The Kind Old Women of Sarajevo

"We need something to help us pass on to another dimension. The creation of an androgynous thought that leads to a superior mind. When you are linked to everyone there are no enemies."

The trip was at a crossroads. I ate oranges in my room and thought out the remaining options. The end game was a festival in Rijeka, but I had three days to get there. Rijeka is a coastal town in the Northwest and Dubrovnik is way South of there.

To get there straight from Dubrovnik would require a long ride past cities I'd already explored. The key was Zagreb in the North. If I could get to Zagreb, I could easily dip down to Rijeka and even see scenic Pula in the bargain.

To get to Zagreb, I could fly ($50! One Hour!), which was tempting, since it was cheap and fast. Or... I could take the slow route: bus to Sarajevo, spend a day there, and take a bus to Zagreb after that. The way that would work out would render Zagreb nothing but a crash spot, but there wasn't really anything appealing about it anyway.

Sarajevo, on the other hand, promised exotic delights. And I was so moved by Mostar, I wanted more of that Bosnian flavor. So... a long ride to Sarajevo it would be. Tightened my straps. Bid Dubrovnik and my patron Saint farewell, and back to the bus station.

It felt like the right choice immediately. The ride there was ripped from a Hans Christian Anderson story. It was nearly like a picture print by Currier and Ives. Bright white covering solemn dark trees. Fuzzy rivers in the distance. Distant bridges out of focus.

Once you get away from those warm coastal breezes, the interior of the country is free to be as cold as it likes. And as you weave up up up through the mountains, it really exercises that right. Read more Shardik (end already!) and a misogynist Noel Coward play called Blithe Spirit.

A German woman and her two children sat behind me. The boy kept practicing his English in the sweet high voice of a child. It would be a bunch of Teutonic murmuring and then, "Eat. Play. Drink."
She doted on them. Listened to them. Seemed happy to be traveling with them.

At a brief stop (I got good at understanding the language of the drivers. When they said something like, "Powzuh, Dessa Minuta" I could tell it meant, "ten-minute rest"), we got out in the snow. She bundled them up with their little scarves and hats.

I watched an animal roast at the rest stop. Someone had built a tiny snowman with twig arms. Everything but the spitting coals was still and quiet.

Drifted the rest of the way. The driver and his buddy chattered in Croat (or Bosnian?) and the little boy read aloud: "Ron told Harry he was worried it would be posha." He stopped, "Posha, poshen...poison!"

I listened to more French music. Ate some almonds and... Sarajevo. A real city. None of this seaside bullshit. People work here. People walk the streets here. Old trams rattle by with "FUCK" spray painted on the side here. Big orange letters.

In the last few moments leading to our getting off the bus, the German woman introduced herself and started a very friendly conversation. Why had she taken so long? She told me she was staying in the Old Town and was looking forward to... well good bye.

What stories I might have learned!

Found a taxi. Creepy old dude who asked for a bunch of money. I had read it was much less, but I didn't argue. These people are poor and the "outrageous' price they ask amounts to being ripped off for less than three dollars. Let them have a score and brag about it.

Except... he had no idea where he was going, kept stopping for directions, and insisted I get out when he was tired of looking. He just dropped me off at a street that had some of the same letters as the street I needed. Charged me double and left me high and dry.

I was in some sort of suburb. It had been cool to race past buildings and parks and cemeteries, but... we screwed the cab into an alley, he cursed and ground the gears, and now I was... here. No phone. No internet.

I just pushed the doorbell on the closest building. Figured I'd throw myself on the mercy of the court. No answer. An old woman with a head scarf and no teeth came limping by. She was like, "Osh Kosh, Wisconsin Orchard?" and I was like, "Uh..."

She put down her grocery bag and hit a different doorbell than I had pushed. An old woman came to the door. "Shishta?"

I showed her the address I was supposed to be at. The first old woman said, "Oh. Oh, is far. You need taxi. 1516 is good taxi. Very good. Call 1516."

I was like, "Uh..." and the second woman went back in her house. It was just me and the first woman. She kept smiling. "1516, very good taxi. You want to go far."

The second woman came back with a phone. She was calling the taxi! The first old woman nodded at me and said goodbye. The phone woman motioned me into her home. I was suddenly in a Bosnian stranger's home with tile floors and crystal glasses and little rugs and wooden chairs.

She brought me water. It tasted like the water of human kindness. Neither of us spoke the other's language, but neither was afraid. The taxi showed up, and she made bird sounds and I was gone. Goodbye old women.

Driver got me there in two seconds, and magically the few coins I had left were the fare almost exactly. Walked up the hill to see my host, Edith, smiling from a window. "You are early!" she shouted down. Somehow that was true.

Supremely charming woman in a thick green sweater. Real style. "You'll want breakfast in the morning, of course," she said. "Will nine o' clock do? I'll lay it all out, you will eat it, and you will not touch the dishes."

VERY cozy warm little room. I sank into it. Got my camera stuff together and went out to see if there was any light left. The goal was to find the Latin Bridge and the plaque commemorating the death of Franz Ferdinand. The apartment was very close to "Pigeon Square," so there I went.

Noisy marketplace, towering mosques, lively streets, and what I'd been craving: Doner Kebab. I ran in and ordered the biggest pouch of it they had. Hunched in a corner, puffed up with all my layers of clothes, and ate and ate. It was excellent. Warm and spicy. Fragrant onions.

He was waiting for me when I walked out. Wiry little street whippet in a bright yellow track suit. Twelve years old, maybe thirteen. "How was you sandwich. I see you eat it." Fine, thank you. Have a good day. "For me is long time no sandwich. My father, he is ten years not living. My mother, she is five years no work."

He must have seen me exchanging my dollars for Convertible Marks.

I'm very sorry. Good luck to you. "This your first time Sarajevo? You are America, yes? America has no problem money. You give money yes?" Take me to the Latin Bridge. If you take me to the Latin Bridge, money yes. "Yes? Money yes? Where do you want to go, the what?" The Latin Bridge.

"Lati....OH, Catta Dala! You want Catta Dala. I take you Catta Dala, and money yes." He took off very quickly. He got so far ahead of me, I thought about ditching him, but I'd obviously been on his radar for a while, and he would easily find me again. He was a streak of yellow flashing past the old women with their bags of lettuce and the old men selling long strings of beads. He would look back every now and again and shout "Catta Dala!"

Maybe Dala meant bridge here? The language is different. None of my Croatian phrases are having any impact here. I had a few tiny coins and a few large bills. I was worried the coins wouldn't be enough, and I wasn't going to give him a large bill.

He tore around more corners, but the yellow made him easy to follow. We were nowhere near the river now, and I know the Latin Bridge crosses the river. It's a bridge. Coffee shops. Rugs for sale. Copper plates for sale. "Catta Dala!" he gestured at an enormous church. Why did he? Why were we?

Catta Dala. Katedrala. Cathedral.

I gave him the coins. He ran off without counting them. When I am retired, I will open a deli called "Long Time No Sandwich" and the special will be the Catta Dala with provolone.

Found the plaque. Explored the city aimlessly. My energy faded with the light, so I went back home. I piled on the blankets and curled up in that furry bed. There was a soft purple glow from the window, and the call to prayer lulled me to sleep. In the morning, I would wake up very early and climb a hill to a cemetery. I pictured myself doing it. I envisioned it. I slept.

The Walls of Dubrovnik and the Bay of Kotor

"I have crossed the mountains of Gelt and hunted the long-horned buck on the plains of Kabin. And I have crossed to Deelguy and stood two hours up to my neck in the Lake of Klamsid to net the golden cranes at dawn."

Thunder. You could tell from the sound of it, that the sky was black. Then it wasn't. Lightning. I did the old trick where you count the space between the two. The storm was moving away. Loud rain, gutters emptying into the hard marble alleys. Everything was washed clean.

Dubrovnik was nice enough yesterday, but I wasn't overwhelmed by it. Maybe I was spoiled by Split. Does Dubrovnik's reputation stem from it being a popular cruise stop, and the boat people hadn't seen anything else like it back in Idaho?

God, though, it was so beautiful seeing the people running around for their festival yesterday. I saw a sweet little girl holding holy candles to her throat, one on each side. St. Blaise is the patron saint of throat ailments and speech impediments. Her face was so full of hope and belief. She wanted everyone to see she was doing it right.

Loved watching a fussy priest scurry across the plaza, his robes billowing out.

The plan was to see the city walls and zip over to Kotor, Montenegro. That would be a two-hour bus ride with the only available return bus leaving two hours after that. So... two hours on the bus, two hours in Kotor, and two hours back. Would I do it?

It was still very early. I rolled back over. Woke up to the sound of drumming and some kind of cannon fire. Whatever it was, it was the same thing I missed yesterday. Grabbed my little Russian navy sweater, pulled on my jeans and got out there. 7am. The rain, so fierce just a few hours ago had stopped.

In the plaza under the bell tower was a marching band, about twenty dudes in traditional costumes, and a line of dudes with wooden guns. A man with a sword would indicate a soldier, and the soldier would fire. That was the noise. It was very loud up close.

There was no one there. It was like they were doing it for themselves. The drummer started, and they all started marching. I followed them.

I followed a marching band around the walls of Dubrovnik.

At specific checkpoints, they would stop and fire the guns. The rifles were loud, but survivable. These dudes in goofy hats at the end, though, had these crazy hand cannons that woke up the world. Crowds were gathering now. After the second checkpoint, I figured I'd seen it all, so I ditched the circus, bought some bread, and walked around.

The cats were waking up, and I had bought a box of cat food at the store. One of my jacket pockets was full of kibble. I made a million friends. With all the action outside now, the town was deserted. Just me and the cats. One little lavender and orange guy was very vocal about his appreciation.

A Scandinavian-seeming tourist came out of an alley and whistled at a cat. I offered him some cat food, and when he refused, I felt ridiculous. I went to see if the walls were open yet. There had been a locked gate yesterday.

It was still locked. I sat down and read about the city in my guide book. The forearm of a statue I had seen earlier was used to determine a standard measure of length. Rope and wood and cloth and whatever was measured in "elbows." Wild.

Unabomber-looking dude came up and unlocked the gate. The Walls are the main attraction here when they don't have a parade, so I was excited to see them. They cost money, but the gate dude was moving on up some other stairs. The ticket booth was unmanned. Should I... sneak in... and feign ignorance? Could I claim I was disoriented by the cannons?

Why is my heart so full of deceit? Why is my first thought always to be a sneak? From whence comes my snaky soul? Friend to cats and criminal to man! I waited for the ticket booth to open.

Nobody came. I took a few steps toward the entrance. A sign read: "For the Festival of St. Blaise, the Walls will be free today." How do you like that? Climbed up on them.

They exceeded the hype. What a beautiful city. What a magnificent experience. Winding around above the city, protected by the walls, ducking into little forts and guard towers. Everything spread out before you. The sea. The sky.

And I had it all to myself.

In the distance, a cable car took men into the hills. Birds soared high and disappeared. I was the king of the castle. I was the last line of defense. I won't say something cheesy like "I felt connected to history!" but it was every "build a medieval village" activity book and King Arthur coloring page I'd every enjoyed as a boy brought to life.

Perfect day and no crowd. Having fooled around inside the city yesterday and having followed those goofy flag people this morning, I "knew" the city. I felt oriented and knew what I was looking down on. God, it was fun to duck behind the fortifications and pop up pretending to pour oil down. The way these things twisted around, there's no way anyone was sneaking up on this place. Or taking it.

They film Game of Thrones all around here, so I made a little video of myself singing the theme song. All the towns bells began to ring in the middle of it. The parade was coming back in. From high above, I watched them stream into the city and down the wide main avenue. They were headed back to the cathedral.

I've never chosen a patron saint, so there's an opening. I choose St. Blaise. I hear you get a nice white dress and a party on your confirmation.

A stirring hour circling the city, and I went back to the room. I had thirty minutes to catch the bus to Kotor. Would I do it?

I did it. (Saint) blazed out of there, grabbed a cab at the ancient gate (Autobus Stadion! And Autobus Step on it!) and made the bus. Not sure what instinct reminded me to grab my passport on the way out, but it was a good instinct. Montenegro is another country.

Very easy ride over there along a beautiful coast, with the beauty only increasing as we approached the Bay of Kotor. The border check was the wave of a matador's flag. Easy. BUT, when it was revealed by the appearance of my passport that I was an American, this dude, another passenger, had plenty to say to me.

When the bus is empty and the next person who gets on sits next to you anyway, you know they're a lunatic. This is true in every country and on every form of public transportation. Sometimes they are merely touched with lunacy and not full-blown moon-crazy, and I was fortunate he was one of the milder cases.

Before the border, he hadn't spoken, just sat next to me breathing, but now:

"Well, I don't like the way America treats the world, and I guess you're going to get special treatment around here. Nothing better happen to you or America will cause trouble for us." He was a big man. His glasses had round frames. His sleeves had pockets in which were stuffed blue Sharpies. I have never seen sleeves like that before.

Instead of arguing with him, I just asked him where he was from.

"Well, there's a question! Where is anyone from? I can tell you this by way of answer. I live in Canada." His accent was Eastern European. "And even though I live in Canada, they stop me at the border coming from New York and back home. There is no open border, you know. They asked me what my purpose was. They asked me why I had been in the States. And do you know what I told them?"

Vacation?

"No. I told them I was in the United States to buy Milky Way bars."

I laughed, and he frowned. I had thought he was being sarcastic, but...

"They opened my bags and they found my fifty Milky Way bars. But, since the label on a Milky Way says 'made in Canada,' I had a lot of explaining to do. They wanted to know why I had left Canada to buy Canadian chocolate. They don't know that Milky Ways are the only chocolate bar that is made in Canada but not sold there, and they don't know that Milky Ways are my favorite."

I told him I thought they were good.

"You must never leave your credit card. You think I am joking, but in America you must always escort your card, or a waiter will steal it. You must follow them. You must always escort your card."

I told him I would try to.

"Here it is safe. There is no crime here because the villages are small and there is too much shame. Shame keeps them from stealing."

I thought I was going to enjoy his company all the way to Kotor, but he bailed in some no-town. I watched him make his proud way across the street, and then we were off. It only occurred to me a while later to check my pockets. Wallet still there. Passport still there. Shame had done its work, and he hadn't robbed me.

The journey to Kotor was astonishing. Carving a little curve around mysterious islands with benign stone goliaths surrounding you. A massive round-topped mountain rose over the others like a domed ivory church.

We arrived right on time, which was important, since I only had two hours. Booked it out of the bus station and hustled to the old town. Just steps away, really. The main draw is the crumbling fortress in the hills. You climb these marble stairs forever and get treated to marvelous views.

It's like a mini-Dubrovnik, but it's smaller and less... preserved. Much less of a Disney feel, though. A lot of Dubrovnik feels like the Croatia ride at EPCOT, but Kotor felt real. No goofy costumes here. Just people trying to scratch yams out of the dust with sticks. In Dubrovnik, I kept waiting for Grimace or Donald Duck to come out waving.

Long climb up the mostly shattered stairs. Very clear and beautiful. I was breathing hard from the climb. It was not easy. I was alone, so of course I fantasized about turning my ankle and being trapped up there bleating like a sheep for hours.

At the mid-point is the Our Lady of Health Church. The perfect stopping point for a fat American who had already circumnavigated a city today. I tagged it and went down.

That all took about an hour, so I had an hour left to explore and make the bus again. Quick little ramble around a scattered little town. No tourists, but around a corner were one million cats. The mother lode. At least twenty. I was prepared for them. I still had that jacket pocket full of kibble.

It was the miracle of loaves and fishes. Their kitten's kittens will speak of this day. I loved trying to make sure everybody got some. Even the sick-looking ones. Especially the sick-looking ones. Stray animals will break your fucking heart.

Some of them were wet and dirty. I saw a badly wounded cat in Mostar I couldn't write about. He sat so still. Suffering with such dignity. Oh, the world. It was heartbreaking. Feeding these guys won't help him. Loving Ruggles won't help him, but it means there's love somewhere in the world. I don't know how to articulate it.

They were really swarming me, so it was hard to get the picture. I had thirty minutes, so I ducked into a pizza place, It was the only thing open. I realized I didn't have any Montenegrian (sp?) money, so I asked how much the special was in Euros.

"It is the same," said the waiter, "The Euro is our money."

I got something called The Sara Special, which was enormous with crazy cheeks of meat all over it, blobs of sour cream with olives, and an egg over easy vibrating in the middle. It was cut all wonky. No triangles here. It was hilarious and delicious,

Wolfed it down. I ate with my wristwatch on the table staring at me. Booked it back to the station.

I made it!

I wanted to doze on the ride back, but it was too beautiful. Read more Shardik, Really liking it now. It got me. I can't imagine anyone I know reading it, though. I wonder what books they've read that they think I'll never read.

At the station, I scrimped a couple of Kuna by taking a city bus instead of a taxi. Fun to be with real folks. When we got to the gate, the parade was limping out. It was all the same people. Had they been firing those guns and marching in circles for eight hours? Is this what it means to serve St. Blaise?

I hope he takes my age into consideration.

The Journey to Dubrovnik

"You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth. The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far. Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness; For even as He loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable."

There was lightning in the distant hills on the ride home from Mostar. I arrived in Split to darkening skies and made my may home for sleep. The Super Bowl was scheduled to kick off at 1am local time, and I had to catch the 7am bus to Dubrovnik.

So, I figured, sleep now, and stay up through everything else!

There was a casino on the outskirts of town showing the Big Game, a party hosted by a local "American Football" team called the Split Seawolves. What a hoot. I figured I'd do it and maybe come away with a Seawolves jersey.

The invite read:
"Come around 23:30 - await you promotional price of drinks, voucher of £ 35 for a game in Wettpunkt-in and a super team and a huge video wall on which we are transferring! #Nichi will fill stomach"

Sounded good to me.

Set the alarm, and dozed off a little worried about available cash. If my ATM card didn't work in the morning, it would be lean times on the rest of the trip. Sure #Nichi would fill stomach tonight, but what will I eat in Zagreb in four days?

Sleep. Sleep. Awakened by heavy-metal thunder. This is no weather to visit a casino in. Rolled back over. Woke up around halftime of the game. Shared the agony of the terrible loss with Mike, who was online back in the states. He and I have been together for for some infamous defeats, boy. It's almost a theme of ours.

I wonder how the Seawolves took it.

Still raining hard and I was still worried about whether or not the ATM card would work, so I figured, just get out there. I made some of that powdered coffee, bundled up, and got out there.

I also took the leather bag Ruggles ruined. Figured I'd leave it somewhere dry for someone else. Maybe someone with the patience to unstink it. Farewell, bag. RIP. RI... cat pee, that is.

Went out in the blackness. Found an alley and ditched the bag. The three 24-hour bakeries were open, and there was a bank machine between them. I held my nose, I closed my eyes, I took a drink. Bills came pouring out. Magical bills! I was rich again. Celebrated with a big old sausage roll and some baklava.

Getting pretty sick of phyllo dough. Everything here is baked into it or wrapped with it. I like the taste, but I just want a donar kebab, you know, I want to bite something and not have it crunch.

Back home for the last time. Made sure I was all packed up. Stole a roll of toilet paper in case I got the sniffles again, took the jar of almonds the host gifted me with, and zipped on out of there. Stuck the key in the mailbox.

Farewell, Split. You were cool on your own, and the ideal launching pad for adventures outward.

Dark walk to the bus terminal, but a very familiar one by now. The leather bag was gone already. A good find for someone, though they'll soon discover it's no bargain! The paw of Ruggles strikes from worlds away!

It was too early for the ticket counter to be open, but the driver sold me a ticket. No problem. You're not allowed to bring suitcases on the bus, though, so he charged me for that. Again, no problem, I had all that money now. Why, I could even afford an expensive necktie if I wanted one.

You see, Croatia claims to have invented the neck tie. I guess the story goes, a bunch of Frenchies liked the way Croatians wore their scarves, and started doing it that way, and the way the French pronounced "Croat" sounded like "Cravat," and the cravat is the precursor of the necktie.

Seems legit.

A bunch of stores has necktie-shaped doorknobs even. Everything was a million raccoons, though, 

Quiet little ride to Dubrovnik along the glorious coast. It's as pleasing to the eye and uplifting to the soul as anything there is. The mighty sea, the patient rocks, the steely green and prideful blues. White clouds above and white foam below. 

I read more Shardik. I had taken a break from it to read The Thin Man, which I completed in one sitting. Enjoyed it very much, of course, but now back to this big red brick. I chose it because Richard Adams said it was his favorite thing he'd ever written.

Maybe authors like their rough children the best. They need them more.

My host in Dubrovnik was a man named Zvonko. He had to work in the afternoon, so it was important the bus be on time, but the bus was running very late. One of the reasons is, there's a weird little postage-stamp sized plot of Bosnia that juts into the Croatian coast. It's sort of hilarious. 

It's there so Bosnia can have a port, but also for some other obscure reason. So, even though I was going from one Croatian city to the another, there was a passport check.

When you cross a border on a bus, the process usually works like this:
1) An armed guard from the country you're leaving boards the bus and collects everyone's passports and ID cards.

2) The bus then drives across the line into the new country while the border cops run the names to see if there are any fugitives.

3) The cop gives the stack of passports back to the driver, and you take off again. That's mostly how it goes.

Of course, you get nervous the bus will leave without your passport, but it doesn't happen. When the driver has them back, the process for returning them is interesting. If the driver has a buddy, the buddy walks up and down the aisle passing them back, calling out the names.

If the driver doesn't have a buddy, he hands the stack to whoever's in the front seat, and he takes his and passes back the stack. You get to see everyone's stuff!

On the ride back from Mostar, the driver had a buddy. He was having fun with it, calling out the names and running over to the person the passport belonged to like it was a game show. I was listening out for my name, of course. Would he pronounce it "See-mahn?" or "Shemmin?"

My ear was tuned to that, so I didn't recognize that he'd been calling "my" name for a while, but he was pronouncing it "Barack Obama." He was just standing next to my seat holding it out and saying, "Barack Obama" until I was like, "wha? Oh, he means me!" I was the only American on the bus, so that's the name I got.

No jinks quite as high here, though. Pretty routine. No stamps, just a flip-through and a hard stare. Then you park at something called the Supermarket Orca, which is a convenience store that gives a portion of its sales to the bus driver. So there's every incentive to park there for a while.

It had wi-fi, though, so I wrote Zvonko and told him I'd be late. Lucky. I went for coffee, but the coffee bar allowed smoking, and it was like walking into a wall. I backed right the fuck out. So fucked up to think I lived the first half of my life that way. That was just how it was when you went anywhere.

The movies make the 40s and 50s seem romantic, but the clubs where Gilda sang must have been hell.

Eventually, the driver couldn't squeeze any more profit out of the visit, so we sped on and reached Dubrovnik at last.

Cabbed it to the Old City where I was staying. Zvonko had to bail for work, so I had to meet his dad instead, but daddy needed an extra hour, so I finally got that coffee. I entered through the Pile Gate (as did hundreds of tourists also there that day) and enjoyed the big, old feel of the place.

Giant wide, marble avenue called The Stradun. It was lined with flags for The Festival of St. Blaise, which was totally happening.

Coffeed up, met the old man at the drawbridge, and tried to nap, but I heard drums and bells, so I rallied and went back out. Right away, I saw a man wearing a Sibenik cap. It looked just like mine!

Very cool old city that rewards exploration. It all looks the same at first, crooked staircases leading to cafes, charming boutiques selling neck ties. Terrible restaurants offering regretful meals. Wide plazas. High bell towers and charming clocks.

Everything was strewn with fresh garlands for the festival. I ate some chicken stuffed with shrimp. It was a million dollars, and I felt fooled. Tired, though, and making poor decisions.

Took some more shots almost pathologically and passed a grocery store. Something about its normalcy helped me refocus. I bought some oranges and some toiletries and made myself go back to the room to sleep.

Started to rest. In the morning, I was prepared to climb the walls and see what this place was all about.

I heard cannon fire and laughter outside. Bells. Should I.... Stop it. Stop it. Dubrovnik would be there in the morning. It's been here for centuries. 

Mostar Bosniaks (The Rest are Croats)

"Come," she said, beckoning, "I will tell you about our suffering."

One of the guide books had a sidebar on what to do if you got stuck at the Kolodny station. Don't panic! Simply walk fifteen minutes to the correct station, then walk fifteen minutes into town. This didn't make much sense to me.

I just found a cab at a gas station. There was nowhere to get the local money, but he was happy to take Euros. He gave me my change in their money, though. It's called... The Convertible Mark. No joke. You pay for things there with Bosnian Convertible Marks.

The drive from Kolodny to the Old Town of Mostar was a wonderland of street art and ruin porn. I was snapping my neck around and trying to memorize street names. I should have walked! Even when the guide book is wrong, it's right!

He dropped me off near a mosque and peeled out of there.

The air was heavy and cold, but very clean and clear. Very quiet. No birds or people.

I wandered slowly around. Gorgeous sloping stone streets. Curves and hills. I found myself in a closed bazaar. It was Sunday, and early, and the off-season. You can tell this place is hopping in the Summer, so I was very glad to have this opportunity.

I found the famous bridge so quickly, I thought it was something else. But there it was. Crossing it and looking back has been one of my favorite things in Europe. A green river raging below a dull blue sky. Computer-colored stones and orange-tiled roofs. Silent birds hunting and drifting.

Wandered around with the mild idea to find a higher point to photograph the bridge from. Tiptoed through another rocky street of closed shops. A woman sat on a wall with a notepad. She was drawing the bridge. A cat crept up and sniffed her pen. She smiled and shooed it away.

A sign said "Exchange office" and the door was open, so I walked in. Figured I'd grab a few Convertible Marks to buy lunch with. There was nothing inside but a few bags of brick dust. Walked back out and saw another sign saying: "Best view bridge - 50m"

Did that mean meters or marks?

It meant meters. But it also meant marks. But not fifty. Five. So, I paid it. The ticket taker wore a huge puffy jacket with the hood drawn tight around his face. "There is no one here," he said, "but you and I, so I will let you into the mosque for free."

The fee I had paid was for a balcony somewhere below.

I asked if I needed to remove my shoes. He shook his head like I'd said something ridiculous. We went inside. Nice old place. He disappeared while I photographed the dome. He called me from some dark place in the corner.

"Here, come here."

An open door, blackness beyond. He stepped out of the shadows and indicated I should go in. Would this be it for our hero? Had I escaped Kolodny only to fall here? I went in.

Total darkness. I felt stairs with my feet. It was a great deal like the bell tower in Split, so I knew to go slowly and watch my head. It got tighter and tighter. There was some light coming from an arrow slit, but the stairs were getting wet.

I ended up crawling up them on my hands and knees like a penitent. After a long, hard climb, leading to I knew not what, I found myself on the observation deck of this minaret (see below). I was ankle deep in water, but... I had the best view of the bridge.

Later, I took this picture from the bridge, so they would be even.

No idea how they handle that climb in the "season." Maybe there are lights? And it's dry?

Got some great shots and climbed down exhilarated. He tried to sell me a wooden bracelet. I declined. "It is lucky," he said, "but not everyone needs luck."

I went down to the observation deck I had paid for. Sucked in comparison to the minaret. He followed me down to make absolutely certain I didn't want a wooden bracelet for luck. I was sure, but I thanked him very much for all the opportunities.

He was cool about it.

Poked around for coffee. Near another bridge, a dirty dude came up smiling. Crusty red eyes, Land o Lakes teeth. He was doing his very best to look friendly. "Hello, my friend. Hello to Mostar. I am a guide. You want a guide Mostar? This place is very old. You need guide Mostar."

No thank you.

"PLEASE may I haff money!" he said, "My father, he is killed. I am starving!"

I only had the one mark left. I gave it to him. He said, "This is not any money. This is very small. I take you automat. I take you bank."  I thanked him for offering to be my guide and told him I was very sorry I couldn't help him any more.

He snapped back to being humble again. "Ok," he said, "Ok. I will use this to buy a small coffee. And I will be warm for a while."

I got out of there. God, that poor man.

Some cats sneaked around. I hated myself thinking I would have gone to the bank automat for them.

Was that guy lying? This place got fuuuuucked up during the Balkan War. So maybe not. The bridge was destroyed. It took forever to rebuild because they wanted to use the exact same materials and the exact same methods. No modern tools, etc. I think that's one of the most beautiful things I've ever heard.

To me, in the '90s in the US, the war over the breakup of Yugoslavia was mostly incomprehensible. I think my understanding was reduced to: "These people have hated each other for centuries, but the commies made them play nice. When the commies ran out of money, they couldn't stop these people from fighting any more."

Which, you know, leaves out a lot.

Every time I tried to look more closely into it, though, my eyes would just glaze over. These trips over the last few years have given me more context, so while I'll never have true understanding, it's increased my desire to understand, and that means I make more effort. So, I read Balkan Ghosts a few months ago and some short stories by William Vollmann, and a chunk of Rebecca West's giant book, and along with the capsules in the guide books, I feel like I have more of a sense of it. They all had to build on one another, though, and it took a lot of repetition.

Of course, it's absurd to say, "Well, I read a couple of books, and I ate some baklava, so now I'm an expert!"

Ultimately, there's the sense that it's insultingly reductive to say, "Well, these people just hate each other, what can you do?" because there are always circumstances far beyond that surface bullshit.

But, that is what we do. We love to boil it down to "religious" differences, because that leaves out the reality of economic and political oppression. So much easier to say people are like animals than to recognize they've been forced into these situations by the "realities" of "markets."

The history of this region is the history of slavery. It was used as a giant buffer zone between Turkey and "The Good Europe." The Turks were strong, smart, had advanced weapons, and there were a lot of them. Europe was scared.

The powers in Vienna or Venice, whoever had the best guns at the time, took the Slavs' money to bribe the Turks or, if the Turks didn't feel like being bought off, made the Slavs use their cities as fortresses and their people as sandbags to keep the Turks from reaching the treasure.

And on and on like that forever. After the Turks, it was the Russians. So, to say, "Oh, never put a Serb and a Croat in the same room, they just don't like one another. Cats and dogs, you know," is to leave out that they've been exploited for centuries, murdered for other nation's profits and forced into conflict with one another.

I ended up walking back to where the cab had driven me, halfway back to Kolodny, and taking pictures of ruined buildings and angry murals. This is what it looks like when an artillery shell crashes through your bathroom window.

The town was starting to come to life at this hour and families held hands as they walked to church and women bought flowers. Men laughed in the park. They've "moved on."

So, a day of sobering and sad thoughts, but a nearly perfect one. Mostar has become one of my favorite experiences. I found a place that took Euros and bought some bread, salami, and cheese. I dodged a few gypsies and fed a few cats the salami.

Found the real bus station and got the next ride back to Split. I lay back thinking about the sad beauty of this place. Really happy I got to see it so empty.

Maybe it made me feel charitable toward Shardik, because 300 pages in now, I think I like it.

The Call to Prayer in Mostar

"Young officers moved rhythmically through the beams of white light that poured down upon the acid green of the billiard tables, and the billiard balls gave out their sound of stoical shock. There was immanent the Balkan feeling of a shiftless yet just doom. It seemed possible that someone might come into the room, perhaps a man who would hang up his fez, and explain, in terms just comprehensible enough to make it certain they were not nonsensical, that all the people at the tables must stay there until the two officers who were playing billiards at the moment had played a million games, and that by the result their eternal fates would be decided; and that this would be accepted, and people would sit there quietly waiting and reading the newspapers."

And onward to Mostar on the dawn bus. It was too cloudy to see the sun, and too early for the sun to have any real power, so the dim light made everything a sort of gunmetal gray.

The sea and the sky were the same color, and the water was still, so it had the effect of making the mountains look like they were floating in air. I was pleasantly disoriented. Unmoored. Untethered. It is beautiful here.

For the first few hours, I was the only passenger on the bus. The driver and his co-driver chatted pleasantly, and I took great comfort in not understanding. Just nice to let their shhh sounds wash over me. I drifted.

Dozed and played a "find-the-hidden-object" game. I ate a Clementine. I listened to a mix of songs my friend Kristen made for me. It's all strange French ballads, 60s murmurs, and instrumental freakouts.

Listening to it on these slow buses makes me feel like I live in the credit sequence of an old movie.

This was my first trip into the interior of Croatia, and here the mountains grew taller. Giant snowy crags. Large, imposing faces. It was getting much lighter.

It was light enough to read,  so I brushed up on the practicals of Mostar. Both guide books said something like:

"Beware, traveler! There are two bus stations in Mostar. The first is all things good. The first is fresh bread and a smile from your lord. But the second, oh traveler! Cursed be the wretch who findeth his soul in that grim place. Mark well where ye disembark, wanderer. Be sure of eye and of foot, lest ye find your doom in Kolodny."

So, I was like, "Got it. Avoid a Kolodny kalamity. No worries."

People boarded in the middle of nowhere. I didn't see a town or a bus stop, but the bus would stop, and they would board, breathing hard and muttering.

When they got off, it was also in the middle of nowhere. They seemed to live between places.

We passed a town called Stupica, and I cracked up all over the place. You buttoned your shirt wrong, you grow up in Stupica or something? Well, Julie got three Bs and a C, so I guess she's not going to college, but she can always be Mayor of Stupica.

The driver picked up the pace as we approached. They can be as sure-footed as a mountain goat in these hills.

Bus stopped in a valley. Driver got off. I got off with him. Stretched a little, took out my camera, and... there was nothing around. I watched the bus drive off without the driver. His buddy must have taken the wheel. There was no place to buy water or bread.

A row of closed shops. A towering ring of shabby apartment buildings surrounding everything.

The driver was talking to a woman behind a counter, so I went in to get directions. He walked off. Somewhere. She looked at me like I didn't have a reservation but wanted a table anyway. I was like, "Mostar?" She was like, "I dunno."

I was like, "Uh..." I brought out the guide book and pointed to a picture of the bridge. She acted like I was trying to sell her a calendar. In English, she said, "I don't know." She was obviously being a creep on purpose. I mean. I get it. It sucks to be at work when other people are on vacation.

I figured I'd ask someone else. As I was leaving I felt a jolt of terror. On the wall behind her was a sign reading: KOLODNY

The Sea is a Musician

“The problem with putting two and two together is that sometimes you get four, and sometimes you get twenty-two.”

Got home from Sibenik in a haze of illness. Made tea, grabbed the tissues. Wrapped up in bed, and slept. The plan was to see the waterfalls of Plitvice in the morning, but the guide hadn't confirmed. My shaking, sick hands set the alarm anyway. Then I knew darkness.

Woke up to sheets of rain and an email saying the tour was canceled due to weather. I was very happy to have that happen. Rolled back over and dozed deep, When I awakened, the fever had broken.

Celebrated with a hot shower and some almonds and checked the schedule for Zadar, home of the Sea Organ. As fine a backup plan as there is.

In theory, it was possible to see Sibenik and Zadar in a single day, but, you know how the equation of hard rain plus low energy works out. Cool to have a second chance. When the good lord closes a national park, he opens up an old Roman fishing village.

Went out to get some provisions from the outdoor market. It felt like I lived here. I knew shortcuts and where to get the best deal. The plan of sticking in the same city a few days in a row seems like a keeper. It was nice to have the market be familiar and friendly.

I bought a new suitcase to replace the one Ruggles ruined. The seller was like, "You Argentina?" I was like, "Me? Argentina? No.. I am from US."

"Oh, US very good! Very good. I have family five years Milwaukee. I give you nice price."

It wasn't a very nice price. Why did he think I was Argentinian? Unless it was a ruse!

A family who couldn't afford a stall in the market walked around with ropes of garlic wrapped on their necks. The dad lifted a clove to my face. I bought a handful of Clementines and some coffee, went home for my bag, and humped on down to the bus station,

Easy little late-afternoon ride up the coast. No worries about the light. Read more Shardik. It's all right if you don't have anything else. The rain stopped about halfway there, and the hills were clean and beautiful, dark and old with birds wheeling around them in lazy formation.

Dozed a little. You have to pass Sibenik again to get to Zadar and I saluted the familiar station. I repeated "Zadar is twice as far" until I was mad at myself.

The driver was playing an Annie Lennox cd. She sure has a nourishing voice. I wrote: "An, Lenx sounds like a breast" in my notebook.

The sea was wide and blue on our left.

Took a cab from the bus terminal. This always goes the same way. There will be a group of three dudes smoking and laughing at one another's coughing. They will be wearing leather jackets. As you approach, you discover who the leader is. It is usually the oldest. He will not speak English.

You say the name of the place, and the old one narrows his eyes at you. A younger one repeats what you have said in the same way you said it. The old one nods and beckons you to follow him. In the cab he says, "First time Croatia?"

Zadar followed the script. I ran up yelling "Sea Organ! Sea Organ!" and they all threw their cigarettes on the ground.

Short little ride past a harbor full of yachts and an aperitif factory.

Zadar was as nice a little place as you might imagine and it was a beautiful late afternoon. Wide, marble plazas and ancient pillars and columns. Slabs of a Roman forum, solid old cathedrals, and weathered fortresses. 

Larger plazas than some of the other places. I saw a crowd gathering for a wedding and kids messing around near some old wells. A lot more life than Sibenik, a different kind of character. The boardwalk area affords glorious sunset views, 

And there is the Sea Organ.

It's "musical instrument the sea plays," a set of pipes and tubes that moan and ring when the tide moves in and out. It's a really comforting sound. Like an old synth or a deep-sea mammal. It's like an all-whale Brian Eno cover band is what I'm saying. 

I wrote "S. Orgn sounds like a nourishing breast" in my notebook.

There's also a "Salute to the Sun!" a large circle full of solar panels. It charges all day long and turns into a disco floor at night. It only lit up a little while I was there. The rain had picked up again.

I walked along the sea listening to the organ, and I watched the boats coming in from the harbor. The perfect little day trip, really.

Dark ride back with a swallow of coffee and more Shardik. 

I had drowsy dreams of pita bread, but when I was back home, I walked right by the bakery without buying any.

I planned to cross the border into Bosnia in the morning. Scenic Mostar awaits the patient lad who loves the bus.