Hong Kong = Lots of people per square inch

And even though Yao Ming is from rival economic hub Shanghai, they all love the Rockets.

When the sign right above the driver of the tram up to The Peak says "Please do not talk to the driver," it's like, now you've given me a reason to talk to the driver. Had no desire to whatsoever until I read that.

"Sooo..... how many times a day do you have to make the trip up the hill?"

(He stares at me through the mirror, wondering whether to point to the sign, respond quickly, or just plain ignore me. He chooses quick response).

"Every ten minutes."

"Wow, that must get really tedious, huh?"

(Same decision process is clearly taking place. Driver looks very irritated. This time, he simply waves me off with a rude hand signal).

Every single Vietnam War movie follows a similar pattern. Long hair, a token Jimi Hendrix and/or Doors song set to the background of an afternoon patrol, rampant drug use, napalm, amputees in bloody bandages and the by-the-book officer who just can't relate to the younger generation.

But two things are a constant, no matter who is producing the film:

1. The Vietnamese prostitute.
2. The bicycle/rickshaw taxi drivers.
   

My time in Saigon taught me that these staples from the silver screen really were, and very much still are, staples on the real screen known as everyday life.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Here is the first thing every person in that country asks you: "Do you have a girlfriend?" Cabbies ask it; vendors on the street ask it; even girls your age ask it. Like this one I met, who barely knew any English at all, except for one thing:


"Do you have a girlfriend?"

They might as well just come out with it and say what's really on their minds: "Would you like to marry me and take me home to America?"

Or, for the ones who are a little less romantic, "One hour, $40."

Those ones just ask you if you want "boom boom."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Boom boom" is hands down the greatest euphemism for "sexy time" that I have ever heard. You cannot walk down the streets of Saigon (how great is it that Vietnamese still call Ho Chi Minh City by it's pre-war name?) at night for five minutes without some sleazy dude offering it to you. Once, I even had a guy offer me "boom boom" at 8:30 ... in the morning. ("Dude, it's a little early for that," I told him).

When people don't speak good English, and it's obvious that they have simply memorized one line for any white person they see walking down the street, it is always fun to try and engage them in a conversation.

"Yo, yo," one guy said as I was about to cross the street and go back to my hotel. "Boom boom. Beautiful girls, one hour, $40."

"Really?" I said. "Boom boom, only forty bucks?"

"Boom boom." Every word that I said in response meant I was that much more interested; his eyes were getting wide.

"Hmmmm...."

"Beautiful, beautiful."

"Okay," I said. "Here's my question."

"Boom boom." Like a dog watching my hand for the treat.

"Let's say that I take a little longer, and I go, oh, say, an hour and two minutes." He grabbed my arm -- this was a sure thing, he must have thought. "If that happens, do you charge me for two hours? Or is it like, 'Okay, the guy was so close, we'll just charge an hour.'"

"Forty dollars, boom boom, beautiful girls."

"I mean, or is it like Cingular Wireless?" I continued. "Kind of like a rollover plan."

"This way." He pointed to a hotel in the distance.

"Nah, I was just messing with you man, I don't want any boom boom," and I kept on walking. It was downright cruel, like smearing a bunch of peanut butter just above a dog's nose, so that he can smell it, but just can't reach it with his tongue.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sometimes "boom boom" solicitors don't even code the question -- like our last night there, when, as Uncle Dan and I walked down the street looking for a good place to eat, a pair of girlfriends on a moped pulled up beside us and asked, "You want to have some sex?"

"No thanks, I'm not interested, but my uncle here...."

We just kept walking.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hell, even some of Uncle Dan's business contacts thought it would be polite to see if I was interested in sampling the local cuisine.

"You must see the first floor," the man said, his insinuations flying right over my head like a U.S. fighter jet. These guys were wearing Dad-is-home-from-work white collared shirts, after all. I associate clothes like that with my wholesome childhood. How was I supposed to expect that they'd be gauging my interest in a "massage?"

Uncle Dan, 21 years my senior, is a little less naive than me, and knew what was going on the entire time, I suspect. But it didn't take long for me to get up to speed.

The first floor was, well .... there were black lights, a neon blue glow illuminating everyone's face, really friendly girls, lots of snickering in Vietnamese, and a general vibe of shadiness.

"What are we doing here?" I said to Uncle Dan, as the business friend stood next to me, reading my reactions with a big ass grin on his face, trying to see if I was starting to drool or not.

"He's just trying to show you a good time." Danny was enjoying my discomfort.

I think my face gave away the answer that I was not. My first rule of protocol on things like this is that if I ever do go to "the first floor," I'm sure as hell not buying anything when my dad's little brother is standing right next to me. It was pretty awkward.

"Beautiful girls, yes?" the man asked, still grinning.

"Uhhh, yeah." Awkward. "Are you ready to leave?"

The guy was just trying to be nice, and wasn't sleazy by any means -- it's just that this was Vietnam. The same Vietnam I saw in movie theaters my entire life.

When we left the first floor, one of the really good-looking, really friendly girls even tried the equivalent of the "Come here often?" pick-up line on me. "You have been here before!" she yelled in her thick Vietnamese accent, before giggling uncontrollably. I blushed, and kept walking.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Yo, yo." One of my favorite things about Vietnam is that the word "yo" really is part of their language. They say it for "cheers" at the bar, they say it on the street, they say it just all the time. "Yo, yo!"

Well, they also say it when they're trying to get your attention -- including when they want to offer you rickshaw rides and "boom boom."

Take Sinh, for example.


Sinh (pronounced "sing") is the man.

My first impression of him was that he was just another rickshaw/taxi service dude who pimps in his spare time. "Yo, yo!" he yelled at me as I walked along the sidewalk, his legs pedaling furiously to try and keep up with the speed of the mopeds swarming around him like bees on the street. "No thanks, man," I answered, not slowing down to give him the time of day.

"You are very handsome!" he yelled, still pedaling. I had to laugh at that -- a first for me in Vietnam to hear such a compliment from a 60-year old man on a rickshaw.

"How many girlfriends?" he asked, panting.

"None, man," I said, still laughing.

"You no have girlfriend?" He feigned astonishment. "Why no many girlfriend?"

I wasn't trying to get into a discussion about my history with long distance relationships at that particular point in time, so I ignored him and walked into a Buddhist temple on the corner.

But he followed me in -- this guy was really persistent.

I had no intention of hiring a bicycle taxi, but once Sinh starting talking to me about how he loves America, how he fought in the Saigon army, how he struggles to make a living, I began to consider it.

And once he showed me the book he has, full of raving reviews from previous customers, I figured, "What the hell? When am I gonna be able to experience Saigon on the front seat of a rickshaw ever again?" and hopped on.

And I am so glad I did, because it was awesome.


I was giggling like the prostitute from the night before who had pulled the "Come here often?" line. When I say that the mopeds are like a swarm of bees, I really mean that they are like a swarm of Africanized killer bees. ZOOOOOM! ZOOM ZOOM! ZOOOOOOM! Please keep your hands inside the windows of the bus. "Lanes" to these people are like the sidelines in girls lacrosse -- they're just suggestions. It is downright Hobbesian on the streets of Saigon.

Sinh seemed harmless -- more wholesome than any other person I had met thus far in Vietnam. But it didn't take long for me to realize that he had ... other businesses as well.

"Look there," he said, an apparently good-looking girl (I couldn't see because of her smog face mask) parked next to us at the red light. "Beautiful girls, Saigon, beautiful girls."


"Yeah, I guess, I can't really tell."

Then, we saw a bride on the street.


"Beautiful girls," he said again, and pedaled up so that I could get a picture.

"You want blowjob?" he asked right afterwards. "Massage?" You would think that he would first offer a massage, and then get more direct. You would figure.

"Nah man, I'm good." I can only assume he meant from a girl, but still, not my style to pay for that sort of stuff.

But this was Vietnam. I wasn't sleazed out. Sinh was just being polite.


And Sinh is still the man.

This is how you know Ryan Zimmerman is bigtime now -- first item when you enter the Nationals' shop.

HUMPHREYS FIRST LEFT!

It's 4 a.m. in Hong Kong, and I'm awake ... why?

To say good morning to Vietnam, of course.

The mouth of the river!!

Soviet-style propaganda posters? In 2007? Really?

Okay, so I've sorted it out. No need to thank me.

In America, it's a known fact that Asian babies are considered the cutest of all babies. Way cuter than white babies, at least. Maybe it's the hair that passes as jet black strands of silk; maybe it's the natural tan; maybe it's the fact that their eyes are slanted -- which is different than ours!!

Awwwwwwwww!

Yeah, well, here is the question we all want to know the answer to, yet lack the means of finding out: What about in Asia? Do they realize they've got the world's cutest babies, or not?

I asked my Chinese friend Mabel, and her response blew me away.

"We think white babies are the cutest. Their blonde, curly hair, blue eyes."

"So you don't find Asian babies to be cuter than white ones?" I asked, blown away at this revelation.

"No."

Talk about exposure to new cultures and new ideas. Priceless -- yet pointless -- information like that is why I travel.

The problem with moving so fast through Asia is that I want to write about everything, but have no time. This is my third night in Hong Kong, but I'm still not finished telling you all about Saigon.

And I never did write about my epic "Dick in a Box" birthday party.

All in due time. I'm too tired to write at the moment. Just look and enjoy the pretty pictures.

I guess I'll just call them Vietnamese cowboy hats, because I don't think anyone from the Western world has got any idea of what their proper name is.

But I also doubt that there is anyone from the Western world who doesn't think that Vietnamese cowboy hats are the shizzle.

While we're talking about everyone in the Western world, I'll take it a step further: No one in that club would be exempted from the kind of overtime duty I put forth on the toilet the night after eating THIS on the streets of Saigon:

"You'll find that as you get older, your tolerance for living below the standard you've become accustomed to becomes less and less," Uncle Dan said our second night in Vietnam, after he shot down the dinner proposal I put forth as we strolled past the kind of joint where everybody knows your name, and they're always glad you came. It was hot outside, and hot at that restaurant, too, since there was no inside to speak of. But we were in Vietnam, and I was trying to rub elbows with the people, ya know?

If Danny thought that place was bad, though ... he didn't need to see where I had gone for lunch.

"That, that."

The old woman with the Vietnamese cowboy hat pointed to the pot. There were lots of "that's" in that pot.

"Yes," I said, pointlessly speaking slower in a language that she couldn't understand, at all. What had I said "yes" to? We will never know for sure, I suppose. But judging by the looks of what she fished out of there -- and by the texture of what I subsequently felt in my mouth, as I tried and failed to chew with small bites from my perch atop a foot-high plastic step stool known as a "seat" in Saigon -- I'd say it was a long, fleshy piece of intestine.

Mystery animal intestine, on a bun, in Ho Chi Minh City, for about the cost of two pay phone calls in the States. That is why I love to travel.

My own intestines feel otherwise. And they sent a Vietnamese, biological version of this dude to correct my attitude towards my choice of food.

I call him Kung Poo.

"So you think you can drop some street food, some MYSTERY FOOD, inside of me and expect me to do all the work digesting it for you?" Kung Poo demanded to know, looking fiercer than the bad guy from "Karate Kid 2." "Well let me tell you something: IT'S HARD TO DIGEST THAT STUFF! So this is what I'm gonna do. I'm gonna make you pay for you carelessness, and next time, I want you to act more like your Uncle Danny. Or else you're gonna get an ass whipping, got it?"

I'm not scared of him, though. I made a Chinese friend tonight in Hong Kong named Mabel. The first thing she told me was that she'll be in Houston at the end of April for a business trip, and asked about any good Chinese food places to go.

It took me about .0005 seconds to come up not with just an answer, but the answer:

"Lai Lai Dumpling House."

The same Lai Lai that was -- allegedly -- on Marvin Zindler a few years back. Allegedly. Well, even though I saw a mouse just climbing up the window curtain inside there one day -- at an extremely leisurely pace, as if he did it all the time without being bothered -- I haven't ever gotten sick from my go-to place when back home in Houston, just as Kung Poo couldn't touch me that bad.

I am going to ride the street food until it bucks me.

more Saigon.

It's the year of the Pig. You know what that means? We need a PARTY WITH THE PIG.

Ho Chi Minh -- alive or dead? You decide.

the best of
SAIGON.

You can't have a hot dog without a dog.
You can't have a milkshake without milk.
And you can't have Ho Chi Minh City without the scooters.

I laugh when I think back to my early days in Istanbul, when Joe and I routinely escaped death by taxi ramming. "These people are crazy," one of us would say every five minutes. It seemed like having an insurance policy to cross the street wouldn't be such a crazy idea.

That was before I got to Saigon.

Bob Marley would start singing about a rat race. Dave Matthews? Probably about some ants marching. I, personally, have no words to describe this spectacle.

But just know that these dudes below are a dying breed.

"The motorbikes began about ten years ago," Hien, a business friend of Danny's, told us in the backseat of a taxi our first night in Ho Chi Minh. "Before that, it was all bikes."

How much nicer the city must have been on the ears back then, I thought inwardly. Instead of the chorus of a concrete jungle aggravating stress levels across the board, I yearned for the sounds of a million bicycles -- with their bells, and rusty chains, and charm -- and inhaled a big breath of pollution.

"Of course," Hien continued. "The concern is that in another five years, it will be all cars."

"Another Bangkok," Uncle Dan said, before telling his Bangkok story: Two hours, one taxi ride from the airport to the hotel, zero air conditioning. And lots of frustration.

But crossing the street. Istanbul, you're a cakewalk. You're not even like taking candy from a baby. You're like taking candy from a baby in a vegetative state, compared to crossing the streets in Saigon.

"My strategy," Dan said, having just given me a free demonstration, "is to walk steadily, at one speed, and confidently. If you do that, he will move."

"Yeah," I said, "but the only problem is that I never assume the driver isn't drunk, or that he is going to stop his car for little old me. I've been in Serbia for the last two months, after all. What do you expect?"

Welcome to Vietnam:

The Land of "A Guy Mouthing the Banjo Music from 'Deliverance' Language," Never-ending Gobstopper Communism and the Ubiquitous "Boom Boom" Offer.

I dressed up just for you.

Well, actually more for Dan, The Bob's youngest brother.


Within five days of embarking upon this two-week business trip across Asia, Danny had already been able to fulfill not one, but two of his lifelong dreams:

1. He sold his company -- a former dot com darling called SalvageSale that, like fellow Houstonian Beyonce, is a survivor -- for much dinero. The money came in while we were in Singapore, and just like that, he was big time. Like that matters -- get a load of No. 2.
2. He woke up in Vietnam and screamed, "Good morniiiiing, VIETnam!!!"

Speaking of movies.....

Whoa whoa whoa.
-----------------------------------------------------------------

"If you could pick one word to describe Saigon (yes, its inhabitants still call it Saigon, even though it has officially gone by "Ho Chi Minh City" since 1975), what would you choose?"

Mr. Cuclis thought about it, and he .... hesitated?

"Umm..."

Maybe it was too obvious, I thought, like the T/F gimme that you just know has to be a trick question.

"The motorbikes," I said, unable to wait any longer to tell my story. I get impatient when I'm revving the engine, but the car is in neutral.

"Yeah," Mr Cuclis responded. "There are a lot of them, aren't there?"

I'd go with a HELL yes on that one.

And so would this Vietnamese beauty.

I don't think she's worried about SARS -- about 60 percent of the women on the streets of Saigon are wearing these deals, thanks to the pollution caused by eight bagillion motor bikes in one city.

"They're for girls," my personal taxi driver, Sinh, told me as he pedaled his heart out in a sea of petrol fumes. The smell in the air made me feel like I was waiting for the boat to pull me up, floating in the warm water of Lake McQueeney, a slalom ski attached to my feet.

"What? The masks?"

"Yes," I heard him say from behind. Sinh's bike felt like a relic of the past; I was almost scared to hold my arms out to the side, for fear of getting them chopped off by a madman speeding past on his scooter. "Only girls wear them."

A shame, indeed -- it hides their exotic Asian mugs. Before this trip, I was not a big fan. Asian women just weren't my cup of herbal tea, that's all.

"See," Lesli, the mother of the house where I crashed in Singapore told me, "you can see how all these old white men come to Asia for business and end up leaving their wives. Asian women get more and more attractive with time, trust me, you're not the first one."

That's why I'm just so glad to have Uncle Dan around -- he learned some things from his father, my grandfather, Foss.

"Bayless," Danny told me as we checked out of our Saigon hotel. "Phuong here is 23 as well." She smiled like a girl who was being put on the spot, which she was. "And she has agreed that, when you come back to Ho Chi Minh, she will go out to dinner with you."

"Thanks, Dan."

"No problem."

Phuong had checked us into the hotel two days before, and Uncle Dan waits until she's checking us out to play matchmaker, matchmaker, make me a match. It was like a situation out of an Alanis Morissette song, don't ya think? A little toooooo ironic.


And yeah I really do think...

that Asian girls are hot now.

Ladies and Gentleman, YOUR, Hooooouusssstoooonnnnnn TEX-ans!!!

We pass on Reggie Bush -- because we had the Artist Formerly Known as Domanick Davis.

We pass on Vince Young -- because we had David "Plays Like a Deer in the Headlights of a" Carr.

Less than a calendar year after that terrible, awful, really, really wish I could say forgettable draft day, the Texans announce that they have cut both Davis/Williams and Carr.

Because we have Ahman Green and Matt Schaub.

Green? Great -- let me know how his stats compare to Reggie's. Schaub? I don't care what happens, I'm buying a jersey, since he is a UVa boy.

But if I buy the home Schaub jersey, then I'm buying a white No. 10 Texans jersey as well.

And I'm having the letters "V. Young" personalized on the back, as a statement of protest.

I leave Singapore tomorrow for Ho Chi Minh City, and my new friends here are absolutely distraught.

After the going away party, there were tears in Chinatown...

"Rhy?? RHYYYYY??? Bayriss, no!"

a wave of depression across Little India....

"Why like dees, my friend? Why like dees? Go ahead then, just walk away. We always knew you would."

and an attempt to channel the grief into an artistic expression of what my departure will mean to the people of Singapore.


I just hope they are able to move on, because I don't think I'm coming back to the place Thighs calls "Asia For Dummies" anytime soon. I'm ready to see the real deal on this continent, and by that I mean a return trip to somewhere in Asia that is a little crazier than what I call the "Gestapo-run Switzerland of the Far East."

Plus, I really want to travel in Asia my style, without a tie and a without a schedule.

Although I have to admit something about wearing these clothes.

I don't know whatcha heard about me, but a bitch can't get a dollar outta me. No Cadillac, no perms, you can't see. That I'm a motherf***ing P-I-M-P!

If you didn't understand that last joke, you are too old.

And if you don't understand how my Uncle Dan could make fun of my socks today, which I am also wearing in the picture above, you are not alone. It makes no sense to me, either.


"They're very .... colorful," Christine, a Chinese Singaporean business colleague of Dan's said today over a lunch of shark fin soup and fish cheek.

If by "colorful" she means "freaking amazing," I concur.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Let's get back to the idea that I can't wrap my mind around here in Singapore: That English is the official language of a place that is full of Chinese people.

Do we really need another reminder that Singapore is simply a British creation, founded by Sir Thomas Stamford Raffles in 1819 in an attempt by the British East India Company to break the Dutch domination of southeast Asia? (Raffles was actually quoted as saying, "Our objective is not territory, but trade..." proving that Singapore has always been about the money, and is best served for accommodating those who like to say they've been to crazy countries, but don't actually like to be in crazy countries). The glaring lack of a native culture -- historically, this place falls within the Malay domain, not the Indian-Chinese-Malay-Ex-pat salad bowl set-up that resulted from the imported labor policies of the past 200 years -- leaves much to be desired within the spirit of a traveler.

When does a tourist officially cross over the line into becoming a traveler?


When you see what others can only imagine.

But you don't see with your eyes. You see with your spirit. And that is something you can't explain to someone who has been blind his whole life.

In Singapore, I feel like I'm wearing permanent sunglasses, because I can't see what I really want to see. I don't know if it's due to a lack of time or a lack of buzz in the air, but for the past three or four days, I have felt like a big time tourist. But, there is a reason for that, I guess: I'm on a business trip. In case I ever try to forget that fact -- in the few hours I have to cruise town after the day's work is done -- the perfectly-tied knot in my baby blue tie will be there to remind me.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

If the Singapore police are apparently sooooooo effective, then someone answer me this: WHERE ARE ALL THE POLICE?

-------------------------------------

"Yo man, be straight with me." I put my hand on the Indian security guard's shoulder, as he stood next to the information desk on the ground floor of an uber-modern, air-conditioned, multi-storied mall in downtown Singapore. "Do you really have to pay to get on the bus here?"

He looked at me like I had just asked if the earth was really round.

"Of course, of course!"

"But I've ridden it a few times now, and I really don't think they are checking people who get on in the back."

"Yes, but the back is just for exiting." JUST for exiting. Duh.

"I know, that's the whole point," I blurted out, the statement being so far outside the box that I thought the guy's head may implode. "You can sneak on."

Was I taking crazy pills or something? He seemed really worried about my mental state.

"No, no, no, no," he warned. "Singapore police will give you big fine."

"How much?"

He tried to remember. Eyes pointing up, mind fast at work.

"I can't remember, but if you just throw your cigarette on the ground, it is $500 fine I think." Or, about $250 ... roughly. The Indian guard was really getting riled up now, just like my Malaysian taxi driver had been a few nights before, when he had explained to me why he prefers to live in Malaysia on the weekends, only coming into work in Singapore for wages of up to double what he would be making in Malaysia: "You can do what you want in Malaysia, live your life. Here, it's no good. They tell you this, that, no noise in flat, no this there. It no good," he said before laughing.

"What about spitting?" I asked the guard.

His eyes widened. We had temporarily returned to pagan times, only for someone to have insulted the gods. Spitting?!?!

"Oh you mustn't do that," he said, frantically. "That's another big fine." Once again, a couple hundred dollars.

I was really getting interested in our conversation at this point, because I love Indian accents when they get all hot and bothered about whatever it is.

"So then where the hell are all these cops?? I still haven't seen one."

The corners of his mouth turned up -- a mischievous smirk.

"Oh," he said, still smirking, "they are around."

"What, hiding in the bushes or something?"

"Something like that," he said, and I was on my way.

---------------------------------------

I was so close to home -- maybe a minute, tops -- but the idea came over me, and I had to do it.

I had to take a piss on the side of the road, in Singapore, to see if a platoon full of cops wearing garden-print camouflage were really waiting to jump out of the trees and tackle me. Who knows? Maybe jail time would have been mandatory. You can never predict; this is southeast Asia, after all.

"This is stupid," the angel said.

"This is brilliant," I heard from the devil.

Tie goes to the runner; brilliant it was. And I whipped out my egg roll to stick it to the man.

The whole time, I just scanned the road for trouble, and crossed my fingers.

"Were you nervous?" Kath asked me later when I told her of my bravery.

Now what kind of question is that??


Of course I was nervous.

A two-week trip across four cities in Asia is like giving a P.O.W. a small box of McDonald's french fries and then asking, "Full?"

Of course I'm not full, you idiot. I'm probably even hungrier now!

Better to have something than nothing, though, huh?

Hindu temple, Indian dudes, Chinese lettering .... this is Singapore.

Lesli, Claire, Nils, and Uncle Dan looking good in the mirror. This old British colonial house -- rented by the Berggren's from the federal government -- is without a doubt the coolest place I've stayed my entire trip. Pool, backyard with two soccer goals, a basketball hoop, no A.C. necessary with the fans blowing full time, balmy, tropical weather, awesome dog named Hunter (I may start calling him "Meat" in honor of the real Hunter, the one who "shoots")....

Oh, and there is great coffee. Never underestimate the power of good coffee in terms of forming a lasting impression.

This is why Medusa is embarrassed to travel. Something bad always happens.

If there is anything 9.5 months on the road, alone, has taught me, it is this.

"I wish I could do what you're doing," is what I hear more than anything. Unless you've got student loans, or some other debt to pay off (which I thank God every day for being born lucky enough not to be in that position), I've got news for you: You can. Just save up some money and leave. Things will work out from there, I promise.

It's called the Luck of the Traveler. It's what brought me to Singapore. It's what will take me to Africa. It's what makes doing what I've been doing worth doing. And there's plenty of that luck to go around, if you make it happen.

LITTLE INDIA....still.....
singapore.

LITTLE INDIA
singapore.

WARNING: DEATH FOR DRUG TRAFFICKERS UNDER SINGAPORE LAW

That was the first thing I read on the customs form which I was groggily filling out at my body clock knows what time, the final minutes of the epic, 24-hour train journey + 12-hour flight from Belgrade to Singapore fading away.

Singapore is not the kind of place where you should be messing around with the po po. Lesli told me three stories, all of which she swears are true. In the first, she said it was a good thing that I recently cut my hair, because sometimes, if the passport controllers think it's too long, they will literally force the person trying to cross through to cut their hair on the spot.

No. 2 was even wilder: You need a doctor's prescription to purchase chewing gum, according to Lesli. Can't sell it, can't buy it. You can have it, but that's it. Next time, I'm smuggling in a kilo.

And finally, there is the rumor that if you try to cross the border with more than one pack of cigarettes -- that's all -- it is a $100 fine per extra cig that you have illegally smuggled across.

Hmmm, I know! Let's go get wasted, drive around until the sun comes up and then go knock over mailboxes!! SINGA-POOOOOOOOORE! Whew!

This country has a lot in common with Serbia: Both nations' names start with the letter 'S," and both have lots of inhabitants of Indian origin. (Gypsies come from India, allegedly).

And I'm spent.

Singapore is the polar opposite of Serbia. This is a land of laws. Laws which were not made to be broken, as is their evolutionary purpose in the Balkans. It remains to be seen what will happen if I chew away on a busy street, but I'm envisioning a cane and not a lot of chances to consult with my attorney.

I haven't seen a place this clean since I left Switzerland.

They honestly fear the consequences of violating the law here. "No Poster Allowed"? It means no poster will be put up. Simple as that. "Better listen to the rules!" they say to themsleves. It is incredible.

In Sarajevo, people were smoking cigs in the stands of the Bosna club basketball game. In Serbia, according to Ana, over 75 percent of the citizenry smokes. In Singapore, all you need is a little piece of paper warning people to watch their backs, and it comes to a complete halt.

You know how every group of potheads has "the guy who gets paranoid?" That dude would never make it in Singapore.

"I'm not a business man, I'm a BUSINESS, man!"

Dressed for success in Singapore.

Although, despite the Scott Bakula-style Quantum Leap I made in relative presentability points, Uncle Dan was still drinking Haterade with his bacon and eggs this morning.

"Looking a little scruffy still," he said.

"This is the best I can do."

He looked unimpressed.

"All right, looking good, Bayless!" Lesli exclaimed. Mark nodded in agreement, and reached for the camera.

"See, Uncle Dan!"

Besides, it wasn't so bad anyway. Not only did I get to carry around a comb in my pocket for the first time in my life (which was awesome), but I also found that people treat you with a lot more respect on the street and at restaurants when they think you're big time, or smart, or rich, or something other than what I really am. I may go with the tie full time...
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It's not that I didn't enjoy the all-day meetings with my uncle -- I definitely learned a lot about how business people actually work with one another, and it's only Day One, so I'm sure to be in for a ton more -- but it was after work that I really started to enjoy myself.

The inside of an office is just never as cool as a part of town -- any town -- called "Little India."

Let's play an ethnic word association game. I'll say a country, and then I'll guess the image that immediately pops into your mind of who lives in that country.

Ready?

China: Chinese people.

Japan: Japanese people.

Vietnam: Vietnamese people.

Singapore: ........Asian..........people...............with squinty eyes..............I am assuming...............dude, I don't know anything about Singapore.........I just know there are Asians living there.

Singapore's ethnic storybook reads kind of similar to our own, I guess: Native people pushed out, melting pot of sorts ensues, not a real rich sense of culture. And by that I mean that my sense is that the word "history" here dates back about 200 years to some British explorers.

According to the 2000 census, it's 76.8% Chinese, 7.9% Indian, 13.9% indigenous Malay, and a handful of others. Those "others" include lots of rich, white ex-pats (like the family putting me up like a king at the moment), some Sri Lankans (I ate with one who I met tonight), some Phillipinos, and some others, I don't know.

Want to keep playing the word association game? Rich or poor, ready?

Asia: poor.

That's what I figured, at least. But I think I was wrong, about this country, at least. This place is one giant Starbucks, from what I've seen. Mark told me it has a higher per capita income than America. Little India wasn't rolling on dubs or anything, but I think it was for sure a Little wealthier version of India (by the way, I soon discovered how I had been able to score a sweet, tacky "Singapore" t-shirt for only a buck there ... because it doesn't say "Singapore." It says "Sigapore").

It's the Asian Dream, perhaps?

I can't be sure -- I've only been here a day, and I have no basis for comparison. But even if it falls short of that expectation, you gotta give this ad wizard representing www.classic-ideas.com.sg props. Dream ho's?? That IS a classic-idea.com. I can't believe I never thought of building dream ho's before. I mean, I have created a site for building a dream, (cough, www.newcollegeidentities.com, cough), but never a dream girl with loose morals and looser pants.

Singapore.

Strange place, for sure.

It's like an Asian, Wall Street-centered Six Flags theme park.

I'm staying at Club Berggren, where a pair of 7-year-old twins keep things lively. The American School in Singapore gets very high marks from me, after what I heard Nils and Claire discussing in the car.

I swear to God I caught a "biodiversity" in there. And the concept of "other cultures" believing in "the idea that you come back to life as another creature when you die." Uhhhh, reincarnation? You're talking about reincarnation and respecting the relative truth of religion when all you want for Christmas are your two front teeth??? When my little sister Garland was 10, she thought we fought MEXICO in the Revolutionary War!! These kids are 7!

Just guess what animal this was.

Chase, get excited -- you don't have to read about Belgrade ever again. Or at least for the next two weeks, that is, until I fly back there as Stop 1 on my rock star farewell tour across Europe and back home to Houston. But starting tomorrow, the blog will have a whole new look, just for you.

I'm going on my first ever business trip.

Courtesy of Uncle Dan the Man, it will include stops in Singapore, Ho Chi Minh City, Hong Kong and Shanghai.

Business is good.

"You're going to ASIA now?!" Aly screamed when he heard the news the day after my birthday. "Why don't you just rip my shirt off and take a s**t on my chest? I hate you that much."

It's the Luck of the Traveler, what can I say? One day, I'm sitting around the table at the Black Catz, samo blejanje. The next -- without doing anything to deserve it -- I'm sitting around the same table, reading an email from Uncle Dan that permanently changes the course of my trip.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

(My thoughts in italics)

Billy,

Ha -- I guess the name is catching on even with my relatives.

I trust you are well in war-torn territory.

Jašta, brate.

I wanted to offer the opportunity few recent, college grad, Sherpa's in training can refuse.

I am officially the laziest Sherpa of all time if that's how you view me.

Accompany me on an upcoming business trip through five cities in Asia in two weeks...

Does anyone know the Heimlich??

Should you be interested...

Should I be interested?!?!?!

... I've already found a source of funds to finance your journey to/from.

There is a God. And his name is Daniel.

That will also require some clothing allowance to bring you up to at least business casual status.

What is he trying to say??
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was most definitely an offer this Sherpa-in-training could not refuse.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

The theme of the trip is simple: Don't embarrass Uncle Dan.

Which explains why you won't be seeing much of this guy for the next few weeks:

"Balkan Billy" -- Cousin of Cyrus the Virus; Wanted on rape charges in three counties.

"Given that I've required him to shave and remove his current terrorist image, he shouldn't be too frightening to the kids & Lesli."

That's what Danny had to say about me to his friend Mark, in one of the many emails that have been cc'ed to me since I got on board.

"Glad you are clean shaven. Be sure you are also drug free. They kill for that in Singapore, inform family later."

And that's what he had to say today, when I let him know I had complied with his demands. Give him an inch, and he takes a freaking mile. I guess I'll just give my syringes to some homeless Turkish guy on the way to the Istanbul airport tomorrow.

I cleaned up my act for the Don't Embarrass Uncle Dan Show. Balkan Billy will be immortalized forever on my Vietnamese and Chinese visas, but he is dead to me for the next half month. A free hair cut from Original Gangsta Zoka struck the first blow, and my first shave in more than two months sealed the coffin.

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Every guy needs to cut the crap if he doesn't admit -- out loud -- that he is a slave to what I call the "eye bat request" from a good-looking girl.

"You can cut your hair, but do you really have to shave?" O.G. Zoka asks. "I love your beard."

"Shave your beard, fine, but please don't cut your hair," Ana says. "When you go to Africa next year, send me a picture of it in a ponytail. It will look soooo great."

Girls know what they're doing when they pull stuff like that. They're manipulating. And it almost always works.


When you've got two eye bat requests going at the same time, though .... well, the results can be disastrous.

You can see where Dan came up with the whole "terrorist image" thing. I went to buy an imitation mp3 player last night to replace my MIA iPod, and was asked point blank by the cashier if I was a Muslim.

"No," I answered. "Why? Most people think I'm a Jew."

"Well, you've got the beard, and you chose green."

"Yeah," I said, "that's because I don't want a freaking pink mp3 player."

But it's also because I am a sucker to the eye-bat request.

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The hair cut experience. It was a classic "not gay, not gay" moment.

"Sit down," O.G. Zoka ordered. She had just hacked off the entire back of my hair, making me look like Marky Mark from "The Departed" in less than two minutes, and was going to get something out of the bathroom that would make it look better -- allegedly.

She came back into the room holding some type of hair care product.

"I'm not putting gel in my hair."

"It's not gel, don't worry."

"Then what is it?"

"Not gel."

"It IS gel!" I shot back.

"No, it's not. Just relax."

"Zoka! Just tell me what it is!" If it wasn't gel, it was gel's cousin, from what I could see of the container.

"It's wax, okay? Just chill."

"Wax?! Wax is the same thing!" It's the spirit of the law, folks.

"Just sit!"

This was not an eye bat request. It was an order.

"I can't believe I'm letting you do this. You already used a blow drier!"

"Why are guys so scared of saying that they use gel? Relax."

............

So I'll admit it: The wax thing makes you look cool.

But I can't let it happen ever again. Pandora's Box is shut. Shut and padlocked. What would come next if I didn't close the door now? A nail file? A facial? Getting my split ends trimmed??


It was bad enough that I let her blow dry. Wax just made me feel like I was tucking it between my legs.

Ana wasn't impressed one bit.

"F**k you." That was the first thing she said when I told her that I had had to cut my hair.

"Yeah but I gotta look professional," I explained. "I can't embarrass my uncle, ya know?"

"It's terrible," she said, not holding any punches. "You look like a geek."

"Yeah but do you know who Marky Mark is??"

From living two doors down from me in my first year hall............


....... to a fatty contract extension.


I am proud to say that I came in second in our first year Humphreys pool to Ryan Zimmerman.

Kosovo in photos.

There are many reasons for why I have described Kosovo as the strangest place I have been yet on this trip.

No. 1, undoubtedly, has to be this:
They love Americans.


LOVE them.

But most of all, they looooooooooove Bill Clinton. For obvious reasons.


"Welcome to Bill Clinton Boulevard!" he says from a view overlooking the main street in Prishtina, Kosovo's largest city.

Prizren wasn't to be upstaged by its western neighbor.


I would love to see my uncle spend some time there. All of my parents' brothers are conservative, but the one I'm thinking of is CONSERVATIVE. And it would really put him to the test to be thanked personally by Kosovar Albanians -- as I was twice in four days -- for all the things that "Cleen-ton" did for them in 1999.

How would he respond to that one??

It would come down to a simple measurement. Which is greater: His love for the United States of America, or his hatred for Bill Clinton?

Kosovar: "We love America, thankyou, thankyou."

Red State American: (Self-congratulating smile on his face) "Oh, well we are glad that our benevolence is appreciated in at least some quarters of the world. On behalf of all peace-loving nations of the free world, you're most welcome, Mr. Kosovar Albanian."

Kosovar: (Excited to be speaking to a real, live American who has come to his country) "Cleen-ton. We love Bill Cleen-ton."

Red State American: ???????????????????????

If you want to scientifically gauge these two emotions internally combating one another inside of a card-carrying member of the Republican Party For Life crew, Kosovo is just the place.

Here's my question. Don't you think it would have to be a kick in the balls for someone eternally loyal to W to see that the only Muslims in the world who like us are firmly in the camp of Monica's man?

("But Pat, what about the Saudi royal family? They like us, don't they?"

"Good observation, Scooter! That is correct!"

"Stupid Clinton."

"I agree! Can you believe he thought it was appropriate to accept the fact that high school children have sex?! And he endorsed sex education rather than promoting abstinence in public schools?! What a monster.")

Scooter would definitely have a big problem there. All sorts of stores and shops feel free to use Clinton's name -- kind of like this "Mermer Kumanova," which looked like some sort of tire shop. What "Mermer Kumanova" really means, I have no idea.


"Well, theh's a sight you don't see every day," a British voice said behind me as I took this picture on the streets of Prizren. "Thankyou USA, hahaha."


I caught up to him a few seconds later. "Especially with a mosque in the background," I added.

"Well, the mosque doesn't mattah," he said. "It's just that who in the wohld would say they love the USA?"

"Oh, I don't know," I thought to myself. "Maybe someone who would have become an island occupied by Nazis if it wasn't for America?"

Stupid Brit.

When I read the fine print of those posters, though, all I thought about was why I had decided to go to Turkey for Thanksgiving. The reason was completely logical -- so that Elizabeth would bring a turkey for us to eat there. But she had failed me.

We should have just gone to Kosovo -- that is what I realized three days ago. Even though no Albanians were celebrating the holiday, they were having a period of thanks-giving which was related to my country.


My first observation about this photo was obvious: How did they decide on these two athletes? Michael Jordan and No. 86 for the Colts?

I couldn't even figure out who No. 86 for the Colts is. It's not Brandon Stokley -- he's 83. Ricky Proehl? He was on the Colts this year, wasn't he?

Was it the fact that Kosovars were so excited about the pending visit of the Colts' cheerleaders this week?

Or was it a back-handed slap at Serbs, since Chicago is the second-largest Serbian city in the world, and the Colts back-hand slapped Grossman and the Bears in the Super Bowl?

PEY-TON! PEY-TON!

We will never know, unless Tener emails me with an explanation. What we will know is that Kosovo is for sure a safe haven for anyone born in the U.S.A.


Except for Ken Starr.

When you say the word "Kosovo," what are the first associations that come into your mind?

Albanians - refugees. Serbs - people causing Albanians to be refugees.

In the late 90's, those would be fair associations to make. When the issue of Kosovo's autonomy -- which it retained during the days of Yugoslavia, and lost when Slobo came to power -- was not included in the peace deal reached to end the war in Bosnia, a ticking time bomb was set into place in this southern region of Serbia. The Albanian resistance, the Kosova Liberation Army (KLA), was not going to be any kind of match for Serbian artillery. But it wasn't like KLA leaders were about to adopt a page from Mahatma Ghandi, either.

The tit-for-TAT tactics used by the Serbian army in response to the Albanian insurgency during the war there in 1999 was anything but fair. Was it an attempt at "genocide?" I don't even know what the word means, to be honest. I've read arguments both ways. What is clear is this, though: Belgrade's objective in Kosovo did not involve a future plan of integration and reconciliation with their former neighbors.

We've all heard about Serbia's role in the violence that has racked Kosovo since the 90's. What we haven't heard as much about is what happened in March 2004.



These Serbian churches -- all across Kosovo -- didn't destroy themselves.


And the barbed wire wasn't put up to try and convince Serbs to convert to Islam and visit a mosque, instead.


I had a similar feeling in Prizren, Prishtina and Peja that I had in Mostar, where the boulevard that serves as the former front line between Bosniaks and Bosnian Croats is peppered with still-destroyed buildings, over 11 years after the war ended.

There is something spooky about places like Mostar and Prizren. They've seen their bad days, and they're back on their feet -- a good thing. Outdoor cafe's are full of life, people are wearing designer clothes, laughter permeates the air, teenage girls giggle and flirt with teenage boys -- but something is not right.

It's hard to forget about the past when you've got a shell of a building that reminds you of the bad times standing in the middle of the town square. Whether it's a structure destroyed by Croat or Muslim rockets in Bosnia, or a church burned by an Albanian mob in Kosovo, these very visible reminders of how thin the line between life and death can be are what make the hair on the back of my neck stand at attention.


Prizren, especially, was unsettling. I first heard of it from a Serbian girl I met in Belgrade, after all. All I could think about when I saw the ravaged churches in Teodora's home town was whether she had ever been inside that building before the troubles began.


In the main square, up the hill the overlooks the city, on the other side of the river that runs through the town -- Prizren probably wasn't a very fun place to be for a Serbian Orthodox priest three years ago.

Or, for a person living in the Serbian part of town.


The point is this: In trying to explain the Balkans to someone who doesn't have a clue, it isn't a one-minute conversation that can cut it. Situations like these -- in Croatia, in Bosnia, in Kosovo -- are never as cut and dry as Croats, Bosniaks, Serbs and Albanians often try to make them seem. Some people from the former Yugoslavia will admit this fact, but I never cease to be amazed at the number who can't grasp the concept of "who feels it, knows it, Lord."

Culpability is a relative term. It cannot be applied like a blanket. Sure, the boyfriend may take most of the blame as a covers-stealer, but usually, the girl will have at least a little bit of that quilt touching her body, too.

The Balkans can teach you a lot about the human condition. Maybe that is why I never left.

Serbs -- and the rest of the world -- call it Kosovo.

Albanians -- who make up 90 percent of its population -- call it Kosova.


I'll call it whatever this girl wants.




I love Serbian peasants!



And Serbian domestic rakia, which has a monastery theme.



Very nice.

Kosovar Soup Nazi

It was dark, it was getting cold, and I could feel the food stress building.

"The first place I see, I am stopping," I said to myself. Prizren had been great, but it was back to the dump known as Prishtina. And my stomach was rumbling. "I don't care what it is, I need to eat."

The first place was called -- are you ready for this? -- NAZI. Nazi!

"NAZI?!" Wasn't this word considered internationally taboo?

I remembered the conversation I had had the night before with my Albanian friend Flamur...

"We had a chance to take all Serbs out of the Balkans, in the Second World War. Look. Germany came into Balkans, they took over all Balkans. We could have fought with them, to take out Serbs, but we didn't. We joined Serbs, and fought Germany..."

Maybe NAZI was an Albanian word, but then again, maybe it wasn't...

It didn't matter. I clearly had to go in there. And I clearly had to order soup.

Kinda looks Albanian, now that I think about it...

"Yes, uhhh, do you have soup?" Whenever I'm speaking English to someone who I assume doesn't know my language, I always think if I just speak slow enough, he will miraculously understand.

Just a stare.

I pointed to the liquid. "Soup."

"Ahh, po, po." Yes, yes. "Goulash."

"Soup, yes." I wanted to call it soup, damnit. Not goulash. Didn't he realize what joke I wanted to make?

Especially because of the shirt he was wearing. Look closely.


"Okay, I have to take a picture now," I said. He tried to move out of the way.

"No, no. You stay."

He didn't know what to do. Smile? Not smile?

I'm glad he went with the latter.

NO GOULASH FOR YOU!

Gračanica

Here, at least, Kosovo je still Srbija

Queen Simonis, wife of the man who built this monastery in "Old Serbia," King Milutin. It's great that she was crowned by an angel and all, but the woman was forced to consummate her marriage at age six -- a trade off I'd rather not make.

"Dad, it's cool, they're with me, aight? I can sit on the right, and they'll just fly around and chill."

King Milutin. Pulling six year olds, having his son Stephen blinded because they had beef ... ah, 14th century Serbia. Luckily -- as Father Andre, a Serbian Orthodox priest I met yesterday, told me -- in Eastern Christianity, sanctity is tied much more to repentance than to morality, so Milutin was still able to become a saint.

One for the living, one for the dead.

An Orthodox church version of the handicap parking spot -- very rare, up close, front and center.

It's all about mystery.

Knez Lazar. That lovable loser.

All I can read is "tri dana," which means "three days." I think I can use context clues to put the rest of the puzzle together.

Two feet to my left was a Swedish KFOR soldier + machine gun.

Considering I didn't get my lazy ass out of bed until 11 this morning, and that I started writing this post at 7:30, I would say it's been an eventful day.

I made a promise to be back in Belgrade in time to see Ana's concert Tuesday night, so I'm trying to max out my time in Kosovo. I'd love to stay for about ten days, and really get to know it, but a promise is a promise, and it's a classic example of why I hate making them.

But Kosovo is not a big place, so I'm using Prishtina as the hub for my day trips.

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"Soo.....where are you now?" Miguel asked me last night from the cab of his pick-up, just having gotten off work in Houston.

"Kosovo."

"Ah," he said, most likely having already forgotten what I had said, since this strange word clearly hadn't registered in his database. "Cool."

I allowed the pause to linger, before asking if he knew where Kosovo was.

He didn't even try to fake it.

"No idea."

Not that he should have an idea. I was a history major in college, and until I read Balkan Ghosts in July, my best answer would have been "next to Serbia." But I didn't really even know where Serbia was within a reasonable guess, so I doubt the judges would have accepted that one. Miguel studied WalkieTalkie-ology, a.k.a. Construction Science, at A&M, so he can't be held responsible.

Sandwiched in between Serbia, Montenegro, Albania and Macedonia, Kosovo is a little, insignificant piece of land that -- in a perfect world -- no one outside of the Balkans would have ever heard of.

But there is "sooooooooo much TROUble in the worrrrrrld," remember? And you could start your list here, in the very spot I'm sitting, as I begin to explain.

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What does history mean?

For Americans, it means the class between Spanish and chemistry. We are a young country; we have no concept of what the word "ancient" represents; we have never known what it feels like to be subjugated, kicked around, told what to do. Hell, we hit the ground running -- remember the Indians? -- and have never slowed down, save for a speed bump in Vietnam, a pot hole in Iraq, and maybe a little backseat bickering in the War of Northern Aggression.

But try stepping into the shoes of these Balkan boys -- especially when it comes to Kosovo.

"The hate between these nations," Flamour said, leading me to Bill Clinton Blvd. in downtown Prishtina, "the hate..."

My new Kosovar Albanian friend's English was a little rusty, so he paused while trying to find the word.

Or was it that he was just hoping what he wanted to say wasn't actually true?

"We will never lose that hate." "We" meant Kosovar Albanians and the Serbs. "We have fought one another forever. Ever since the Slavs came over the Carpathian Mountains, and came into a land where we had been for centuries, we have fought them. In twenty, thirty years, the world will understand.

"The whole world."

I had tapped this head-shaven stranger on the shoulder for directions to the giant portrait of Bill Clinton that is on display in Prishtina, and he almost immediately began to describe to me the difficulty of life as a Kosovar Albanian student who harbors ambitions to study engineering at a real American university -- the University of "Are-Kansas," in particular.

"Are you busy?" he asked once I had snapped my shot of Bill.

"Nah man, I've got nothing."

"Come, then, we will have a coffee, and I will explain to you in short the history of my country."

I noticed that he said the word "country."

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Kosovo. Like the word "Jerusalem," it does something to me, gutterally. Some may describe the feeling in a spiritual sense. One of those ... you just inhale and shake your head, ever so slightly. I can't explain why. I'm not Albanian; I'm not Serbian. I'm just a sucker for the search, perhaps. The search for an answer to a question that doesn't have an answer, and never will: Why can't people just live in the present, together, and forget about the past?

Because they can't agree to an answer for my first question: What does history mean?

Six hundred years. Tell me something that happened 600 years ago. That was before Columbus. Our continent hadn't even been found by white people 600 years ago. And that's how far back this argument over Kosovo goes.

"There is a difference between 'de facto' and 'theory,'" Flamour told me, as he tore the tip of his cigarette off before lighting it -- the first time I've ever seen anyone with that particular idiosyncracy. "In theory, we are Serbia," he explained. "In theory. But look" -- Flamour always says "look" when he wants to make sure I'm ready to hear an important point -- "de facto, we are a nation. We don't have the documents, no. But this is our land. It is ours. It is not theirs. How can it be theirs? How? Do you know how many Albanians are living in Kosovo?"

"Ninety percent?"

"Ninety-five." I didn't have any figures memorized, so I couldn't cite any rebuttal. Not that a rebuttal would have mattered -- what was important was that Flamour was raring to go in explaining to me the 4-1-1 on Kosovo.

I noticed that the butt Flamour was smoking had gone out. He was focused on something more important than a cigarette.

"Ninety-five percent," he repeated. "And they want to use violence to show us that we are a part of them. But violence can't do nothing."

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My first ever Kosovar Albanian friend's name is Bedri. He is a taxi driver. I met Bedri last night, when he took me from the Prishtina bus station to the cheapest place to stay in this city, the Velania Guesthouse. Promising me a 5 euro fare if I called him to take me to Kosovo Polje from my place, and the same price to the Gračanica (Grachanitsa) Monastery, I took his card and promised to phone him today.

Kosovo Polje is where the argument begins. That is where the Serbian army, led by "Tsar" (he wasn't exactly a Romanoff) Lazar, was defeated by a Turkish invasion force on June 28, 1389. So the argument is actually nearing its 618th birthday, to be exact. Before that day, there was a vast Serbian empire -- one many think would have inherited the legacy of Byzantium as the leading force on the Balkan Peninsula. After that day, the 500-year long Turkish eclipse began to extend its shadow across this land.

Kosovo Polje means "Kosovo Field," or "Kosovo Plain." I can't get a straight answer on which one is exactly the right translation. What I pictured was an empty pasture, full of ghosts that can't speak in words, but in energies. A place that would give me a similar feeling to the one when I hear the very word, "Kosovo," only exponentially more intense.

What Bedri drove me to was a major disappointment.

"So, this Kosovo Polje," he said.

I looked all around from the passenger seat of the taxi, confused.

"Where?"

"Here."

"What?"

"Kosovo Polje," he said.

I looked around again. A lot had changed in the past six centuries. The infamous "Field of the Blackbirds" looked like a suburb of Prishtina, from my view.

"I want to see the battlefield, though," I explained. Bedri's English wasn't equipped to understand that request.

"Kosovo Polje." Again.

"Ne, ne. Hiljeda, tri sto, osam deset, devet," I said, slowly, and tentatively, in Serbian. One thousand, three hundred, eighty, nine is how you say thirteen, eighty-nine in my new favorite language. "Tsar Lazar, Turks...."

"Ah!" Bedri exclaimed. Eureka. "That too far. Must go to Alfakmkfalqizmlrzjoimq." The place he said sounded eerily similar to the band Borat claimed to be his favorite when he was hanging with his homies in the hood scene.

"Fine, then, let's just go to Gračanica."

Buzzkill.

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One of the funniest quotes I've heard in my entire run through the Balkans came from a fat Irish guy who was wearing a Brett Favre jersey at a bar in Dubrovnik.

"Do you know how to pronounce the last name of the dude's jersey that is on your back?" I asked, having approached him only hoping for a Ben Stiller response.

He clearly didn't have a freaking clue. "Fay.....ver?"

"Try Farve."

I ran into the same guy a few days later, when I was catching a bus down to Kotor, Montenegro. And he added a second quote to my "Best Of The Balkans" list.

"Ya know, me and me mate wanted to go to Kosovo on this trip, but then I thought to myself, 'Hmm....maybe a good rule of thumb would be to never go anywhere where there are UN peacekeepers.'"

We all had a good laugh, because let's be honest, it's funny that someone would willingly travel somewhere not stable enough to exist without an international contingent of blue-helmeted babysitters -- armed with tanks and automatic weapons -- watching over the fray.

But I came to Kosovo anyway.

KFOR. Like a huge, camouflaged tank rolling through the streets of Prishtina really needs to let people know that it's with KFOR, as opposed to SOMEOTHERFOR. You can't go three minutes down the streets here without seeing those four letters emblazoned on the side of a vehicle.

"Ah, there is much traffic," Bedri said, as he came to nearly a complete stop on the road from Kosovo Polje to Gračanica. "KFOR checkpoint."

I got my camera out.

It's not that I had no inclination that it may be prohibited to take photos of UN military vehicles -- it's that I just didn't care. What are they gonna do, arrest me? It is in situations like these that I fall back on the ace up my sleeve: A U.S. passport. Besides, I didn't see any signs telling me not to do it...

And I almost got away with it.

The very last line of defense in the Finnish regiment of peacekeepers saw me take that one last picture -- (it's always the last one that gets you caught) -- and he yelled to his homies. Busted.

We were motioned to go down the driveway to the right, at the end of which, we were motioned by a very large, very stern, Finnish gentleman in battle gear to go down the driveway to the left.

"Bedri, I am so sorry," I said, fearful of a Balkan temper explosion that is as common in this region as someone having eyebrows. "I didn't know!"

It was almost like Bedri was completely oblivious to what was happening. Like a full car search, and full body search to boot, was just another day at the office. He smiled -- amused, almost, at the worried look on my face. "No problem, no problem," he said reassuringly.

Just another day in Kosovo for Bedri.

I can only imagine that this is what Baghdad must be like ... minus the car bombs, and the suicide missions, and the stifling heat, and the Iranian influence, and the constant blood, the death, the destruction. Carbon copy, otherwise. But I guess that's just the difference between Albanian Muslims vs. international jihadists, and Scandinavian troops vs. American ones, eh?

We rolled into a parking lot -- hidden from view from the main road -- that housed three tanks, about four Humvees and maybe 20 Finnish soldiers, in full battle gear, most holding machine guns.

I knew we weren't going to get in any trouble, but still, a quick shiver went down my spine.

"Well," I thought to myself, "getting pulled into a United Nations security checkpoint for suspicious behavior. I guess I can cross that one off my list."

"You do not know you cannot take pictures of KFOR?" the nice soldier in the group asked after our body searches turned up nothing but Bodri's Finnish driver's license (he spent six months there as a refugee in 1999).

"I know NOW!"

The mean soldier in the group was busy deleting those pictures. Some of them were amazing, too.

Bodri was as un-phased 15 minutes into the pat-down's as he had been when I got us into this mess. He was brushing up on his Finnish, having a grand old time.

"Okay, you are free to go," nice soldier said, a big smile on his face. "Kiitos!" "Thankyou," in Finnish.

I love Scandinavian troops.

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I was able to see a lot more of them, too, when Bodri dropped me off at Gračanica.

That is the Swedish branch of KFOR's jurisdiction. About two feet to the side of the entrance to the most revered Serbian Orthodox monastery in Kosovo -- "Old Serbia" -- there is a big, blue-and-yellow Swedish flag atop a military installation. It is there not to protect Albanian Muslims, but to protect the minority Serb population living on a desert island in a sea of Kosovars.

I hadn't eaten all day. Food was the first priority.

Tell me if this logic makes sense: The further away you go from the center, the cheaper goods and services will be. It does make sense. Right?

I guess I shouldn't have been surprised when the bill came. I've come to accept the fact that Serbs seem to just toss aside every single law of economics in the books that I never studied in college. When you buy an entire pizza at a roadside stand, it is simply six times the price of one slice -- no discount for buying in bulk. When you sleep in the four-bed room at the Three Black Catz, it costs one euro less than when you land in the six -- no incentive to sacrifice a bit of privacy for a few dinars. Completely illogical.

And so, after an amazing meal of which I took half home in a doggy bag of tin foil and plastic, I had to fork over 950 dinars. I could have gotten 19 pieces of pizza -- more than three full boxes -- at my favorite place in Belgrade for that price.

Maybe Kosovo is Serbia, after all.

Gračanica, though, is undoubtedly Serbia.

It was built by King Milutin in the 14th century -- the very king who Rebecca West refers to as the "Serbian Henry VIII." Divorced more times than I can count (albeit sans the post-marriage beheadings), falsely devout in his faith, a real slob. But my favorite was that his final wife, Queen Simonis, the daughter of the Byzantine emperor Andronicus, was given to him as an incentive to form in a Christian alliance against the Turks ... and she was only six years old at the time.

That didn't stop the ole dog Milutin from consummating the marriage immediately -- and leaving Simonis barren forever as a result.

When you enter Gračanica, you are greeted by two frescoes on each side of the main archway which leads to the main room: One of Milutin, holding the monastery in one hand; the other is Simonis, who, like Milutin, is being crowned by an angel. Jesus appears painted on the archway that connects the two paintings.

Once again, I got out my camera. The Swedish KFOR troops were way out of range.

But I didn't count on the old hag dressed as an Orthodox nun to call me out.

"Ne može! Ne može!" she growled, passing me haughtily as she crossed herself in Orthodox fashion -- right to left on the shoulders -- three times, then bending down to kiss some icons.

I tried to suck up by showing some interest in the frescoes.

"Ko je..." I tried to ask, ever so innocently, before she cut me off with a curt response.

"Kralj Milutin!" She didn't even look at me. She was disgusted. In my experiences visiting Orthodox churches in Montenegro, Bosnia-Hercegovina, Serbia and Kosovo so far, religious of the Eastern Rite are not nearly as lovey-dovey.

The monastery was tiny. Reading Balkan Ghosts and Black Lamb and Grey Falcon, which obsess over the historical and emotional significance this remnant of Old Serbia holds to the Serbs who can't let go of the past, and then seeing it in the flesh is like reading Dan Brown and then going to The Louvre to see the Mona Lisa.

That's it?

But like seeing the Mona Lisa -- if you are into that sort of thing, seeing Gračanica is a very powerful experience -- if you are into that sort of thing.

I am into the latter sort of thing.

Orthodox churches. Have you ever been to one?

They're not like Catholic churches.

You can feel the differences between Eastern and Western Christianity in the buildings they erect to worship. One is straight-forward -- it offers a cookie-cut path to Heaven. Geometrically-configured pews, a transparent view of the altar, and order is what Roman Catholicism is all about. Eastern Orthodox churches, though, are all about shadowy candles being burned for the living and the dead, a room full of smoky incense, dark corridors, and mystery. It's the difference between sunglasses and Harry Potter spectacles.

Eastern Orthodoxy is full of intrigue and mystery -- which fits in well in Serbia, the land where nothing is ever as it seems.

Some more covert photography -- which was not able to capture the aura of Gračanica on film -- was followed by an attempt to get into good standing with the old hag. What better way to please a nun than by buying some religious icons and postcards?

"Koliko?" I asked, holding cards depicting Simonis, Lazar, the Battle of Kosovo and the monastery, as well as a wooden icon I had been looking for my entire time in Serbia, emblazoned with an image of the very Lazar whose defeat began the argument over Kosovo in 1389.

She was sitting behind the counter of the souvenir shop tucked away into the corner of the monastery, reading up on Bog knows what.

"Ehhh....ništa," she said, waving me off with her hand. I couldn't tell if it was Christian charity motivating her to give me all the trinkets for free, or sheer laziness. But I didn't ask twice. Those things were mine.

Aside from the old woman who approached me outside as I tried to write in my journal, asking me for a flat rate donation of five euros (it's like, lady, ever heard of biting off something you can chew?), my time at Gračanica was finished.

It was time to get back to Prishtina.

I only have one pair of pants. When I was in Novi Sad, they were dealt a near death blow by a rusty trash can, which ripped a hole the size of the Titanic just above the right pocket. When Dragana sewed them up for me, she also branded them with a "Made in Serbia" signature, written in Cyrillic. It's great for conversation-starting when I'm in Serbia -- not so much in Kosovo.

It gets really tricky when you're in limbo like that. The town of Gračanica is pretty much Serbian. The town of Prishtina, pretty much a mirror image. The space in between?

Pretty much confusing.

As I walked for ten minutes down the road which doesn't have markers for its bus stops, I periodically popped into the small shops along the way to ask for directions to one. But what do I do? Do I ask in English, and play completely dumb? If a Kosovo Serb is working, that wouldn't be a wise move. So do I ask in Serbian? A Kosovar Albanian would surely love that.

I can't be for sure, but judging by the looks one the faces of the last two people I asked, I think I went English on a Serb, and Serbian on an Albanian. And I lived to tell the tale.

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Once back in Prishtina, though, English is the best bet. And that is how I met Flamour, whose name means "flag" in Albanian, not "really gay," like you might think if you're in cognate mode.

"Stupid Albanians, stupid Kosovars," he said over coffee.

"What?"

"We had a chance to take all Serbs out of the Balkans, in the second world war. Look. Germany came into Balkans, they took over all Balkans. We could have fought with them, to take out Serbs, but we didn't. We joined Serbs, and fought Germany. And then... then the Serbs turn and kill Albanians!" He at least laughed at the last sentence. Irony is what makes life worth living, especially when irony is especially cruel to your people.

"Look..." I heard that a lot during our conversation. "Look," for a detailed map of Kosovo and its territories. "Look," for a map of the entire Balkan Peninsula, with the line of "real Albania" drawn to overlap parts of Serbia, Bosnia, Montenegro, Macedonia, all of Kosovo, all of Albania, and even part of Greece. "Look," for a list of the words used to describe cities and towns in "the real Albania" by the international community, versus a list of the real words as intended by the natural order of things.

The problem with the Balkans is that everyone wants everyone else to "look" at their answers. What does history mean? Well, just look. Don't show me your answer; because I've already got my own. Greater Serbia, Greater Croatia, the "real" Albania, historical Greece, "real Bosnian girls" -- I could keep going.

Muslims have been living in Kosovo for how long? Doesn't matter -- a king named Milutin built this church here in 13-something, and that is how it should be today. Macedonia for the Macedonians? Yeah, until the ethnic Albanian population boom explodes in their faces 30 years from now -- then we'll be hearing about yet another rightful owner being oppressed by people who cite historical claims to a land that is only "theoretically" theirs, but not "de facto."

"Dude, Flamour," I said after the 50th "look," my head swimming. "The Balkans are so......"

He just laughed. "I know, man. I know."

As I sit in an Internet cafe here in Prishtina, Kosovo, having read and heard all about the problems of the past two decades in this, the ancient heart of the Serbian nation, I think to myself, "It could be worse. They could be dealing with the threat of invasion by an army that carries guns with no bullets in them."