The Dju Dju will be the second Korean restaurant I've eaten at in Eastern Yurp, the first being the Seoul in Budapest in 1992. As a Jew, I've always considered oriental food a Gift of the Creator, to be sampled in all climes and locales. Additionally, it offers two additional benefits-a well-earned pause from schnitzels, cutlets, and heavy breads, and also a pricetag which while high compared to local favorites, is generally fair compared to comparable venues in western towns.
Tonight will be an attempt to encounter expats and English-speaking locals, people who have largely eluded me this trip. (alas, they remained elusive-mk)
A number of years ago, I participated in a personal development program called the Landmark Forum. The course was a three day session, held in a large conference room with two hundred participants. The course, to put it simply, was about getting the participants to use value-neutral language as a filter through which to understand their own past experiences and the comments of others. But one additional concept from the "LF" rings particularly true: "time is non linear".
This trip has been a testament to the nonlinearity of time. I've been travelling on my Interrail pass for less than a week. But in that week, I've slept in three hostelries and a train. I've eaten in more than a dozen restaurants, and tasted (and photographed) at least as many kinds of beer (Croatia's Tomislav the best so far). Part of this is a testament to travelling alone. When it's cold and there's no one to talk to, filling the time simply isn't a function of cramming in more sights. It's just too cold to stay out more than an hour or so at a time, and museums (other than Sarajevo's Jewish Museum) either held little interest or were open inconveniently. So I spent lots of time in restaurants, bars and cafes, watching and listening to the people around me. Thoughts of my real life intrude, including those of a certain someone...
But otherwise, the NL is a planet away from here, its cleanliness, affluence and order a memory distant in space and very seemingly in time. A key to this feeling is the nature of travel. I've had two substantial overland daytime journeys, the surreal rail trip from Zagreb to Sarajevo, and the bus trip from Serb Sarajevo to Belgrade. It was possible for me on neither journey to check out and sleep but for a few moments., and even the movie portion of the bus ride intensified my experience rather than serving as a break.
If I had done these legs by air (a feasible if pricier option), the trip would likely have felt faster, but seeing the red cinderblock homes, steeples, minaret and dueling latin and Cyrillic advertising signs of Republika Srpska in particular gave me a lot more context for this part of the Balkans.But tonight, I've come to a bit of a Balkenende, a cheap take on the surname of Holland's dull-as-dishwater Harry Potter-looking prime minister. With three full days yet to go (Belgrade day two, and possibly one each in Vienna and Budapest) plus a potentially backbreaking night on a couchette beckoning tomorrow, I'm opting for first-world comforts instead of second-world excess tonight.
Which brings us back to Dju Dju, a place billed as Japanese-Korean, but far more Japanese in refinement, presentation and flavors. Under normal circumstances I prefer the more in-your-face Korean BBQ to the flat-grilled chicken and beef I had here, but the subtlety has been a real plus. Add similarly mild kimchee (the usually fiery Korean take on sauerkraut) and an unusual if substantial seaweed salad, and, best of all, a melodic, jazzy Japanese pop track, and you can forget you are in a city that was once a leading recipient of NATO military hardware. Which is the idea.
Back to the Boars Breath Scottish Pub, which is now packed to the extent that I am unable to discern between conversations in Serbian and English. The women are well coiffed and stylish, the men look as if they'd look comfortable on the set of the Sopranos. Actually, if they were on the set, the Sopranos might look less comfortable.
Again, prices are high by local standards (which keeps the true riff raff out) while reasonable by Western standards, thus ensuring a seemingly peaceable crowd. A duo playing American-style Bluegrassy and Jazzy and Elvis tunes holds court in a venue that wouldn"t be too kitschy by Edinburgh standards, forgiving the kilted waiters.
I opt for a mug of LAV beer, a nice, malty number brewed by Carlsberg here, one with more personality than Carlsberg Croatia's PAN. Excepting Tuborg. I can proudly say I've avoided import/licensed beer the entire trip. To be sure, the majors are gobbling up these local breweries so it's tough to truly buy local, but I think the likes of LAV, PAN and Ojujsko will be around for as long as locals are willing to pay extra for local versions of Stella, Heineken and Tuborg.
Meanwhile, the local version of Careless Whisper and Smooth Operator emanate from the front of the pub, the duet having added a singer wearing a green sweater with a sequined neck. On later examination, the singer is an utter dead ringer for Meadow Soprano. In general, the women here look as feminine as the men look tough. I would guess Mockba probably has a similar dynamic. But listening to sweet-voiced pop music with an endless supply of hearty local beer is hardly the worst way to spend an evening in a highly foreign city.
Watching the crowd here I put two and two together. How does one stay slim on a diet of fried pork and Johnny Walker? Smoke!!! A non-smoking venue is as rare as a pork-free menu. Interestingly, cigarette advertising is common, and the lurid half-pack health warnings of the EU give way to tiny admonitions in Cyrillic on packs. In Bosnia, local "grits" were a dollar a pack, and western brands less than two. Here, they are probably cheaper. Hint to Balkan Governments: Raise your cigarette taxes now. The breakthrough in productivity your nicotine-addled masses would have to generate to avoid withdrawal should be enough to get you into the EU in less than a generation.
What is amazing about the capitals of Former Yugoslavia is the extent to which they parallel other cities elsewhere. Ljubljana, capital of an increasingly affluent mini-state, is evocative of Luxembourg. Zagreb, Catholic, Slavic and rustic, speaks to Prague, albeit the Prague of the late 1990s. Sarajevo: a snowbound Istanbul with Austro-Hungarian and socialist touches. And Belgrade? Clearly Moscow on the Danube!
...The duet turned trio now plays "without love, where will you be now". But given my choice of beers, the question, "without LAV, where would you be now?" becomes more pointed. LAV is proving an excellent "session" beer-something to lubricate an evening unsullied by conversation.The band switches to local faves as midnight beckons. A shapely Serbess starts boogieing (?) in a tight paisley dress, only to be drawn in by her fearsome beau. One thing better in Belgrade than in Sarajevo-the slivovitz. I indulged in a shot as I prepared to head for the Hotel Rex. Kept cold at the Boar's Breath, it still had a plummy taste.
Saturday, December 29, 2007
On to Belgrade
Riding through the long valley that makes up Sarajevo and its environs, little would prepare me for the suddenness with which Bosnia encounters Republika Srpska.The sudden, though inconsistent appearance of Cyrillic is jarring, but most jarring was the appearance of the people. Maybe it was just the unique crew on hand at the Serb Sarajevo Bus Station just outside the Sarajevo city lines (and barely a kilometer from the spanking new King Fahd Mosque, which was obviously not a gift of the EU). But the hair, teet:h, and weathered nylon jackets seemed to tell a story, though one I wasn't yet ready to have told to me in the few minutes I had before my Belgrade bound bus would depart.
While there is one daily bus from the central (Bosnian) Sarajevo bus station, the seven departures from Istochno Sarajevo, otherwise known as East Sarajevo and Serb Sarajevo were far less brutal schedule-wise than the central number that left before dawn from the central depot. Unlike the rough, depressed side of Republika Srpska (RS) experienced on the Zagreb-Sarajevo train route, the road to Belgrade begins with relentless, breathtaking beauty. It is still rustic, though the towns are tidier and have Tito-era midrises along with stucco-covered homes clinging to the hillsides. This is also serious ski country, perhaps with the best-value skiing in all of Europe. All cars in BiH have the same kind of license plate and there is now total freedom of movement across sectors, which makes a ski vacation here with a flight into SJ to a resort in RS very doable. As for the skiing: it was good enough for the Olympics!
That much being said, getting in and out of Sarajevo is not the easiest. Bosnia does not enjoy visa free travel with the US/EU for its citizens, though Yanks/Euros get through the borders without even a stamp. But this limits local-origination traffic that airlines like before setting up direct service. British Airways flies here several days a week, Adria and Croatian offer daily, Star Alliance services, a local commuter line called BH Airlines launched recently, and there is some other service from other European hubs. But Bosnia so far is off the budget airline and package tour radar screen. Bus travel, like train travel in these parts, operates on the principle of "same day service" rather than a quest for speed. Today, with the previous days' snowfall, the trip slows to a crawl. It's cheap: EUR 17 for a full day's scenery and entertainment that included a post-war Bosnian flick (with subtitles, but, alas, no apparent title) about Fudo, a cabbie and small-time gangster who decides to turn a new leaf to the consternation of all around him.Most interesting though have been the unannounced rest stops, of interminate duration. I can decipher cyrillic if I have a few seconds, but I don't catch the place names. So I don't know where I am. And I've been here with my fellow pax for a good half hour, a significant period on a journey that is supposed to take 8. But we're moving now...There are intermittent minarets here in RS. I wonder what stories they could tell.
Belgrade is the first destination that has truly scared me. I have a picture in my mind of a Slavic Bogota--cars running red lights at zebra crossing, clubs filled with desperate revelers zetzed up on Red Bull and Slivovitz, the local plum brandy that fuelled all parties in the Balkan wars. A place where one sees the ever-serious double-head eagle peering every which way from every which where. But I also have to reject the view that the Serbs are "the bad guys" in this region. Unlike the Croats and, to an extent the Bosnians (whose Handzar regiment was one of the most decorated Nazi volunteer regiments), Serbia strongly resisted the Nazis and the Serbs paid dearly, particularly at the hands of the Croats. Even today, facing international pressure to accede to the independence of Kosovo, which has an ethnic Albanian majority, the Serb claim to Kosovo upon examnination is no more ridiculous than Israel's claim on Jerusalem and the "West Bank/Judea & Samaria" or for that matter Ireland's claim to Ulster. In the former parallel, Serbia sees Kosovo as the source of the nation's history, theology and culture. In the latter, just as Irish Republicans claim that "Ulster is Irish and a majority of the Irish would vote to keep Ulster", Serb Nationalists claim with equal fervor that "Kosovo is Serb and a majority of Serbs would vote to keep Kosovo."
Nightfall descended as the bus entered the BiH exit checkpoint, the only place I saw the BiH flag since leaving Sarajevo for the duration of the trip. Entering the Serbian checkpoint, the border guard, with the intimidating uniform with the double-headed eagle and the Serbian cross on the badge ask the passengers to surrender their passports. As nervous as I may have been, I wasn't about to say no to this dude. And, fortunately, my beloved British passport was returned moments later. After an abortive attempt to show a Serb-Slovene flick about a color-blind Bosnian ex-con who likes to joyride trucks-the DVD seized up mid-film, a Bosnian film was then shown. It had no subtitles but it seemed a bit of satire as it showed the Bosnian flag in a number of potentially humorous settings, like on a character's necktie. The fact they were showing a "Bosnian" film on a "Serb" bus speaks to normalcy.
The sudden onset of high rises indicates a relative imminence of arrival in this former "imperial capital."
While there is one daily bus from the central (Bosnian) Sarajevo bus station, the seven departures from Istochno Sarajevo, otherwise known as East Sarajevo and Serb Sarajevo were far less brutal schedule-wise than the central number that left before dawn from the central depot. Unlike the rough, depressed side of Republika Srpska (RS) experienced on the Zagreb-Sarajevo train route, the road to Belgrade begins with relentless, breathtaking beauty. It is still rustic, though the towns are tidier and have Tito-era midrises along with stucco-covered homes clinging to the hillsides. This is also serious ski country, perhaps with the best-value skiing in all of Europe. All cars in BiH have the same kind of license plate and there is now total freedom of movement across sectors, which makes a ski vacation here with a flight into SJ to a resort in RS very doable. As for the skiing: it was good enough for the Olympics!
That much being said, getting in and out of Sarajevo is not the easiest. Bosnia does not enjoy visa free travel with the US/EU for its citizens, though Yanks/Euros get through the borders without even a stamp. But this limits local-origination traffic that airlines like before setting up direct service. British Airways flies here several days a week, Adria and Croatian offer daily, Star Alliance services, a local commuter line called BH Airlines launched recently, and there is some other service from other European hubs. But Bosnia so far is off the budget airline and package tour radar screen. Bus travel, like train travel in these parts, operates on the principle of "same day service" rather than a quest for speed. Today, with the previous days' snowfall, the trip slows to a crawl. It's cheap: EUR 17 for a full day's scenery and entertainment that included a post-war Bosnian flick (with subtitles, but, alas, no apparent title) about Fudo, a cabbie and small-time gangster who decides to turn a new leaf to the consternation of all around him.Most interesting though have been the unannounced rest stops, of interminate duration. I can decipher cyrillic if I have a few seconds, but I don't catch the place names. So I don't know where I am. And I've been here with my fellow pax for a good half hour, a significant period on a journey that is supposed to take 8. But we're moving now...There are intermittent minarets here in RS. I wonder what stories they could tell.
Belgrade is the first destination that has truly scared me. I have a picture in my mind of a Slavic Bogota--cars running red lights at zebra crossing, clubs filled with desperate revelers zetzed up on Red Bull and Slivovitz, the local plum brandy that fuelled all parties in the Balkan wars. A place where one sees the ever-serious double-head eagle peering every which way from every which where. But I also have to reject the view that the Serbs are "the bad guys" in this region. Unlike the Croats and, to an extent the Bosnians (whose Handzar regiment was one of the most decorated Nazi volunteer regiments), Serbia strongly resisted the Nazis and the Serbs paid dearly, particularly at the hands of the Croats. Even today, facing international pressure to accede to the independence of Kosovo, which has an ethnic Albanian majority, the Serb claim to Kosovo upon examnination is no more ridiculous than Israel's claim on Jerusalem and the "West Bank/Judea & Samaria" or for that matter Ireland's claim to Ulster. In the former parallel, Serbia sees Kosovo as the source of the nation's history, theology and culture. In the latter, just as Irish Republicans claim that "Ulster is Irish and a majority of the Irish would vote to keep Ulster", Serb Nationalists claim with equal fervor that "Kosovo is Serb and a majority of Serbs would vote to keep Kosovo."
Nightfall descended as the bus entered the BiH exit checkpoint, the only place I saw the BiH flag since leaving Sarajevo for the duration of the trip. Entering the Serbian checkpoint, the border guard, with the intimidating uniform with the double-headed eagle and the Serbian cross on the badge ask the passengers to surrender their passports. As nervous as I may have been, I wasn't about to say no to this dude. And, fortunately, my beloved British passport was returned moments later. After an abortive attempt to show a Serb-Slovene flick about a color-blind Bosnian ex-con who likes to joyride trucks-the DVD seized up mid-film, a Bosnian film was then shown. It had no subtitles but it seemed a bit of satire as it showed the Bosnian flag in a number of potentially humorous settings, like on a character's necktie. The fact they were showing a "Bosnian" film on a "Serb" bus speaks to normalcy.
The sudden onset of high rises indicates a relative imminence of arrival in this former "imperial capital."
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
This is...Sarajevo
After a hearty, pork-free smoked beef and egg breakfast at the Halvat, whose hospitality began to reach the reputation it has gained among travel bloggers and guidebook writers (and at EUR 45 a night, represents astounding value), Sarajevo beckoned. Though again encountering low cloud, the overcast sky yielded a heightened sense of the intricate architectural detail that is Sarajevo's old market.
I tend to like experiencing the features of daily life in new places the most: looking at how brands appear in supermarkets and kiosks, seeing which football teams appear on the shirt and scarf racks of the stalls selling knockoffs (here, a clear emphasis on local teams like Sarajevo FC), and the slogans on the t-shirts (you still see Che, but my favorite by far said "I'm Muslim, Don't Panic"). So, where did I pay custom first? A barbershop. No great conversation, as the barber spoke only Bosnian aside from pleasantries and prices: But the price was convincing: EUR 3, to which I added a 1 Euro tip.
Cevapi are this town's local fast food of choice, the Chicago Hot Dog of the Balkans, though resembling Turkish Kofta more than Windy City 'bockwurst'. Cevapi stands here are packed, and a small portion set me back EUR 1.50. Barely seasoned, they are a delivery system for the flavors of beef and charcoal, served with naan-like Bosnian pita.Traveling in a snowstorm can be every bit as exhilirating as doing so in fair weather, but one's range is limited. Hilly residential neighborhoods so inviting in spring or summer seem forbidding and potentially slippery. While a takeaway double espresso does fine in fine weather, today's chill called for the hard stuff indoors, Bosanska Kava, the local take on Turkish Coffee.
I tend to like experiencing the features of daily life in new places the most: looking at how brands appear in supermarkets and kiosks, seeing which football teams appear on the shirt and scarf racks of the stalls selling knockoffs (here, a clear emphasis on local teams like Sarajevo FC), and the slogans on the t-shirts (you still see Che, but my favorite by far said "I'm Muslim, Don't Panic"). So, where did I pay custom first? A barbershop. No great conversation, as the barber spoke only Bosnian aside from pleasantries and prices: But the price was convincing: EUR 3, to which I added a 1 Euro tip.
Cevapi are this town's local fast food of choice, the Chicago Hot Dog of the Balkans, though resembling Turkish Kofta more than Windy City 'bockwurst'. Cevapi stands here are packed, and a small portion set me back EUR 1.50. Barely seasoned, they are a delivery system for the flavors of beef and charcoal, served with naan-like Bosnian pita.Traveling in a snowstorm can be every bit as exhilirating as doing so in fair weather, but one's range is limited. Hilly residential neighborhoods so inviting in spring or summer seem forbidding and potentially slippery. While a takeaway double espresso does fine in fine weather, today's chill called for the hard stuff indoors, Bosanska Kava, the local take on Turkish Coffee.
This is not Dubai
I've never been to Dubai. And given the snow on the ground in Islam's northernmost major outpost, it is hard to mistake the two burgs. But while Dubai collided with Western modernity in the late 20th century, Sarajevo collided with it centuries earlier, and had a more recent collision with "socialist realism".
A thorough examination of Sarajevo's architectural patrimony will wait until tomorrow, though the night sky yielded outlines of a stew of Islamic Traditional, Art Nouveau, classic Gothic and socialist Panelak. Tonight will belong to the Avilja, a restaurant recommended by Agnesa, an IABCer I've been in contact with and hope to meet before I leave for Belgrade. The language barrier is fierce here, though I was well understood at my guest house, the Halvat. But I had to be rescued by some big guys wearing government-flag lapel pins when I inquired whether the Balkanski Gril menu item contained pork. ("No Pork!", exclaimed the heavies). Indeed, a pair of small but exceptionally tasty steak kebabs appeared, along with a tray of deep fried dough squares. The squares, which were at the core of Agnesa's recommendation as it turned out, were certainly tasty, but I will avoid them for the rest of the trip because I do desire to return to Holland in something other than corpulently cadaverous form.
...As a woman who looks like a potential sister of dear Washington-based Serb-Canadian friend Michele Saranovich walks in to the Avilja, I'm left to ponder the simmering ethnic stew this city is. There are no major racial differences between Muslim, Serb and Croat-there are Muslim redheads, black-haired Croats and blonde Serbs. One doesn't assume whom one is speaking with until the person broaches the subject. In the late stage of my train ride in, some youths joined the crew in my compartment in Zenica., and, after halting attempts at conversation in French, German and a smattering of English, one says: He's Bosnian (Muslim), he's Serb and I'm Montenegrin!
A thorough examination of Sarajevo's architectural patrimony will wait until tomorrow, though the night sky yielded outlines of a stew of Islamic Traditional, Art Nouveau, classic Gothic and socialist Panelak. Tonight will belong to the Avilja, a restaurant recommended by Agnesa, an IABCer I've been in contact with and hope to meet before I leave for Belgrade. The language barrier is fierce here, though I was well understood at my guest house, the Halvat. But I had to be rescued by some big guys wearing government-flag lapel pins when I inquired whether the Balkanski Gril menu item contained pork. ("No Pork!", exclaimed the heavies). Indeed, a pair of small but exceptionally tasty steak kebabs appeared, along with a tray of deep fried dough squares. The squares, which were at the core of Agnesa's recommendation as it turned out, were certainly tasty, but I will avoid them for the rest of the trip because I do desire to return to Holland in something other than corpulently cadaverous form.
...As a woman who looks like a potential sister of dear Washington-based Serb-Canadian friend Michele Saranovich walks in to the Avilja, I'm left to ponder the simmering ethnic stew this city is. There are no major racial differences between Muslim, Serb and Croat-there are Muslim redheads, black-haired Croats and blonde Serbs. One doesn't assume whom one is speaking with until the person broaches the subject. In the late stage of my train ride in, some youths joined the crew in my compartment in Zenica., and, after halting attempts at conversation in French, German and a smattering of English, one says: He's Bosnian (Muslim), he's Serb and I'm Montenegrin!
The Way to Sarajevo
The trip began inauspiciously enough, when I discovered that the convenience store in Zagreb station sold me two Ozujsko Christmas beers but then said they had no opener. From there, to the far end of the platform, was a train with three forlorn looking carriages-two painted with a stripe of yellow and blue of the Muslim-Croat federation of Bosnia and Herzegovina (BiH) and a green car from Republika Srpska (RS) Railways.
All three train carriages were marked with a painted "1" denoting first class status, but with paper "2"s on the entry door window. I thought this meant that the cars were "classless" and settled into a compartment in the RS car with an unassuming-looking gentleman reading a Zagreb tabloid.The journey is said to take 9 hours, mostly because the rails get cruddier the further out from Zagreb one goes.
Also, Zagreb woke up to see quite a bit of ice this morning and as my normal five minute walk to the station became a tenuous 15 minute slip and slide affair, I surmised that the rails may too succumb to the seasonal iciness.
...Icy was the reaction of the Croatian conductor when seeing my second-class railpass. "Extra Class! Extra Class!" shouted he. Not wanting to mess with a Croatian in authority, I asked where the next Second Class seats were, and he motioned me a few doors down the corridor. I found a place with two men in the six-seat compartment, less cramped than its neighbors. It became evident why moments later wnen one of the men fired up a local cigaretter. But for now, in the battle of Air and Space, space is winning out.
...Lekarnik was the first place I saw signage in Latin and Cyrillic letters--as it was far from a border, it appeared to be a vestige of the Yugoslav past. Going further to Sisak, it became clear that the pace of change in the capitals is years beyond that of the provincial towns, as this one was the home of numerous smoke-belching old factories and a big ole' coal fired powerplant. Of course, on a day like today, one may be forgiven about a bit of Global Warming skepticism.
...Suddenly, the train slows to a crawl. The buildings take on an increasingly unfinished appearance, revealing the red, brick-like cinderblocks that form the basic regional construction material, though which gets plastered over in more prosperous zones. Are we approaching a border? Boy, the map in my lost Lonely Planet would come in handy!
...Downloading a map from my Blackberry (love the Vodafone roaming), I found us nearly in the corner of Croatian, which is shaped like a backward 7. One finger extends along the Adriatic Coast, the other, a 'continental' section separating Hungary from Bosnia.The border finally comes at a place called Volinja, with a half-hour long ritual involving the change of locomotives between Croatian and Bosnian railways. The Sarajevo-Zagreb line is part of Bosnia's rather limited rail service. Buses predominate and Belgrade will be reached by bus later this week.
...Crossing a wide river, Bosnia emerges. Border formalities are quick at Dobriljin, with the blue and gold symbol of this compromise state in evidence everywhere. A couple of hours of anonymous countryside follow-nearly identical to Croatia except for the rougher look of the houses, the very occasional minaret and non-existent presence of church steeples, this apparently being Republika Srpska from the Cyrillic print on official signs (though 'Latinica' predominates on advertisements).
...Pulling into Republika Srpska's capital of Banja Luka, an inkling is given of my train carriage's previous life--a clapped out East German Deutsche Reichsbahn carriage with the same color scheme of green and white. This explains the markings in the car in German, Czech, Italian and Russian, with local instructions on stickers below.The train skirts Banja Luka, said to be a "hole" by previous travellers on Trip Advisor. It is now 1:40, a little over halfway to Sarajevo.
...One thing that occurs to me about gauging the affluence of a place is to look at the cars. Ljubljana was teeming with new cars and new car ads. Zagreb too had lots of cars, but many, perhaps most, were used western European models from the late '90s with a few Koreans and the rare but still remarkable Yugo. Across the Bosnian border, the cars seem to have a late '80s look-Ford Fiestas and Volkswagen Fox models most conspicuous, with very few East Bloc numbers to be found.
...Anonymous pastureland gives way to snowy pine forest. A small town passes with a conspicuous Serb flag-the first outdoor flag of any type since clearing the Croat border, next to a war memorial adorned with a red star."...for all us born beneath an angry star, lest we forget how fragile we are.". The sudden appearance of Sting's classic, Fragile, on my freshly restarted MP3 player was fitting during the seemingly long stop at the station of Ukrina. The kids here were fresh and full of life, wearing bright parkas while playing basketball at a court in front of the station. But the middle-aged folks looked worn. One was dressed in the long brown cloak of an eastern monk, carrying plastic bags of belongs from a tree branch. Other folks walked about with dirty olive drab coats and sunken faces.
..Nothing remarkable till Doboj, which is remarkable in that it was named for the Pillsbury Doughboy, who is said to remain a local icon despite not having been seen here since the start of the Balkan Conflict. Another tired railway junction, a showplace for yet more green and white ex East German rail cars. Location signs are more telling--witness the full train headed for Tuzla. Remember Tuzla?
...Night descends when we hit Zepce, the first place in Bosnia I've seen which doesn't look completely of red cinderblocks. Big church in town, but it's probably Croat-Catholic, having seen numerous Latin crosses and Christmas light displays, items unseen in the RS. No pictures here-the Kodak-brand batteries purchased in Slovenia failed to get my Kodak brand camera to Sarajevo.It's too dark for pictures with 75 minutes left until scheduled arrival, but the scenery which had seemed a bit repetitive has become haunting in the Bosnian dusk. The snow on the hills just still visible, dimly-lit homes in the distance, and the occasional minaret...
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All three train carriages were marked with a painted "1" denoting first class status, but with paper "2"s on the entry door window. I thought this meant that the cars were "classless" and settled into a compartment in the RS car with an unassuming-looking gentleman reading a Zagreb tabloid.The journey is said to take 9 hours, mostly because the rails get cruddier the further out from Zagreb one goes.
Also, Zagreb woke up to see quite a bit of ice this morning and as my normal five minute walk to the station became a tenuous 15 minute slip and slide affair, I surmised that the rails may too succumb to the seasonal iciness.
...Icy was the reaction of the Croatian conductor when seeing my second-class railpass. "Extra Class! Extra Class!" shouted he. Not wanting to mess with a Croatian in authority, I asked where the next Second Class seats were, and he motioned me a few doors down the corridor. I found a place with two men in the six-seat compartment, less cramped than its neighbors. It became evident why moments later wnen one of the men fired up a local cigaretter. But for now, in the battle of Air and Space, space is winning out.
...Lekarnik was the first place I saw signage in Latin and Cyrillic letters--as it was far from a border, it appeared to be a vestige of the Yugoslav past. Going further to Sisak, it became clear that the pace of change in the capitals is years beyond that of the provincial towns, as this one was the home of numerous smoke-belching old factories and a big ole' coal fired powerplant. Of course, on a day like today, one may be forgiven about a bit of Global Warming skepticism.
...Suddenly, the train slows to a crawl. The buildings take on an increasingly unfinished appearance, revealing the red, brick-like cinderblocks that form the basic regional construction material, though which gets plastered over in more prosperous zones. Are we approaching a border? Boy, the map in my lost Lonely Planet would come in handy!
...Downloading a map from my Blackberry (love the Vodafone roaming), I found us nearly in the corner of Croatian, which is shaped like a backward 7. One finger extends along the Adriatic Coast, the other, a 'continental' section separating Hungary from Bosnia.The border finally comes at a place called Volinja, with a half-hour long ritual involving the change of locomotives between Croatian and Bosnian railways. The Sarajevo-Zagreb line is part of Bosnia's rather limited rail service. Buses predominate and Belgrade will be reached by bus later this week.
...Crossing a wide river, Bosnia emerges. Border formalities are quick at Dobriljin, with the blue and gold symbol of this compromise state in evidence everywhere. A couple of hours of anonymous countryside follow-nearly identical to Croatia except for the rougher look of the houses, the very occasional minaret and non-existent presence of church steeples, this apparently being Republika Srpska from the Cyrillic print on official signs (though 'Latinica' predominates on advertisements).
...Pulling into Republika Srpska's capital of Banja Luka, an inkling is given of my train carriage's previous life--a clapped out East German Deutsche Reichsbahn carriage with the same color scheme of green and white. This explains the markings in the car in German, Czech, Italian and Russian, with local instructions on stickers below.The train skirts Banja Luka, said to be a "hole" by previous travellers on Trip Advisor. It is now 1:40, a little over halfway to Sarajevo.
...One thing that occurs to me about gauging the affluence of a place is to look at the cars. Ljubljana was teeming with new cars and new car ads. Zagreb too had lots of cars, but many, perhaps most, were used western European models from the late '90s with a few Koreans and the rare but still remarkable Yugo. Across the Bosnian border, the cars seem to have a late '80s look-Ford Fiestas and Volkswagen Fox models most conspicuous, with very few East Bloc numbers to be found.
...Anonymous pastureland gives way to snowy pine forest. A small town passes with a conspicuous Serb flag-the first outdoor flag of any type since clearing the Croat border, next to a war memorial adorned with a red star."...for all us born beneath an angry star, lest we forget how fragile we are.". The sudden appearance of Sting's classic, Fragile, on my freshly restarted MP3 player was fitting during the seemingly long stop at the station of Ukrina. The kids here were fresh and full of life, wearing bright parkas while playing basketball at a court in front of the station. But the middle-aged folks looked worn. One was dressed in the long brown cloak of an eastern monk, carrying plastic bags of belongs from a tree branch. Other folks walked about with dirty olive drab coats and sunken faces.
..Nothing remarkable till Doboj, which is remarkable in that it was named for the Pillsbury Doughboy, who is said to remain a local icon despite not having been seen here since the start of the Balkan Conflict. Another tired railway junction, a showplace for yet more green and white ex East German rail cars. Location signs are more telling--witness the full train headed for Tuzla. Remember Tuzla?
...Night descends when we hit Zepce, the first place in Bosnia I've seen which doesn't look completely of red cinderblocks. Big church in town, but it's probably Croat-Catholic, having seen numerous Latin crosses and Christmas light displays, items unseen in the RS. No pictures here-the Kodak-brand batteries purchased in Slovenia failed to get my Kodak brand camera to Sarajevo.It's too dark for pictures with 75 minutes left until scheduled arrival, but the scenery which had seemed a bit repetitive has become haunting in the Bosnian dusk. The snow on the hills just still visible, dimly-lit homes in the distance, and the occasional minaret...
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A Slavic Switzerland?
I expected Ljubljana to be a disappointment after Zagreb and after abandoning plans to visit the alpine lakes of Bled and Bohinj. But the low cloud that impeded my view of the hills rising above the Sava River along which the Zagreb-Salzburg express rolled along portended that an alpine excursion would be less than inspiring on this crisp cool day.
So, I detrained in Ljubljana, the capital of Republika Slovenija, the most recent entrant to the Eurozone and, as of Friday, the southeast front of the EU's Schengen zone. Coming off the train in a newer section of town, I had little inkling of what was to await me: a pristine old city below an ancient castle, a place with the halls decked with ribbons and lights for the holidays, where thousands were milling about drinking mulled white and red wine (or was that mulling about drinking milled wine?).
Old Ljubljana has become an instant favorite--up there with some other Faves like Lyon, Namur, Edinburgh--places where topography and architectural grandeur combine with an abundance of cozy cafes and watering holes and an attractive local population.Slovenia was the most prosperous republic in the days of its coerced union inside Josip Tito's Socialist Federative Republic of Yugoslavia, which also included Croatia, Macedonia, Montenegro, tomorrow's destination Bosnia, and Serbia.
It has also made the most of its independence, won after a ten day invasion by the Serb-led Yugoslav army in 1991 (I think, and I can't be arsed to look it up from a train seat-mk).To walk across the Triple Bridge from the new to the old town is to walk into a wonderland that could just as easily be at home in Luxembourg or Switzerland. Though prices remain reasonable (seemingly more so than in the less polished Croatia) Ljubljana has clearly and convincingly made the transition from the Second World to the First. Zagreb reminded me of the Prague I knew ten years ago-in a bit of a time warp.
Ljubljana is alive and in the present, knowing its day has come.What's startling is the newness of the infrastructure. From the stainless steel of the food stalls in the Christmas Market to the clearly brand new funicular up to the historic Ljubljana Castle (whose 3D movie tour through the city's history is well worth the EUR 3.30) and to the well-appointed cafes and bars, the effect is compelling-Slovenia has found its home in The West.
One unforgettable pub is the Rugby Pub across the Ljubljanica River from the Old Town. I happened upon it while heading back toward the station for my return trip to Zagreb. Entering, I was struck by the old British advertiising, the soft green carpeting, and the friendliness of the staff. The protagonist was Boris, a one-time "hooker" for the Slovenian National Rugby team, who, as it turns out, opened the pub one week earlier. I am willing to take bets about how long the pub's English hotel-like ambiance will withstand the arrival of many rugby tourists. Perhaps Slovenian rugby could learn a thing or two about making their country into a rugby destination from my friend Alec Byrne in Bariloche, Argentina, who has put Patagonia on the Rugby map through his business, Rugby Patagonia (http://www.rugby-patagonia.com.ar/).It was probably best that I hit Ljubljana after Zagreb.
Zagreb is an Eastern European city, that while looking west (to the point that its Parliament flies the EU flag while the country remains in the membership queue) is still Slavic in mindset and rustic in its soul (evidenced most poignantly by women standing in prayer in front of roadside altars). Ljubljana is a western city that speaks an eastern language. The difference-despite the two-hour travel time between both cities-is profound.
So, I detrained in Ljubljana, the capital of Republika Slovenija, the most recent entrant to the Eurozone and, as of Friday, the southeast front of the EU's Schengen zone. Coming off the train in a newer section of town, I had little inkling of what was to await me: a pristine old city below an ancient castle, a place with the halls decked with ribbons and lights for the holidays, where thousands were milling about drinking mulled white and red wine (or was that mulling about drinking milled wine?).
Old Ljubljana has become an instant favorite--up there with some other Faves like Lyon, Namur, Edinburgh--places where topography and architectural grandeur combine with an abundance of cozy cafes and watering holes and an attractive local population.Slovenia was the most prosperous republic in the days of its coerced union inside Josip Tito's Socialist Federative Republic of Yugoslavia, which also included Croatia, Macedonia, Montenegro, tomorrow's destination Bosnia, and Serbia.
It has also made the most of its independence, won after a ten day invasion by the Serb-led Yugoslav army in 1991 (I think, and I can't be arsed to look it up from a train seat-mk).To walk across the Triple Bridge from the new to the old town is to walk into a wonderland that could just as easily be at home in Luxembourg or Switzerland. Though prices remain reasonable (seemingly more so than in the less polished Croatia) Ljubljana has clearly and convincingly made the transition from the Second World to the First. Zagreb reminded me of the Prague I knew ten years ago-in a bit of a time warp.
Ljubljana is alive and in the present, knowing its day has come.What's startling is the newness of the infrastructure. From the stainless steel of the food stalls in the Christmas Market to the clearly brand new funicular up to the historic Ljubljana Castle (whose 3D movie tour through the city's history is well worth the EUR 3.30) and to the well-appointed cafes and bars, the effect is compelling-Slovenia has found its home in The West.
One unforgettable pub is the Rugby Pub across the Ljubljanica River from the Old Town. I happened upon it while heading back toward the station for my return trip to Zagreb. Entering, I was struck by the old British advertiising, the soft green carpeting, and the friendliness of the staff. The protagonist was Boris, a one-time "hooker" for the Slovenian National Rugby team, who, as it turns out, opened the pub one week earlier. I am willing to take bets about how long the pub's English hotel-like ambiance will withstand the arrival of many rugby tourists. Perhaps Slovenian rugby could learn a thing or two about making their country into a rugby destination from my friend Alec Byrne in Bariloche, Argentina, who has put Patagonia on the Rugby map through his business, Rugby Patagonia (http://www.rugby-patagonia.com.ar/).It was probably best that I hit Ljubljana after Zagreb.
Zagreb is an Eastern European city, that while looking west (to the point that its Parliament flies the EU flag while the country remains in the membership queue) is still Slavic in mindset and rustic in its soul (evidenced most poignantly by women standing in prayer in front of roadside altars). Ljubljana is a western city that speaks an eastern language. The difference-despite the two-hour travel time between both cities-is profound.
Sunday, December 23, 2007
Downshifting in Zagreb
...Given that all forces in the Universe have equal and opposite reactions, my superb day of exploring Zagreb, which had been capped off with a pilgrimage to Dinamo Zagreb's home stadium, the Maksimir, would inevitably turn south. Reaching my room at the Arcotel Allegra, it dawned on me that my Lonely Planet Western Balkans guide is probably headed back to Munich in last night's sleeper train, and with it were my prospects for dining and nightlife well trodden by fellow English speakers.
...After substituting my missing Lonely Planet with the "pay to play" local guide offered by the Arcotel (where included establishments purchased access to wayward foreigners like myself), I came to count the cost when the restaurant I happened upon wouldn't prepare the specialty of the house (lamb 'isod peke', roasted in an iron oven under hot coals) because I'd neglected to order it two hours in advance. Thus I make do with a schnitzel, less exciting since I'd had one the night before in Munich.
..But the appetizer of fried smelt is turning my spirits around. As for the meal, a veal steak (the Munich schnitzel being turkey) covered in garlic, it was ok and filling, and left me in the mood for something other than carousing.
...I therefore headed home, noting that the $8 return metered taxi fare was less than the $15 I paid to head in the initial direction.Nightlife was a dvd I brought with me, The Good Shepherd, intentionally watched with Dutch subtitles so I don't go completely Slavic during my travels. Tomorrow would be spent in another country. And, having found melatonin in a Zagreb pharmacy, sleep would be mine tonight.
...After substituting my missing Lonely Planet with the "pay to play" local guide offered by the Arcotel (where included establishments purchased access to wayward foreigners like myself), I came to count the cost when the restaurant I happened upon wouldn't prepare the specialty of the house (lamb 'isod peke', roasted in an iron oven under hot coals) because I'd neglected to order it two hours in advance. Thus I make do with a schnitzel, less exciting since I'd had one the night before in Munich.
..But the appetizer of fried smelt is turning my spirits around. As for the meal, a veal steak (the Munich schnitzel being turkey) covered in garlic, it was ok and filling, and left me in the mood for something other than carousing.
...I therefore headed home, noting that the $8 return metered taxi fare was less than the $15 I paid to head in the initial direction.Nightlife was a dvd I brought with me, The Good Shepherd, intentionally watched with Dutch subtitles so I don't go completely Slavic during my travels. Tomorrow would be spent in another country. And, having found melatonin in a Zagreb pharmacy, sleep would be mine tonight.
Saturday, December 22, 2007
Live from the Balkans--Day 1
...Uncharacteristically, the ICE arrives late, and, once boarded, is nearly packed with passengers. I still manage to find a seat for myself and one for my overstuffed backpack, efficient packing being far less easy than for my first big rail trip in 1992.
Much has changed in 15 years. Then I was freshly married; now, though happily smtten after a quadrillion online dates, I am a bachelor. Then, it was a 21 day first class Eurailpass, now, a 5-days-in-10 interrail pass in second, interrail being the cheaper version made available to those paying their taxes in pounds, francs and Euros.
...Snacking on viande de grisons-a form of salted, dried beef emanating from the centre of Switzerland. Hyperexpensive by the kilo, but relatively reasonable by the snack portion. Washed down with a can of Feldschlossen Ice, strangely the least insipid pilsner tasted in recent days.
...As for the soundtrack: Power of Gold by the recently departed Dan Fogelberg, whose dulcet tones have long formed the background for numerous romantic and emotional trials of mine. Fogelberg gives way to electronic tango music from Otros Aires, a trophy from my last big adventure, a trip last year of similar length to Argentina. This trip promises a head-on collision with two musical genres of similar stature: Balkan Brass Band and Turbofolk. I'll spare you the details until I can report them with an appropriately jaundiced ear.
...Transfer at Mannheim. Not exactly Judgement at Nuremberg. Indeed, the normalness of Germany is what I love about the place. And any evaluation of Germany as a society has to give mention to some real positives--electing great leaders (Adenauer, Brandt, Kohl and Merkel), serving as a bulwark for the West in the Cold War, welcoming at least 50,000 Soviet Jews.
Even with its current problems, today's Germany is a testimony to the redeeming power of Civilization, and to a large extent to the American contribution to its preservation.
...Something really civilized about Germany is the new model ICE train. Seats four to a row, but otherwise, comparable to the best first class seats I've seen--soft, with floating headpillows, footrests, and at-seat audio to give the MP3 player a rest. The older trains (which blew me away from Salzburg to Wurzburg in 92) retain their appeal, but the newer ones have an evolution in the detail area. Best are the full service dining/bar cars which have real coffee and even serve Rose Sekt, a sparkling wine with a nice color and acidity.
...Another transfer, this one at Munich. A night train consisting of sleeper cars, couchettes (carpeted planks which offer both a hard place to sleep...and a good reason to upgrade to the full sleeper) and old-school compartment seats for those whom horizontality was either unnecessary or unaffordable. Interestingly, the ten carriages were headed in different directions, with a big split in Salzburg I mercifully slept through despite leaving my melatonin in Delft. One car was going to Bucharest, one to Belgrade, three to Budapest and three to my destination, Zagreb.
...I called an audible, in gridiron parlance, to head straight for Zagreb rather than diverting to Ljubljana and Lake Bled. It was a no-brainer deciding after a full day and night of travel that I wanted the extra two hours of sleep to be gained by refraining from the detour. Slovenia will be there tomorrow, and if I exhaust Zagreb's charms by midnight tonight, I may yet choose to pay a visit to Croatia's northern neighbor.
...But Zagreb first. Croatia's advertising slogan is "the Mediterranean as it used to be.". But Zagreb being far from the beach, is best described as "Europe as it used to be.". Being just outside the clutches of the European Union, Zagreb possesses the kind of local colo(u)r that has long since disappeared from more westerly burgs. Local brands and independent shops predominate. Big electric signs advertising businesses impenetrable by the non-Slav are positioned on ornate Hapsburg-era blocks overlooking central squares. Trams are everywhere-indeed Zagreb may be the world's only city where tram cars outnumber residents.
Zagreb is very Prague-like aesthetically, though lacking in tourists and English speakers. Menus are heavy on pork and Italian food, so I indulged in my first pizza in many, many months--a tuna and olive number that was surprisingly good. Prices are cheaper than in the EU, but not by enough to make the trip pay for itself. As for the beer, am currently chewing away at a Tomislav, named after one of the nation's Equestrian heroes (as judged by the statue across from the train station).. It's dark, sweet and a bit hoppy, and has a respectable 7.5 richter scale ranking (otherwise known as alcohol by volume). Kind of like a German bock, with some earthy flavors-making it distinctive.
Croatia's beer scene is dominated by a battle between local brands like Tomislav and the ubiquitous Ojujsko and locally produced licensed Stella Artois, Heineken and Carlsberg/Tuborg brands, with the licensed brews commanding a price premium. I'll stick to the local stuff while I'm here...
Much has changed in 15 years. Then I was freshly married; now, though happily smtten after a quadrillion online dates, I am a bachelor. Then, it was a 21 day first class Eurailpass, now, a 5-days-in-10 interrail pass in second, interrail being the cheaper version made available to those paying their taxes in pounds, francs and Euros.
...Snacking on viande de grisons-a form of salted, dried beef emanating from the centre of Switzerland. Hyperexpensive by the kilo, but relatively reasonable by the snack portion. Washed down with a can of Feldschlossen Ice, strangely the least insipid pilsner tasted in recent days.
...As for the soundtrack: Power of Gold by the recently departed Dan Fogelberg, whose dulcet tones have long formed the background for numerous romantic and emotional trials of mine. Fogelberg gives way to electronic tango music from Otros Aires, a trophy from my last big adventure, a trip last year of similar length to Argentina. This trip promises a head-on collision with two musical genres of similar stature: Balkan Brass Band and Turbofolk. I'll spare you the details until I can report them with an appropriately jaundiced ear.
...Transfer at Mannheim. Not exactly Judgement at Nuremberg. Indeed, the normalness of Germany is what I love about the place. And any evaluation of Germany as a society has to give mention to some real positives--electing great leaders (Adenauer, Brandt, Kohl and Merkel), serving as a bulwark for the West in the Cold War, welcoming at least 50,000 Soviet Jews.
Even with its current problems, today's Germany is a testimony to the redeeming power of Civilization, and to a large extent to the American contribution to its preservation.
...Something really civilized about Germany is the new model ICE train. Seats four to a row, but otherwise, comparable to the best first class seats I've seen--soft, with floating headpillows, footrests, and at-seat audio to give the MP3 player a rest. The older trains (which blew me away from Salzburg to Wurzburg in 92) retain their appeal, but the newer ones have an evolution in the detail area. Best are the full service dining/bar cars which have real coffee and even serve Rose Sekt, a sparkling wine with a nice color and acidity.
...Another transfer, this one at Munich. A night train consisting of sleeper cars, couchettes (carpeted planks which offer both a hard place to sleep...and a good reason to upgrade to the full sleeper) and old-school compartment seats for those whom horizontality was either unnecessary or unaffordable. Interestingly, the ten carriages were headed in different directions, with a big split in Salzburg I mercifully slept through despite leaving my melatonin in Delft. One car was going to Bucharest, one to Belgrade, three to Budapest and three to my destination, Zagreb.
...I called an audible, in gridiron parlance, to head straight for Zagreb rather than diverting to Ljubljana and Lake Bled. It was a no-brainer deciding after a full day and night of travel that I wanted the extra two hours of sleep to be gained by refraining from the detour. Slovenia will be there tomorrow, and if I exhaust Zagreb's charms by midnight tonight, I may yet choose to pay a visit to Croatia's northern neighbor.
...But Zagreb first. Croatia's advertising slogan is "the Mediterranean as it used to be.". But Zagreb being far from the beach, is best described as "Europe as it used to be.". Being just outside the clutches of the European Union, Zagreb possesses the kind of local colo(u)r that has long since disappeared from more westerly burgs. Local brands and independent shops predominate. Big electric signs advertising businesses impenetrable by the non-Slav are positioned on ornate Hapsburg-era blocks overlooking central squares. Trams are everywhere-indeed Zagreb may be the world's only city where tram cars outnumber residents.
Zagreb is very Prague-like aesthetically, though lacking in tourists and English speakers. Menus are heavy on pork and Italian food, so I indulged in my first pizza in many, many months--a tuna and olive number that was surprisingly good. Prices are cheaper than in the EU, but not by enough to make the trip pay for itself. As for the beer, am currently chewing away at a Tomislav, named after one of the nation's Equestrian heroes (as judged by the statue across from the train station).. It's dark, sweet and a bit hoppy, and has a respectable 7.5 richter scale ranking (otherwise known as alcohol by volume). Kind of like a German bock, with some earthy flavors-making it distinctive.
Croatia's beer scene is dominated by a battle between local brands like Tomislav and the ubiquitous Ojujsko and locally produced licensed Stella Artois, Heineken and Carlsberg/Tuborg brands, with the licensed brews commanding a price premium. I'll stick to the local stuff while I'm here...
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
December 2007
This edition brings us to the heart of the holiday season, whichever holiday one celebrates this time of year. For me, the holiday spirit has become one of both adventure and reflection:
Holiday Adventure: Xmas in Sarajevo
Given a few mandatory days out of the office at the cusp of 2008 and the realisation that for all of my efforts to reposition myself in Europe this year, the most exotic places I've been to are Luxembourg and the Maghrebi neighborhood around the Midi train station in Brussels. And, in view of the fact that airfares are downright extortionate this time of year (particularly to anyplace warm), the EUR 250 price of a five day second-class Interrail Pass seemed enough of a bargain to pair it with a couple of one-way plane tickets to make a doable ten-day excursion...to the heart of Former Yugoslavia.
So, here's the current itinerary for my Balkan bash:
21-Dec: Overnight train from Munich, sharing a sleeper car with someone I haven't met yet; will keep sacred documents in secret happy place
22-Dec: Departing train in world's most hard-to-spell capital city: Ljubljana (sorry Ouagadougou and Antananarivo), then buggering off by bus to Lake Bled. After Bariloche, I've developed a weakness for Alpine lakes. Will the weakness hold in Alpine weather?
23-Dec: Wake up in an Austrian hotel in Zagreb, Croatia. Will try to find non-pork items on local menus while exploring this one-time Hapsburg outpost.
24-Dec: Day train from Zagreb to Sarajevo. Said to be one of the least pleasant/most authentic international rail journeys left in Europe today. Staying at extremely well-reviewed guest house in Sarajevo through the 27th while I visit various landmarks and meet with locals arranged by an IABC member there.
27-Dec: Taxi to the Serb part of Sarajevo for bus journey through Republika Srpska to Belgrade. Belgrade scares me a bit--end-of-the-world night life, active grievances against the rest of the world, cyrillic street signs, and pljeskavica (pork 'n' onion 'burgers'). But what is the purpose of travel if not to confront such fears???
29-Dec: Night train to Vienna. Intentionally overshooting Budapest to give myself a better night of sleep, also to visit one of my known ancestral homes (the Hungarian one, Kisvarda, being a much-less-convenient train ride towards the Ukrainian border). After a few hours in Vienna, head back towards Budapest for New Year's, perhaps watching fireworks over the Danube.
If anyone knows anyone in, near or around these places while I'll be there--or otherwise knows the lay of the land, please let me know as well.
LIPSYNCHING TO THE MP3
Most people have been known to sing in the shower, or perhaps along with the radio while driving in the car. But one frontier most have restrained themselves from crossing is that of lypsynching to one's iPod or MP3. Player.
Admit that you've thought about doing it. Then listen to the background conversations. "People will think I'm crazy!". "People will think I'm talking to myself!" "What if I bump into someone I know?"
As I live in a place where I know very few people, extremely few of whom I encounter in the course of my role as a local pedestrian, I'll admit to doing some headphoned lipsynching in recent weeks. I don't do it while directly encountering other pedestrians, but then I let it all hang out while no one's looking (or at least, so I think). Having admitted to some experience, and having even raised the idea at a social meeting with some colleagues (even though one, a particularly formidable client, shot me the dirtiest of looks), allow me to publish some guidelines for "Lipsynching to the iPod".
1. Lipsynch only to music you know the words to. This is no time to look like an amateur.
2. Enunciate. If someone does catch you, you should give them the courtesy of at least being able to lip read what you are synching.
3. Don't look someone in the eye if you notice them while you are synching. They may think you are actually starting to converse.
4. If some one asks you what you are doing, always respond "I'm lipsynching to my iPod, care to join me?"
5. At random moments at work and with friends, raise the question: "Have you ever lipsynched to your iPod?" If any one replies by saying "Have you?", always answer in the affirmative.
With these tips, you will be taking the new media revolution one step further, and expand the freedom available to your fellow iPod lipsynchers in the process. And more freedom can only be a good thing, can't it?
COAL FOR CHRISTMAS
As someone who doesn't actually celebrate Christmas, I tend not to make massive gift purchases. But there are some worthy recipients out there of the one gift I love to give: COAL.
Here are some people whose carbon footprint has just gotten a little bigger:
Daniel Levy, Owner, Tottenham Hotspur Football Club
Sure, new manager hire Juande Ramos finally seems to have the club on track after a dismal season start. But Danny, that's still no excuse for having breakfast with coaching candidates when you had a coach in Martin Jol who'd only delivered successive years of success well beyond what was delivered by previous incumbents. Of course, I knew you were a jerk when you walked out of a meeting with me in 2001 half way after fifteen minutes. A good kilo of the black stuff for you, baybee.
Hillary Clinton, Imploding US Presidential Front Runner
Ms. "I rooted for the Cubs but secretly was a Yankees fan when I was a kid" Clinton, the only thing inevitable about your presidential candidacy is the collapse that's been unfolding in recent weeks. Americans don't like to be told by a candidate that she is "entitled" to be president. We're the ones who are "entitled" to make that call. And when such a candidate disses the Chicago Cubs, outrage is the only acceptable response. Two lumps of 500 g each, one for each of your pockets as you sink.
The Nature Conservancy's 'Conservation' Efforts in Hawaii
The Nature Conservancy paints itself as one of the "good guys" in the environmental movement, buying the land it seeks to conserve. But what it does on that land is often not very nice. Take the treatment of the pigs who have made themselves a little paradise in Hawaii. Pigs, though not a native species, have lived in Hawaii for hundreds of years, and are very much a part of the local scene, culture and environment. But by invoking the "non-native" tag, the Nature Conservancy has authorised the eradication of the pigs on its territory by professional hunters. That may be fine for your "eco-system", but pigs are intelligent, sentient and resourceful creatures fully undeserving of this fate. So, many kilos of coal for you. And extra kilos for your "professional hunters".
Low Cost Airlines Charging for Checked Baggage
I am a big fan of low cost airlines. But recently, in their efforts to keep fares down and profits robust, they've instituted often-staggering charges for checked baggage and for baggage in excess of downright austre baggage limitations. While intra-European travellers can pack and choose accordingly, Americans and others moving around Europe for long journeys often face confrontations at check-in where baggage fees could cost over $100, or where travellers would have to jettison some of their gear. I encountered such a situation in May, and had to chuck and reposition some of my stuff. The irony--among the jettisoned items were the American candies I'd brought over for the Internal Comms manager for the airline I was flying. A kilo of coal for each airline that does this...and some extra Jolly Ranchers for my old buddy are on their way to you.
Until January, that's FlightKL18!
Holiday Adventure: Xmas in Sarajevo
Given a few mandatory days out of the office at the cusp of 2008 and the realisation that for all of my efforts to reposition myself in Europe this year, the most exotic places I've been to are Luxembourg and the Maghrebi neighborhood around the Midi train station in Brussels. And, in view of the fact that airfares are downright extortionate this time of year (particularly to anyplace warm), the EUR 250 price of a five day second-class Interrail Pass seemed enough of a bargain to pair it with a couple of one-way plane tickets to make a doable ten-day excursion...to the heart of Former Yugoslavia.
So, here's the current itinerary for my Balkan bash:
21-Dec: Overnight train from Munich, sharing a sleeper car with someone I haven't met yet; will keep sacred documents in secret happy place
22-Dec: Departing train in world's most hard-to-spell capital city: Ljubljana (sorry Ouagadougou and Antananarivo), then buggering off by bus to Lake Bled. After Bariloche, I've developed a weakness for Alpine lakes. Will the weakness hold in Alpine weather?
23-Dec: Wake up in an Austrian hotel in Zagreb, Croatia. Will try to find non-pork items on local menus while exploring this one-time Hapsburg outpost.
24-Dec: Day train from Zagreb to Sarajevo. Said to be one of the least pleasant/most authentic international rail journeys left in Europe today. Staying at extremely well-reviewed guest house in Sarajevo through the 27th while I visit various landmarks and meet with locals arranged by an IABC member there.
27-Dec: Taxi to the Serb part of Sarajevo for bus journey through Republika Srpska to Belgrade. Belgrade scares me a bit--end-of-the-world night life, active grievances against the rest of the world, cyrillic street signs, and pljeskavica (pork 'n' onion 'burgers'). But what is the purpose of travel if not to confront such fears???
29-Dec: Night train to Vienna. Intentionally overshooting Budapest to give myself a better night of sleep, also to visit one of my known ancestral homes (the Hungarian one, Kisvarda, being a much-less-convenient train ride towards the Ukrainian border). After a few hours in Vienna, head back towards Budapest for New Year's, perhaps watching fireworks over the Danube.
If anyone knows anyone in, near or around these places while I'll be there--or otherwise knows the lay of the land, please let me know as well.
LIPSYNCHING TO THE MP3
Most people have been known to sing in the shower, or perhaps along with the radio while driving in the car. But one frontier most have restrained themselves from crossing is that of lypsynching to one's iPod or MP3. Player.
Admit that you've thought about doing it. Then listen to the background conversations. "People will think I'm crazy!". "People will think I'm talking to myself!" "What if I bump into someone I know?"
As I live in a place where I know very few people, extremely few of whom I encounter in the course of my role as a local pedestrian, I'll admit to doing some headphoned lipsynching in recent weeks. I don't do it while directly encountering other pedestrians, but then I let it all hang out while no one's looking (or at least, so I think). Having admitted to some experience, and having even raised the idea at a social meeting with some colleagues (even though one, a particularly formidable client, shot me the dirtiest of looks), allow me to publish some guidelines for "Lipsynching to the iPod".
1. Lipsynch only to music you know the words to. This is no time to look like an amateur.
2. Enunciate. If someone does catch you, you should give them the courtesy of at least being able to lip read what you are synching.
3. Don't look someone in the eye if you notice them while you are synching. They may think you are actually starting to converse.
4. If some one asks you what you are doing, always respond "I'm lipsynching to my iPod, care to join me?"
5. At random moments at work and with friends, raise the question: "Have you ever lipsynched to your iPod?" If any one replies by saying "Have you?", always answer in the affirmative.
With these tips, you will be taking the new media revolution one step further, and expand the freedom available to your fellow iPod lipsynchers in the process. And more freedom can only be a good thing, can't it?
COAL FOR CHRISTMAS
As someone who doesn't actually celebrate Christmas, I tend not to make massive gift purchases. But there are some worthy recipients out there of the one gift I love to give: COAL.
Here are some people whose carbon footprint has just gotten a little bigger:
Daniel Levy, Owner, Tottenham Hotspur Football Club
Sure, new manager hire Juande Ramos finally seems to have the club on track after a dismal season start. But Danny, that's still no excuse for having breakfast with coaching candidates when you had a coach in Martin Jol who'd only delivered successive years of success well beyond what was delivered by previous incumbents. Of course, I knew you were a jerk when you walked out of a meeting with me in 2001 half way after fifteen minutes. A good kilo of the black stuff for you, baybee.
Hillary Clinton, Imploding US Presidential Front Runner
Ms. "I rooted for the Cubs but secretly was a Yankees fan when I was a kid" Clinton, the only thing inevitable about your presidential candidacy is the collapse that's been unfolding in recent weeks. Americans don't like to be told by a candidate that she is "entitled" to be president. We're the ones who are "entitled" to make that call. And when such a candidate disses the Chicago Cubs, outrage is the only acceptable response. Two lumps of 500 g each, one for each of your pockets as you sink.
The Nature Conservancy's 'Conservation' Efforts in Hawaii
The Nature Conservancy paints itself as one of the "good guys" in the environmental movement, buying the land it seeks to conserve. But what it does on that land is often not very nice. Take the treatment of the pigs who have made themselves a little paradise in Hawaii. Pigs, though not a native species, have lived in Hawaii for hundreds of years, and are very much a part of the local scene, culture and environment. But by invoking the "non-native" tag, the Nature Conservancy has authorised the eradication of the pigs on its territory by professional hunters. That may be fine for your "eco-system", but pigs are intelligent, sentient and resourceful creatures fully undeserving of this fate. So, many kilos of coal for you. And extra kilos for your "professional hunters".
Low Cost Airlines Charging for Checked Baggage
I am a big fan of low cost airlines. But recently, in their efforts to keep fares down and profits robust, they've instituted often-staggering charges for checked baggage and for baggage in excess of downright austre baggage limitations. While intra-European travellers can pack and choose accordingly, Americans and others moving around Europe for long journeys often face confrontations at check-in where baggage fees could cost over $100, or where travellers would have to jettison some of their gear. I encountered such a situation in May, and had to chuck and reposition some of my stuff. The irony--among the jettisoned items were the American candies I'd brought over for the Internal Comms manager for the airline I was flying. A kilo of coal for each airline that does this...and some extra Jolly Ranchers for my old buddy are on their way to you.
Until January, that's FlightKL18!
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