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.

3-17, 18: Whose Blood is This?

My first impressions of a Serbian concert proceed as such:

• The mosh-pit is hardcore. There's a sizable amount of somebody's blood on the back of my undershirt. I hope they don't want it back...
• The coat-check crowd is much more hardcore.
• The crowd sure as hell has the energy. We crowd-surfed three people during one two-and-a-half minute song, and oh my god, the pit.
• Serb? Bosniak? Croat? Who gives a shit, we're all screaming the words to Star of the County Down at the top of our lungs and swaying together like a drunken whale!

And plenty more responses, but you know what? Words just aren't doing the trick. It's hard to describe a perfect night. Just give 'em a listen:

Today, incidentally, was one mad rush to Bosnia. Amidst Nenad telling me not to go for a run in a minefield and Nikica telling me to marry for passports and bilingual children, of particular interest was my discovery that "on a horse" is a way to say that you're doing very well/got it made, e.g. "Hey, Miroslav, I just won the lottery, I'm on a horse right now!"

Pictured: The greatest thing to hit Serbia since Djoković.

And here I thought he was American.

Srpski reć dnenvi: Hey, sometimes I don't learn a word. Such is life. Although I guess we can count biti, "to be", but that almost feels like a cheat from Russian. Of course if you're depending on my daily Serbian word, chances are you've got bigger problems, and so I urge you to either settle up your gambling debts by sign language, contact the A-Team (if you can find them), or make tracks for the nearest U.S. embassy.

Sorry for the shortness, but I'm going to Bosnia on the morrow, and I'll be damned if I get an hour and a half of sleep this time around. Sleep tight, folks.

3-16: Sam Goes Back to Fifth Grade

Yesterday, Nikica finally snapped and sent me back to fifth grade.

Pictured: Jesus Christ, why does this come up when you Google Image "fifth grade"?

Nah, she sent us all there. Yesterday we met up in front of the Parliament building (not, contrary to popular belief, staffed by fifth-graders) and trekked to a nearby elementary school to meet with a small class of fifth-grade English students who, I'd imagine, were meant to be our linguistic peers.

Unfortunately, their capabilities in English vastly eclipsed our own.

Despite the initial fear of the two American big kids with scary-looking crazy smiles (Dave and I did not initially have high hopes for our skills at interacting with small children), before too long all the boys realized that we like talking about about food, basketball, and movies with explosions, and before we knew it we were surrounded by ankle-biters asking us if we like to drive fast cars. This country never ceases to make my day. Here are some highlights:

• A conversation with one:
• Kid: "Do you have Facebook?"
• Me/Dave: "Yes, do you?"
• *Adopts a disinterested look* "Yes. I have six."
• "Six Facebooks, huh?"
• "No, excuse me. Seven Facebooks. But three of them are blocked."
• "That's Andreas. He's really good at maths. He also likes to shoot things."
• A conversation Dave had:
• Kid: "Hey...you got a girlfriend?"
• Dave: "No. Do you?"
• "No. I'm in love, though..."

All of which proves that twelve-year olds are priceless. Of concern was the "No smoking" sign in the elementary-school library, but I'm not here to judge. Pre-algebra is some stressful shit, cuz.

 Last night consisted of carousal through the snow for an Irish pub with some fantastic people, because this is Beograd, and if there is some kind of national (read--any nation's) holiday within a week-long radius, you bet your ass it's reason to head out and celebrate it.

Incidentally, the rest of Beograd agreed with this. So we headed off to a cafe instead and had a pretty fantastic time regardless. Then, having walked people home and finding myself near the river, and of course too cheap to find a cab, I had an odyssey of a walk across town. To the bullet list, Robin!

• Walking by Hotel Moskva, the entire city block's power abruptly flickered, crackled, and went down, leaving nothing but traffic lights and the reserve lobby-lights. This was all well and good--beautiful, even, with the falling snow--until I came to one of the underground passages that crosses under the street. And saw a gaping, black abyss, letting free absolutely no sound and absolutely no light. I looked around, seeing nobody around, sighed, and stepped down into the darkness. Thus commenced the longest freaking forty-five seconds of my life, walking towards a dim light straight ahead, when I started to see something move, a shifting shadow in the darkness. I made myself take a step, then another, then another, freeing my hands out of my pockets, ready to defend myself against...two teenagers making out. Goddammit, get a room. the Hotel Moskva is right there.
• I walked past a bunch of loud drunk guys dicking around outside a closing restaurant with clearly irritated staff. I hung around, waiting for some Bruce Lee shit to go down (consisting of me backing away slowly and calling the cops if things got violent). Finally, they broke a door off its hinges. The owner came out to confront them, at which point they all crowded around...and apologized profusely, helping him repair it. Sometimes this town restores my faith in humanity.
• I turned a corner behind Parliament and immediately made brief eye contact with a gentleman straight-up pissing in the middle of the road. Not on a corner, not into a drain, just drainin' the dragon in the general direction of Parliament with a defiant glare upon his visage. I dared not maintain eye contact, lest the man's anarchic fury burn my soul to ashes or, heavens forbid, I earn his urinary ire. Sometimes, I see a fountain in a city square and wonder about his story. Was he an ousted Parliamentarian, sorrowfully pissing away his misery? Or is he simply a world anarchist, trotting the globe, seeking to mark the capitals of the land in the name of the people? It made for a pensive walk home.

Overall, I call it a decent Friday night.

1.  Spring has finally come to Beograd. Then winter pimp-slapped it back into April and dumped a few inches of snow on this town. WE WILL HAVE WORDS, ZEUS.
2. Twenty-four hour bakeries. Oh my god. I have no words except "Želam dve, molim vas".
3. Gorki list. Look it up. Not even once. It's not powerful by any means, it just tastes like absolute doom. Ms. Lawnicki, I concede that point thusly.

Srpski reć dnenvi: Gorak (горак): Bitter (Seriously. Not even once.)

3-14: Spilling the Beans

I just finished dinner. Stumbling out of the kitchen having eaten half of the face-sized pan of beans, I was treated to a frantic "Sam, why didn't you eat anything?!" by my host father. Ah, this country.

But another country of a bit more prevalence on my mind right now is Bosnia & Herzegovina. Today's string of lectures made me aware of several things:

• I need a hug. Holy crap, Bosnian history.
• The term "country" only loosely applies here--EU-administered kingdom fits much better. Bosnia is administered by three governments, two of the constitutive "republics" and one overall government for the whole shebang. They're all subject to the review Office of the High Representative, which sounds like something Emperor Palpatine would call himself. Also, it is somehow a confederation with a strong central government. Go ahead and figure that one out.
• The aforementioned constitutive republics are divided in a crescent-shaped convex/concave fashion, with a crescent-shaped concave one on the right and the (loosely) triangular convex one on the left. So one of them is Bosnia and one of them is Herzegovina, right?
• Wrong! The one on the right is Republika Srpska, and the one on the left is the Federation of Bosnia & Herzegovina. Most of it is Bosnia; Herzegovina is a few cantons of the Federation of Bi/H towards the south.
• Also, there are no Bosnians. Except that there are, just not in the sense that there are Serbs or Croats. Except that there totally are in that sense as well, but those Serbs & Croats aren't necessarily living in Serbia or Croatia. In fact, a good chunk of them are living in Bosnia. Where the Bosniaks aren't necessarily living.

If you're not confused yet, you're doing it wrong.

I'm also offended on a personal level by this snow. It was about 50 degrees this morning. When I went out on my semi-daily Orangina/Kit-Kat run, I had to wade through a small blizzard. Stvarno, Beograd? Stvarno?

1.  I just realized that opening my apartment's main door is a lot like picking a lock. Using the key requires the perfect compromise of tension along cylinder vs. jiggling the pins. It's like using a customized rake combined with the tension wrench. Which, now that I think about it, is basically the definition of the key. How about that.
2. It actually snowed sideways today. Which was weird, considering the relative lack of wind. I can understand it being blown that way in a fierce gale, but it all seemed to be headed west. Which raises the question: if snow flew south for the winter, could the birds stay put?
3. We have a new pope, which single-handedly renders all of my papal Star Wars references obsolete. Sad day. On the other hand, he's the first non-European elected to the office in 1000+ years, so I guess it can be said that the Catholic Church is theoretically doing something right.
4. I'm meeting a bunch of small Serbian children tomorrow, because Nikica decided that we should at long last meet with our linguistic peers. I anticipate witty repartee, possibly involving name-calling.

Srpski reć dnevni: Dagadagadaga (Дагадагадага): Helicopter (No, that's total bullshit, don't write that down. The actual word is just a straight-up cognate, helikopter)

Pictured below is regrettably not the Pope:

Pictured: Honorius IV. Look up Honorius III and be amazed.

3-11: The Dog is Smarter Than I: A Poem

The Dog is Smarter Than I

By S.O.F. Rapine

Roses are red

Violets are blue

Belgrade is grey

The Sava is vomit-colored

The #2 is a deathtrap

The dog is smarter than I am

This city is still fucking awesome

I've clearly abandoned meter

Here are some observations.

1. The psychology of hate scares me so much because it's not irrational. Fuckers like Goran Davidović (Serbian hardline nationalist) seem to reach conclusions involving phrases like "ethnic purity" based on logical processes and human reason, but working off of twisted and warped premises that they believe are as immutable as gravity. It makes me wonder about the nature of evil as it pertains to order and chaos (some people watch TV; I contemplate morality like a crazy person): which most effectively defines "evil", the ordered and systemic hostility that results in ethnic cleansing, or the chaotic, mindless insanity that results in random shootings and small but horrific acts? Does the difference even matter? If you couldn't tell, it was a pretty heavy discussion in class today.
2. Speaking of, the documentary we watched raised an interesting point of identity and in turn morality--to most effectively communicate your point to the largest variety in audience, perhaps the most effective tool is association. What's scarier--and don't think about this intellectually, but symbolically--a clean-shaven, mild-mannered author discussing his book about Zionist conspiracies in a well-lit office, or a tattooed, shirtless bruiser pumping iron while talking about the Albanian menace with a heavy metal riff playing in the background? Now, as a weight-lifting metalhead with designs on getting a tattoo, I have to wonder just how comfortable I am with things that I'm passionate about being portrayed negatively to prove a point, however noble or anti-fascist it may be. It raises an interesting ends-justifying-the-means argument, but I think that's enough for one day.
3. I had a dumbass/badass moment on the #2 the other day consisting of having a door close on me trying to exit (which is what I get for chivalry in letting the sweet old lady exit before I did). Jammed between the two doors as it started to move, I ripped it back open wide enough to slip out, jumped (the tram was moving at a decent clip by now), landed on my feet, stood up straight, fixed my lapels, and walked off. I'm still not sure if the smoothness outweighed the idiocy.
4. We had homestay interviews today, consisting of a checkup to make sure we haven't been pressed into slavery making wine for two comical Frenchmen while the donkey sleeps on the straw, leaving us to the cold floor (Ten Super Extra Golden Banana Fun Tokens for anybody who gets that reference). One of the questions was "is the host family providing you with enough food?". Being all classy, I didn't quite fall out of my chair, but it was a close call.
5. Speaking of being laughably overfed, I've come to the conclusion that I miss host-grandmom, who disappeared into the world at some point while I was in Kosovo, doubtlessly to solve that whole "world-hunger" problem. I'm actually relieved to get my own food in the morning, but she just gave the morning a serene, relaxed pace. Bahh.
6. The elevator's dead. I don't mind the extra stairs (Katie, we're even), but I miss the Yugovator's personality so.

Srpski reć dnevni: Breskva (бресква): Peach (not that I've had one here, but there's a breskva-flavored version of just about anything drinkable in this country)

I'm just gonna leave this here.

 

3-10: Hobbit Running

Today was sixty-five degrees which, as any reasoning being will tell you, is ample reason to run around like a hobbit.

Pictured: Fun.

But seriously, today being the first day that it peaked above 60 degrees steadily, as well as a day off, I decided that it would also be the first day that I took a crack at barefoot running. For those of you who don't know (read--the sane readers of my blog), barefoot running is running with either no or minimalist shoes, with a mid-foot strike and a higher cadence that makes use of the foot's natural structure; it's running how we as human beings were designed to. It improves stamina, feels much better, and radically reduces injuries largely caused by unnatural shapes our feet are forced into by running shoes. Overall--sounds like a pretty good idea.

What is not a good idea is spearing my feet through with shards of glass that tend to litter the city streets. So I strapped on my Vibrams, those five-toed shoes that I freely admit look ridiculous. Well laugh all you want, my friends, but as crazy as they look, the run I went for today felt mind-blowingly fantastic. I breezed by the joggers at Tašmajdan, skirted around obstacles, and took the trip home like I was running on a cloud. The barefoot approach felt so good that, coupled with the knowledge that I needed to break in my feet to the barefoot approach, I went to meet some of my favorite people in Beograd at Kalemegdan wearing them (because I also enjoy embarrassing some of my favorite people in Beograd, apparently).

We wandered around the fortress, taking in the beautiful air, watching the storm slowly blow towards us, and when we sat outside for dinner beneath a tarp, the skies opened up. I was immediately and utterly taken by my first thunderstorm in Serbia, and I can say without a doubt that I cannot wait for the next one.

1. The weird looks only multiply when you're wearing shoes with toes on them, let me tell you.
2. It's fascinating to live in a country that actually holds to the idea of closing things on Sundays. I guess it makes sense; although Serbia is technically a secular state, the rigor with which the sabbath-day tradition is maintained tells you just how realistic that is.
3. I busted out the compass and straight-edge today and drew up some Fibonacci spirals. It's so incredibly, indescribably meditative--realizing that the shapes and ratios you're representing with plastic and graphite are the same ones that indomitably govern the laws of the known universe allows for some pretty serious contemplation.
4. Bosnia in about a week. Huh. Can't wait for so very many reasons.

Srpski reć dnenvi: Biber (Бибер): Pepper. Ah, what a delicious dinner.

Special Report: Sam Goes to Prison (Prizren)

Just rolled in from Kosovo, and boy, am I dizzy!

Okay, sorry about that. But I'm feeling a bit high on life right now, for several reasons. Two big ones are this: it's sixty-two degrees outside right now, and I just returned from a country that treats me as a celebrity by virtue of my passport. More on that in a bit, though.

I departed for Kosovo at what-the-fuck-thirty AM on Monday morning, feeling like hell for not having slept much the previous night. I got on the fortress-sized bus, made myself a little nest towards the middle, and curled up for the ride out of the city. We took off by 8.

The Road led out of Belgrade and into Lancaster County, PA, inside of ten minutes. We took the highway at a good clip. The buildings abruptly melted away into sprawling farmland/fallow, with softly rolling hills eventually yielding to mountains far off on the horizon. Personally I likened it to home sweet home; I also heard a comparison to Ireland, and have no trouble believing it.

We eventually reached that horizon, and found ourselves off the highway and riding (read--careening) through gorgeous mountain passes, breaking now and then to move through expansive valleys, sometimes alongside sparkling lakes that stretched for kilometers at a time before moving under us as rivers beneath bridges. Sunlight faded in and out through the clouds, shyly basting the forest canopies for a few seconds before retreating again.

Pictured: Rohan.

 By midday, we arrived in Pristina (Prishtine).

Pristina is the capital of Kosovo, making it a regional or national capital depending on who you ask. For the purposes of a concise narrative, I'll say this much and leave the highlights for my observations: Pristina is a unique little city. In a town in which the call to prayer echoed through the streets five times a day, we were able to find (as my good friend Dave put it) "a sex shop, a gambling parlor, and a truck full of Heineken" on the first day. Which is not to imply that Pristina's a wretched hive of scum and villainy, nor that it's unfaithful as a Muslim country (editors note--also not to imply that we were looking for sex, booze, and craps on the first day). I think the reason that there's very little problem with this discrepancy is the utter, unceasing friendliness exuded by the people of the city. Cars will stop for people waiting at crosswalks (as opposed to Beograd, in which cars weave around the imaginary crosswalks created by the pedestrians), people will freely smile at one another, and there's no sense of rushed urgency that pervades most cities.

Shit, that was actually a lot of information. Oh well.

We shacked up in the Hotel City Central, a great place a few blocks from the main pedestrian drag, two to a room. I very much enjoyed the group dynamic that comes with living in close-quarters with one another, which was largely absent since we moved in with homestay families. It's always interesting to see how we've changed and adapted to living here.

Prizren was next, a town to the south of Kosovo that's sat with a view of Albanian mountains since time immemorial. The place is a sleepy little hamlet (yes, they do exist) that looks at home in a Christmas card--except for the fortress overlooking the region, nestled atop a mountain like the stronghold from Where Eagles Dare. I made it a point to charge to the top, which my calves informed me was a dumbass idea about an eighth of a mile up. Still, I had trouble containing my excitement to get to the summit, and here's why:

The Road again was as gorgeous as I've come to expect, and several days later we took the Battle-Bus around Kosovo, viewing various monuments and visiting Mitrovica, a town divided by the Ibar River into Serb and Albanian sections. I'm dropping the photos on facespace; I highly encourage you to check them out. There's nothing quite like a KFOR blockade.

On the last night, I had an utterly fantastic time with some of my favorite people on this trip. I climbed through the window to reach our balcony, only to turn around and discover that the door had been behind the curtains the whole time. Derp. In our defense, they put a bed in the way of it, so it wasn't exactly an easy thing to find. Sure, that's my excuse.

We headed out early (relatively) this morning, and arrived back in Beograd to an absolutely gorgeous (if gray--it is Beograd) day. The ride gave me plenty of time to reflect on things like this:

1. Kosovo was a breath of fresh air in that I've never been to a country that's so incredibly pro-American. An Albanian man came up to us in Mitrovica and told us that "America is not only our friend, but our savior" and thanked us and our country for what was done in the 1990s. It gives me a measure of faith that my country is capable of doing the right things for the right reasons.
2. Some things are just so incredibly sublime no matter where or when or why they are--it's that same amazing feeling of belonging, and it's every bit as perfect in a backyard in King of Prussia as it is on a hotel balcony in Pristina. Great times with people you really click with are more valuable than gold.
3. It's definitely too early to say, but Kosovo has made a damn appealing case for ISP material. Although I'd be taking a language hit, learning even rudimentary Albanian could be hugely effective for future career possibilities. Kosovo is also a great case study for organized crime, which is basically what my topic proposal has shaped up into. Additionally, with the Serbian PM's announcement the other day saying that "the Serbian people have been lied to" concerning Kosovo, I have a feeling that the area is about to become very interesting. Who would want to miss out on that?
4. Weird as it is to say, I missed the menjacnicas and the pekaras in Kosovo.
5. Kosovo is on the euro. Now, based on my experience of the cost of living in Belgium and Germany, when you say the word "euro" I hear "Oh sweet lord, all I bought was a bottle of Orangina and a small pastry and I've already had to take out a second mortgage", but in Kosovo, things were about the same as they were on the dinar. Far and away the most relevant difference was the acquisition of the 1 and 2 euro pieces that make me feel like a character from a DnD scenario, carrying around gold coins. Go ahead, judge me.

Albanian word of the week: Besa--An oath made between two people that transcends all political/ethnic obligations, considered to be the most important promise one can give. Don't worry, I have not yet engaged in a Wookiee Life Debt to the Albanian mob. That's what my ISP is for.

3-4: Ughhhhnnghh or Sam Goes to Valhalla

1.5 hours of sleep in the past 36 make words go not good. Sam make observe.

1.       Kosovo is beautiful. Quite frankly, so is Serbia, particularly when you really get away from the city. It melts into vast, rural sprawl incredibly quickly. Much of the north-central is reminiscent of Ohio or Indiana—miles of cornfields with occasional regular fields to break up the monotony—but the sweeping mountains and miles-long stretches of road right up next to sparkling rivers that pervade the south of the country are much closer to the Blue Ridge Parkway and the surrounding areas, only littered with beautiful little villages. Fantastic bus ride.

2.       Minuses: There are no bakeries to be found and I miss the constant glow of money-changers as well. Also, this place is on the euro, which kind of inherently makes me suspicious.

3.       Plusses: It’s gorgeous, the weather’s fine (not specific to Prishtina, I know, but it can’t help but inform on the overall impression), the people are extraordinarily friendly, and it just seems like a far less rushed atmosphere than does Beograd. Makes sense, considering the place is only 200,000 strong.

4.       Albanian. I do not speak it. Not a word. This is okay, though, as I’ve gone from not being able to speak Serbian to not being able to speak Albanian pretty flawlessly. “Q” is “Ch”. That’s all I’ve got so far.

5.       I had a…seven? Seven-course meal today for dinner. It was like Valhalla. The meat-bringers just kept bringing course after course, rounding it off with a heated glass of cognac and some kind of diabetes-inducing dessert. I’m expecting to give birth to a food-baby any minute now.

6.       I have decided that I need to learn to recognize “watch out!” in as many languages as I can think of.

7.       Bodyweight lifts = results. Don’t let anybody tell ya different.

Albanian word of the day: Furrë (no Cyrilic in this language, punk!): Bakery.

3-3: Sam (Allegedly) Goes for a Swim in the Sava

Posting again after a fantastic weekend full of good friends and late nights. I'd definitely recommend it.

Today was about as lazy as it gets for me, which of course entailed a run. I woke up looking out my window at one of the most brilliant blue skies I've seen in a very long time (look, it's a very gray city this time of year) and knew that I was getting up, getting out, and running imminently. Then I remembered that I had a paper to write. Oh yeah.

Pictured: Me, c. 9:30 this morning.

So I dug into that shit like a mole on crack and knocked it out around 2. SWEET. Going for a run, strapping up my shoes, find my watch, grab my MP3, and...

Oh, hi, host-grandmom. What? Bread? Oh, you already sliced it...oh...okay.

Now terrifically fed, I strode up to the #2 and got on, receiving bemused smiles from three girls and sidelong looks from 43,972 other people for my shorts and white t-shirt. No shame, bro. I think a few more got it when I started doing calf stretches the stop before mine. I jumped out at the stop and took off.

So: Across the river, to the left, turn around, past the first bridge, up the second, hang a right, cross the river, and done. Two miles--not great, by any stretch, but I'm still working on getting strength back in my legs. Here's the run:

Pictured: The gradual death of my calves.

However, those of you who know me know that my dear brother gifted me with a bitchin' GPS running watch a few years back. This thing is the tits for pace, mileage, time, all that--it's taught me how to pace, and lets me do out-and-back runs with fantastic accuracy. However, it seems to be having a trouble getting a grasp on the map feature:

Pictured: A short run and a very long swim.

Now look: I love swimming. Don't get me wrong. But I'm confident that this is wrong for several reasons:

A. A breaststroke in the Sava is not swimming, it's a chemical bleaching
B. That water's probably like...10 degrees. Which is possible because of the aforementioned chemicals that are, let's be honest, most of its makeup
C. According to this map, I cut a 7:30 m/mi pace through the water, turned around near the shore, and booked it back to the other bank, which is just ridiculous.
D. I don't remember diving into a fucking river.

Mainly the first three, though.

I'd drop some observations, but I'm not feeling terribly observant today, so...tough. I'm going to Kosovo tomorrow, I'm sure there'll be plenty to observe.

That said, I'm on the fence about bringing my computer, so if you don't hear from me this week, don't worry too much. Pretty good odds that I'm alive!

Srpski reć dnevni: Nauke (Науке): SCIENCE!