This morning I woke to the sound of Father Odin throwing out his back.
Seriously though, I learned something about Beograd today. Every city has its quirks. Quick, kids: What is San Francisco famous for? Hills. London? Fog. Newark? Stab wounds. Well, Beograd has something called the koshava. That's what it's called when the troposphere and the unique orthography of the Carpathian Mountains go on a bender and send the bill to Serbia, resulting in a fairly perpetual wind that drops the temperature by an almost cartoonish amount. The only thing that's missing is a few bad Schwarzenegger puns and an uncomfortably anatomic Batsuit.
Anyway, I took note of that, got up around 7, and headed out for a morning walk.
Hah. Seriously, though, I flipped off the window and the winds outside, pulled another blanket close, and watched the second part of a BBC documentary on the breakup of Yugoslavia. It was a very concise account and a good refresher, but considering the redundancies of the prerequisite reading the only brand new information I received from it is that Macedonia is currently run by Vasil Tupurkovski, and we should all be very afraid for the people of Macedonia.
Speaking of class (the non-gloriously-mustachioed kind), class today featured one of my favorite people in the Balkans: Vladimir the history professor. I have always had enormous respect for professors who give a damn--whose enthusiasm and engagement with the material engenders in the students a legitimate and vested interest in resolving the questions posed in the course of the class. It's that spirit that made my APMEH teacher take us outside in February to illustrate why invading Russia in the winter backfired on Napoleon and Hitler, that spirit that made my freshman year Latin-American history professor such an inspired storyteller. And it's that same excitement for the topic--or maybe just life in general--that makes classes with Vladimir a fine way to round off the day.
That said, coming home to a happy Serbian family that immediately offers you a small cauldron of delicious pasta is a great way to continue it. This is exactly what happened to me this afternoon, and I couldn't be more pleased with such a greeting. I've understood academically for some time now that hosts in this part of the world will insist that you eat far more than you are physically capable of ingesting (or, as Dave more effectively phrased it, "they force-fed me Choco-Tacos."), but, in the spirit of this semester as a whole, knowing and experiencing are two very different things.
But you made a mistake, Serbia. You didn't know whose stomach you were messing with.
In all seriousness, this is kind of awesome in that the caloric intake in this place coupled with a strict regimen (e.g. stepping up the bodyweight and nailing down running routes) should give me some fantastic results. It's in the back of my mind that my next Tough Mudder is only eleven days after I step off the plane back into the US, and I know that my jetlag coupled with however little sleep I get in Frankfurt (twenty-hour layovers are rarely restful things) will have me at a disadvantage, so I need to buckle down and get some real training done in-country. It's reassuring to know that I won't want for protein. And carbs. And deliciousness (it's a vital part of any balanced diet).
On a slightly less cheerful note, I was watching the news with the host family when this image came on the news:
If you're curious, that's the bombed-out remains of the former Serbian intelligence headquarters. It's located right next to the skeletons of the Army headquarters and I believe the Serbian equivalent of the State Department, all targeted and (evidently) destroyed during the NATO air suppression campaign in the late 1990s. Was I conflicted with that story? God, yes. I don't support the methodology used in the conflict. I'm now friends with people who have lost loved ones directly because of the actions of my country. But I was also six years old when this happened. I couldn't even spell Serbia (I mean, I sucked at spelling as a youngin', but that's neither here nor there). I suppose it's good preparation for the kinds of perceptions I'll be experiencing as an American on this trip, and it's past time to start considering the responsibilities that that entails. Overall, though, because the only words I could make out on the program were "memorial" and "dialogue", I kept my mouth shut and tried thinking Canadian thoughts. Then I made some observations:
Seriously though, I learned something about Beograd today. Every city has its quirks. Quick, kids: What is San Francisco famous for? Hills. London? Fog. Newark? Stab wounds. Well, Beograd has something called the koshava. That's what it's called when the troposphere and the unique orthography of the Carpathian Mountains go on a bender and send the bill to Serbia, resulting in a fairly perpetual wind that drops the temperature by an almost cartoonish amount. The only thing that's missing is a few bad Schwarzenegger puns and an uncomfortably anatomic Batsuit.
Anyway, I took note of that, got up around 7, and headed out for a morning walk.
Hah. Seriously, though, I flipped off the window and the winds outside, pulled another blanket close, and watched the second part of a BBC documentary on the breakup of Yugoslavia. It was a very concise account and a good refresher, but considering the redundancies of the prerequisite reading the only brand new information I received from it is that Macedonia is currently run by Vasil Tupurkovski, and we should all be very afraid for the people of Macedonia.
| Pictured: a small woodland creature (center-left, under Tupurkovski's nose); Tupurkovski (everywhere else) |
Speaking of class (the non-gloriously-mustachioed kind), class today featured one of my favorite people in the Balkans: Vladimir the history professor. I have always had enormous respect for professors who give a damn--whose enthusiasm and engagement with the material engenders in the students a legitimate and vested interest in resolving the questions posed in the course of the class. It's that spirit that made my APMEH teacher take us outside in February to illustrate why invading Russia in the winter backfired on Napoleon and Hitler, that spirit that made my freshman year Latin-American history professor such an inspired storyteller. And it's that same excitement for the topic--or maybe just life in general--that makes classes with Vladimir a fine way to round off the day.
That said, coming home to a happy Serbian family that immediately offers you a small cauldron of delicious pasta is a great way to continue it. This is exactly what happened to me this afternoon, and I couldn't be more pleased with such a greeting. I've understood academically for some time now that hosts in this part of the world will insist that you eat far more than you are physically capable of ingesting (or, as Dave more effectively phrased it, "they force-fed me Choco-Tacos."), but, in the spirit of this semester as a whole, knowing and experiencing are two very different things.
But you made a mistake, Serbia. You didn't know whose stomach you were messing with.
| Pictured: My spirit animal. |
On a slightly less cheerful note, I was watching the news with the host family when this image came on the news:
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| Pictured: Your tax dollars at work. |
- Analysis of research methodology is tedious in any country. Necessary, and eventually interesting, but tedious. Surprise of the century.
- I had another one of those surreal nostalgia conversations today, this time with my host-brother. Turns out the games that scared the shit out of me as a kid (read-17 year old) scared the shit out of him as well. I don't care what language you're playing in, when Father Grigori jumps ship in Ravenholm and all you've got are two shotgun shells and a crowbar, you'll be turning on some lights as well.
- I also had a much deeper conversation with Bane about guitars and the role of music in our lives, and from there the perks of artisinal work versus mass production. I'd rather not share any of those stories on a blog, but suffice it to say he's got some good ones.
- I got a knowing nod of greeting from a Serbian guy with crazy eyes before boarding the tram today. Infiltration commencing.
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| Pictured: DEEEIICEAAAGEEEE! |
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