5-21/22: Sam Finishes the Blog

I'm sitting on the soft couches in my somewhat unfamiliar living room at home. It's 2 in the afternoon and I've been awake since 5:30. The day outside, invited in with an open screen door, is unbelievably beautiful. I don't use that as hyperbole--seriously, it's hard to believe. The vivid colors and mid-morning haze make it look like the dream sequence from Happy Gilmore.

Pictured: Home, sweet home. And devoid of crocodiles!

I'm...confused. Happy, but confused. I decided to postpone writing this blog until I could sit down and fully sort my thoughts out (okay, that and I was having way too much fun in Frankfurt. And I'm a lazy bastard at heart. But mainly the first reason). I realized that if I were to do that, I'd probably be typing this in October. So for now, I'll tell the story (doing my best to leave out the introspection) and we'll figure it out from there.

THE STORY

Novi Sad, Three Days Before Lift-off: We bused out to Novi Sad, the capital of the Vojvodina region, an hour and change northwest of Beograd (as the crow flies, because it's about as flat as central Ohio and half as populated). Pulling into town, we disembarked, headed into the hotel, and immediately realized that half of us forgot our passports (apparently as useful for getting into hotels as they are for other countries). With a few photocopied versions, we checked in, and then headed to the final seminar.

Considering its role on the other end of the semester, Dave and I coined the process "disorientation". And to be fair, it kind of works. We circled up like a junior AA meeting and started unpacking our thoughts, emotions, reactions--everything we were feeling about the semester. It started moving about as smoothly as a rusted wheelbarrow, with gaping silences following extremely big questions, but with a little bit of adjustment, many of us soon arrived at the conclusion that we really were fucking going home in four days. Also, we realized that none of us have the slightest idea as to how to rate our contribution to the "group learning process and dynamic". I'm actually pretty okay with that.

That evening, we lit out for the fortress above Novi Sad (because every city in the Balkans needs a river and a fortress, apparently). Fortunately, this one is replete with an enormous restaurant and a view of half the city. Coupled with a plastic cover and a raging thunderstorm, the twenty pound trays of meat (!!!) made the night one to remember.

Novi Sad, Two Days Before Lift-off: I woke up early (noticing a theme here?) and went out to find some fruit for breakfast. I had three apples, a bottle of yogurt, and a half-hour to kill, so I wandered around Dunavski Park, one of the most beautiful artificial gardens I've ever seen. It was all very sha-shasha (it had freaking swans wandering around), but still an amazing way to kick off the morning.

We returned to Beograd by noon or so, and I commenced my nomadic wandering from bookstore to bookstore, because I'm a nerd of catastrophic proportions, and don't let anybody tell you different. I picked up a few interesting things (did you know they have Go the Fuck to Sleep translated into Serbian? Well now so do I). Day well-spent.

Beograd, One Day Before Lift-off: That was a frantic day consisting of marathoning the Walking Dead while packing (after four months of patient waiting, I can comfortably and confidently say Jesus Christ, Carl, what the hell is wrong with you?), which may not have been the most efficient method, but it was a hell of a stress reliever. I think it was also nice to inoculate myself back into the rhythm of things, take a bit to expose myself to something familiar of my life back in the states. I pounded out that whole process, wrapped all the rakija in four or five layers of cotton and plastic (which would prove to be a smart move), and headed off to the farewell dinner.

It took place in Supermarket, a fancy-sleek-chic-underground-hipster-noveau-haute-someotherbullshitwords restaurant/miscellaneous shop. I don't give a shit what it's called; it had delicious food. Trays upon trays of sushi and shrimp cocktails. I filled up on those as the restaurant filled up with homestay families. It felt like a family party at the age of eight all over again--the kids circled up and goofed off while the grown-ups caught up. The only difference here was that the kids went through all the wine, but I digress.

The party started winding down, and then my peers started dropping like flies. This is when the emotions hit, and as we moved out into the warm air and thirteen became ten, then seven, then four in increasing frequency, it started to hit me what my friends meant to me on this trip. Those damn feels are at it again. When it dwindled down to one, I crawled under the covers and drifted off.

Beograd, the Day Of: I woke up at 9, and puttered around until eleven. Then I sat for a while with my host family and talked about...well, everything, really. They gave me a bottle of rakija and a shirt, and walked me down.

The agency picked me up in a Mercedes, and the driver, god bless him, didn't care if I put the window down. I felt the spring (or maybe summer?) wind against my face as we tore down the streets I'd come to know, in some ways more intimately than I do those of my own hometown. We took a ramp onto the Old Ada Bridge and tore off for the airport, relishing the sweet, rare Beograd sun for the last time for a while (well, I did. I don't think the driver was sharing in my nostalgia trip).

I moved through the airport and am now utterly disturbed by Serbian airport security (I won't go into details, but suffice it to say I'm pretty sure their metal detector is just a plastic doorframe). Through the plate glass window, I took one last look at distant Belgrade and stepped aboard the plane.

Or so I'd thought. I was afforded my real last look when the plane banked to the right to change direction, showing me everything at once--I picked out the bridges I had run across and the river I had walked along with no difficulty. A bit of squinting showed me Kalemegdan, and then Tašmajdan, whose green expanses hosted some of my best memories of the trip. And I think, though I could be full of crap, that I maybe glimpsed the SIT building, across from the bus park before we pulled above some low clouds. See you, Beograd.

Frankfurt, the Day Of: I stayed at the Steigenberger Hotel. It's classy as fuck. I don't know what a saunarium is, but it felt phenomenal and I want one.

Frankfurt, the Night Of: And the Unterschweinsteig Restaurant has delicious rabbit haunch.

Frankfurt, the Day After: I forced myself out of the room and onto the airport shuttle, and somewhere between the entrance to the airport and passport control, the first and last tears happened. No waterworks, just a crystallized realization that it really was over in very many senses. I got my shit together, swiped my passport, and made my way to the gate with an hour and a half to spare. In the meantime, I spent the remainder of my euros on the new(ish) Stephen King book, a pack of gum, and a bottle of water, which served as a final validation of sorts for not studying in the eurozone.

The plane wasn't bad. With all the bus service around the Balkans, I think I've gotten distressingly used to this whole "sitting in one place for eight hours at a time" schtick. Of course the guy next to me was coming in from New Dehli, so I certainly can't complain anyway. The hours ticked by, I watched Jamie Foxx kill half the South, then Tom Cruise kill half of Pittsburgh, then scowled at the entire in-flight movie institution and read a book instead.

I landed and talked to the customs people. Upon asking my declarations, I told them I have a bottle of brandy. The customs agent asked what year, and upon hearing one of the bottles' vintage ('91) he informed me matter-of-factly that he'd have to seize it. Fortunately for everyone involved, he laughed about five seconds later, leaving me to wonder how I consistently seem to score the dubious honor of unearthing TSA employees with a bonafide sense of humor. Cleared through, I made my way to the parking garage, was picked up, and the rest, as they say, is history.

THE FEELS

Okay, let's bullet some things that I did within 24 hours:

• Ate some peanut butter products--you don't know what you're loving until you've lost it, my friends, and nowhere is this more true with Resee's Cups.
• Drove at a generally licit speed down 202 a few miles at six in the morning, with the windows down. listening to 93.3, because nothing reintroduces you to your mother tongue like a disc jockey.
•  Made some honest-to-god decent, Chinatown-bought looseleaf green tea. It's all coffee, coffee, coffee over in the Balkans.
• Played Gamecube, because guys--it's Gamecube.
• Went for a run, because it helps to kill the jetlag.
• Availed myself of the punching bag, because it's been half a year.
• Made a kale shake, because...shit, do I even need a reason?
• Conked out in my own bed for a while.

There really is nothing quite like coming home, and I wouldn't trade it for much.

But good lord, do I miss the Balkans. I'm not going to sit here and rattle off everything, but this surprised and stuck out to me: I miss the curtness. I'm already tired of people smiling just because "courtesy" told them that everything is worth smiling at. We cast emotions around like they're free here. I'm not saying be grumpy all the time, and if you see somebody who looks like they could use a friendly smile, of course you should crack one. But I'm starting to feel like a smile isn't really a smile anymore if it's obligatory. Or maybe I just don't want it to be.

I miss the people. I miss the random people I'd see on the street while walking the dog, and the regulars at Zeleni Venac, and the surly security guys behind the desk. I miss the clusters on buses and trams, outright eye contact and uncomfortably long looks.

To the friends I made on the program: I'll just say that without each and every one of you, I couldn't fairly say that this was one of the best experiences of my life and leave it at that.

But you know what? For every minute I miss Serbia, I feel two of excitement to bring it all home. I'm bursting at the seams to grill up pounds of ćevapi this summer. I can't wait to toast a glass of rakija when I see my friends and family very soon. I'm keeping an ear open for stray words of Bosnian from strangers I pass in the city, and the next time somebody (else) I know gets a haircut, I fully intend to flick 'em in the head with little to no explanation, because these things are all a part of me now (especially the ćevapi, but that's just protein synthesis) and they're not going anywhere. Take it or leave it.

To everybody whose been reading this whole mess (especially my readers from Russia and China--I'm not sure who you are, but cheers!), I'd like to express both my sincere gratitude at your dedication and my most profound sympathies as to the state of procrastination that drove you here. I've told plenty of half-stories on here, and omitted many more, so if you ever want to get me started, just let me know and I'd be glad to share over a glass of šliva.

Is this the last Serbia blog? Yup. Sorry. Is this the last blog, period? Well, and I say with as much conviction as I can muster: hell no. Ladies and gentlemen, I plan to go to a lot of exciting places, do a lot of cool shit, and make a lot of ridiculous errors, and I would do a disservice to both your entertainment options and my mental health if I didn't catalog them in some fashion. Just to whet the appetite...I'm certainly considering working abroad for a year or so after I graduate. So keep your eyes open, guys. Might be that this time next year, I'm sitting in a hostel in Bishkek while the rest of the city sleeps, with two cats purring quietly on my lap. Or maybe sitting in a dining room in Jakarta, getting the staredown from my Indonesian grandmother.

I hope she likes bread.

5-13: Why All of Your Arguments Are Wrong (And So Are Mine)

Today, let's talk about arguing.

We're taking it from the top. Two people, or camps, or parties, disagree. Belief in a higher power, your right to own a gun, the best Avenger, doesn't matter. Just pick a side.

I've got good news and I've got bad news, and I've even made it easy on you and rolled them into one package: You're both already wrong.

"But Sam," you say, because the only thing you enjoy more than an argument is a meta-argument, and also because you're woefully confused as to how the communication of the written word works, "how can that be? I haven't even said anything!"

Unless you excel at interpretive dance, presumably you were about to, and therein lies the problem.

Firstly, you're almost certainly not arguing something unless it means something to you. If it doesn't, you're in what's called debate club, and I'll get to you in a minute. But the fundamental assumption here lies in the idea that you are attached to the point that you're making. It holds value to you because you've built your sense of self around it--perhaps in a big way, as in your belief in a higher power, or perhaps in a significantly smaller one, as in your conviction that Thor is the shit. The former dictates the way you carry out your life, while the latter is just a point of personal pride and opinion. The point is that it's something that you've arrived at through your own thought process and reasoning, and so it's a part of you. You know God is watching out for you, you know that guns should be banned, and goddammit, you know that Thor could kick the Hulk's ass up and down Sakaar.

When you put those parts of yourself out into the world, they will invariably conflict with fundamental parts of other people. This devout atheist knows that belief in the invisible man in the sky turns people into assholes, and she knows that a society without guns is vulnerable to itself, and she knows that hammers and lightning can't do shit to the Hulk because he's the Hulk. She doesn't think these things, mind you, she knows them, same as you know yours.

So naturally, they meet at the baseball diamond in the park at midnight, wearing all black, with Ka-BAR knives and throw down to defend their points.

No, of course they don't. They argue about it. We're civilized human beings and therefore we use our words.

Stop here for a moment, though. Consider two things:

1. Are you honestly prepared to change your mind based on the outcome of this argument?
2. Would you express yourself in the same fashion if nobody challenged you?

The first one is a resounding "no", and if you disagree with that, then really, you're arguing that you're prepared to change your mind and are not going to abandon that point, and unless you do, then you're wrong in the first place. Get it so far?

Good, because the second point is that everything in the preceding paragraph is, to paraphrase the late, great George Carlin, stunningly full of shit. Not the tenets of it, but the fallacy wrapped around the method of delivery: the false dichotomy presented in that proposition is the fundamental flaw of the entire institution of argumentation--the conviction that it's either A or it's B. Let's take the religion argument.

The argument is this: Pick one option:

• God exists.
• God doesn't exist.

Immediately, we've got a problem: What exactly do you define as "god"?

Well shit, let's check a dictionary. Merriam-Webster offers this:

1. The supreme or ultimate reality: as
1. The Being perfect in power, wisdom, and goodness who is worshiped as creator and ruler of the universe
2. Christian Science: the incorporeal divine Principle ruling over all as eternal Spirit : infinite Mind
2. A being or object believed to have more than natural attributes and powers and to require human worship; specifically : one controlling a particular aspect or part of reality
3. A person or thing of supreme value.
4. A powerful ruler.

 If we accept the fact that one or both of the arguers have at least the capacity to comprehend any of the definitions above, I can illustrate as many arguments as you can count on both hands:

• I believe in God (acceptance of God as per definition 1.2)
• I do not believe in God (rejection of God as per definition 1.2)

But also:

• Nothing of any value exists. (Rejection of the idea of God as per def. 3)
• God is existence (Acceptance of God as per def. 3)
• I value divine-right monarchy (Belief in God as per def. 4)
• I don't believe in ghosts (Rejection of the idea of God as per def. 2)
• I believe in the sanctity of my own body (Belief in God as per def. 3)
• I believe in the Norse pantheon (Belief in God as per def.s 1 or 2)
• I don't believe in your basic human rights (Rejection of God as per def. 3)
• I worship Josip Broz Tito (Belief in God as per def. 4)

So we have ten possible arguments (or twenty, or thirty, or a thousand, depending on how careless we are with the word "exists") from what seemed like a two-sided debate. Obviously some of these are ridiculous, but think about the implications--a world of possibilities. A God existing in nature. Rejection of a personified God, but not a higher power. Belief in the Father and the Son, but fuck the Holy Spirit.

Pictured: Poor guy never saw it coming.

But there isn't exactly room for that, because we've generalized ourselves into our comfortable shell. We're not about to accept the nuances of the other person's argument because we're under attack.

It's not about whether or not God exists, it's about the fact that this motherfucker just denied you your right to perceive reality. If his point stands, it means that you got something wrong about reality. And even worse, you did it a very long time ago and you've since built a whole lot of very important things around it.

So it's not about whether or not God exists, it's about preserving your confidence in your ability to judge the world around you--and by extension, preserving reality. And most of us aren't willing to compromise that for the sake of truth. I'd like to be, but I'm not confident in saying that I can concede when my core foundation is challenged.

Thus the arguments become polarized. There's no middle ground because no matter what they're arguing about, be it God or guns or Mjolnir, it really doesn't have a damn thing to do with the many fascinating, humbling, transcendent possibilities that these two beautiful human beings can explore together by way of these subjects. In allowing the inflexible ego to run the show, there are only two ways this argument can go: "I'm right", or "I'm wrong". And considering the stakes, there's actually only one way this argument can go: "I'm right".

The entire institution of arguing isn't based on whatever it is you're arguing about, it's based on being right. And being right is inherently subjective. So by association, the entire idea of having an argument is to make somebody else think the way you're thinking.

But if we're all out to flip the other guy to our point of view, just who the hell is supposed to change their mind?

That's right: nobody. Precisely nobody walks into an argument saying "I wonder what I'll learn today?" so much as "This guy is a fucking idiot." or some less severe derivation if it's a friendly sort of thing. We don't argue anything--not the existence of God, not Hulk vs. Thor--without going for the win.

Well I'm tired of that shit. I'm not claiming to have transcended the ego or anything bitchin' like that. I'm just thoroughly exhausted with passive-aggressive competition and defensive trumping disguised as "civil discourse". People, unless you're arguing for the sake of argument, there is nothing civil about it. We are, as sure as jabbing one another with pointed sticks, attempting to damage the other to save ourselves. Just so happens we're doing it in the mind instead of in the middle of Thunderdome.

I can't think of any alternative except relaxing. Do your best to forget the circumstances. Forget about the past and the future, and just focus on what's going on right now. You've been right before and you've been wrong before; you will be both again. So in the meantime, forget about what you know and focus on what you feel. You might just surprise yourself.




Well, that was clearly on my mind. Thanks for sticking through that pseudo-transcendental head vomit. In other news, I'm back in Beograd, my birthday is tomorrow, and I'm going home in a week. It's the final countdown, kids, so stick around and see what's in store.

5-5: Sam Develops Psychic Powers, or Why I Hate Pants

Let's count today in the number of times I've had to change my pants.

For my first pair of pants, I changed out of relative nudity into shorts. I'm counting that because only two pants-changes doesn't exactly make for a good counting mechanism. I also wanted to see if I could work the term "relative nudity" into a blog post, which was actually regrettably easy, but I digress.

Anyway, I began my day in shorts, and maintained such a state until I discovered just how shallow the bowls in our kitchen are when I turned my bowl of Lion (yes, it comes in cereal form, yes, I will soon have diabetes) about half a degree and instantly deposited about four tablespoons of milk onto my right leg. At this point I mostly bemoaned the loss of cereal, scrubbed off my shorts, tossed them into the washing machine, and strapped on another.

Second pair of pants. Having given up on breakfast, I decided to give lunch a shot (it's a hard life out here). I reheated some of the pasta from last night--penne in a whiskey sauce with hot sausage, for the (epi)curious--and poured myself a welcome glass of orange juice. Carrying them back to my chair, I was treated to the sudden and inexplicable explosion of my glass. Fortunately, my bowl of pasta caught most of the liquid. Unfortunately, the rest of it landed on pretty much all of my pants. Also unfortunately, neither of the previous two locations caught any of the glass; that honor was reserved for my feet. For several seconds I stood there, broken glass in hand, wondering at what point in my day I pissed off physics.

Pictured: Probably when I laughed at this.

I have several reigning theories on how this happened.

• Resonance: The popular theory for "why glass goes boom", and what the internet, in all its sociologically-unsound wisdom, seems to think is always the answer. I dismissed this as fucking stupid pretty much out of hand, considering the properties of the glass, its non-static nature in my hand, and the notable lack of an overweight soprano singer anywhere near the premises.
• Heat: Charles' law in action: Increase the heat, increase the volume. Pockets of air (generally a gas) caused by imperfections in the glass get bigger, glass gets pushed, cup goes boom. Interesting, except I tend to prefer my orange juice sub-boiling. Call me old-fashioned.
• Snipers: A marksman operating from the balcony of the Hotel Europa several city blocks to the northwest could, compensating for air pressure on this rainy day, conceivably have blown away the bottom of my glass, possibly as a warning to me or as a statement of hatred against citrus-based juiced drinks. Two problems: first, there is no terminal sign of munitions anywhere in the apartment, and second, contrary to Hollywood portrayal, Sarajevo has not been riddled with snipers for quite some time.
• Divine retribution: Let's be honest: I'm one godless son of a bitch. Odds are good that in the past week alone, I've blasphemed against no fewer than five major world religions, and that's saying nothing of archaic/forgotten faiths (I have trouble going an hour without making a crack about sun gods or voodoo cults). It's not a malicious thing, I swear--It just so happens that I deal with the concept of an all-knowing, all-powerful being or beings with the ability to blow me well off the edge of infinity and eternity with an errant, eldritch sneeze by laughing about it. I'm not much of a kneeler, so what else can you do? Anyway, yeah, I've definitely screwed the pooch on that whole Pascal's Wager deal. Thing is, I figure a blown-up glass of orange juice is the least of my concerns if this one is the case, so let's revisit this one if the showerhead turns into a snake and tries to kill me, or frogs and crickets start dropping out of the sky.
• Telekinesis: My nascent telekinetic powers manifested and fucked up my lunch. I'm going with this one based on my past experience with trolleycars and street lights, and the fact that I really want nascent telekinetic powers. 

So we're going with telekinesis? Cool.

Anyway, I was covered in all kinds of unpleasantness, so after tweezering some glass out of my body and scrubbing out the carpet, I was onto my next pair of pants.

The third pair of pants actually kicked ass (there's a pun in here but I"m letting it walk). Not only did I get a good chunk of my ISP done, and have a total Matrix moment where I whipped a fly out of the air with my belt (I generally don't condone random insecticide, but flies are and continue to be my exception), but I was treated to the first, and incredibly pleasant, summer thunderstorm of the year. Getting to enjoy it from a covered balcony in my apartment in Sarajevo was just golden. Totally worth exploding glasses any day.

5-3: "THAT Thing Flooded the River?"

Guys, I've got the plague.

Pictured: It's funny, trust me.

So Sarajevo and its visible pollen and dust got me to do something that I haven't done in three full years: get noticeably sick. Don't get me wrong, I've had sniffles, maybe an occasional headache, but last night I had a fever, headache, and stomach problems, and this morning I woke up and my mouth was black.

Trust me, that's not as bad as it sounds. I have no sore throat or any similarly horrible symptoms, and the black gunk hasn't made a reappearance, so I'm hopeful that I'll be back up to 100% imminently. Mainly I'm just pissed that my streak is broken, goddammit.

I poked around the interwebs, and it reaffirmed what I figured: I'd sleepwalked into the mountains and eaten dirt. No, seriously, I figured it was my immune system kicking out a buildup of dust/pollen, and being absolutely awful while doing it. Considering the weather lately, that makes enough sense that I buy it. If it persists into tomorrow, I'll go see a doctor.

Pictured: A doctor.

Besides that, my day loped on as it's wont to do. ISP stress, cooking, cat spam, so forth. A few highlights:

1. According to recently unearthed research on the history of Sarajevo, at one point in the late 19th century, the river that divides the city (which is, let's say, 15 yards wide and about two feet deep on a good day) ran over and flooded the city. I didn't think the river had it in it to flood a kiddie pool.
2. At least, I didn't until last night, when I'm lying in bed and hear a massive *WHOOOOOOOSH* noise coming from outside. I got up to see what it was, and from what I could tell, Sarajevo decided to turn on the river. The normally calm waters were cascading through the channel, and they looked to be...well, three feet deep. Which is something for this river, let me tell you. Mainly the speed, though.
3. I've got at least three government agencies telling me to call them back on for interviews on Monday. My project is due--DUE-due--on Thursday. Nah, it's cool, I didn't need non-frayed nerves all of next week, that's fine. I'll just go have a breakdown, should be fun.
4. I've also tried the UN IOM everyday for the last week and a half with absolutely no success. Congratulations on enforcing every hostile preconception I have about the UN in Bosnia. Stellar job.
5. That said, I've actually dropped an impressive amount of impressively-not awful writing on this document, and (interviews aside) I'm actually on/slightly ahead of schedule. Which I'm sure is going to come crashing down at any moment, but what can I say? I'll take it where I can get it.
6. I'll be going back to Beograd in a week. In two weeks and two days, I'll be heading home. I'm...not sure what to do with this information.

Back into the trenches of paper-writing. If anybody knows anything about human trafficking in Bosnia, you go ahead and drop me a line. Because I know all of my blog readers are Balkans-specializing law-enforcement personnel.

5-1: Things You Learn While Being Strangled by Research, or IT'S MAY, BITCHES!

So you learn several things as your mind twists in the wind thanks to the ginormous paper that may indeed have taken on a mind of its own. It reminds me of that Twilight Zone episode with the dummy that haunts the ventriloquist, and in the end you find out that the dummy overpowered the ventriloquist and made them switch places.

Pictured: Yup. That creepy son of a bitch.

So if the next time you see me, I'm a monotonous lunatic distantly dribbling facts about migrant labor exploitation in Bosnia & Herzegovina (as opposed to my normal role, a monotonous lunatic actively dribbling facts about migrant labor exploitation in Bosnia & Herzegovina), assume that my real self is trapped in a Word document somewhere. Please send help. Or at least justify the margins.

Anyway, here are a few things you realize when your paper starts to write you:

1. If footnotes could have footnotes, my paper would be one page of text and veritable colonies of footnotes. Embedded atop one another, with a unique eusocial hive structure, respite with worker/fighter/queen categories and intricate tunnel systems. My paper would be ants.
2. To paraphrase Blondie (the Tacarra, not the band), there's nothing quite like going to an exotic city, exploring it for a weekend, and promptly shutting yourself away in your apartment onto your laptop for the rest of the month to take on the massive, looming paper.
3. That said, I've been finding little breaks in the most enjoyable ways here (see aforementioned Evil Horde). Of note today was a lovely walk to the mouth of the river, cresting the waterfall, going up some old steps, and exploring an abandoned building we found up there. Absolutely beautiful.
4. Ah hell, I just used a parenthetical reference in my freaking blog post. Not okay.
5. Running. Running is getting better, if still taking it out of me for this whole "minimalist adjustment." I'm still considering getting running shoes for Tough Mudder, just to avoid the risk of real injury. Hopefully between what I've learned/strengthened barefooting it and with shoes that aren't absolute crap, I'll have regained the foot strength that I lost with the knee snafu.
6. Apparently, Bosnia closes on May 1st for some kind of epic holiday. Plan accordingly.

That's all I've got for today. If you want the rest of my words, request a copy of my ISP.

4-28: "Your Grated Nerps Will Be Your Undoing", or Sam Gives a Booklist

I could use this post to update you on the "progress" of my ISP (hint: I still haven't solved human trafficking). I could use it to tell you all about the wonders of Sarajevo, numerous and unceasing as they are. I could even use it to explain the vaguely ominous, question-raising title of this post.

Pictured: Another hint.

Instead, I'm going to talk about some books. I realized that I ended up doing a pleasantly surprising amount of reading during my time in the Balkans, thanks in no small part to pre-class downtime and the wonder that is the Kindle. So here, for your enjoyment and entertainment, is the unadulterated list of Sam's Book Club. Join now, and receive a free sense of steadily spiraling lunacy!

• The Tiger: A True Story of Vengeance and Survival by John Vaillant: Okay, so this one was actually started and finished the month leading up to my departure, but considering all the anticipation and preparatory work for the trip, I certainly feel like it deserves inclusion. The Tiger follows two intertwining stories occurring in 1997 in the Primorye region of Russia, a beautiful, unforgiving expanse of coniferous jungle vast enough to be considered by some environmentalists to be one of the "lungs of the earth" (the second being the Amazon, but I digress). The first story is that of Yuri Trush, then-head of Inspection Tiger, a unit dedicated to maintaining the delicate stasis between the human and tiger population; the second is that of a particular tiger, wronged by poachers and out for chillingly-targeted revenge. It's a very well-written reminder of just how conditional our seat at the top of the food chain is.
• Medicine Men: Extreme Appalachian Doctoring by Carolyn Jourdan: I started this in the Philly terminal fresh after hearing about the five-hour delay on the connector to Boston. Carolyn Jourdan was a Wall Street...analyst? Broker? Something that involved upper six-figure salaries, caffeine IVs, and flexible moral compasses. Then her country-doctor father suffered a stroke, necessitating her return to her eastern Kentucky home to help care for him and work as a receptionist/assistant in his clinic. In doing so realized that the good she did there far outweighed any benefit of her previous lifestyle, and she made the change permanent. The book is a short but sweet collection of anecdotes pertaining to the general hilarity that ensues when one man with a pick-up truck and a medical school degree has to look after hundreds of rugged miles with nobody but his family to help him. Another eye-opener, but by no means a downer.
• Becoming the Iceman by Wim Hof and Justin Rosales: This was one I'd been meaning to pick up for a very long time. Wim Hof is a Dutch athlete who has trained himself (and trains others) to resist extreme cold and heat, and has 19 world records to prove it (one of which consists of climbing Mount Everest in socks and bicycle shorts). Justin Rosales of State College, PA, to put it simply, was not. Together, the two write a book of their original, separate goals, their eventual meeting, and the former's steady but successful instruction of the latter, eventually training him to the point of breaking a world record of Justin's own (the best 3k time in sub-freezing temperature, wearing only shorts, if I remember correctly). I'll state it plainly: neither are writers. Wim's sections are direct to a fault, occasionally skipping details that would be much better said, and Justin's are pretty scantily edited and can be awkward to read. That said, it serves to affirm my faith that I'm not being bullshitted--these are two athletes giving their honest accounts of their training, not two salesmen trying to dazzle you into buying a book. I've tried a few of these techniques, namely the establishment of resistance with cold showers, and I've met with success. Even beyond that, the philosophy of pursuing success espoused by both guys is reason enough to read it.
• H.P. Lovecraft: The Complete Collection By Englebert Humperdink (no, really, it's by H.P. Lovecraft): Did I read anywhere close to all of these? No. This is literally everything ever published by Lovecraft, in anthologies, in novel form, in serialized pulp magazines--the man's goddamn shopping list might very well be in here. And how much did I pay for it on the Kindle? $2.99. Shut up and take my money. I jumped right to Call of Cthulhu because it's Call of Cthulhu, then dug into At the Mountains of Madness, reading it over several cold nights in front of the wood stove at the host family's. The man wrote suspense like it's nobody's business, and he presented more detailed scenery with three paragraphs than some movies do with their entire FX budget. And it's $2.99! Go!
• Gods of Mischief by George Rowe: So you're shooting pool at a bar with a friend, when three or four tobacco-chewing, hulked-out, leathered-up, pissed-off bikers from the Vagos Motorcycle Club step through the door. Their leader eyes up the table and decides he wants it for himself. You, valuing the attachment of your balls to the rest of you, step back, but your friend won't stand for that kind of bullshit. Fifteen minutes later, he's beaten half to death on the floor. Three days after that, he's found in the desert, beaten the other half. What do you do? If you're George Rowe, forty-year old hardass jailbird-gone-straight, you come to the ATF offering to go undercover in the Vagos, rising through the ranks and gathering enough information to take the Vagos all the way down. The conversational tone of Rowe's writing doesn't preclude its quality and depth, and the man tells one hell of a story that's well worth the read.
• The Religion of the Samurai: A Study of Zen Philosophy and Discipline in China and Japan by Kaiten Nukariya: A brief history and overview of Zen Buddhism, covering meditative practices, application to historical perspectives, and comparison with other sects of Buddhism. Written in a laconic fashion that simply does not cater to those who don't want to learn, Nukariya's piece is a fantastic read for inquisitive minds.
• Barefoot Running: Step-By-Step by Roy Wallack and Ken-Bob Saxton: Despite the veritably endless ridicule I've gotten from just about every non-runner I've talked to on the subject, both the unearthed research and personal progress I've had have gotten me enthusiastic about barefoot/minimalist running. I picked up the guide by the guru himself, Ken-Bob Saxton, and had mixed feelings. On the one hand, he supplies plenty of information with steady, reliable support from the scientific community at large, and he readily acknowledges the points of detractors with due and fair diligence. On the other hand, I'm a bit off-put by his insistence that there is no healthy/safe middle-ground between shod running and barefoot running (as the proud owner of a pair of Vibrams, this alarmed me at first). With that in mind I posit that the book itself, if taken with a grain of salt, is a fantastic resource, and if taken just as a memoir, is a pleasant and playful read detailing the growth and development of the most unique athletes I've ever heard of.
• Sympathy For the Devil edited by Tim Pratt: I'll put it bluntly: this is a collection of short stories about Satan. Ignoring the obvious implications for my mortal soul, it's actually a spectacular read, with some world-class names from the worlds of horror, fantasy, and sci-fi writing (Neil Gaiman in particular contributes a brilliant little piece). Some of them are downright terrifying, others hilarious, others completely baffling, but just about all of them are loads of fun. I couldn't approach selecting a favorite, but up there are Sold to Satan by Mark Twain, Metaphysicsby Elizabeth M. Glover, With By Good Intentions by Carrie Richerson, We Can Get Them For You Wholesale by Neil Gaiman, and about half of the other stories in the book.
• Confessions of an Idiot by Chris McDougall: This...was bad. No two ways around it. I searched for a memoir on BASE jumping and saw the name Chris McDougall, who I mistook for Chris MacDougall, author of Born to Run. Let this be a lesson to always read the free sample. I bought it instead and made it ten percent of the way through the book before realizing that "Confessions of an Idiot" was not an ironic title. The entirety of the book seems to be stories ending with (often literally) the words "yeah, we were dickheads back then" regardless of how long ago the story actually took place. I wrote like he does in this book when I was in eighth grade. The good news is that every once in a while, he talked about BASE jumping. The bad news is that apparently every BASE escapade is carried out in a stupid, irresponsible, reckless way. If you're doing it recklessly by the standards of freaking BASE jumping, you know you're doing it wrong.
• On the Decay of the Art of Lying by Mark Twain: Although this is not a book, and in fact was an essay delivered to the Historical Club of Hartford for a thirty-dollar prize, I'm putting it in here as possibly the funniest thing I've read to date on my Kindle. I won't try to explain it, just go out and find it online. Totally worth ten minutes of your time.
• Forty-Seven Ronin: A Novella of Japan's Most Legendary Tale of Revenge by Dimetrios C. Manolatos: Although it's not winning any literary prizes, or even any praise, anytime soon, Manolatos does succeed in retelling the phenomenally under-told (and allegedly true) story of the 47 Ronin, former samurai who infiltrate Edo (Tokyo) to avenge their slain master and regain their honor. Although it features some of the most painful dialogue and unnecessary carnage I've read since middle school, he relates a great story relatively intact and gives a fun time in 150 pages, so I've got no problem with it.
• The Undiscovered Self by Carl Jung: One of Jung's more influential works, The Undiscovered Self functions as a crash-course in the idea of the shadow-self, the summation of the parts of yourself that you'd rather not deal with, so down you push them until you think they've gone away. Jung relays the concept much better than I just did, and then runs with it, bringing up ideas of projection and the harm that suppressing and denying the shadow can bring about. Finally, he postulates that the rejection of the shadow has put us where we are today (as this was written in the late forties/early fifties, Jung, like the rest of the world, had just witnessed the largest immediate loss of human life in history with the dropping of the atomic bombs at Hiroshima and Nagasaki and was understandably alarmed at the state of humanity). A groundbreaking piece even today, I think everybody could do with a quiet room and half a day to work through it.
• Nocturnal by Scott Sigler: Modern horror at its finest. Nocturnal tells the story of Brian Clauser and "Pookie" Chang, two San Francisco cops who stumble onto a century-old conspiracy that goes all the way to the top after being forced off of an investigation involving a growing number of ritualistic slaughters. As they probe deeper and deeper into it, one of them begins to realize that he's far more involved than he'd ever thought, and not necessarily on the right side. It's gripping, it's suspenseful, it's genuinely chilling at some points. I first heard about it when Sigler went on Joe Rogan's podcast. The man knows what he's doing at a keyboard, definitely pick this one up if you've got the chance.

And that takes us to here and now. Next on the docket, ISP-related readings aside, is Infected by Scott Sigler (yes, I'm hooked), and probably Symbols and the Interpretation of Dreams by Carl Jung. Then maybe I'll fuck off and watch a TV show or something, who knows? Stranger things have happened.

4-24: An Afternoon With the Evil Horde

Okay, so three main things: I learned to cook, I hung out in one of the tallest buildings in Sarajevo, and I had a run-in with The Evil Horde.

Pictured: Sadly not the same Evil Horde.

Let's do that in order.

Guys, somewhere between Belgrade and Sarajevo I learned how to cook. I'm a bit concerned by this. I'm considering several possible causes, and the front-runners are either demonic possession (see previous post) or some kind of Manchurian Candidate-esque hypnosis, except replace the Dragunov sniper rifle with a spatula. I support the latter, solely based on the fact that I would be assuming the role of Frank Sinatra, which is definitely an item off of the bucket list.

Well, whatever the cause, I have no complaints. Yesterday's creation was Cajun-style lacho with spicy fried potatoes (Thank you Sarge, wherever you are, for the inspiration). It took about an hour to make, there was some chili powder involved, and overall everybody was happily full at the end of it. Tonight, considering it was just the two carnivorous men eating, we went with a rigatoni in tomato/pepperoni meat sauce, with garlic and bell peppers. For something done on the fly, you could do much worse. Overall, I've got no complaints.

That's not true, I do have one: today there is one kind of pepper in this country, and that is a green bell. Although I'm told that just two days ago the big store down the street had red and yellow as well, yesterday I scoured half of the Old City and all I found anywhere were green peppers. I'd like to think that somewhere in Sarajevo, some toque-wearing maniac is roasting a vat of peppers the size of my apartment building, cackling madly as he backs up a tanker truck full of oil, but I'm not holding my breath.

Anyway, today I had my interview at OSCE. I entered the massive, sleek glass skyscraper (one of two identical structures), walked through the mini-mall at the base, and came to OSCE check-in. Two guards stared me down as I stepped to the receptionist's bulletproof glass cubicle and promptly butchered the name of my contact. That, plus the acoustically hostile nature of bulletproof glass in general, merited a few tries before she finally dialed, glaring at me in the process. I turned to the intimidating guards instead, one of whom succeeded in dialing down the tension by a few notches by humming the theme to Serbian jeopardy under his breath. Well-played.

My contact came for me and escorted me through several keyed doors, heading up an elevator and guiding me into an office with the most spectacular view of Sarajevo I've yet had, which is saying something. The interview itself went fairly well, and I managed not to make a complete ass of myself (although I do not look forward to transcribing it).

I returned home, and then I remembered that Dave had tickets to an FC Sarajevo match at 5. We flagged down a cab, the kindly old driver of which inexplicably knows our program director (and figured it out from talking to us). Clearly, we've med Bosnian Sherlock Holmes.

We did a lap around the stadium, entering (and almost getting roughed up by security for not knowing the Bosnian word for "pat down") and finding seats close behind the goal. We proceeded to kick back in the almost completely vacant stadium. I say almost because of the smattering of fans in the bleachers, enormous security presence, and players on the field. Oh, and these guys:

Pictured: The cheering section for the orcs.

"Horde Zla" translates into, I shit you not, The Evil Horde. Which is hilarious in and of itself, before you add in the fact that for ninety minutes straight the Evil Horde chanted in unison, either for FC Sarajevo or possibly to appease the blood god Khorne. Respite with their own drummer, pounding out a cadence to their eldritch intonation, we started taking bets on how many ballboys would be sacrificed during halftime.

Pictured: Halftime.

Fortunately for the surrounding villages, FC Sarajevo won 1-0 and there was no pillaging to be had. Although the field looked ready for it--I've never seen a soccer pitch with its own moat before. It swallowed a couple of soccer balls.

Look, you're observant people, so observe my observations smattered around this blog post and enumerate them if it floats your boat. Big day tomorrow, so I'm off. And remember...

Beware the Evil Horde.

4-22: Dave Exorcises Sam

There are days when the gods of narrative smile upon me and I can put out something cohesive, something phrase-turning, and eloquent, and entertaining enough to merit interested reading. Then there are days when lists happen. Today is the latter. Take it or leave it.

1. So I'll be home in under a month. This is terrifying. And exciting. And saddening. And relieving. All of the above. I'm not looking forward to expensive (read-reasonably priced) sandwiches, and crappy public transportation. I am, however, looking forward to driving, and lifting, and seeing a whole bunch of people that I haven't seen in entirely too long.
2. I'm halfway through the Bosnian Ministry of Security's 2010 report on human trafficking and I'm fairly certain it was run through Google Translate to get to where it is right now. There are articles where there shouldn't be and structure of the sentence that makes use of the word "of" like using it in a fashion reminiscent of this is a part of regular parlance of this language. <---that, for 75 pages.
3. Made carbonara last night, and you know what? No casualties! I definitely goofed on the consistency, but considering we're making cream out of milk and butter and no measuring cups, it's a bit of a challenge. Pink sauce is next!
4. Don't ask me how we got here, but AskMen has an article on how to perform exorcisms and I'm pretty sure I busted a gut laughing. Played totally straight.
5. After persistent email pestering, I secured an interview with OSCE (Organization for Security Cooperation in Europe) on Wednesday, and I think I have one with Human Rights Council Helsinki (BiH branch, of course--Finland is a bit out of my way) in the works. This whole project is starting to grind along.
6. This may be the first paper I've ever written that feels like it has a purpose to it. Will it probably just get shuffled away into the SIT archives? Sure. But maybe being here conducting my own cold interviews and living in the place where it's all happening has that kind of effect.
7. The day I got here, a protein powder store opened up a block away. Coincidence? I think not.

Off to do battle with the forces of evil, pictured below:

4/18: Sam Knows a Guy

I have some good news and some bad news. The good news is that I did not light the kitchen on fire. The bad news is that I blew 7+ hours on a bus yesterday and didn't get an interview. More on both in a minute.

Okay, let's try to piece together the last two days:

Yesterday: I got up at fuck-all-thirty to head for the bus station. The plan, according to my adviser, was to jump a bus to Tusla, to jump a bus to Bijeljiena (go ahead. Try to pronounce it. I dare ya.) to meet with members of an NGO she's friends with. It was to be, in her words, "an adventure". So I got out of bed and suited up at around 7:30 (middle school flashbacks abound) and trekked out into the brisk morning dew, bound for the traffika for a tram ticket. I picked it up and stood at the stop, waiting for the number one to come along.

The three comes.

The two comes.

The three comes again.

It's been about four threes, five twos, and a five now, and it's about 8:10. The bus to Tusla departs at 8:30. Shrugging, I hop on the next three and hope for the best.

I get off at the junction outside the castle-like US embassy, and start the walk to the train station (which was about three minutes long, really rendering the number one an exercise in laziness). I manage to find my way to the station, pick up a ticket to Tusla, and get on the bus four minutes before it departs. So far, so good.

On the road to Tusla, I determined a few interesting things:

• This section of Bosnia looks like Coal Country, PA, or maybe VA, or KY, or really anywhere they've ever blown up a chunk of mountain to drag out coal. There's some serious dilapidation, pieces of a freshly-deceased industry starting to decompose and return the space to nature, that resonate pretty strongly with places I've seen on the road to Pittsburgh or Charlottesville.
• The villages in between these rotting plants and quarries are phenomenally isolated little patches of life--almost what you'd expect to see if those industrial scars had never been inflicted. Terraced farming, patchy little herds of sheep, and hard work on both dominated the hamlets we passed, and in which we occasionally stopped. That fascinated me, as well--for a big-city Sarajevo to (sort of) big-city Tusla, we had a lot of stops. I wish they'd do more things like this on MegaBus or BoltBus back home--it'd make life easier for a lot of people.
• There wasn't a chance in hell I was going to make it to Tusla on time.

That third one being the most salient detail, I arrived in the bus terminal at 12:30 (four hours, compared to the supposed two) and tried to order my ticket. I gave him my best Bosnian (which, according to others, is at least coherent), and after several attempts he gestured to get out of his line, muttering something about "fucking Russians". That...was strange. I guess my accent's still on the "chyeh" vs. "teh" side.

I soon figured out at least part of his frustration (I guess somebody pissed in his Froot Loops this morning to compound it)--the next bus to Bijeljiena was at three--an hour after my interview. It was then that I discovered that I had no cell phone reception. Combining all of these factors and my assured lack of desire to sleep under a bridge in Bijeljiena or Tusla, decided to head back. For impressions as to what that was like. start from the end of bullet #2 above and work backwards. 

I was exhausted at the end of the day, but decided to not make it a total loss and got some further bearings of the city by knocking out some errands. Stumbling back to the apartment, I recuperated by lounging around the house, doing some research, and enjoying some wonderful cooking. I'd say I rounded off the day pretty well.

Today: I got up, ran, shot around some emails, and went out for lunch where I impressed a shop owner by knowing how to say "cabbage" in Bosnian, which let me tell you, is a blazing hallmark of some seriously advanced skills in this language. Five whole letters, man.

Much more impressively, I, Samuel Rapine, displayed my cooking prowess by making myself and my roommates bananas foster. What's more, I did not kill anybody, be it through rum-turned-napalm or instant Type VII Diabetes (that's the kind that looks like ebola)! Although I'll tweak the recipe next time, I'm proud to say that everybody enjoyed it and I did it without measuring cups. Job well done.

1. One of my roommates brought home a Jaeger knockoff. I think it's called Jaegerdulan. We're scared.
2. That said, it's hardly the scariest thing in the freezer. The previous residents here left several lovely items in the freezer, such as half of a tomato, a calcified loaf of pita (it didn't crack when I took a hammer to it), and a suspicious bag with a picture of a chicken on it and some kind of stump that I didn't stick around long enough to identify coming out of the opening. I'll stick to the fridge, thank you.
3. Speaking of bluntly packaged hazards to public health, they also sell Jack Daniels in a can here, with the label "the perfect mix of cola and Jack!" Given the content of the rest of that shelf, I'd stake money that it's pretty much an even ratio.
4. Our balcony has a light. I can't accurately convey the sense of peace I felt reading a book, feet up, with the moon shining off of the river as the city twinkled all around me, but maybe I'll get better at it because I'm damn sure doing that on a regular basis.

I'm off to bed. Full day tomorrow! Hopefully I'll survive any latent poisoning/bad hoodoo from the bananas foster.

4-16: A Guided Tour of My Home (or Check Out My Swank-Pad)

I'm home!

Well, it kind of feels like that. I'm absolutely enthralled with Sarajevo, even more so than I was the last time I was here. The spring certainly helps, but much more than that, the idea that in the last three days alone, I've gotten a more nuanced understanding of the place--I can get around on public transit if I really have to, I know where some important landmarks, and of course, I know where to find good ćevapi. Maybe it's living without a host-family or program to hold my hand, or maybe I'm just getting better at working with foreign cities. However you spin it, Sarajevo fits like a glove.

As far as the new apartment goes, I'm turning to my old fallback of bulleted lists, because who needs literate structuring when dots will do the trick?

On the plus side, the apartment
-...is huge, with multiple bedrooms, a spacious living room (with a comfortable couch), an absurdly well-stocked kitchen, and a shower with a shower curtain and nozzle mount. For those of you who don't understand the significance of that, imagine trying to shower with half a hand. Or, you know, without a mount for the shower-head. Whichever one makes more sense to you.
-...has a beautiful view of the river, flowing around the bend near the national theater and giving the (somewhat wrong) impression that it runs all the way into the distant mountains. Also easily seen is the gorgeous collection of buildings along the banks on either side.
-...has a fantastic landlord. Nihad, you rock.
-...is decorated with care, making it feel less like a month-long rental and more like somewhere to which I can come home and relax after a day of researching all kinds of unpleasantness. Of particular pleasantness is the impressionist art lining the walls, the well-maintained (or possibly plastic) plants scattered tactfully about, and of course, the (presumably mock) flintlock pistol on the wall.
-...is wonderfully located, being about 300m from the (relative) center of the old city. I can see the place where World War I started from my balcony. How cool is that?
-...totally has a balcony. Need I say more?

On the other hand, it
-...is lit up like a Dutch brothel by the 12,000 terawatt spotlight shining on the synagogue next door throughout the night. Although eventually we were able to jury-rig a blanket/curtain over the most salient points, it's still a bit unpleasant.
-...is a bit loud, considering the tram going by throughout the night just across the river. Although this ingrains the nighttime tram schedule into my brain, so that's kind of cool.
-...is clearly haunted, judging by the goofy noises, flickering lights, self-closing doors, and this little fucker:

Pictured: The face waiting for you in the deepest circle of Hell.

So, with that image freshly branded into your retinas like a flashbang, I present to you the tour of my digs.

Pictured: Nom central.

The kitchen, in which I make eggs, sausage, pasta, store a fridge full of spinach and bananas, and burn just about anything else. Although I'd like to think I'm getting better. I leave preparation of anything past 11:59 am to more skilled hands than mine.

Pictured: Bond. Apartment Bond.

The living room, and entirely sleep-able couch. This is where the highest amount of swank in my swank-pad is concentrated, and you can clearly see why here:

Pictured: It's like the riviera, but half as pricey and a quarter as pretentious.

I had a picture of Dave's room (ft. Dave), but I'd imagine he'd object, so in place I present this:

Pictured: Same principle, different details.

And finally, THIS. SHOWER. WITH A BRACKET.

Pictured: WOOOOOOOO!

So yes, this place is awesome. Be jealous. Or come visit.

Observations:

1. Sarajevo is just friendlier than Beograd. Hey, it happens.
2. It really is prettier, too. Even though it's much more war-torn, and in parts dilapidated, and there's definitely a definitively hood part to it (which Beograd interestingly, notably lacks), between its natural beauty, its majestic layout, and the general innovation of architecture and urban planning, it comes together just right.
3. http://thoughtcatalog.com/2013/the-marathon/ <---this.
4. I OD'd on sunlight yesterday. Don't get me wrong, I've come a very long way from the days of second-degree burns because of bare shoulders. But after half a year of pretty much perpetual grey, a long walk in a t-shirt through sunny Sarajevo followed by a few hours of reading facing the sun on the porch, I think the vitamin D influx hit me like a truck. I spent a lot of last night with a splitting headache, and most of today in a chaotic mood (read--like a coked-up chimpanzee). Hope it levels out, but it still beats the grey.
5. Sarajevo public transit sounds like a spaceship. It also moves with the alacrity and grace of a dead yak. Mostly this is because the main tram line runs alongside (in the middle of, really) the largest road in the city, and therefore has to stop every fifty meters to let some asshole in a Yugo pull a u-turn.
6. Yes, there are Yugos here.
7. But there are also an ENORMOUS number of sport bikes here, which really just makes my day.

Thinking of Boston (seriously, click on number three), enjoying the sun (when it's not overwhelming me), and slowly but surely becoming a connoisseur of fine ćevapčići. Stay safe, everyone!

4-13: Vidimo Se, Beograd!

 Today, I leave Beograd forever.

Yeah, not really. But I'll be in Sarajevo until May 10th, which at this point almost feels like forever. I know, I know, it'll fly by when I'm actually there/moving through it. Especially because the weather's nice, and I'm doing something I care about/believe in, and I'm living with some of my favorite people on this side of the world. So naturally, the time is liable to pass like a snap. That, in my opinion, is an excellent excuse to make the most of it.

Belgrade...what can I say? Oh right, this:

The Bad:

• You occasionally smell like potatoes gone very, very wrong. It has a tendency to go hard when it does, too. You taste that stuff.
• You can't really make up your mind on this whole "weather" thing, except when you resolve to turn my balls into ice cubes with a three-day long wind running at about Mach 3.
• Color has been barred entry to the city gates, which is strange, because the rest of this country is a veritable artist's palette.

The Good:

• You are absolutely beautiful at the strangest times. Not in your average, Bruges-like European fairy-tale city way, but in your scars, your being, your propensity to stand back up and stoically go about your day after being knocked down.
• You are delicious. Sarajevo gets the rap for good ćevapi, but they don't know how to serve it like you do. What a shame.
• Your people are plucky. Maybe not always outwardly friendly, or even outwardly tolerant, but plucky. Which is much more endearing if you ask me.
• YOU MAKE SENSE! Layout-wise. Okay, maybe your streets will occasionally, inexplicably change names once or twice or five times in their run, but that's to be expected in a post-communist country. Beyond that, it's logical, it's well-arranged, public transit goes damn near anywhere, and the layout is rational!

Is this an exhaustive list? Hell no. But it's been on my mind, so I figured I'd share. Observations:

1. Yesterday, I visited a wretched hive of scum and villainy. Okay, that's not at all a fair epithet for the Chinese market, but I justify it with reasons twofold. Firstly, it's a Star Wars reference. Come on. Secondly, the Chinese market, located deep in the heart of Novi Beograd (New Belgrade), is renowned as somewhere you can go to find just about anything that you need. Raw octopus? Easy. Obscurely-sized screwdriver? Done. Remote control for a VCR from the Yeltsin era? Got it. For all (read-both) of my Pennsylvania readers, think Zerns, but stacked up two stories high, plus many fewer Republicans and many more Chinese people. It's entirely possible I just saw the entire Chinese expat population of Beograd while I was wandering around looking for a button-down shirt. They seemed nice.
2. I was served rakija in a kaffana yesterday in a small vessel that I quickly identified as a crackpipe. My friend told me it was shaped as such to keep people from drinking it like a shot, as apparently in kaffanas they serve "the good stuff". I have my suspicions concerning other reasons, which mostly concerns how the band managed to play so fast.
3. Post-kaffana, we spilled out into the beautiful night and headed to a park, to carouse in typical Serbian fashion. We quickly discovered the playground and proceeded to rapidly regress to childhood. I am officially awesome at jumping off of swings.

I'm off to catch the bus to Sarajevo. Updates about my bitchin' swank pad are soon to follow.

4-10: Sam Never Sleeps Again Ever

Hey folks. So a little friendly advice: when your academic program is relatively lax for nine weeks, and week eleven marks the beginning of the independent study project with a marked decrease in rigid scheduling, rationale dictates that week ten is going to be an uproariously cluster-fucking shitshow of a time.

Do not ignore rationale.

Yes, this was that week. But after hundreds of read research pages, a dozen pages of topic proposal, half a dozen revisions, and at least 24 hours of stolen sleep, I am pleased to announce that beginning on April 15th, I will be living in Sarajevo to study domestic and international law-enforcement responses to human trafficking in post-Dayton Bosnia & Herzegovina. It should be...well, heartbreaking, really. But I'm thrilled for the opportunity and hope to get the ball rolling on a topic that needs much more coverage than it's getting.

With that in mind, I'm kicking back in the next two or three days. I have to pack, clean up around here, formulate a game plan--all the fun stuff. In the meantime, the world has been an observable place. Bear in mind, in my relatively sleepless state (I fell asleep as the sun was rising twice this week) linear time kinda crapped out around day two. Nevertheless, here we go:

• So. Spring. Where the hell were you, buddy? I thought you showed up about two weeks ago, then you flaked out, and now you come crawling back. And I...oh, who am I kidding. I can't stay mad at you. Seventy-degree weather and chirping birds, you can come around any time you'd like. Just don't bring the hayfever.
• Let's talk about public parks. Let's talk about beautiful views of half of the city from the precipice rising a hundred feet above the sparkling river. Let's talk about the seasonable purchase of ice cream from vendors (caramel cream. Be jealous, punks). Let's talk about seeing kids on a class trip playing a pickup game of soccer. Let's talk about stray dogs friendly enough to let you scratch 'em behind the ears. Let's talk about how spring gets two bullet points because goddammit, this season is beautiful.
• Speaking of nature, I got bushwhacked (forgive the pun) by a tree the other day while coming home from a run. I was walking through a green crosswalk when BAP. Right on the back of the head. I turned, arms coming up, and saw my assailant: half of a tree branch, laying defeated on the ground (I guess my ferocious battle-cry of "nrnrrrghh, FUCK" as I spun to confront it was enough to scare it to death.
• After two and a half months of Yugos, Trabbies, and B-grade Volkswagens, I saw a cherry-red Audi R8 cruising along Makedonska yesterday. Where has that guy been hiding?

Hopefully I'll be back on track over the next few days. That said, there's gonna be a bit of moving turbulence, so don't set your watch by these posts. Also, if you are setting your watch by them, then your watch is probably FUBAR by now.

4-5: Spring In Your Step

Alright, let's open it up with a disclaimer: Last post was totally, 100%, chem trail-grade bullshit. April Fools, guys. Although in all fairness, the odds of me finding myself in Serbian prison aren't exactly laughable, so I guess the lead-in makes it understandable.

Spring has arrived! At least for a day or so. I heard birds, there was a blue sky, and the gray buildings were positively...well, still gray. But a brighter gray, which was nice.

Kids, it's been quite a long week, and I'm still a bit off my game in terms of this whole "articulation" thing, so hey, look, some observations!

• Perhaps you recall my post a few weeks back talking about the occasional explosive sparks coming from the overhead trolley power lines. Hey, no big deal. This is Beograd, bitches! So I thought nothing of it when a particularly big spark blew out above me (it's Friday. Maybe the trolley was excited). Then, about three seconds later, I saw two ragged, slightly singed feathers float gently down to land at my feet. Poor fella never stood a chance.
• I got on the relatively empty bus and saw the open backseat, slightly elevated. I climbed the small step, picked the middle seat, sat down, and realized that I had a goddamn throne. Or perhaps the Kirk seat on the Enterprise. However you roll it, it was freaking powerful. Good way to start your day.
• Fastforward to the end of the day: I grabbed dinner and the guy forgot my order. Without thinking, "I ordered pljeskavica with cabbage and onions" came out of my mouth in solid Serbian. At least solid enough to be understood. Right on.

Srpski reć dnevni: (I may be totally butchering this, as my half-asleep host-dad told it to my also-half-asleep self): Imanjak--a person who shares the same name as another person, e.g. Samuel L. Jackson is my imanjak. Which is a sweet feeling.

4-1: The Thing About the #2

Hey, folks. Pretty busy day. I'm a bit rushed, so I'm going to bulletize it. Here are the cool parts of today:

• Only just made the #2 this morning. Had to sprint down the street, dodge out of the way of a Skoda, and legitimately jump for the door. Driver was a bit pissed, but hey, they generally are, and it felt pretty damn cool, so I've got no regrets.
• Got into class today and found out from a rather ecstatic Mirijana that my ISP proposal to do an immersive study of hardline nationalist groups in Serbian prisons got approved! To be honest, I'm a little bit concerned--on the one hand, it's going to be a hell of an experience; on the other, I'm not exactly shiv-proof. Hey, it'll be an experience.
• Language class today was interesting. Nikica finally caved and agreed to teach us profanity. That's some seriously fucked-up stuff. Gotta love the creativity of Slavic languages, though.
• I'm pretty sure I'm getting married to a beautiful girl I met here. Her name is Dunja. She doesn't speak much English, and I don't think she knows my name, but try to be cool about it, guys. She needs the green card and that ecstasy isn't going to run itself.
• Last but certainly not least, I got the tattoo! It burns a bit, but I'm not worried. The place was clean enough. Check it out:

Srpski reć dnenvi: Апрелили: I'll let you figure it out.

3-28: I Think Winter Revenge-Killed Spring

Which is my way of saying that it's cold as balls. I'm also fairly tired, so I'm going to jump right into some observations:

• I almost caused a scooter accident wearing my Vibrams today. Or maybe it was the shorts in cold weather. Of which I don't really give a damn, because I had a fantastic run wearing them (the Vibrams, not the shorts). Any runner who's frustrated by consistent injuries, give barefoot/minimalist footwear running a try. As ridiculous as it looks or sounds, you can't argue with results. Unless you're driving a scooter, apparently.
• I heard my host-dad yell "Oh, jebem ti!" from the kitchen today while repairing the sink. I had to stifle my laughter in a sleeve, although I was thrilled that I understood.
• Apparently, the driving test in Serbia is an intentional, paranoia-inducing mindfuck. The cops who administer it deliberately try to trip you up by doing charming things like pulling your handbrake while you're at a stoplight (and therefore distracted by trivial little things like the road), or sitting in the back, unfolding a large newspaper, and then failing you if you don't tell them to stop blocking your rear-view. No wonder everyone drives like a maniac.
• Last night I was the only person on the number two (except for, I soundly pray, the driver), and let me tell you, there is nothing quite so evocative of a horror movie than an empty, dirty tram car, lit by fluorescent lights, careening through the darkest part of Beograd at night. Fortunately, I remain un-murdered by ghosts, but I suppose my time here is still young!
• The ghosts would be fairly validated, actually, considering I cheated on the #2 with the #65. In my defense, it's a much more efficient route, which actually means that I might not take it all the time. Every once in a while, I appreciate the journey more than the destination. I know, I'm surprised too.

Serbian word of the day: Hladan (хладан): Cold. (I don't care if it's a repeat, it's freaking cold out there. And in here. Time for another blanket.)

Also, have some Bruce Lee. Fun fact: Apparently, they can't get enough of the guy in Bosnia.

3-24: Srebrenica

"Angels on the sideline
Baffled and confused
Father blessed them all with reason
And this is what they choose"

~Tool, Right in Two

"I dream of my father, but not often enough." ~Child of a victim of the Srebrenica genocide

Back in Beograd as of an hour ago. Today we visited Srebrenica, where, beginning on July 11th, 1995, over 8000 Bosniak men of "military age" were separated from their loved ones by Serb paramilitary forces and summarily executed while inept UN troops looked on. The massacre lasted eleven days, but that means nothing to a town and people still haunted by the ghosts of what happened there.

There's a memorial/cemetery and awareness center at the site of the genocide, divided by a road that runs to the heart of the town two kilometers away. We disembarked to bitter wind and silent air. To the left stood the dilapidated factory where the men were systematically separated from their families. To the right stretched a sea of white granite tombstones, perfectly similar to one another save for the names etched in Latin and Arabic scripts. A dog with a twisted front leg loped up to us, sniffing around our group.

We were given rein to walk among the stones. I've walked through grave sites before, and the difference in this one to most others I've visited--prior knowledge of its history aside--was the utter and complete uniformity, how every row blended together into one repeating pattern, without a break. I realized, as I read name after name on these unchanging slabs, that this kind of uniformity can only happen when they're all erected at the same time. The cemetery of a peaceful community will be haphazard, chaotic, the graves as varied as the lives that ended six feet beneath their visages. When eight-thousand people die in eleven days, they are filed away and duly marked in a ledger; nothing else can logistically be done, and so they have been robbed of their voice, their individuality, their identity, in this way as well.

We moved into a room containing a photographic exhibit at the cemetery gates. The room was stark, white, and subterranean--it felt as though I was entering one of the thousands of graves between which I had walked. The images were screams without voices; they implied horrors too visceral to display, spoke words too maddening to whisper. I can't say that any one picture hit me the hardest, but two stick in my mind. One presents a forensic specialist exhuming one of the primary mass grave sites in 2002. The scientist's hand, encased in a spotless rubber glove, tenderly grasps that of a corpse, its extremity rotted through, as they begin the process of victim identification. The other image is a large expanse of eastern Bosnian forest doubtlessly nearby, with an observer captured in the very bottom edge of the photograph. The only thing that can be seen of the observer is the text on the back of his billed cap: "United States of America".

We emerged from the gallery and crossed the road, entering the factory where thousands of Bosniaks were kept by the Dutch UN forces, who eventually caved to the pressure of Serb paramilitary commander Ratko Mladić and relinquished the civilians. The entrance to this section of the memorial was secured by a large iron padlock and rusted chain. Our guide opened it and led us inside.

The warehouse itself was barren, echoing. The majority of it seemed unchanged from the events of seventeen years ago. Snow melt dripped from the gutted ceiling onto the concrete floor below, pounding out an even time like an inexorable drum. The light scarcely touched the extreme corners of the warehouse, and one dark cube in the center housed an exhibit. I went there first.

Within were the personal stories of about a dozen Srebrenica victims, and a picture and personal effect (such as a comb, or a handkerchief) belonging to each one. This, above all else, hammered home the humanity of these people--the senseless, wasteful murder of these perfectly imperfect lives. The exhibit told of people who worked hard and loved one another, but also of those who had given up, or left their families, or wasted their talent. Those slaughtered at Srebrenica were not angels, just human beings, the same as any of us.

Towards the end of it we saw the warehouse in which the culpable Dutch battalion was based. The wall was covered in graffiti insulting Bosnian women, bemoaning how much they hated to be stationed there, describing their apathy at the entire situation. In another room, beneath a pencil sketch of a naked woman, was a bumper sticker with the words "Love is all you need". Maybe it was, but I don't think so.

We left Srebrenica after several hours. The road that runs through it runs through half a hundred other towns that Srebrenica was once identical to.

"Srebrenica" does different things to different people in this part of the world. It chases smiles away from some, weights the words that come from others. It ignites anger frequently enough, either from eternally wounded Bosniaks or viciously unrepentant Četniks. I do not have the right to feel either of their anger (nor do I want to feel that of the latter), but I can only hope that the word "Srebrenica" becomes a reminder to the rest of us of two more words that once carried weight: "never again". There is no excuse for our inaction, no exception that differentiates that failure from this one, no saving grace that washes their blood from the hands of the free world. I can't feel anything but disgust at the idea that 8,373 men, women, and children were slaughtered because we forgot those words, and can only pray that we remember them before the next Srebrenica.

SPECIAL REPORT: Bosnian for a Week

I'm writing this from a hotel room in Sarajevo. This is Sarajevo:

I kind of like Sarajevo.

But I digress. After all, it's been almost a week since my last blog post (Bless me, Father, for I have sinned?) So allow me to summarize our trip in a nifty subheading format. Feel free to play montage music as you read. I'd recommend the Rocky IV training song, but that's my answer for roughly 35% of questions posed to me, so take it with a grain of salt.

Beograd was a bit chilly the morning we headed out, piling into the Skirmish Van. I call it that in contrast to the Battle Bus we took around Kosovo, as our current van looks like something that the Battle Bus might eat in absence of larger prey. So we piled in like sardines and hit...

The Road. We headed out from Beograd in fairly good time, crossing Gazela Most (the longest bridge in the Balkans leading out of Beograd) and heading northwest on the highway with relatively little traffic. Unlike the fairly epic descent into Kosovo, the majority of our trek looked like something out of Lancaster, PA, until the many villages we passed through gave way to...

Croatia? I was a bit confused myself, but apparently the road to Bosnia takes us right on through Croatia. Hey, that's cool. What was slightly less cool was having to disembark at the checkpoint to stand in a line for the express purpose of getting scowled at by a portly Croatian woman, but as a reward we got nifty entrance stamps, so I guess it was worth it.

Despite the spitting rain, I thought Croatia was beautiful. In my opinion, I can best liken it to a wetter version of northern Maryland. The strikingly green fields, occasionally interrupted by gentle hills (you know what? They're knolls, because that word needs to be brought back) gentle knolls, housed rustic Catholic churches and one-horse towns (sometimes literally), an almost perfect tessellation that persisted until interrupted by sprawling marshes. We took about a half-hour tour through Croatia, until we crossed the river into...

Brčko District, Bosnia & Herzegovina. In a sentence: the Brčko District of Bosnia exists to interrupt the continuity of Republika Srpska, dividing the region into two at its thinnest point and thus keeping down any unseemly ideas of secession. The "city" of Brčko itself is about the size of Towson if you include Towson East (or about King of Prussia and Bridgeport combined, for those keeping score at home), and features both a wonderfully dedicated NGO community and delicious pljeskavica (think hamburger, but so very Balkan). I wouldn't live there, but as a pit-stop into Bosnia I have no complaints at all. We met some fine people, touched down on Bosnian soil, and departed for...

Banja Luka. We arrived after a few hours' worth of winding hill roads after the sun set, and so our first impression of Banja Luka was...dark. We checked into our gigantic hotel room, hung around for a while, grabbed food, and then turned in. The next morning, we rose to find that spring had followed us there. Taking advantage of such a gorgeous day, we took a walk around the city, visited the University of Banja Luka to meet some poli-sci students (read--my people), and rounded it off by climbing to the top of a nearby mountain to where we could see the entire city sprawled out before us. Also, the trail to the top was littered with exercise equipment, which made me think that I might actually be an adopted Bosnian. After another night in the hotel, we departed for...

Sanski Most, and a metric fuckton of rain were waiting for us the next morning, but we piled into the Skirmish Van and soldiered on through it. The terrain was still pretty Amish when we pulled into town (read--farm equipment, corn fields, and one-story housing abound), and between that, the rain, and the police cordon for the  hours-old jewelry store robbery, I got a pretty grim first impression of the place.

Well, that lasted all of five minutes before we met with a pair of imams running an NGO that almost single-handedly amended decades of ethnic hostilities in the town. As the weather cleared up (hooray for metaphors), we took a walk around the town, seeing the various sights that indicate a gradually mending community. That + free dinner + comfortable bed = a fine evening. The next morning saw us leave for...

The Road to Sarajevo. I'd like to preface this by saying that I chose the entirely wrong side of the bus, and thus did not get any sweet pictures of the thousand-foot deep canyons and valleys that our van drove along, but suffice it to say that when we reached snow-covered ground on a 50 degree day, the views were appropriately breathtaking. I did get a shot of this:

Pictured: Probably a secret entrance to something, because this is clearly a video game.

After an appreciably short trip, we arrived in Sarajevo itself.

Because I am nothing if not a lazy man, I leave you now with my observations, and you can cobble together a picture of the city yourself.

1. I had lunch in a small barbecue joint today and Satellite by Lena came on the radio (any fellow Eurovision nerds might recognize this as the 2011 winner and the most agonizingly catchy song in existence). I henceforth approve of Sarajevo's music taste.
2. Since arriving, I've seen 27 sport-bikes (many of which are European-exclusive) and a Mustang GTO. This is in fierce contrast to the Yugos, mopeds, and Audi S series (no, seriously, those exist) endemic to Beograd. I also saw a sport-touring BMW bike on the highway between Sanski Most and here, which more or less made my day.
3. We went to a Muslim cafe last night to watch the Bosnia-Greece game. Bosnia won 3-1, we made some new Bosnian friends, and I got laughed at for trying to order the local brew before we cottoned to the nature of the establishment. Hey, at least I didn't ask for bacon.
4. Only in this country can your tour guide in the National History Museum introduce an exhibit by saying "This might explode soon". Only in this country will your tour guide then proceed to pick up said exhibit and shake it. And by god, only in this country will this exhibit be an EU humanitarian aid can of baked beans. I love Bosnia.
5. Speaking of which, the answer to anything is just about always "money and corruption". Why is the museum in disrepair? Money and corruption. Why is this building closed? Money and corruption. Why did the waiter just bring me bolonaise when I ordered carbonarra? Money. Ah, also, corruption.
6. "Club Predator" is just an awful idea. Can't win 'em all, Sarajevo.

Stay tuned for the thrilling second half of this report, in which I may actually be awake enough to talk about something serious. Hah, just kidding. Anticipate kitty-cats and exploding bean cans.