I woke at 3.30, not able to sleep because of the light from the window. I sat up from the seat, lowered the window and looked outside to uninteresting countryside landscape. I woke up the Macedonian, my bunk-mate, an hour later to move his legs aside so I could get out and find a train conductor who was nowhere in sight. One thing about train conductors is they are everywhere when you don’t need them, interrupt you in your meditative state of being to check your train ticket and wake you up from your beauty sleep at night to do another ticket controlling. The Macedonian rose from his
I woke up at 10, had a quick wash and quietly walked downstairs. The friend was sleeping on the couch next to table-fill of beer bottles and cigarette butts. I circled the flat for a brief five minutes and came near him whispering ‘hello, hello.’ He didn’t hear and sat down on the chair on the other side of the table, waiting for him to wake up. I took out my guidebook and tried to read, if not it would look awkward when he opened his eyes and saw a stranger staring at his face praying for him to wake up. It wasn’t my fixation that rattled him up.
Got a last-minute ride from www.mitfahrgelegenheit.de or rideshare.co.uk directly to Belgrade for €60. Otherwise it would be another planning hassle to figure out a way to get a cheap alternative to either Kosovo or Macedonia cheap. Buses to Budapest were all sold out. Direct train to Skopje costs 5800 ckz, too expensive for long-hour transportation.
A major accident on the highway only one hour leaving Prague delayed our trip for another 2 hours. By the time we got to Brno, it was 18.30. There, we made a stop for Branko, the driver, to meet up and had dinner with his friend. By the time we left Brno, it was already 20.00. No hope for getting to Belgrade by night now. I slept through most of the journey and woke up only once when we dropped off Sandor, the Hungarian, at Sezged, who came home for the Easter weekend. He was a Ph.D.
I never cut my hair while traveling, but I did so in Belgrade. Why? Maybe so I could be in a closed environment with Serbs?
Psychologically, you cannot say anything bad about the person who tries to make you beautiful. I sat five meters across from Jelena’s former boss who had returned to work after recovering from an apparently terminal illness only to find she was now reporting to a former subordinate who was less qualified. Now she looked forward to her early retirement. While walking about the city, Jelena mentioned an invitation from a cousin whom she had not seen in a long time and wondered if I would not mind going there with her so she could spend time with both of us. I didn’t want to appear over-zealous, but secretly I wished Jelena would take the cousin up on the offer and take me there with her right then.
Belgrade is the ugliest city…I arrived in Belgrade with no map and plan, so I left it up to this Serbian friend whom I met accidentally in Andorra. How many people travel to Andorra for just one day and rush back for their flights on the next day? How many of them end up staying with the same host? How many will return to Spain on the same bus? How many will then flight at the same airport? How many will fly on the same morning requiring an overnight sleeping on the same bench? And how many are the exact people you are trying to meet? That was how I met Jelena.
Belgrade is an ugly city…Jelena dragged me here and there which I had not the slightest idea where in Belgrade, which I found to be big, ugly, dirty, gray and polluted. I stealthily looked at almost every Serb who crossed my path to find something, something to explain the reason for my disdain.
No matter how hard I looked, I could not discover anything new, and yet I kept recalling old memories. Hearing the familiar Bosnian/Croatian/Serbian/Serbo-Croatian language made me deliriously happy. The Croats, Bosniaks, and the Serbs speak as if they are singing. When I hear them talk, I feel I can see a river flow. Everybody from old to young, from the capital to the countryside speak loud and clear as how a language should be spoken, especially for a foreigner because you are assured that if you try hard enough, someday you will understand. I looked at men, women, at the way they looked and dressed and turned to Jelena. “You are no different from the Bosniaks in Sarajevo.” “No, we don’t.” She replied.
“Life is what happens when you are making other plans.” – John Lennon
Do you plan your life to the minute details of how it should be? Most Americans will tell you yes, thanks to all those bargain-on-the-shelf, flying-off-the-chart pop psychology, self-development books like how to organizing your life in 30 minutes, life skills for dummies, etc. and etc. Your school counselors grill you about your life plan: how do you imagine your life five or ten years from now? Heck! Job interviewers interrogate you about your professional outlook to know what you see yourself doing before letting you dig into their 401K. A former boyfriend of my high-school friend told her the age marks when he would buy his first car, mortgage his first house, get a wife.
Frenchman, a Cuban, a Bosnian and an American are stranded in a lifeboat fighting to survive after their ship has gone down. They are trying to show bravado in the middle of a bad situation.
The Frenchman pops open a bottle of French wine he’s saved from their sinking sink, takes a few sips and throws the bottle into the sea. “In Paris when we arrive, we’ll find many more!” he says.
Four astronauts land on the moon. An American, a German and two Serbs.
The American jumps out and plants a flag on the surface exclaiming that US derring-do and money made their mission possible so the moon will belong to America.
The German pulled out the flag and stuck in a flag from his country proclaiming that it was German scientific knowledge and technological precision that made the landing possible, so the moon was Germany’s.
The Balkan border is a disputing issue as Slovenia is included on some maps and not on the other, and the part of Romania which belongs to this region is unclear.
Balkan Scissors blogs a short but fairly detailed post describing the Balkan:
My name is Cindy, also rhymes with travel junkie. A friend said I was probably a gipsy in my previous life. One of my many secret missions in life is to convert you to run off every once in awhile.
