minutes have passed until Vitalis man comes putting the moves on, purring sweet nothings under the radar. She blows him off, but politely, much too politely. Does he know something I don’t? Maybe she IS working, but… the bus station? The friend she’s waiting for soon shows up and sits down, so that should quell the rumors, but Vitalis man just gets up and moves a few steps away, lurking watching waiting. I’ve never seen anything like it, like something straight out of the Discovery Channel. The closest thing I’ve ever seen in real life was when Nonay was in heat back in Thailand and Kanoon had to hang right with her till lockup, and even after to make sure no other suitor got in his two cents. Dogs are like that. But this is a HUMAN; at least I think. Thoroughly disgusted I go get on my bus, which is now waiting at the platform. Then not ten minutes have passed until Vitalis man gets on, too! Vitalis man sits right behind me chewing gum so loudly I can’t think. What was he going to do with woman in his spare ten minutes, take her to the bathroom?

Fortunately most of the scenery and the characters were a little more pleasing esthetically. Tops of the list of places would probably be Dubrovnik in Croatia, Mostar in Hercegovina, and Ljubljana in Slovenia, vivid combinations of history, culture, and architecture without so many distractions that all that gets obscured. Tourist high season in summertime might be different. There is more diversity than might be immediately apparent, divergences in time and space amongst people with a common history, up to a point. Slovenia and Croatia could fit right into Western Europe without missing a beat while Serbia struggles to throw off its past, Bosnia struggles to cling to its own, and Albania struggles to pull itself together after dodging bullets for most of the last two thousand years. Bulgaria has ‘sex shops’ to rival Amsterdam and ‘escort’ TV ads till early morning. Dubrovnik even has a nude beach, while not so many miles up the road their cousins in Mostar kneel in prayer on Turkish kilims and loudspeakers call the faithful to prayer five times a day.

It certainly puts the rise of Islam in context, a reaction to permissiveness in the West, an unjust Hindu caste system, and Buddhist passivity to it all. I can’t help but think that this is the image Ahmedinijad and others have of the West. Obviously he ain’t been to Jackson. At least the West’s being honest. If he thinks Iran has no gays he doesn’t know his own country very well. It was a haven for gays before Khomeini, and I doubt they’ve all left, though many have I’m sure. It’s punishable by death I believe. You can’t enforce sexuality, though Islam certainly tries. I just saw the BBC debates on ‘Arab Unity’. Not once did anyone question why this was even desirable, nationalism being essentially systematic racism. What’s wrong with Arab diversity? Palestinians are the sacrificial lamb for racist ‘Arab unity’. Their problems will never be solved as long as they’re an international issue, not a local one. Thai Muslims tell me that Jews are their enemy. I tell them that that’s absurd, too polite to tell them that they’re stooges for political manipulation. But I’ll tell you. ‘Islam’ might mean ‘surrender’ religiously, but hardly even the most minor compromise politically. Still I credit Islam for removing personality from religion; they’re way ahead on that count. Of course Arabs and Muslims are two different groups, but the fact that the former fits mostly into the latter only intensifies the issues.

When the train finally pulls in to Zurich, the immediate impression is one of shock. The prices are stratospheric! That’s in the upper stratosphere, right at the stratopause, next to the mesosphere, where temperatures are supposedly about the same as on the ground here. After all the urban legends about the price of coffee in Tokyo or New York, and their subsequent de-bunking by people who have actually left the airport, I assure that a cup of coffee of any kind or flavor will cost you at least three bucks in Zurich. You can quote me. Prices here are as high or higher than any I’ve ever seen, and that includes Reykjavik. I haven’t been to Lagos yet, but I’m in no rush. It’ll be next-to-last, right before Israel. Some Muslim countries won’t let you in with Israeli stamps in your passport. This is where a hostel can save you some real money, since no hotel has rooms for less than a hundred bucks, or have long been booked up. In Western Europe there are guests in hostels even older than me! This is reassuring.

So the big goal in Zurich is to try to spend as little money as possible. In fact, I’m so put off by the high prices that I decide right then and there that I just won’t spend any, or less than usual, anyway. That’ll show ‘em who’s boss. Already I’ve booked a dorm room in the hostel instead of a private room there or somewhere else. Half the time I even end up paying for two just to get the private room since many don’t have ‘singles’. The concept doesn’t exist in the US. We don’t have rooms that small. Except for M6 it’s the same price whether one person or two. A room is just a room and a bed a certain size; how many people you put in it is another issue. There are no ‘kings’ or ‘queens’ either, just twins or doubles, one big bed or two little ones. This is boring, right, but how often do you sleep in a dorm? It’ll make you think. The nice thing about hostels is that you sometimes meet interesting people. The bad thing is that sometimes they feel like the downtown mission, this one especially, both for the institutional floor plan and the people staying there. It seems they’ve got the rooms divided by age, for whatever that’s worth. At least it’s got a kitchen. That helps in a pricey place. They’ve got thick brown breads, too, so that looks like the ticket. I’ll buy a loaf of bread and eat up all the leftover food I’ve been accumulating for the last week. That’ll work for me.

Zurich itself is interesting enough, but hardly the place for someone trying to get warm. The clock towers are almost like a cliché come to life and testament to a mechanical age that’s long been superseded by an electronic and digital one. Should somebody put up a full-fledge digital clock tower? I don’t think they could compete with video screens. I’m glad I only booked one day here. It’s too cold. I suspect some of these other ‘backpacker’ tourists are really here looking for work. With prices this high, wages must be astronomic, highest in the world I believe. So I get a train ticket for Torino (Turin), Italy, where I’ll stay a night, then continue on to Cannes, France, determined to get warm or die trying. It was either that or book straight through and spend half the night in the Milano or Torino train stations. Even I’M not THAT hard core.

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...),

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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.