In almost five months of wandering, I have been living life faster than I can -- or would ever want to -- chronicle on a blog. It makes my head spin to think how awesome the Snooze Button could be if I had 48 hours in a day: 24 to do my thing, and 24 more to be able to write it all down.

But every American wants 48 hours in a day. None of us have had our wish granted yet.

I got to Prague last Monday night -- memories of Slovenia are beginning to get a bit hazy. It's long overdue that I give some love to Ljubljana.

(That's loo-blee'yana for anyone who previously thought it was a, e, i, o, u and sometimes y-and-j).

We begin with the chandelier ... which is located right in the middle of the meeting spot in this city.


A town chandelier. I don't speak Slovene (or is it Slovenian? I was there for almost a week, and I never could get it straight), but I heard the elegant lighting structure speak to me my first night there: "Hi, my name is Ljubljana. Did you know the Austrians used to live here?"


The chandelier was funny; this building was the coolest arts and crafts project I've ever seen.


What are the odds I end up with a woman who also thinks it would be incredible to paint our house like this?

 

Prague was good to me for a week. I had a free place to stay; I had two friends to chill with; I had no worries.

And then, Marketa came home.


Marketa is the landlady who presides over the flat that Bino and his Naughty By Norfolk friend Jordan have been renting out -- at an extortionary rate -- for the past month. She is proof that human nature is not benevolent.


"Marketa says she's gonna charge Bayless to stay here tonight."

It was early, and I was still not completely with it, but those words brought me to attention. I had been warned before that Marketa was crazy, and I had always laughed at Bino's descriptions of their encounters. But the laughter was always at someone else. Her mood swings would never affect me, thank God.

But now they had.

Jordan was the messenger, so I didn't shoot him. He had just returned from helping Marketa's nuclear physicist of a father move cases of wine from his car up to his apartment. Despite staying out until six the night before with Bino and I, Jordan had somehow managed to answer Marketa's summons at ten in the morning, as Bino and I slept peacefully. It makes sense why Jordan would do such a thing, when you consider the mantra both he and Bino live by:

"I don't wanna piss Marketa off."

They don't wanna piss Marketa off because Marketa is a psycho. Half a million bucks spent in one lifetime on blow -- and a little on syringes, as well -- will do a number on a person's moods. One minute she's incredibly nice; the other she is demanding that an inordinate amount of money be paid right now, at this moment, without any attempt to deal with the situation rationally.

Which brings me back to this morning. Marketa wants to charge me to sleep on the floor -- but she is cloaking it in a "I want him to pay me back for all the utilities he has used" disguise.

I've seen that Halloween costume before. I think they call it "Greedy McGreed Greed."

I offered ten bucks. She says that's not enough. This is not a good sign for the night I have ahead of me.

Historically, I do not deal with these types of situations very well. My first year at UVa, in a dispute over a lost swipe card that I needed to get into my dorm, I balked at having to pay $6 for a new one, when I hadn't even really lost my original (it was stolen). The fat, ear ringed dude working the key office made a snide remark about how my mommy and daddy would have to pay the six bucks at some point, whether it was now or at the end of the year. That was not the right approach to take with me.

"Fine!" I yelled. "I don't even want a swipe card then!" And I stormed out. It wasn't true what I said; I did want a swipe card. But I wanted to prove that I didn't need one. It was a test of will: Me vs. Fat Ear Ring Key Office Guy. This was in late September. School ended in May. But I got into my dorm every day, and I proved that you could do it without a swipe card.

This is just one of many stories that illustrate a major character flaw of mine: I don't like being forced to pay money to greedy people when it is unjust (don't even start on my history with cellular phone "billing centers.")

I offered $10; I was denied. So it looks like Marketa and I are locked into a stalemate.

This afternoon, when I was trying in vain to bargain down the price of a sick new winter coat at a second hand shop, I pulled "the walk out." It didn't work. I returned 30 minutes later, paid the $15, and took my coat, head bowed in shame. The jacket was just too awesome to pass up -- it has the letter 'B' stitched on the sleeve along with a pair of wings. And we all know that 'B' stands for Billy.

But I refuse to be brow-beaten two times in one day by greedy Praguers. The jacket was worth swallowing my pride; one more night at Bino and Jordan's place isn't. If I am forced to pull "the walk out" in my negotiations with Marketa, and it doesn't work, then I will just figure something out. Because I'm not caving two times in one day. I didn't need a swipe card, and I don't need Marketa's floor. Utilities, my ass. Greed.


In the week I have spent in Prague, my sleeping situation has been pretty eclectic. From a cold, hard floor to sleeping on a collection of four contiguous chairs; from the chairs to the "all the clothes in my bag" mattress; from the clothes mattress to the air mattress that Marketa brought over for me two nights ago, when I thought she was a pretty nice lady (and when she made absolutely no mention of me having to pay for using her toilet).

Now, it looks like I may be facing a return to a cold, hard floor -- in a train station. It all depends on Marketa's mood when we go home. 

Banja Luka

Real Balkan folks...




Republika Srpska t-shirts! Fun for the whole family.

 

Banja Luka

The capital of Republika Srpska, technically part of Bosnia and Herzegovina, but it's about as Bosnian as Laredo is American in reality.


There used to be tons of mosques in Banja Luka. There aren't anymore. You can connect the dots.



 

The mouths on those little punks in Travnik, Bosnia and Herzegovina...

In my day, we respected our elders.

When I came down from the Turkish party favor castle, I ran into a group of four 10-year-oldish Bosnian Muslim kids. They were just doing what 10-year-olds do in any country: Chilling. And then this random tourist rolls up, and he doesn't speak Bosnian. You try and try to converse with him, but he speaks no Bosnian.

This is the time to do it! That's what ran through the mind of the group's "Emir" Haskell in that moment, as I walked by their chatterbox mouths with two index fingers waving past my ears to apologize for not responding.

I had turned the corner before Emir spoke up.

"You speak Eeeeeng-lish?"

"Yes," I said on a swivel, smiling. I love when little kids just want to ask your name in English, and are content.

"F**K YOU!" He said before breaking into giggles.

It was like a torpedo to my face.

"What??" None of them could control their laughter.

"F**K YOUR MOTHER!"

Well then, molim, Emir.


Of course, I ran into the quad again, five minutes later, in the old cemetery opposite the castle. They were amazed at my digital camera.


I wouldn't guess they call their version of this game "Cowboys and Indians." Do you think it takes at least three people to play?


They were adamant about each taking at least 10 pictures with the magical contraption. So I did my best Mark Foley impression for about 10 minutes.



The one on the left is the trouble maker. The one on the right is the one who admonsihed the trouble maker for trying to steal the wallet from my pocket, and who I KNOW was trying to catch me off guard and run off with my camera. 

More photos of Travnik.



I can't remember names or dates or details about the castle walls standing on the hill that guards the entrance into Travnik, BiH. But I do know that it was built as a last minute buttress against the all too sure Turkish invasion to come, and that it failed to stop any Turks. Sadly, it ended up being quite a nice present for the new Ottoman occupants residing in their new Bosnian possession.

10,000 swords - 5,000 Ottoman dollars
3,000 cavalry horses - 20,000 Ottoman dollars
Lots of flags bearing the Crescent and Star - Lots of Ottoman dollars

Brand new castle, built almost entirely free of charge ... by the enemy - Priceless.
*Construction of minaret not included.


 

Travnik, Bosnia and Herzegovina

The first woman I stopped at the bus station to ask how to get to the center of town spoke fluent English. And so she was able to fully convey to me the surprise she felt at the sight of a tourist in Travnik, the ancient town that served as the hub of Ottoman authority in its Bosnian holdings.

"You want to stay here for the night?" she asked in her British English, before offering me some of her "crisps."

"Yeah.....is that no good?"

"No, it's fine," she said. "It's just that I don't know if you'll be able to find a place to stay."

Great decision, Billy.


Luckily, she was wrong. I did find a place to stay ... but only after walking across half of Bosnia, my feet getting heavier by the step, thanks to the HUGE pack on my back that gets heavier with every book that I buy.


When I finally found the one motel in the entire city -- at least a 30-minute walk from the station -- I checked in, and praised Jah that I had a, gasp, television set inside. Traveling on a shoe string like I am, getting a TV in my room is about as common as seeing a lunar eclipse. Tired as hell, I dropped my pack, plopped down on the chair, and immediately turned it on to see if I could remember how a remote control works.

After only a few clicks, I came upon quite a pleasant surprise: A BBC special about a British anthropologist's search for the real queendom (is that a word?) of Sheba.

Most people are semi-familiar with the tale that is recorded in two books of the Old Testament: The Queen of Sheba visits Jerusalem, meets Solomon, is bedazzled by his wisdom, blah blah blah, and returns home. I've read those stories, too. They are boring.

If you're interested in something a little spicier, don't look through any books you find in your bedside drawer at Motel 6. Try and find an ancient Ethiopian text, originally recorded in the Ge'ez language, called the Kebra Nagast (Glory of Kings). The Kebra takes the Sheba-Solomon story one step further. And it is this addendum that serves as the foundation for the belief shared by Ethiopian Christians and the worldwide Rastafarian community: That Solomon and Queen Makedah got it on.

Their illegitimate son, known as Menyelik, grew up in the land of Sheba (Ethiopians and Rastas believe it to be modern day Ethiopia; the BBC anthropologist contends that it is in fact modern day Yemen, which is separated from the Horn of Africa by a stretch of water narrower than the Channel separating Britain from France). One day, sick of getting teased by his friends on the playground about the fact that his momma, the queen, had gotten knocked up without a wedding band on her finger, Menyelik demanded that his mother tell him where it was that he could find his dad.

She pointed to the Kingdom of Judah, and to Jerusalem.

So Menyelik took a little road trip to the Land of Milk and Honey. The legend has it that he was a dead ringer for his grandfather, King David. But he also brought with him a ring, given to his mother by the wise Solomon, that may not have been a wedding band, but it was evidence enough to fully convince Solomon that Menyelik was who he claimed to be. Inscribed upon the ring was the insignia of David and Solomon's specific tribe of Israel -- the Conquering Lion of the Tribe of Judah. Solomon took one look at the ring and embraced his son. He was glad to have him home.

But Menyelik wasn't trying to stay forever -- he just wanted to meet his dad, say what's up, nice to meet you, and go home to Africa. Solomon was distressed, wanting badly for a more capable son than the one he had fathered legitimately to succeed him on the throne. But he couldn't force Menyelik to stay. So he settled for the next best thing: Spread his royal lineage to the land of Sheba, by crowning Queen Makedah's son the King of Ethiopia. Menyelik even got a new name: King David II.

But Solomon wanted to make sure that the new branch of Judan royalty would live a life expected of a one-God-fearing Israelite. So he demanded that all the first born sons of his closest coterie in the royal court of Jerusalem be sent back to Sheba with the newly-crowned King of Ethiopia. Naturally, these Israelite youngsters were less than thrilled. Picture their reactions: "Africa??? You want me to move from ZION to a land SOUTH OF EGYPT?? Why in the hell did we spend forty-freaking-years wandering through the desert, then, if we have to move all the way down there now?"

They were determined to stick it to Solomon -- so they hit him where it hurt the most. They stole the Ark of the Covenant, which coincidentally was the only reason that Jerusalem was a holy city. The Ark didn't represent God; the Ark was God. And they viewed the fact that God allowed them to take Him away to a new land as evidence that Ethiopia was destined to be the "New Zion."

The New Jerusalem, if you will.

I really enjoy history -- all types. American Revolutionary period, the Balkans and its effect on WWI, the formation of the modern Middle East, even current stuff that may not qualify as "history" yet. But there is no story that has fascinated me more than this one from the Kebra Nagast.

For the simple fact alone that I got to watch this documentary on television in Travnik, I am glad I went there. And it made me want to travel to Ethiopia even more -- even though I heard from Bino last night that Somalia has just recently declared "jihad" on the country whose citizenry still claims to be the depository of the mysteriously vanished Ark.


I'm sure you are waiting for me to make the link between this long, rambling story about Menyelik and the photos here from Travnik. Honestly, there really isn't one. I guess I could make the link between Somalia being an Islamist-run "country" at the moment, and the fact that I was in a Muslim city. But that is clutching at straws. There is no link. Just look at the pretty pictures.

 

And the cops don't even care.


Gooooooaaaaaaaaallllllllllllllll


See what I mean by impaled?


Postgame celebration with Skila and Mirza. Coffee, not beer. It's Ramadan, after all.


Classic quote from Mirza (in yellow): "You are from Texas? Like George Bush! I tell you, he is real ace hole. You, I see you are good American guy. But Bush is just a real ace hole, no?" 

The derby.


The goal.


The hug.


The bedlam.

 

The derby.



Mirza.


Skila.

 

Sarajevo Derby.
Insanity.

I paid about $400 to see a 3-0 U.S. defeat at the World Cup in June. I paid 5KM (a little more than $3) to see a 1-0 FK Sarajevo victory, more than four months later. Talk about bang for your buck.


My memory may be failing me, but it's been a while since I saw a fireman have to run onto the infield at Minute Maid to retrieve a burning flare. That happened about six times in the 90-minute contest between FK Sarajevo -- my new team -- and FK Željenzničar, known in the vernacular as "Željo." (Think hispanic women, Puff Daddy and Ben Affleck for a pronunciation guide).

I hadn't known that morning when I woke up that I was about to attend one of the most fun sporting events of my entire life. I hadn't even known there was a game that day. It took about five minutes of walking around town to catch on -- everyone and their mother was wearing either blue or maroon, in support of either Sarajevo or Željo. There was a derby to be played, and I was trying to go.

Three o'clock, at Željo's place. Five marks. Done.


It wasn't a conscious decision to wear a long-sleeve blue shirt with a short-sleeve red plaid one on top. But it was a smart decision -- either side you sat on, there wasn't too much diversity in fanbase. Best to try and fit the part, which my outfit set me up to do for either team.

There is no such thing as apathy when it comes to Sarajevo club football. It's one or the other; Sarajevo or Željo. Ivanna, the tour guide that took us to the war tunnel and the Serb positions from which they fired down upon the street of death known as "Sniper's Alley," had even said so herself: "Today, in Sarajevo, it is getting back to normal. Muslims are friends with Serbs, Serbs are friends with Croats, Croats are friends with Muslims. There is not such a division as there is in the rest of the country, as there was once in this city, even. But there is still a division: Which football team do you support? There are two choices: Sarajevo and Željo."

"Which one do you support?" came a question from the tour group.

"I support Željo -- that's the blue one," she said to laughter.

Well I guess that means Ivanna and I can't be friends, because after meeting Skila and Mirza, I support Sarajevo -- the maroon one.


Roscoe and I had left the hostel to catch a trolley bus that wasn't even running that day. Just for the two derbies played every year, the City of Sarajevo shuts down all public transport that can take fans to the game, as a measure against excessive graffiti tagging on the tram cars, buses and trolley buses. We didn't know this; and apparently, neither did Skila and Mirza -- two of FK Sarajevo's biggest supporters.

We met them at the stop; Roscoe -- my dreadlocked Australian friend from Brisbane -- approached Skila and offered to cover a cab ride there once we had been told that we'd better start walking, since no bus was going to take us there. He figured we'd be well-served to make some friends who were clearly in on the Sarajevo football scene. He was right.

The taxi ride to the stadium wasn't expensive, and we were there in no time. It was well worth the money, because Skila and Mirza repaid us with six words: "Follow us. You sit with us."


We had missed kickoff by a few minutes, which made me feel at home, seeing as The Bob had made me late for the first pitch to about 95% of all the Astros' games I went to with him as a kid. It didn't matter -- we were easily able to tuck in among the crowd, which was ready for a rumble.

Though I didn't realize it until after the game, I had picked the match to attend. Derbies are always intense affairs, whether it's Yankees-Mets or two teams in the capital of Bosnia and Hercegovina. But in the Balkans, there isn't quite the level of social restraint that we in the West are accustomed to.

There were two riot police to my right. Police dogs on the sidelines. Netting to prevent any over-excited fans from clearing the fence in a goal-induced frenzy ... though, I don't think the nets were all that necessary, seeing as the fence had extending from it and pointing into the crowd spikes capable of impaling a man. If the referee made an unfavorable call, he was greeted with a barrage of fruit, coins, and whatever else the insane Sarajevan fans were able to sneak through the security pat-down that we all went through as we entered. The poor ref didn't even seem upset by it. Just another day at the office. If anything, he seemed more like a sad little kid who knows that the punishment being doled out from his father is out of his control, something he must accept with a bowed head.

But the flares ... this is when I knew I was officially far from home.

I don't understand the idea of flare-throwing. It seems to be triggered by neither rage nor excitement. It's like they just want to stir the pot. And they did, a lot.

At one point, immediately at the start of the second half, it was taken to a whole new level. The smoke on the field was so thick -- thanks to a hailstorm of flares, spewing smoke of all different colors -- that I could not even make out which players were which. It was shadows, all shadows. Maroon and blue had morphed into gray. My eyes were burning. My lungs were hurting. And the players, they just kept on playing. Another day at the office. It was incredible.

Since it was Ramadan, I saw absolutely no one drinking beer throughout the match. But they were smoking spliffs, despite the presence of so many riot cops and police dogs. Could I please find a better example of Bizarro World to a baseball game in America?

When the first and only goal of the game found the back of the net -- giving FK Sarajevo the lead and, eventually, the win -- I had one of those moments where your instincts simply take control of your body, and you don't even think; you just act. I was standing on the first row. Hundreds of flare-throwing madmen were to my back. All I could envision was the headline: American Tourist Killed in Bosnian Soccer Stampede. So without pausing to take a breath, I did what any sane person would do once I saw the net flicker up: I sprinted down from my seat and jumped like a flying monkey onto the iron bars separating us from the field.

Roscoe didn't know what was going on. He hestitated, and found himself in the middle of the gathering stampede. Before he realizes what is happening, he sees his American friend leading the charge to the fence, and jumping up on the bars like a real Sarajevan. It didn't take him long to realize he had to move forward so as to prevent moving faceward to the pavement.

Of course, once I found my grip on the bars, a new headline popped into my head: American Tourist Impaled at Bosnian Soccer Match. I had a primo celebration spot, and people were pushing me to try to hop on next to me. I just stared at those long, jagged pieces of metal installed on the fence to prevent the kind of behavior that I was currently engaged in, and wondered which death was better -- crushed by human feet or stabbed by a fence.

Luckily, I drew neither card. Luckily.

"What in the hell was that all about???" Roscoe asked once I made it back safely to the "seat" (we stood the entire game, as there were no seats). The noise around us was still just as loud as it had been when the goal went in. The Sarajevo fans were singing their songs with more energy than ever. The Željo side had fallen deathly silent.

"Dude!" I yelled, heart still racing from the adrenaline. "I wasn't celebrating. I was running AWAY!"

Mirza and Skila were too busy hugging to notice how loud Roscoe began to laugh. I looked at the two best friends, and I thought of Team Halloween, and all the great moments I had in college with my best friends at UVa basketball games (we did win a few games in my day). Some things are universal. It made me miss home.

As the minutes ticked off of the clock, and victory drew nearer, the songs of the Sarajevo fans grew louder.

U novi boj, u novi boj, samo gazi gazi Zeljo tog! Svaki dan to pjzvam ja sarajevo je sampion!!!

In a new battle, in a new battle, just burn that Zeljo! And every day, I sing, Sarajevo is champion!!!

What a game.

I have no idea.


And it's not like this was an Internet cafe. It was just a normal coffee shop -- and not even yuppie, Seattle coffee. "Bosnian coffee," a.k.a. Turkish.

 

The grave of Alija Izetbegovic, Bosnia and Hercegovina's first president.



He wasn't too thrilled that I was taking a photograph.

 

Am I a loser for saying that I had more fun watching old Sarajevan men play BIG CHESS than almost anything else I did in nine nights there?


Every day I walked by the board, and every day I saw the same faces. After a few visits, I even began to pick "favorite players." (I liked the guy who is pointing below).


Every move brings out the backseat drivers. "Go here," "Go there," "You shouldn't have brought out your queen," "If I was playing, I wouldn't have done that..." These are all English translations of what I can only assume was being said over and over, as everyone in the peanut gallery waited their turn to get a game.


Not too many young tourists become so enraptured by their mini-society, so lots smiled and waved when I brought out my camera.


I just think you could conduct a crazy anthropological study on these people. Do they have cliques? Alliances? Rivalries? Are there unspoken rules on who can call games? How do they call games? Is there someone that is hands-down the best player, like Benny the Jet Rodriguez? 

The Dobrinja-Butmir Tunnel
A Story of Survival

Enemy forces have your city surrounded. The "Jerusalem of the Balkans" has effectively become a concentration camp for scores of Muslim residents, as well as for the large numbers of Serbs and Croats who were brave enough -- or foolish enough -- to stay. A UN arms embargo keeps you from legally purchasing weapons to fight back. The situation in Iraq taking precedence, James Baker says that the United States "doesn't have a dog in this fight." The "hour of Europe" has not led to decisive action from your next door neighbors. Welcome to Sarajevo. It is July 1992.

When the UN strikes a deal with the men up in the hills, men who just a few months before had been your neighbors, it seems like a light may have emerged at the end of the tunnel. The Serbs have been bombarding your city with mortars, RPG's and anti-aircraft bullets -- aimed at human beings -- since April 5, but now, it appears there may be a way through the encirclement. Blue helmets will officially take control of the airport, to the north of the city, and to the south of free Bosnian territory.


But there's a problem with the UN: It has to be seen as neutral, by all sides. It is loath to condemn any side more than the other. "Everyone is guilty." It's a Catch .22.

Formed to prevent aggression by the strong against the weak, it needs the consent of the strong to be able to take action. Just pick up a newspaper and read about Darfur today. Just as Khartoum doesn't want to volunteer for an international force to come onto its sovereign territory and tell it what to do, so did the Serbs feel about UN action in Sarajevo.

The deal wasn't much of a deal at all -- not for the residents of the besieged city, at least. Sure, Serbs were no longer patrolling the runways of the airport. International forces were doing that. But the effect on the cordon was nonexistent. Any Bosnian caught trying to sneak across to free territory was sent back. That meant no escape; it meant no way to smuggle in weapons; it meant the UN's role was to make sure people in Sarajevo died on a full stomach, courtesy of the truckloads full of 'mmm good humanitarian aid it sent in throughout the conflict.

But even in trying to play the role of chef for the entire city of Sarajevo, the UN failed. Part of the deal in taking over the airport from the Serbs was that they would split all humanitarian aid down the middle: Residents of a city without an outlet to the outside world would get half, the soldiers shooting mortars and sniper fire at them would get half. Those were the terms of the deal. Take it or leave it. Catch .22.

So the UN took it. It was the best they could do -- and it's not like anyone else, namely NATO, was about to do anything about it. But it didn't solve the problem for the citizens of Sarajevo. There was no way for escape; there was no way to smuggle in food that didn't come in a UN wrapper; and most importantly, there was no way to smuggle in weapons that were needed to fight back. The light at the end of the tunnel, which had appeared upon the UN airport deal, had been put out. And so the Bosnian Army started to dig.

A new light appeared -- this time, at the end of a real tunnel.


It took exactly four months and four days to complete it. On July 30, 1993, Army soldiers commissioned to dig the tunnel that went directly underneath the UN-occupied airport met in the middle, underground, the new passage out of Sarajevo having been completed: An amazing feat considering the circumstances. The tunnel was 800m long, 1m wide, and a little over a meter and a half tall. It would turn out to be the lifeline of Sarajevo.


It's obvious where on the map the tunnel ran. And it was obvious to the Serbs that it existed, as well. I refuse to believe the line I heard from some Muslims who lived through it: "The Serbs didn't want to shut down the tunnel. They just wanted to kill people." That makes no sense. The Serbs clearly would have loved to shut down the tunnel, but unfortunately, a system of trenches and mountainous terrain in the area made it impossible. So they settled for Option B: To kill people.

Hundreds died while entering and exiting the tunnel, mostly because they had temporarily left the safe confines of a trench. And many died in the tunnel as well, which was perpetually flooded, and full of electric cables running above the water, so that it could be lit for the thousands of Sarajevans who made the trek every single day. Water and electric cables, not a good mixture.


The tunnel saved lives. It brought weapons; it brought food; it brought hope. Today, a small portion of it has been maintained -- the rest collapsed in the years after the fighting ended. It is a testament to the human will to survive, and it is evidence that mankind is capable of almost anything. 

More Sarajevo.


The old Mustlim tombstones are Hall of Fame material.



It's something you can't place your finger on. It's an energy, a vibe. It's weird.


All right, are you really trying to EAT what you catch in the town river?

Sarajevo.

Not being was not an option during the war.


But that hasn't stopped the question from being asked.


I made my visit during Ramadan.


When people are more focused on Allah than going out and partying.


These people simply don't have their priorities straight, clearly. 

It was a good decision to skip Slovenia when I departed from Budapest for the former Yugoslavia. It got me a free place to stay when I finally did finally make my way to Ljubljana.

Caroline and Annika, a Québécoise and a Belgian who I met in my Sarajevo hostel last week, have been gracious enough to lend me their landlord's bed for the past two nights, while their landlord has been out in the country side at the "temple" that he built, whatever that means. (He still has no idea that his bed has been offered out to a stranger, which is why I got the hell out of bed this morning and peaced out before having to introduce myself with my name + "Thanks for letting me sleep in your bed.")

Ljubljana, no matter what anyone tells you, is NOT in the Balkans. Lonely Planet is full of it, like always.

If Vienna decided to build a doll house, it'd be this place.

I mean, there is a chandelier hanging above the main circle in the town center. As in, the main circle that is a road. A chandelier hanging above a road, with buses, cars, human traffic and the "tourist train" (think any American zoo) all passing underneath it, all day. These guys used to hold "Brotherhood and Unity" with the Croats, Bosniaks and Serbs? I feel like I am in a weird dream, because people I pass on the sidewalks are speaking a Slavic language when they're supposed to be speaking German.

"Where....precisely....do you....want......to go?"

Using a 15-year-old Bosnian Serb girl on her cell phone as a conduit, I was having a conversation, in English, with another 15-year-old Bosnian Serb girl whose face I could not see. I had gotten on my bus in Travnik, BiH, that afternoon, bound for Banja Luka, the capital of Bosnia-Hercegovina's breakaway Republika Srpska region. And I had gotten there, to Banja Luka, without a hitch. But the first place the bus parked didn't seem to be the end of the road; no one was getting out. Must be one more stop until the main station, I figured, staying put, waiting to follow the herd.

I didn't realize until much later that the herd wasn't heading for Banja Luka at all. No, the herd was heading out to the countryside, ready to graze.

Remembering the trouble I had had with the Cyrillic alphabet during my first stay in RS -- a brief jaunt through Trebinje en route to the Croat-Muslim town of Mostar -- the destination placard I saw propped against the front windshield of my bus from Travnik brought a sigh of relief to my lips: B. Luka - Some Other Word That I Can't Remember. I wouldn't have to stress about deciphering any Cyrillic road signs, since my destination was the bus' destination. When the engine stopped, I would get off. Simple as that. I could read my book in peace.

And that's what happened. I read my book in peace until the bus stopped, then I got off. But the simplicity had vanished -- I wasn't in Banja Luka. That town had passed me by long before. I was within spitting distance of the Croatian border, surrounded by blackness, at the bus station of Some Other Word That I Can't Remember.

Turns out that word didn't mean "bus station," after all. It was the name of the next stop after Banja Luka, and it was 45 minutes away.

I had messed up, and it was due to that error that I was having the conversation with the anonymous Serb girl who was younger than my little sister, through a translator I had tapped on the shoulder to ask where in the hell the bus was heading, as I began to notice that the bright city lights of Banja Luka were rapidly fading into the background.

Once she phoned her English-speaking friend, who instructed her to ask where it was "precisely" that I was trying to go, I answered in an exasperated tone: "Banja Luka."

When you admit to a quad of 15-year-olds that you have overshot your destination by a good 20 minutes, with a good 25 minutes to go until you have a chance to try and loop back, you're going to get the same 15-year-old-girl reaction, no matter where you are in the entire universe.

Giggling. Lots and lots of giggling.

Amazingly -- and this really has been something that has never ceased to fascinate me -- we were able to communicate with each other despite absolutely no common ground in language. They told me how many minutes away the bus' final destination was with their fingers. They told me I'd be able to get a bus back to Banja Luka from there with arm motions. And one girl even asked me if she could come back to Texas with me with words I didn't understand.

And everything was gravy after that. I waited for an hour and a half for the return bus to Banja Luka -- the last one of the night. I knew when to get off this time. And I even met a girl on the street fresh out of her English class who personally walked me to the cheapest hotel she knew of.

But the lesson has been learned: Never assume a word you've never seen before means "bus station," unless you're trying to mack on some cutie 15-year-olds who speak no English.

Bosnian Groundhog Day.

I push the glass door open, and Kimite is behind the desk. I know what is coming.

"Dobro utro!"

"Dobro utro," I answer with a smile. We both smile. Then we laugh. Another day in Sarajevo.

Kimite, the middle-aged Bosnian woman who works at my hostel in the Ottoman sector of this ancient city, gets such a kick out of my childlike earnestness in learning even a bit of her language that I almost feel our mutual dobro utro is the highlight of her morning. She knows full well that -- despite progressing from nada to knowing all pleasantries and the numbers one through ten -- I have already slammed into the wall: A wall which separates hvala's, dovidenja's, jedan's and deset's from the real meat of the Serbo-Croat/Bosnian tongue.

I may pick up a little something here and there -- from now until the time I leave the Slavic world -- but my rate of return has effectively flat-lined.

That doesn't take the joy out of our daily encounters for Kimite, who speaks fluent English, yet nonetheless takes immense pleasure in pretending that I am one of her people.

"Kako ste?" That's always the second thing she says to me.

"Dobro, dobro." Good, good. More smiles. And then I hand Kimite another 20KM note -- roughly 10€, give or take. I'm set for another night in Sarajevo, a place from which I just don't feel like leaving yet, though I have seen more than there is to see for a tourist.

But I'm a traveler, not a tourist -- a fact I have insisted upon to my Bosnian Muslim friend Adisa on countless occasions, though always somewhat tongue-in-cheek in my resolve to be seen as "different" from the herds of other wanderers whose frat house mentality so often makes me sick to my stomach.

Sure, with my Nalgene bottle, backpack and complete lack of fashion-sense, I look like any other tourist. But I doubt any of the other people in my hostel have made friends with many Sarajevo natives. And I bet even moreso that they don't have half the interest that I have in learning about the history of this place and its surrounding regions. This Bosnian Groundhog Day -- a euphemism for "boring" to a tourist -- is just fine with me, as long as I feel that this is where I should be, right now, in this moment.

I've got plenty of books; I've got plenty of time; I've got plenty of money -- more than four months after taking off from George H. W. Bush Intercontinental Airport in Houston. I could pick up and leave Sarajevo tomorrow, bound for another part of Bosnia and Hercegovina; or I could push open that glass door once again, and say good morning to Kimite: Ten more euros out of my wallet and into the hostel's coffers.

No ties, no reservations, no deadlines, no responsibilities. It's all about how I feel when I wake up in the morning, every day, until I land back at Intercontinental.


But while I'm in Sarajevo, what you see above is what awaits me every morning when I walk outside.


And once I venture out, if the rain has fallen hard enough, the river runs red in the city stained by the blood of Austrian Archduke Franz Ferdinand, the countless victims of the Great War that followed his assassination in Sarajevo by a Bosnian Serb named Gavrilo Princip, and the thousands upon thousands of victims -- Muslim, Serb and Croat alike -- who perished in the four-year siege of this fish bowl between 1992-95.

Recollections of the three months I spent in Western Europe are, for me, like struggling to remember a dream I just had, but trying to do so hours after having rubbed my eyes in recognition of a new day. You know what it was about; you remember the main parts; but the vividness of the experience has been jaded. A myriad of stimuli has bombarded your senses: Dobro utro's in the morning; then coffee; then a little journal-writing; some aimless wandering; a few chapters of Black Lamb and Grey Falcon; a charming reminder of the complete lack of shame inherent in Gypsies, showcased when a Roma couple brazenly sends its foot-soldiers known as "children" to squeeze money out of softies like myself; a stroll along the river... what was it again that I dreamed about last night?

I can remember, faintly, but it's like it happened a lifetime ago.

So it is with thinking back on my travels through England, Germany, Switzerland, Holland, France, Italy, Spain, Denmark and Norway. My experiences since then -- first in Hungary, then in Croatia, Montenegro and Bosnia and Hercegovina -- have taken my consciousness captive.

"Bosnia? Wow," my best friend said to me on the phone last night, when we spoke for the first time since saying goodbye to one another in the Amsterdam train station. That was on June 23 -- I think. Hunter's three-week Germany World Cup trip was coming to an end. My indefinite trip to God knows where was only beginning. It was a lifetime ago. "What's it like over there?"

A hard question to answer.

"I don't know," I said, buying time while I searched for an example that would express my thoughts. "I think, after a while, your senses begin to be dulled as to what the standards are like back home, back in Western Europe," I tried to explain. "You get on a bus, you see busted seats, grafitti, cracked windows, and you don't bat an eye. In America, in France, in Germany, you'd be like, 'Damn, this bus is crappy.' But not here; here it's just the way it is, and you aren't even phased. It's almost more appealing, in a weird sort of way. It makes life seem more real, less bleached.

"Another thing is the way people speak to one another here. They always look like they're yelling at each other. Arms are flailing, voices are being raised, emphatic expressions are always being used ... but the thing is, they're not yelling. They're not even arguing. They're probably talking about the weather, for all I know: 'I tell you what! It sure is NICE today! I mean, I thought it was GONNA RAIN when I walked outside, but it has been EXTREMELY PLEASANT!' 'YES! I completely AGREE!' I don't know dude," I said, "it's the Balkans. I love it. I can't explain."

But I had explained. I had nailed on the head how I feel about "Central Europe" (Hungarians are extremely sensitive about not being grouped in with the East) and the volatile collection of nation-states known as the Balkans. It's why Budapest, to me, was so much more attractive as a city than anywhere I came across in Switzerland, or Holland, or Denmark. Those places in the "tamed" world are great; but they feel like museums. EU integration has sucked all the drama out of things. Everyone, for the most part, gets along. It's not polite to yell about the weather. Tension has been relegated to the football pitch.

The Balkans -- and Bosnia and Hercegovina, in particular -- have held an incredibly mysterious allure to me ever since I read Balkan Ghosts, a travel/history book by Robert Kaplan, back in June, when I was all over the place with my two-month Eurail pass. Try to apply Frederick Jackson Turner's "Frontier Thesis" to a post-grad trip around "Old" and "New" Europe, and you'll begin to understand. I resolved in the middle of Kaplans' book to make the former Yugoslavia and its neighboring countries an extensive part of my journey. And I have done that, though I am not sure whether I will see Romania, or much of Bulgaria, or even Macedonia. It's all up in the air. It's all about how I feel in the morning, when I wake up ... and on my money and energy.


But wherever I am, I will learn how to say dobro utro, I will learn about the local history, I will admire the tenacity and shamelessness of Gypsies, and I will have many new versions of Groundhog Day in many new places.

It's what you do if you want to remain a traveler, and not a tourist, after all.


Dovidenja.

I may not speak Croatian/Bosnian/Serbian/whatever other name you want to give to what is essentially the same language, but...


...I know "za" means "for," "hrvatsku" means "Croatian" and "slobodu" means "free." Just take a gander at what this guy's political platform is.

The HDZ -- as you can see by the year "1990" printed beside it -- is a party that rose from the ashes of the disintegrated Republic of Yugoslavia. Its roots are not anchored in Bosnian soil; they travel underground, beneath Hercegovina and Republika Srpska, and into Zagreb.

The HDZ is the Croatian nationalist party.

Dr. Božo (I know, I know, I laughed, too) doesn't look like an IT man to me, assuming IT stands for "Integration" and "Toleration."

Yikes. 

Some of you may wear reading glasses, so I will tell you what this says in larger font.


Special arrangement for ladies

Sarajevo at night (going out in the city till down)

Sarajevo romance (diner, walking out romantic places)

Sarajevo adventure (deae with a guy on your choice)
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Sometimes, blog material just falls into my lap.

Where to begin?
------------------------------------------------------------------------
This flyer was taped to the back window of the van-of-death that transported me, an annoying, gross Australian "girl" and a lovely Portuguese couple from the train station to our hostel, directly across from the Bascarsija Turkish market section of Sarajevo. No contact information was included.

"What in the hell?"

That is the universal reaction to the "special arrangment for ladies" amongst every single lady and gentleman who has been lucky enough to catch a ride in that van.

I'm taking that the lack of contact information -- no phone number, no email, nothing -- means that the "guy of your choice" is whittled down to one: Whoever is lucky enough to be driving on the day that a desperate lady finally takes 'em up on their blind "deae" offer.

The two possibilities for hitting the Bosnian van driver jackpot aren't pretty. It's one or the other: A tall, dark and not-so-handsome man missing one of his front teeth, or the lazy-eyed, don't-look-at-me-or-I'll-kill-you-with-my-war-veteran-glare-alone dude.

Both are nice guys, but neither is quite what any lady is probably looking for.

"How do you think they actually present your options?" I wondered out loud, in a hushed-tone from the middle seat, as the van swerved and darted through traffic at a speed just a hair underneath rocket-fuel proportions. "Like, a lineup? Or perhaps a book of laminated photos, with 'likes' and 'dislikes' printed underneath in equally-bad English?"

No one had the answer, and no one -- especially the two ladies -- was trying to broach the subject with Lazy Eye, who happened to be the driver we had selected that morning.

I can only imagine that the special arrangement offer has never been taken up. The thought of what these two men consider to be worthy of "romance" or "adventure" can only include boxed wine, hourly rates and a slot for a quarter.

Ah, the Balkans. 

There's a reason I've been here for a week.


I love Sarajevo...


...even if, in the predominately Muslim city that I just happened to hit during the "We're Not Supposed To Drink Alcohol" time of the year known as Ramadan, there are some unorthodox roadblocks (pun intended).


But when you come home to this next-door neighbor every night, you're not really complaining.

For my money, a mosque is the most chill place to worship the God of the three main monotheistic religions. All equally praise Jah, or whatever his name is; all give big ups to the Artist Formerly Known as Abram; but only one makes it socially acceptable -- nei, mandatory -- to take your shoes off when you enter the sacred space. For Christ's sake -- or the yet-to-arrive-Messiah's sake/Allah's sake (Muslims are very explicit in their belief that Muhammed is not actually divine), can we please get an amendment passed in the Christian world as to what our "Sunday's best" actually covers?

Because it shouldn't be our feet.

And while we're at it, let's get a show of hands for all who think we should ditch the hard wooden pews for a giant pillow room. That'd be a huge impetus for getting my ass out of bed on Sunday morning after a fun Saturday night, most definitely.


THIS IS the ten-thousandth time I've seen this sticker in SARAJEVO. The list of "T-1" is getting pretty long. 

Sarajevo, Bosnia and Hercegovina.

Even EUFOR peacekeepers feel like taking a photo on their digital cameras every now and then. This city -- the capital of BiH, a majority of it Muslim -- is too beautiful not to.


But I can't help but wonder -- would these EUFOR peacekeepers be better served elsewhere in Bosnia and Hercegovina? Like, say, oh, I don't know, Mostar?

I leave Budapest after two and a half weeks of living amongst the Magyars -- mass demonstrations and the highest level of tension in the Hungarian capital since the 1956 Revolution take place just a few days later. And what happens when, after three nights of living amongst the Croats, I leave Mostar? An RPG slams into a mosque -- where it was located, I have yet to discern -- in the city divided by a river between Catholic and Muslim communities.

"Those damn Serbs..."

Right?

I doubt it.

There really aren't too many Serbs left in Mostar. My money would place the blame upon the shoulders of a Catholic Croat, possibly upset by reports of a Catholic graveyard having been desecrated the day before. And when you factor in the fact that the attack took place at 4:30 a.m., when there aren't going to be too many Muslims inside, I'm gonna take a plunge and say it was some drunk Catholic Croat, after a night out on the town with all his Ustashe-reborn buddies.

The "Lewis MacKenzie Theory" -- a tongue-in-cheek reference to the former head of UN operations in Sarajevo, coined by yours truly -- would blame the Bosnian Muslims themselves, without proof, of attacking their own mosque, as a way to garner sympathy of the internation community. That ain't what happened in Mostar on Tuesday; I'll bet the house.

"Be Careful -- Bosnia's Crazy," Wes said while I was in Croatia...

It'll be fine.

I hope. 

Another example of why Aussies are quite possibly the most amusing -- in an extremely base, non-politically correct sort of way -- of all the earth's people.

"Everytime I see that sticker on the fridge, I have to do a double-take -- 'Is that what I think it says?' Oh, wait, no, there's an extra letter," I said to a large group of solo travelers/tourists in my Sarajevo hostel's kitchen.


"Yeah," a beefy, bearded Aussie deadpanned. "'Unit,' I know." 

"Here in Mostar the really adventurous part of our journey began."
-Rebecca West, Black Lamb and Grey Falcon

History does repeat itself. For it was in Mostar that the really adventurous part of my journey began -- nearly 70 years after Ms. West's travels through pre-WW2 Yugoslavia ended.


A river runs through Mostar. The Neretva River. The stari most is what connects the east and west banks. It was destroyed during the war, and rebuilt, slowly, after the smoke had long been cleared. Looking at a photograph, or scanning the horizon from one of the upscale coffee shop terraces looming above the "new" Old Bridge, it would appear a symbolic structure: Bridges have been mended; the healing in Bosnian society has begun.

But as I have learned in my short time in Bosnia and Hercegovina -- where a man as dark as a Colombian drug dealer can be a Croat, and Hitler's Aryan dream child can be a Muslim --appearances are often deceiving.

In his giant, air-conditioned bus, a tourist leaves Mostar feeling cool under the vents, but warm inside his cocoon of ignorance -- an abstract textile draped around the consciousness by blue skies, smiling waiters and little trinkets for sale all along the romantic cobble stoned paths leading to the Old Town. "Isn't that just wonderful? These Bosnians, who fought a civil war only a decade ago, are able to live amongst one another again in peace. Life is back to normal again. Let's go have another ice cream, honey!"

But a traveler -- the difference being that a traveler attempts to learn about the reality of life, while a tourist attempts to learn about the Lonely Planet version of reality -- does not suffer from this gelatto-induced illusion. A traveler leaves Mostar feeling a deep sense of sadness.


The Serbs were effectively pushed out during the war. Mostar was left to the Croats and the Muslims. A river runs through the city; but if you look deeper, you'll see that what the river really runs through is any notion of a heterogeneous society.

Muslims to the east. Catholics to the west. Sound familiar? They say Mostar's recent history serves as a great case study in the larger Balkan conflict of the 1990's, as it is essentially a microcosm of the entire war. It is also a symbolic microcosm of the divide between East and West in today's world as a whole.


"I don't like Serbs, and I don't like Muslims," Ilija said, the Bosnian-subtitled "Van Buren Boys" episode of "Seinfeld" playing on the television in the corner of his apartment's living room. A orange-haired troll sat atop the monitor. He wore the white collar of a Roman Catholic priest. We were deep in the heart of Mostar's Croat side of town. The Neretva lay 15 minutes away by foot, but Ilija saw it as five centuries away: The border between Christendom and the Turks, between civilization and barbarism. "The Muslims, they are too violent," he continued, apparently not remembering that it was his side that turned on them, once Bosnian Croat forces determined that the Muslims were more of a roadblock than an aid towards the realization of the project for "Greater Croatia."

"So do you ever go to the other side of the Neretva?" I asked.

Ilija smiled. "No, never." His roomate, Tomislav, whose name comes from the first king of the Croats, his reign all the way back in the 10th century, smiled as well. He doesn't speak great English, but Tomislav understood my question.

Of course they wouldn't go to the Muslim part of town. Why would anybody go to the Muslim side of town?

My first night in Mostar, when I had gone for an aimless stroll -- my specialty when visiting any new place -- I hadn't even realized that the divide existed. After all, the sight of a minaret spiking into the air was a common scene all throughout the city -- west and east of the Neretva. And the people walking around the streets, they looked the exact same as Ilija and Tomislav. It wasn't until I began talking to Mostarians that I realized how deep the fault line ran. This is no Sarajevo; the rest of Bosnia has not made nearly as much progress towards reintegrating neighbors-turned-enemies into a multiethnic, tolerant society.

The Old Bridge was rebuilt because it had been the symbol of the city for centuries. It brought tourists back in hordes. But I see it as something else: A courageous first step in a journey towards forgiveness. Catholics and Muslims in Mostar currently view each other as depraved barbarians, "the other" always being the one incapable of mending the divide. But as a new generation of Bosnians comes of age -- kids who know of war only through the stories of their parents and through the bombardment of video/computer games they take in -- the journey to that bridge, and towards forgiveness, may shorten.

From a 500-year walk between civilizations, it may turn into a 15-minute stroll between neighbors. 

The Old Bridge in Mostar.
The reason people come to the city, pretty much.


You know that if it's on the cover of your Lonely Planet book -- even if Lonely Planet is all hype -- you've gotta see it. So I did.


Its construction was finished by the Turks in 1566. Its destruction was completed by Croat forces in November 1993. Its Catholic paramilitaries, they say, always viewed the bridge as a legacy of the Islamic stain on "Greater Croatia." Whatever you say, guys. Whatever you say.


It was rebuilt painfully. They wanted it to be an authentic reproduction. That mean rebuilding it by hand. They built it; we came. Just like "Field of Dreams."

 

Mostar -- The Muslim-Croat Federation of Bosnia and Hercegovina.
(a.k.a. pretty much no Serbs)

When I had been in RS (Republika Srpska), I innocently asked the man working the desk at the Tourism Office (I think I was seriously the only tourist Trebinje had had that entire year, judging by the stares I received when I walked down the street in my pack) what the demagraphic breakdown was of Serbs to Croats and Muslims in the city.

"What is it, like 90 percent Serb?" I asked.

He glared at me; could've frozen lava with his eyes.

"Probably more," he said.

"Was it like that before the war?"

He didn't appreciate my curiosity.

"What are you, a journalist?"

Okay then...

So I was pretty glad to get the hell out of there and into Mostar. But what I wasn't prepared for was the amount of destruction left over from a war that ended over ten years ago. In Mostar, it really looks as if it ended ten days ago in some places.

Like this, the former front line. It seemed like every other building was a bombed-out crater. American, Dutch, EU, all sorts of governments and groups had signs up proclaiming ownership of reconstruction for this building, that building. Trees grew out of the shells, showing that despite what men may think, we are pretty insignificant in the eyes of nature. It was an eerily beautiful sight, to see the continuation of this life in the ruins of such death, I must admit.


But, as you can see above, progress has been made. But in Europe's second-poorest nation, and one that is racked by infighting among the various ethnic groups inside its borders, progress moves at a snail's pace.


The fact that some of the signs are in English is a good sign: It means that tourists are once again flocking back to Mostar, which for years held the distinction of possessing one of the most beautiful bridges in the world. But the Old Bridge was destroyed by Croat forces in the war, and was only rebuilt less than two years ago. The reason I complained about the fact that, in Croatia, prices were much higher than I had anticipated is because of all the tourist revenue Hrvatska receives. Bosnia is cheap. Hopefully for them, a rebuilt bridge and improved political landscape could change that fact someday through the foreign dollars brought to its towns and villages.


The hill in the distance is where the Serb forces were pushed back behind in the early days of fighting in Mostar. The Muslims were caught in the middle between them and Croat forces, who lived on the western side of the Neretva River. Serb paramilitaries would launch mortars, indiscriminately, at Muslim positions, while Croats would do the same.

Trebinje.

This WW2 Partisan Monument shows the spirit of the Serb fighting spirit. One of the classic refrains of uber-Serbs is that, throughout their history, they have been able to "win the war, but lose the peace" (well, except for the whole "Kosovo" thing in 1389). Serbs, basically, relish their ability to duke it out, no matter how the odds may be stacked against them.


Yeah, I can't read that, either.


Or that.


This is on the backside of the monument. It shows a group of Serb woman standing, while their men have fallen in battle. Most of the women are looking down at their dead husbands/brothers/sons. But not the lady in the middle. She stands defiantly, two hands gripped on an AK-47 (I think; I'm not in the NRA, so I'm not sure), symbolizing the Serb will to fight on.

 

Trebinje, Republika Srpska
It's like, is it Bosnia, or is it its own thing? No entiendo....

The BiH elections took place the day after I arrived in the country. Political billboards are everywhere.


For explicit evidence of the interweaving of Orthodoxy and Serbian nationalism, look no further than the door of this "Orthodox kiosk," as I refer to it. Not quite a church; much smaller than that. Part of me expected to find a soft-serve ice cream stand around the bend from the front door, part of which has some saint engraved onto it, and the other part having the Serbian double-headed eagle.


Trebinje tagging: The Serbian double-headed eagle, the name of the town, and some sort of early 20th century British schoolboy "Where's Waldo?" character.

 

"Re: Be Careful - Bosnia's Crazy."

And that was the extent of the email. Nothing in the body. Subject line only. Wes had made his point, and he didn't even have to take the time to erase the automatically-inserted reply moniker. Busy at his job back in the real world, in less than ten seconds he had highlighted, typed, and sent all that he wanted me to know: Billyparsley@gmail, consider yourself warned.

The brevity of Wes' message -- the fact that it ran full speed into the bush, rather than beating around it -- gives a great glimpse into the average American's image of Bosnia: When it comes to visiting this crazy country somewhere in the Balkans -- or is it the Baltics? -- wherever it is, when it comes to visiting this crazy country made famous by CNN, you'd better remember one thing: Be Careful - Bosnia's Crazy.

Exhibit A on the power of the media to shape perception.

After all, who the hell in our country knows anything about Bosnia? Besides the fact that there was a war there, and that it was a "problem from hell" that the phrase "ethnic cleansing" was coined as a way of describing what was going on in this place while I was playing Little League baseball and watching the OJ car chase from the upper middle-class, suburban comforts of Houston, Texas.

And isn't there another word that follows "Bosnia" in the country's official name? How do you spell it again? "H-E-R-C-E-G-O-V-I-N-A." You could probably get some face time on Sportscenter for nailing that one at the Scripps Howard National Bee.

It is precisely for these reasons that I came to BiH.

You see, I'm no different from Wes. My birth certificate says "Robert Bayless Parsley," but it could just as easily say "John Doe American." As recently as seven days ago, I, too, instinctively got tense at the thought of crossing over the border from Montenegro into chaos. I had been reading The Death of Yugoslavia, after all -- a heart-warming tale of penultimate irony: Organized religion serving as the moral justification for organized mass murder; patriotic nationalism leading to the de facto partition of a country recognized (sans partition) by the UN just before its descent into the inferno. Not exactly the literature the Bosnia and Hercegovina Ministry of Tourism gives out to travelers considering coming to its country.

When Communism's walls came crashing down, so did the ability of the Yugoslav system to squash the nationalist aspirations of its member republics, or "nationalities," as they were known under Tito. After centuries of domination -- whether it be under the boot of the Magyars, the Venetians, the Turks, the Austro-Hungarians, the Nazis or the Yugoslav partisans -- the cat was out of the bag for Croats, Serbs and Muslims alike.

This posed an especially large problem in Bosnia and Hercegovina.

I mentioned religion. I mentioned flag-wavers. But geography is what we should be blaming the most. To the west and north of BiH, Croatia. To the east and south, Serbia and its former kid brother, Montenegro. Quite simply put, many of Bosnia's own citizens had always viewed the very idea of a Bosnian state as a historical farce. The Muslims -- fellow Slavs -- were simply remnants of the stain of Ottoman occupation; people who "caved" by converting to Islam after the Serbian defeat at Kosovo in 1389 opened the floodgates of the Balkan Peninsula to the turbaned-invaders from the East. This fixation on righting centuries of wrongs became a dangerous problem in the early 1990s, when the terms "Greater Serbia" and "Greater Croatia" entered the lexicon of Balkan politics on a grand scale.

Had Bosnia and Hercegovina simply been a nation composed of Catholics (ethnic Croats) and Orthodox Christians (ethnic Serbs), it would have been a much simpler fight. Slobodan Milosevic, the leader of "rump Serbia," would have supported the Bosnian Serbs in a struggle for territory against Croatian president Franjo Tudjman's proxy warriors, the Bosnian Croats. They would've duked it out; to the victors would have gone the spoils. Each nation would have likely been enlarged. It would have been ugly, but it would have been easy to understand. The problem, however, was the equation's x-factor. An x-factor that made the most recent Balkan War an extra bloody affair.

The Bosnian Muslims, who happened to live among the ethnic Croat and Serb citizens of BiH. They were a nuisance. They were a roadblock. They would have to be "cleansed."

Sure, there were ethnic Serbs and ethnic Croats who fought to preserve the internationally-recognized borders of BiH -- I have met a few already, and they are as far removed from Islam as Jerry Falwell. But to simplify the problem -- something our mass media is so adept at doing -- it was a free-for-all in this country between three groups: Croats (Catholics), Serbs (Orthodox) and Bosniaks (Muslims).

Ethnic cleansing, double-dealing, alliances forged, broken and then re-forged, political infighting, acts of genocide, international complacency and "sympathy," UN negotiations, NATO threats and pin pricks, destruction of cities, destruction of tolerance, destruction of co-existence between people who are, for all intents and purposes, of the same Slavic family tree...

The story of the war in Bosnia and Hercegovina is as complicated as an organic chemistry textbook, read as a beachside novel.

But the war did end. The killing ended. As did the dream of a unified Bosnia and Hercegovina -- too many of its own citizens actively fought and died for its demise for it to have survived four years of bloodshed brought on by religious hypocrisy, fear, geography and historical score-settling. Today, over a decade after the Dayton Accords ended the slaughter, the nation known as "Bosnia and Hercegovina" is a political Rubik's Cube: Two semi-autonomous regions -- the Muslim-Croat Federation and the Republika Srpksa -- under one central government in Sarajevo. A rotating, three-member presidency that swaps a Serb, Croat and Muslim member on the seat of power every eight months. A looming storm cloud that threatens to erupt once more in a country that still has issues with the idea of loving thine enemy.

And I've been studying this for less than one month. There's no way I could possibly understand the intricacies of the deep-rooted problems in Bosnian and Hercegovinian society just from reading a book or two, even if I stayed for a year, and read a book or hundred. People who lived through the war don't even understand all the problems, of their own admission.

But there is hope. For every Croat nationalist I meet, I come across a member of the "human race" as well. For every icy-cold stare I received in the one day I spent in Republika Srpska, I received a warm smile from people I couldn't imagine hating someone who looked just like them, simply because they touch their forehead to the pavement five times a day. My mission in Bosnia and Hercegovina -- just as it was in Croatia, and will be in Serbia -- is to experience the hatred, and to experience the love between people as well. I want proof that a middle road does exist. That, though the ideal of a giant group hug between Croats, Serbs and Bosniaks may be impossible, a smaller group hug is within reach.

This is the stuff you can't learn in books. History in the making; an ongoing drama, performed in the flesh and blood. Maybe I'm not Hitting the Snooze Button On Life, after all. Because to me, right now, I am doing more living than I've ever done before. 

Kotor was pretty simple. It's about the size of the Old Dorms area at UVa -- which means small. But it was one of the prettiest places I've seen yet.

The area along the Adriatic coastline from Dalmatia to Montenegro is obviously a nature-lover's paradise. The air is full of life. The water is sparkling clean. The mountain backdrops feed the families of native postcard hawkers. But my favorite are the "We were taking a bath and accidentally dropped a plugged-in hairdryer into the tub with us" Christmas trees that dominate the landscape. It seriously looks just like they've been electrocuted ... yet have survived, and are healthy to boot.

Like always, I have no idea what they're called.


I need some help on this; I'm looking for a ... what's it called ... a ... crap, I can't find the word.

Oh! I've got it. I'm looking for an "arbolist...look up the word. I don't know; maybe I made it up. Anyway, it's an arbo-treeist; somebody who knows about trees." An arbo-treeist would surely be able to answer my question.

(Yes, George Bush really did utter that quote, verbatim. It was one of my favorite "W'isms," taped to my door in college for two years).


Well, Iraq is out. I guess we can settle for winning Montenegrin hearts and minds.


The entire city is a labyrinth; every single nook and cranny looks exactly like this one. Trying to find your way home is like playing Pac Man, only you don't have an aerial view. And you don't get free cherries when you win. Nor do you get a hot Montenegrin "Mrs. Pac Man" to make out with after a few levels.

Kotor.





Enough said. 

Crne Gore
Anyone who can guess what that means in English will win a dinner at Lai Lai Dumpling House, on me.


The old fortress lit up at night.


The only fjord in Southern Europe.



The answer is Montenegro. (Kotor, Montenegro, to be exact). 

This is the last thing I'm posting about Dubrovnik, but I've just got to squeeze it in.

There is a Stray Cat Mafia in this city, straight up.


The SCM: It's everywhere in Dubrovnik.

And the SCM isn't scared of anything or anybody. Its members do what they please. They go where they like. They run away from nada. Look at how intimidating the dumpster SCMers, pictured above, are. Have you ever seen a cat like that?


This dude above, he just chills on a cafe seat. And no one has the balls to ask him to move, trust me.


This SCM mama above? I must not have paid attention in 9th grade biology, because I didn't realize a mulatto cat could produce two pure bred kittens like this. It'd be like if one of Thomas Jefferson's descendants had twins: One of them looking like Conan O'Brien, the other like Jay-Z.

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But the collage feature had to be used for this guy.

Our last night in Dubrovnik, Bino and I were eating at an outdoor pizzeria, and the most disgusting, mucus-crusty-face kitten kept coming up to us, begging like a feline Gypsy. I was hungry; no way this gross thing was getting even a crumb. But it was a scrappy little fella. And we did nothing to impede its determined mission to get onto our table in search of a good meal.

(Left to right, left to right, all the way down).

No words to describe this Little Engine That Could....


...Not Get Any of My Food! Ask the other guy; I'm a dog person. 

Coolest movie theater of all time.

Worst movie of all time.

They balanced each other out, I suppose, to leave me feeling neither angry nor happy for having had to pay money to see "The Libertine," starring Johnny Depp and John Malkovich.


The review went a little something like this: Johnny Depp eloquently and emotionally portrayed the Earl of Wilmot. This has to be by far his most brilliant achievement in a long line of unique and amazing performances. Mr. Depp's portrayal of the Earl showed a range of emotions, incredible nuances and a depth of empathy never before seen on screen, best illustrated during the scene where The Earl addresses parliament - which has to be the most gut wrenching scene, rife with fervor but with credibility. Suffice it to say by the end of this movie I had been reduced to tears and cheers, both at times coinciding. This is definitely an Oscar worthy performance. The golden statue is a must.


Funny. I thought it sucked. A fat one.


Let's just ask Bino what he thought of it.


"That was the worst movie I've seen in my entire life." 

Just like There Was Something About Mary, there is something about Europeans who wear Brett Favre jerseys and don't know how to pronounce his name.

Like this Irish dude we met.


"Do you know who that guy is, the one whose jersey you are wearing?" I asked him when we were waiting for a beer at the bar.

"The Green...Bay....Packers?" he answered hesitantly.

"Yeah, but the guy's name," I said.

"Oh, yeah. Favor."

If he had said, "Fav....ruh," I think I may have laughed harder than I did with Crazy Bernie. 

Everywhere I go in Europe, people are constantly asking me where my roots lay. What country are my ancestors from? I always answer that I'm a European mutt, that I have no idea, like most Americans.


But isn't it clear? This saint is ME. Look at his face.

"'Bayless'? That's an interesting name. Where does it come from?"

"I don't know, but there was this saint guy in a church in Dubrovnik who pretty much looked more like me than Ross from 'Friends' does. So I must be Croatian." 

I just had to jump. But I had to test out the depth first, so I did it from halfway.


Then from the top.


Thank God I had my Chaco's, because I would have torn the crap out of my feet on the bottom, seeing as I hit it pretty hard on the second jump. Not to mention the rock-climbing session on the way back up.


The "Balkan Beard." Weak. I know. Shut up.

 

I LOVE peacocks.

I just don't understand why the ones that run Lokrum Island wouldn't show me their tail feathers.

Bino claimed it was because the ones that form the Lokrum peacock cartel "don't have tail feathers."

Now that is just impossible. What good is a peacock without 'em? It's like having an udderless cow, or an impotent stud horse. Just doesn't make any sense. If such defect peacocks really existed, God would have clearly told Noah to just let them drown with all the other sinners.

But I guess those defect peacocks must have been good swimmers, because I never did see any NBC type action.

After a while, getting rather impatient with my camera out and ready, I figured the tail feathers must be extended only as some sort of defense mechanism. Maybe peacocks only raised them up when they felt threatened, I thought. So I tried to make one feel threatened...


...And got freaked out when he started to come towards me. Have you seen the talons on those things?


N, B, C....(music playing...me waiting...not happening)


I mean, I can see them underneath, waiting to be spread! What the hell!

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As a way to pay the peacocks back for their intransigence, I played the ole' "throw a handful of pebbles on the ground to make them think I'm throwing bread crumbs" trick.


Gets 'em every time.

Who's laughing now, rookie bi-otches! 

Lokrum Island.
The 281 community of Dubrovnik.


Never let anyone tell you that I spent two weeks on the Dalmatian Coast and didn't make it to a single one of Croatia's vaunted islands. I did. Bino and I went to Lokrum.

That's a ten minute ferry ride from Dubrovnik.

And technically, seeing as it was been done earlier this summer by two famous movie stars, we could have swam there. If Woody Harrelson and Owen Wilson can do it, we could have done it.

Maybe.


Actually, Bino wouldn't have even been able to get a diving start had we tried to swim. Maybe not.


Anyone know any marketing people for Chaco? If so, I'd be glad for them to fund my trip across the Balkans and the Middle East by paying me to photograph their next ad campaign.

 

Not only can Bino not dive, but this is what he calls stretching.


That's about as far as he goes. If the man was an animal, he'd most definitely be an "indoor" pet. 

Dubrovnik...there is more, yes.
(We were there for six days, of course there is more).


Can I get a show of hands for coolest soccer field of all time? Right over the wall on the left is the Adriatic.


The walk up these stairs got longer every single time.


No wonder Dubrovnik was able to cut a deal with the Turks and prevent Ottoman occupation of their city, in exchange for a little under-the-table kickback action. If I was a Sultan, I wouldn't have wanted any piece of the Old City walls, either. These things were built Ford tough, for real.

 

More Ante.

Ante Gotovina: Indicted war criminal, yet a national hero to right wing Croats who remember the great service he did to a nation trying to roll back gains made by the Krajina Serbs in the early 1990s. In Operation Storm, General Gotovina led an offensive against a breakaway region of Croatia controlled by Serbs who had found themselves in enemy territory after the Croatian Declaration of Independence. Operation Storm happened in 1995. People still talk about it as if it happened last week.

This is Ante, in a picture taped to the front door of the apartment Bino and I were staying at in Dubrovnik.




The NDH was the short-lived Independent State of Croatia which, with Nazi support, seized control of Croatia, Bosnia and Hercegovina, and part of modern-day Slovenia in 1941. It was not to last long; a man named Josip Broz Tito was soon to assert his dominance over the land of the Croats. During the conflict in the 1990's, the Croatian President, Franjo Tudjman, dreamed of creating "Greater Croatia" encompassing much of Bosnia -- his detractors in neighboring countries labeled his HDZ party the "Ustase reborn," a reference to the Mussolini-cultivated group which presided over the NDH.

 

The woman who we got to take this had clearly never seen a digital camera before. It was probably the highlight of her week. At first, she had the LCD screen facing her, which would have just been a classic shot had she pressed the button. Unfortunately, she figured it out.


Can you BELIEVE Bino would do that?


I mean, green is so last season.


The dining room of our old woman's apartment. And she goes with the Last Supper painting for the wall. Croats, well, they're Catholic. Very Catholic. Me? I'm just trying to answer WWJD?, and then mimic.


The marble floor all throughout Dubrovnik's Old Town is shiny, but probably not clean.

Dubrovnik.
The Pearl of the Adriatic.

The landmark for Bino and I, throughout the week. The city is a network of these winding, chaotic back alleys and long stairways, all made of stone that you assume has been around since time immemorial. It is a beautiful city.


And of course, no city can make my Top Ten list if you can't swim. This is right outside the city walls. We had no idea what awaited us when we came around the bend. But I soon discovered one amazing fact: David Rabinowitz does not know how to dive.


Doesn't know how to dive? How can that be?

"You just lean forward and ... dive," our newly-made British friend, Luke, said when I introduced him to Bino and immediately let him in on the secret. "Gravity will do the work."

You would think so, wouldn't you?


The Orlando Column.

 

More Crazy Bernie.

This is shortly before the bananas incident.


This is shortly after.

Look at those things! I think it's gross to eat bruised bananas like that when they haven't been tucked in nicely between my sweaty banana for over two hours. Bernie. What in the world.


Bino later recounted this moment: "Bernie squeezes HARD. Like, my shoulder hurt after that. He was digging into hit as hard as he could."

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I forgot to include another part of our night with Crazy Bernie. Bear in mind, this was in Croatia. English is not the first language there -- a fact which always seems to trouble Brits, no matter which country I encounter them in. It's like they still view the world as if the sun has not set on the Empire. But it has.

"Where are you from??" Bernie demanded of the Asian-looking waiter who had innocently walked into our side alley outside of Fresh.

"Canada," he said in a tone much more courteous than the one which had prompted his response.

Bernie, who was "pissed" at this point ("pissed" means "drunk," not "angry," in Britain), either didn't hear or wasn't trying to hear the answer he was given.

"Speak bloody English!" he yelled, clearly demonstrating that anyone with slanted eyes cannot possibly understand the international language of the 21st century.

"Chill Bernie," I said in a hush tone. "He's from the same country your wife is from, man."

Everyone was staring at us now, wondering who in the world had brought the 60-year-old loudmouth.

It wasn't Bernie's fault; it was the booze. I think, being around two 22-year-olds, Bernie felt as if he had to hang. But he didn't last long before he lost his grip.

The cliffhanger came about a minute later, when he struck up a conversation with the people across from us, who actually were speaking "bloody English."

"Where are you from?" he asked in a slurred voice, leaning forward from his perch next to me in the alley.

"New Zealand."

"A Kiwi?!?!?!" Bernie exclaimed.

I had spent my entire trip up to that point trying to decipher whether or not the term "Kiwi" was socially acceptable. Everyone from a country that has the Union Jack in its flag seems to use it; but people from the Union Jack-flag countries are typically not the ones you want to preside over a PC seminar. After the "Speak bloody English" debacle with the Asian-Canadian waiter, I was worried that Bernie was getting a little too rambunctious.

I shot a glance over at Bino; neither of us knew where this was going, but we both knew -- from intimate knowledge of each other's fighting history -- that we sure as hell weren't gonna have Bernie's back in any kind of scuffle that may ensue from his provocations.

"You're bloody ignorant!"

That's what Bernie said, after the "Kiwi" remark.

Oh, no....

The Kiwis, not trying to have a fight on their vacation with a drunk old man who was just running his mouth without casus belli, were able to simply ignore Crazy Bernie. I couldn't tell if it was because, as the bigger men, they were above such ridiculousness, or if it was because they had just seen him pull four bananas out of his pants -- bananas which had been camouflaged to perfection -- and didn't know what else may be down there. Some sort of semi-automatic weapon? A pair of nunchucks perhaps? They weren't trying to find out; and neither were we.

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Meeting Bernie was great, because it parlayed into excellent conversation-starters, not only that night at Fresh, but the next night as well, when Bino and I went to happy hour with less money still in our wallets than Oliver Twist had to his name at his economic nadir. And isn't that what all people desperately search for when they're at a bar: Conversation-starters? Thanks, Bernie.

The next day, as Bino and I were saying our goodbyes after an awesome six-day rendez-vous in the "Pearl of the Adriatic" known as Dubrovnik, my former roomate shot a glance over at the airport shuttle bus he was about to board.

"I think that's Bernie!" Bino exclaimed.

"No way," I said incredulously, not able to get a good look from my post-up spot on the ground. "Go check."

He ran a quick reconaissance mission and returned.

"Bernie!"

I was a tad jealous that Bino would be able to have a continuation of the entertainment that the old man probably provides to everyone who crosses his path. But then again, I really wasn't at all. One night of Bernie is all I need.

I'll let Bino's words, as written in an email to me that very night, describe "Bernie, Part Deux:"

All morning, getting packed up and walking to the bus station, I was thinking to myself how I hate saying goodbye to good friends, and that I wish I could have pulled off a funny joke to lighten the whole ordeal. Well, Bernie was again an impressive traveling companion. Neither he nor his wife would leave me alone, and the person sitting next to me on the bus even offered to switch seats so we could sit together. I've renewed the promise to email them, and Bernie left me with the great image that, though he was out of bananas, his wife was taking food (including figs) onto the flight, and that I didn't want to think about where she was hiding them.

Anyone who knows the Original Beach Kid, Wes, knows that Bernie is what he will become 38 years down the road, with Lizzie sneaking figs onto the airplane for him.