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.