I’ve decided that it’s time to blog more about adventures where I am living now, which is in Chicago, and not Kosovo- where I would like to be.  Two weeks ago I was getting tired of both liking my long hair and hating the spit ends at the same time.  After a shower my hair just looked like a mess of knots & snarles, and I felt like a rock star when I looked in the mirror.  It was time for a trim.

My last haircut was in Hana’s garden in a village in Czech Republic in July.  She had cut my hair in the past, her mom cut my sister’s, and it always turned out great.  And it was free, so no complaints.  I read that Chinese get haircuts to symbolize the start of the new year, and since I want good luck thus year (i.e. particularly a job in the Balkans), decided not to wait any longer to take advantage of the new year good luck vibes.

Sure, there are all those inexpensive chains in the range of $15-$20.  But that was more than my split ends were worth.  On Lawrence Avenue I had noticed many store fronts offering cheap haircuts, often in English & Spanish.  I was determined to find one for $5.  It turns out it was not as easy as I expected.   I started out at Damen Avenue and walked west.  It’s funny when you aren’t looking for something you notice it all the time, and when you are looking for it, well, it vanishes.  I expected the salons to be in every nook and cranny.   Within 1/2 mile I found only two places advertising $10 cuts, but both were closed.  One was all silvery with fancy chairs, and the other had a small sign in the window with closed curtains.    I thought I lucked out at the third place, which sold beauty supplies and had one chair for $5 hair cuts in the back of the store, but I was told, “she come back 5:30″.  

I kept walking, feeling like I was now looking for the invisible track 9-1/2 in a Harry Potter book.  I resigned myself to walk yet another mile to a small place I had seen many times before, and was always curious about what went on inside.  Along the way I stopped at Dina & Tiff’s, which seemed comfortable and clean inside, and possibly run by Bosnians, but at $18 I moved on.  I finally made it to my little Mexican salon, where they charge $7, not $5, as I thought.  The front window is at hip level, and you have to walk down steps upon entering.   Three female and one male stylist were sitting around chatting and barely looked up at me.  I thought the fact that there were four of them was a good sign; they were expecting a crowd, and it was big enough for one.  But for now I was the only client, and probably one of the few who did not speak Spanish.   The salon, with it’s blue & black retro tiled floor looked like the perfect set for a Mexican soap opera or comedy.

Finally I caught their eyes.  They looked at each other, and I guess I got the stylist who drew the shortest straw.   She sprayed my hair with water as I explained I wanted my spit ends cut off.  Um, better rephrase that.  “Please a little”, and I showed her with my fingers.    Martha handled my hair with a hesitation which suggested she doesn’t cut hair too often, but maybe she was just nervous.  Or maybe at other salons they make a big deal about putting your hair up in pins and this way and that to get the under layers first, and then the top layers to match.  None of that fussing here.  I didn’t even get the chance to sink into the chair and relax.   Small talk didn’t work anyways.  Snip snip and it was done.  Really done.  My hair was still wet.  I pantomimed a blow dryer and pointed to the door, “It is cold outside.”  It was 50 degrees and I was expected to walk out with wet hair!  She nodded and dried it.  I didn’t look like an airbrushed model afterwards, and while I do think it’s a touch off on the left side, it was the cheapest trip to Mexico I’ve ever taken. 

What a surprise I had meeting strangers today.  I woke up and thought, today will be a good day.  And it really was.  I didn’t quite feel that way yesterday when I got out of bed so it was a nice feeling.  It was a beautiful sunny fall day and I felt happy to have a job to go to, for another few weeks at least.

I met Charlie on the el when I sat next to him and noticed his work ID hanging from his neck out of the corner of my eye.  I asked if he works for the Chicago Symphony, like the badge indicated, and he said yes.  For the next 30 minutes I learned about the challenges of working as a fundraiser at an arts organization in this economy, how a conductor really can change the sound of an orchestra, and how he enjoys the challenge of supervising people.  Oh– and how often he gets free tickets but he never uses them (once a month), because who wants to stay at work longer, even if it IS the CSO? 

Next I met a former colleague who, through a random event and a darn good memory, connected with my boss, then me, and will now become an intern at the non-profit where I am consulting, while he is in grad school.   He came into the office for an interview.  [Afterwards when we went for coffee to get caught up, and I discovered that the Intelligentsia Café next to the Cultural Center charges twice the price of Dunkin Donuts and it takes 3 times as long to get your coffee because they slow brew it just for you, but it’s worth it because it tastes delicious!  Drink local!]

On the subway after work a middle aged lady gets on, picks up her brown paper bag and opens a can of beer and sips.  Our conversation went something like this:

Me: Long week, huh?
Her: Sure is.  All the guys (on the el) just looked at me when I opened the beer.
Me:  Bet you could make money if you auction it off.
Her:  Or just auction a sip and pass it around.  Does this train stop at Chicago Avenue?
Me:  Where about are you going?

Her: Near the McDonalds, to a bar for drinks. 

I tell her she needs to get off in a few stops and walk about 10 minutes.  She should have taken the other line– but it’s a nice day for a walk.

Her:  I am just drinking this to get to calm the nerves.
Me:  Oh, is it a date?
Her:  (She smiles.)  Not really.  Someone I’ve known a while.
Me:  A friends with benefits situation?

Her:  (She laughs) Well, something like that.  I have known him for 3 years.  (She proceeds to tell me that she has a partner of 9 years who fulfills her emotional needs but this person fulfills her “other needs”).  “You do what you need to do” she tells me as she gets up, leaves and I say bye. 

The gal next to where the woman sat asked if I knew the lady.  I said no.  We both were surprised by what the lady said.  I would have asked the lady if her partner knows about it but we ran out of time.  Then the gal and I talk about the weather and pretty sunset and she says her friend is getting married tomorrow.  When I get up to leave, I say “Have fun at the wedding!  The two women next to her say, “you are getting married?!” and she says “no no, I am not getting married”, so I loudly say, “She is not getting married!” and everyone looks at her and she laughs.
 
I was headed to the opening of a new exhibit at a photography center.  I was early so I walk down the street to look in the window of an old bakery.  I take a photo of a cake which looks like a cauldron, and a lady comes out of nowhere to look at it too and I show her my photo.  I always carry my camera.  We instantly start talking & critiquing all the Halloween themed cakes and how the “logs” underneath the caldron cake are made.  I say, “You could use Keebler fudge sticks” and she says, “or Tootsie rolls,  or pretzels.” I tell her those are great ideas!  I think the googley eyes on top of the green goop are made from marshmallows and tell her a story of deviled eggs a friend made to looked like googley eyes “oh, those must have been good’ she says. I came up with the idea that the cakes in the window must have been made of Styrofoam and she readily agrees, otherwise they would rot (I say) and the ants would get them (she says).  We also agreed that the frosting was probably real and maybe even sprayed.  We proceed to look at all the cakes in two windows.  The cake with the ghosts is purple, cute, and doable, but the blue cake with the haunted house didn’t look well done at all, with a tacky plastic haunted house on top. 

I tell her that my grandmother used to come to the bakery when my dad was a kid, and we have sent their pound cakes to my uncle inOregon.  She says, “They must be good then”, and, “it opened in 1927” and I say, “My uncle was born in “1929”.  She smiles like she thought it was a cool piece of history.  She then tells me how complicated fondant is to make, after noticing it on the rim of the caldron cake, and about the time she got blue food coloring all over her face and hands from making blue fondant with her nephew.  I said, “They make it look so easy on tv.  Isn’t it just corn syrup and food coloring and maybe flour?”.  She thinks maybe the recipe has changed since her experiment 12 years ago.  We then talk about Iron Pastry Chef type tv shows where they make really fancy desserts “but you can’t even eat those” she says.  We look at the last cake, “Happy New Baby” which is not nearly as nice as the cauldron, and go on our separate ways—although I didn’t notice which way she actually went.  For all I know, she could’ve been a ghost herself.

At the photography center I find out the guy behind the table with class brochures is the only employee who is not a photographer, but a performing artist.  I could tell by the way he talked in an emphatic way and his slightly theatrical facial expressions.  He says they need someone on staff to give a ‘different’ perspective.  “At the theatre where I perform, the head administrator (or whatever) is not an actor and he notices things we don’t.”  Makes sense.  I ask him if my former boss, who is involved with the center and who invited me, was there.  Not yet.

I see people with wine, and I find it around a hidden corner on a plain table with only two bottles.  The choice is 2 buck chuck chardonnay or a red I never heard of.  It’s a sign of the times; not even a cheese tray from Jewel.  I chose the red, which was sadly not a step up from the white.  The barman’s name is Kent and he’s wanted to be a photographer since he was in middle school and took photography.  Now he’s in the certificate program at the center and will take “Boot Camp” classes which are a little bit of everything.  When he’s done he will have learned enough technical skills to be a photographer, I guess, which is what he plans to be.  He isn’t drawn to any specific genre, so far he likes taking pictures of everything.  I am sad when I suddenly realize that essentially there is no darkroom photography anymore.  He says there is a small one in the basement, “the building has a vault, it used to be a bank, it’s in there” and he gets to see it (or try it possibly) in one of his classes, but everything is now digital and done in computer labs.   The magic of putting a piece of white photo paper in solution and watching an image appear has vanished and now it’s done in mere seconds.

After perusing the exhibit I see my former boss who sports bright green “arty” glasses which go well with her white hair.  We talk about this and that, and when I finally tell her I was in Europe this summer and fell in love with the Balkans, her ears perk up and her mind starts working faster than her mouth could keep up.  “There is someone you need to talk to.  What is his name?  Well, he is retired and working on a really cool program which involves the Balkans at universities inTuzla and other cities and other projects.  He is now on assignment in Libya as a UN Advisor.  He has lots of connections too and is bidding on big contracts.” She  eventually remembers his name and I scribble it down and that of his colleague’s, with a reminder to look them up on the social networking sites she recommended.   But by the time I have arrived home an hour later I have an email from her with two contact names, 8 points about accomplishments of the organization, and an offer to connect me to them.  Yes, and thank you!

 But I wasn’t home yet.  At the newly renovated subway station near the photo center was an amazingly beautiful silver swirly metal sculpture on the bright white ceiling.  The station attendant gave the sculpture a second and third look when I said he was lucky to work in the prettiest el station. I joke that maybe a local politician lived in the area. 

I travel a few stops on the subway and then upon exiting I walk past the Lill Street Gallery and see a light in the doorway.  I ask the two women leaving if there is anything going on, like a First Friday open house.  Yes, I am told, but it’s pretty empty.  I walk in and notice on a flier that the glass studio is offering cupcakes and sangria.  I like glasswork, and treats, so I find my way to the studio on the third floor where I am offered chocolate or vanilla frosted mini-cupcakes with green glass looking sugar pieces in the center,  I am too late for the bottled sangria.  I meet Janet, one of the teachers.  Janet has taught art at a Montessori school for the last 25 years and loves going to work everyday.  I repeat aloud, “So you aren’t just fine with going to work everyday, you actually look forward to it?”  Yes, she said, she looks forward to going to work everyday, and she hasn’t missed a single day of work in 4 years and loves here kids. I tell her I don’t know anyone who looks forward to going to work everyday.  How novel.

She asks what I do, and after I give the highlights, I tell her I have been having daydreams of swirling around a brush with some color and want to do more creative work and not be in an office environment, maybe a teacher one day. “You have to do what you feel passionate about first, and worry about the money later” she tells me. That is what she told her daughter, who also teaches at the Gallery and somehow makes her living as an artist “She is better than I am with glass.”  I ask if she knows my friend who works at another Montessori school and she does.  Janet encourages me to take a glass class, and I tell her glassblowing was one of my favorite classes in college. 

The bus driver on the way home was particularly friendly when I got on and off. 

What an extraordinary day.  It made me wonder if everyone out there in strangerland just yearns for some real connection as we go about our day in our own worlds, ignoring everyone else unless we are forced to interact with them.  All it takes to make a connection is a small word in passing, a smile, and an eagerness to engage.

Who would have known that the only thing cheaper in Denmark than the US happens to be my favorite fruit in the entire world?  Passionfruit is not grown anywhere near Denmark, but for some reason I can satisfy my craving here for just one dollar.  If I am lucky enough to ever find it at home, I consider it a four dollar treat.  That is like Denmark saying, “We aren’t thaaat expensive”.  But mostly it is.  3 stops on the subway $5; locker for luggage at train station $10; postcard stamp nearly $3; entry into the Aarhus city art museum $25.  While an all you can eat breakfast buffet was a mere $6, the latte was $7.  But Denmark isn’t all about money of course.  It’s also about summer pretending to be fall and the Danes having a lot more in common with the Dutch than I expected.

As luck would have it, on the flight from Zurich to Copenhagen was a scouting troop, as evidenced by their pea green uniforms, brass buttons and yellow and red bandanas looped through their shirts.  I assumed them to be Korean or Thai.  As they were filing in I asked the guy sitting in the aisle seat to ask where they were from.  The group of boys and girls was from Brazil and traveling to the world scouting jamboree in Sweden.  At the back of the pack I noticed one Latino looking boy, and a Latino looking leader.  My seatmate, Michael from Vienna, was as stunned as I was to learn their nationality, and even my mention of Alberto Fujimori of Peru being Asian didn’t help us overcome our ignorance of Brazilian culture or South American history. 

But the interesting point of this story is not really about the scouts; rather it’s about Michael’s girlfriend Andrea who did not speak English.   Micheal told me that they took the week off for vacation, but when they heard the weather report they decided that hiking in the Alps would be no fun in the rain.  They looked online and booked a trip to Copenhagen the day before the flight.   He said even if it rained at least they would not be bored.  But Andrea was already bored because he had to constantly translate our conversation into German- until he made a side comment about her being from Slovakia.   I am sitting next to a Slovak on a plane from Zurich to Copenhagen who does not speak English?  What are the chances of that and how did I score the luckiest seat on the plane? Wow! I was stunned again, and this time Andrea was too.  For the rest of the flight we talked non-stop, I in Czech and she in Slovak.  It was her turn to translate for her boyfriend.  She showed me their guidebooks, surprised I didn’t have one, and found the subway lines I needed to take to downtown and then to the bus station.  Thanks scouts for helping me meet my seatmate! (Another coincidence: the cover story in the Swiss Air magazine was on Belgrade.)

Upon arrival there was no passport check, just an area for “to declare”.  I was later told it may have been because I flew within Europe, even though Switzerland is not in the EU, and there is a special terminal for those flights.  When I left Zurich only my ticket was checked but never my passport either, except at the airlines check-in.  When I arrive into the US my passport is carefully checked and I even get questions.

On the train from the airport to the main railway station I sat across from a Bulgarian exchange student, and her sister who was visiting for a week.  She was telling me how much she liked a popular Danish snack, “likoreez”.  I didn’t understand quite what it was, so I asked her, “what color is it, what does it taste like, etc.” But then a Danish woman who overheard us said “it is called likoreesh (a slightly different pronunciation)”, and it made sense.  I blurted without thinking, “Oh, licorice, they sell that everywhere in the Netherlands and we have it at home”.

I planned to take the evening bus to the city of Aarhus from Copenhagen to visit my Malaysian friend Santhi and her Danish fiancée who had been a refugee from Sri Lanka.  Given my tight schedule, I was recommended a canal tour to get a feel for the city.  I had hoped to also visit the Danish Design Centre.  I headed for Netto Bådene, which offers tours for half the price of the big company-DFDS, but they were tricky to find and it was a long hot walk from the train station.  When I finally did arrive, I noticed a huge mass of tourists which caused me to glaze over.  The scene looked remarkably like Amsterdam with colorful row houses on the large canal.  After overcoming my indecisive nature and knowing I had to make a choice due to lack of time, I turned around and headed to the Design Centre.  The hour I explored the exhibit on whether design can change the world was not nearly long enough to learn about all their creative solutions to social problems, but it made a stronger impression on me than a mermaid statue would have.  You can read about it here:  http://en.ddc.dk/ On the way to the station I passed Herzegovina Restaurant… as in Bosnia & Herzegovina (BiH).  I walked in to take a peek, and was met with a gypsy band, buffet full of yummy smells, and a waitress who seemed indifferent to the fact I had just been to BiH.

After retrieving my backpack and figuring out the computer ticket kiosk, I took the subway three stops and caught the bus, which would take three hours and include an hour on a ferry. Just before arriving at the port, we drove across a beautiful stretch of land which reminded me of Truro on Cape Cod, with water on both sides of the highway and empty beaches.

I met Lis on the bus, a middle aged art therapist and special education assistant originally from Copenhagen, who loves Aarhaus for its cultural scene, and lives in a small coastal town.  She was returning from Rome which was hot and over run with tourists, “Had I known…”.  And what did she miss most from Denmark on her trip to Italy?  The smell of the sea air.  Lis described, at length, her numerous trips to Cuba where she studied salsa and got her groove back, Stella style.

When Lis was young Denmark was very welcoming to immigrants “We are similiar to Holland in our openness, but now people are getting more closed”, she said, mentioning immigration problems and the conservative party’s decision to set up a checkpoint at the border with Germany, which I recalled reading in the paper.  Her previous neighbors were refugees from Kosovo and the wife suffered post traumatic stress disorder and could not work. (That is three coincidences with the Balkans in one day.)  I also learned that one of her favorite Danish foods was toast with butter, cheese, and jam, that pickled herring with fresh onions is a national food, and pancakes are popular.  Wait a second…Denmark IS like the Netherlands.  My Dutch friend Nikkie’s mom loves the triple topped toast, my Dad ate herring in one of the small towns we visited and we ate pancakes in Amsterdam too!  But the Danes, with their flair for design, add holes and cute hearts to their coins which the Dutch have not copied, yet.

As we were quite far north, it wasn’t totally dark when we arrived at 10:30.  Santhi was waiting for me at the bus station with a big smile on her face and a hug at the ready.  Being met after a journey is the nicest feeling ever, especially after a fleeting moment of panic, imagining my friend or relative won’t be there and got the wrong date, time, or location.  Thanks to everyone who pulled out the welcome wagon for me; there were many of you. 

My cousin’s daughter in Switzerland was donating a bag of unwanted clothes to charity, so I took a few for Santhi.  One grey sweater for fall, and a bright orange summer dress and salmon short sleeved shirt which seemed to fit with Santhi’s colorful Malaysian style.  Before I opened my backpack, Santhi says, “Everyone here wears only black, grey, beige, and white”.  Except her.  She also shared her observation of how an extra bulky scarf worn the “European way” looks like a python around a woman’s neck; this was a commonly sight, even for summer.

Aarhaus was generally overcast and a little chilly while I was in town, but we started my first day with some sun and an all you can eat breakfast buffet or “smorgasbord” (I don’t know if it is actually called this in Danish- but it is Scandinavian).  On the line were 3 different kinds of breads (one was a “healthy kind”), two different kinds of thinly sliced meat, one hard cheese on a round spool which you had to slice off the top with a metal thread, hard boiled eggs, granola, honey, plain yogurt, butter, strawberry jam, and a nutty sort of nutella.  I tried the famous triple topped bread and felt the jam was a distraction from the flavor of the strong cheese.  Try this at home and let me know how you like it.  We lingered and refilled our plates and ate some more and savored our expensive coffee.

The town of 250,000 could be anycityanywhere and not a place which would have been on my itinerary if I hadn’t had friends there. In fact, Denmark, and many other places I visited would not have been on my itinerary either for the same reason.  We had plans to visit the Viking Museum in the basement of a bank, but we missed the opening time twice, so instead I heard an oral history from her previous visit.  On Saturday morning there was a flea market in the square in between the old brick church and beautiful theatre building, which for me, meant a great photo taking and people watching opportunity.  I found a box of old envelopes with both American and Danish stamps from as far back as 1940, and return addresses in Seattle and Loveland, CO.   There were the usual back of the closet treasures for sale but I stuck to digital souvenirs.

To give me a glimspe of the flat Danish countryside, one afternoon we headed to small town on a lake, Skanderborg, about an hour’s drive from Aarhaus.  Unfortuntely it rained all day, so we wandered in and out of shops, including the Red Cross second hand store where Santhi bought a very colorful shoulder bag, a post office located in a grocery store (and ate a real “Danish” pastry), and numerous shops selling my favorite -yet obscure and hard to find- tea, Kusmi Russian Tea.  I was told by a chocolatier in town ”it is excellent tea”, but the creative colorful packaging is what catches your eye.   You can see for yourself:  http://www.us.kusmitea.com/en/  I have only ever tried the Prince Vladimir blend and loved it.  We ended our visit at and an airy café attached to the city library with large windows facing the lake, where we had coffee, not tea.

One highlight was a visit to Bazar Vest on the outskirts of Aarhaus.  It was a small indoor shopping center where immigrants of Middle Eastern and Indian origin gathered to eat food from their homelands at small restaurants, shop for fresh produce and dry goods, and find special occasion clothes.  I loved it.  We drank Indian chai, bought fruit, and wandered through a aisles of glittery sandals and Islamic women’s head coverings.   However, the best part of my stay, as expected, was catching up a good friend and getting to know her fiancee, who seems to have a fascination with America, and even has a huge Jeep SUV.  They will get married this month in Denmark and have a 500 guest wedding in Malaysia in November.  Doubtful I will make it, Santhi assured me I could get an express sari made in 24 hours, just in case.

After five days it was time to leave Denmark on a 14 hour overnight bus to Amsterdam, where it all began.

Switzerland!  But the Swiss I know do not even drink the tap water; rather they drink carbonated or mineral water.  I feel really strange drinking tap water in European homes, like it is really uncouth.  But maybe it’s just their preference for carbonation, although I have noticed more “flat” or non-carbonated water consumption- from bottles of course.   Unlike in the States where stainless steel water bottles are commonplace, these appear to be non-existent in Europe.  

On this particular morning I awoke to the echoing call to prayer in Sarajevo, and went to sleep in Switzerland; the county whose national radio station is set to cow bells and it plays all day and night.   Not that I mind, rather, I think it is charming, but it led one young cousin to ask, ”Don’t you have cows in America?”  Not ones which sound like these and are in your neighbor’s backyard!

The sizable distance between Sarajevo and Zurich led me to weigh the cost/travel time/headache factors of a 2 hour plane ride vs 24 hours on busses and trains.  Bosnia & Herzegovina Airlines and saving my sanity beat out cheap Eurolines bus and expensive European trains.   I had never heard of the airline and an internal stop in Banja Luka made me somewhat concerned. Bosnia is small; why would we stop there?  But it turns out it was just to exchange some passengers and we were happily on our way to Zurich.    I was seated in 1a in a normal size (100ish seats) plane, one of only four the new airline owns.  My view from the window was great, although I was informed that photography on take off and landing is not allowed- after I got in a few of the Bosnian landscape from the air.

What shocked me upon arrival in Zurich was the cold, drizzly weather and modernity.   No, even more than that was the 10 bucks I had to shell out to store my backpack for a few hours at the Zurich train station, and another 10 for a simple veggie sandwich- which in Germany would have cost less than half that amount.  Ouch.  Don’t travel here unless you are rich, truly don’t mind eating chocolate for breakfast-lunch- dinner (because it’s actually affordable and why not), or have relatives to visit.  Thank goodness I had the latter or Switzerland would not have made it on my itinerary. 

Nonetheless, this country is hard not to love.   A few reasons on my list include: my ancestry, Frigor dark chocolate & the massive chocolate aisle at every grocery store, gruyere cheese, timely trains, happy cows grazing on beautiful hills dotted with chalets, homemade espresso, Migros brand herbal toothpaste, decentralized participatory government (I thought I just made up this term, but apparently it is real), multilingualism, and the jaw dropping scenery. 

It really is that pretty.  Others think so too.  1 in 3 residents of Zurich is a foreigner.  I was told that “refugees don’t assimilate and cause problems, and no one here illegally wants to leave”.   The government is giving some refugees start up money to return home and begin a new life and business.  Detectives have even been sent to see if come refugees have returned “home” to work, but claim to the Swiss authorities they are too ill to work so they can receive the generous social benefits.   And a plane was recently hired by the government to take 20 Nigerians home, to a tune of 20,000 CHF or $26,100 USD per person (paid by Swiss taxpayers).   Immigration is a hot issue in Europe so it was interesting to hear a Swiss perspective.

Every time I entered into a conversation about social benefits with my European friends I received blank stares of incomprehension.  They simply could not imagine living in a place without government healthcare.    They certainly realized they paid for it, and handsomely, but would not choose another system.   In Hungary my group of travelers was told that bribes are still the norm for better medical care, and ironically a family receives 40,000 HUF upon the birth of a baby, and that is the exact bribe most doctors request!  June 1 (or thereabouts) is “tax freedom day” in the Czech Republic.  Meaning, it is when everyone essentially stops working for the state and actually gets to keep the rest of their salary, i.e. they have paid their tax obligation for the year.  To save money, Swiss go shopping in France or Germany where groceries are taxed less and “significantly cheaper”, the Danes buy alcohol inGermany, and the Swedes buy alcohol in Denmark, and on…

But back to Zurich.  After a lunch with a former colleague on a hill overlooking vineyards and Lake Zurich and catching up on office news, I caught the train to a cute village 1/2 hour west of Zurich for a visit to a cousin’s home and the family reunion.   

Upon arrival, one cousin’s husband named Othmar decided to go on a long walk in the pretty green pastureland nearby.  I joined him since I hadn’t seen the area, hoping the walk wouldn’t be that long (it was).  Despite having almost no language in common, i.e. he spoke a little Spanish and no English; I speak a little German and 10 words of Spanish, we talked for the whole 2 hours.  He even told me, “I may be rich but I don’t speak any foreign languages.”  We stopped to help a farmer who was baling hay with a fancy machine.  One part scooped up the hay and moved it into a plastic sack; the other part wrapped the plastic around the sack and popped the round bale out the end.   I had never seen this and found it fascinating.  Next to the field were cows, of course, and we got photos of each other posing with them across the fence.  Definte proof of my visit.  Othmar commented on each person we passed along the path.  “People should say hello to each other even though they are strangers.  Notice all these people who totally ignore us, it is impolite.”  When we made eye contact and exchanged hello, he smiled.  Further on we foraged for raspberries and found an abandon house which had apricot and cherry trees, and made our way back up the hill. 

I finally met the newest member of the family, 1 year old Raoul, whose father has a business called Felicious.  His is name is Felix and the wine and cheese he sells are really delicious.  He brought a huge 3 litre bottle of felicious Spanish wine.  The bottle was so big I had to get my photo taken with it.  Dinner was shish kebob including pieces of corn on the cob (which in the past was considered solely animal feed, and are not easy to skewer), tomato-mozzarella-basil salad, and an incredible potato salad.  The most popular dessert on the crowded table was homemade linzer torte, whose secret ingredient was mascarpone.  The maker of the torte was the only one (bless his heart) to eat any of the 1kg box of Bosnian “Turkish delight” candy I brought.  It was great to connect with family who I first met either as a child in Chicago, or 20 years ago on my first visit.

I also visited a cousin and her family near the Bodensee (Lake Constance) for a couple of days.  They were welcoming, super friendly and fluent in English.  I had last visited in 2008.  Her husband made me delicious coffee their fancy new silver espresso maker they just bought in Germany because it was cheaper than at home.   That afternoon they received a text message from friends who said they had just taken pastries out of the oven and what about coming for a visit?   We drove half an hour in the rain to Appenzell, the last canton (like a state but with more power)  to give women the right to vote –in the 70s (!), and whose residents have the reputation of being “different” and “closed to outsiders”.  But their friends were very open and showed me around their fairybook Appenzell style wooden house which belonged to the husband’s grandfather.   It smelled like my grandparents’ house; musty, old and wooden.  Ceilings were low, furniture was antique, and view out the windows was amazing.  They are also avid gardeners, boasting 70 tomato plants.  When I asked how they picked the beans from the very tall stalk in the garden, the wife replied seriously, “by helicopter”.

My midnight bus to Bosnia was fortunately uneventful.  I finally got my third Balkan stamp in my 5th Balkan country. We had a bathroom stop in the middle of nowhere and women just went outside the other side of the bus.  I thought we were at a border because the bus man said to control ourselves, which apparently meant to ensure people around you are back before we leave, and not walk across the border control with your passport. No matter how one tries, there is no easy way to contort oneself to get comfy and sleep on a bus, even with two seats.  The sun got up early so I got to see some pretty countryside.  Not as sharp as Montenegro, greener and softer with mosques and old houses, some with holes from the war. 

The bus station is in a communist looking suburb and the nearest ATM was at a shopping complex, but not open at 5.30am.  Bosnia Hercegovina is on the Mark, so I got coffee and asked the barista if I could pay in euro and get back Bosnian money.  I didnt even know the exchange rate, but I got enough for the bus.  When taxis asked if I wanted a ride I said I didnt have enough money and have to take the bus, which was a few blocks away.  A few nice people pointed out the number 31E, and I told the driver where I was going, the last stop.  After a half hour drive through the city the communist housing started to fade into communist city buildings, alongside a river with pedestrian bridges (one of which you recall held the fate of Archduke Franz Ferdinand).  I exited, breathed, and walked uphill 20 minutes passing two cute shops selling Turkish coffee copperware, and a bakery selling freshly baked round Turkish bread from a traditional oven.  I had marks enough for one, and they allowed me to take photos.  Further along cemeteries were on either side of me which gave me a jolt since they did not look very old.  

I arrived at the hostel wired and awake, but by the time the 6 hour group Sarajevo City Tour began 3 hours later I felt exhausted.  At the Tunnel Museum (the tunnel was Sarajevo’s lifeline during the war) we learned about the horrorific Siege of Sarajevo. Our guide (the young hostel owner) said the whole conflict was about politics and people were stuck in the middle.  It is true that before the war Sarajevo is said to have been very diverse and peaceful.  We saw a video at the Olympic museum which juxtaposed the opening ceremonies of the 1984 Olympics, and its theme We Love People, with the images from the war and destruction of Olympic sites.  Sarajevo carries the burden of history which is evident in the cemeteries which dot the landscape.  They are literally everywhere.  No where else in the Balkans was the war so visible.

Mosques are everywhere, too, and this city reminded me or Prizren, Kosovo, in that regard, along with the surrounding mountains.  There is a mosque in every neighborhood, and the evening call to prayer echos as one after the other play their recording.  It is hard to photograph a mosque too; that minaret just makes it complicated.  It was wierd that these are Slavic people who are mostly Muslim.  Twice I heard people come into a shop and greet the salesclerk with the Muslim greeting A Salam Alekum, followed by conversation in Bosnian.  Unlike in Serbia and Kosovo which had a visible national identity, I rarely saw a Bosnia flag, and certainly no EU or US flags anywhere. 

There are 3 parts of the city, architecturally speaking; Communist, Austrian Hapsburg, and Turkish.  The latter is the oldest and most interesting part of town.  Cafes and restaurants are everywhere in this area, as are shops selling postcards, tourist kitch, and copperware coffee sets and trays.  Bosnian coffee is a big deal, and the only difference between this and Turkish, lies in when you add the sugar.  I decided I wanted to buy a small copper coffee pot which will be a usable souvenier.  The gal at the hostel asked if I wanted to buy one with a story.  Some families have been coppersmiths for generations and have good quality, attention to detail, and a little higher price.  Even the curve of the pot could be an indicatation of quality, and with a cheaper pot the inner bottom wears out quicker.  The hostel gal took me to a shop where she knows the owner and said I can probably be given a discount.  The owner was there and he said he could understand my Czech if I spoke slowly.  He showed me his photo and story in a UNESCO book of craftspeople.  He was legit, friendly, and I got a nice story and cute mini coffeepot. 

Bosnian coffee recipe for two servings.

Add about 2 tsp coffee to the pot and place over the burner for a few seconds.  Add a little boiling water and leave on heat til it bubbles.  Remove from heat.  After bubbles go down, top off with more boiling water.  Serve on a tray with water, espresso cup, sugar cubes (Bosnians like it very sweet), and a piece of Turkish delight candy.  Get ready to be woken up.  I was told I cant make this at home because I need Bosnian water, which they say is the second best in Europe after Switerland.  Water spigots can be found outside mosques and cemeteries and people line up for a drink or to fill their bottles. 

I saw signs along the road which said McDonalds, u Sarajeva od Juli, which means McDs is opening here in July.  My tour guide said people dont (or wont) go much because Bosnian food is cheaper, you get more for your money, and it is better tasting.  The mainstay food is cevapaci, or sausages and onions served in half a pita.  These restaurants are everywhere.  Cheaper and greasier food, made from phylo dough stuffed with meat, cheese, or spinach filings, shaped in long tubes, is called burek.  Round burek have a different name and can be filled with cabbage or potatoes, like in Serbia.  For dessert there is sugary baklava or ice cream, which is sold everywhere. 

This concludes my Balkan tour for July 2011.  It was a good taste of the region, to be sure, but I am not done.  It was refreashing to get off the beaten path within Europe , and attempt to sort out and understand a complicated puzzle of history and cultures.  I only left 2 days ago and would already like to return.  I hear September is a great month to visit.