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.
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:
"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.
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.
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| Pictured: Sadly not the same Evil Horde. |
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. |
 |
| Pictured: Halftime. |
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.
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