Hello all! It has been a while, I know! I will do all that I can to bring you up to date in this longwinded and expository email. The bulk of the writing was composed over the course of my traveling. I apologize in advance for its jumbled presentation-as it may read more like a teenage diary than an email.But before I thrash out my Eastern European experiences, let me take a few moments to discuss my recent activity in and around Paris... It is officially springtime in Paris. Sun is replacing rain, screen is replacing glass and tourists are replacing Parisians. Around the sites, the sidewalks are chalk-full, demanding certain bushwhacking maneuvers just to clear a passage. Lately, I have been engaging in a considerable amount of picnicking. To be honest, if I don't master the language while I am here, I will still probably return to the States as a proficient picnicker. In my last email (eons ago, I apologize) I believe I had been en route for Normandy and Brittany. The weekend lent itself to fresh oysters, World War II remembrance and a verbose Polish tour guide named Mirek. That following weekend, I visited my sister Gabrielle and her family at their home in Geneva. In just my short stay, I landed a crucial role in my niece's church pageant. As essentially my first real involvement with both religion and theatre, the experience was absolutely thrilling. I am not sure if any of you are following the French election, but as someone who is currently residing here, I've never experienced such a fervor for politics. Sunday, the 22nd, the primary election witnessed the largest voting turn out in French history, with 84% of the population showing up to vote. The candidates have been narrowed down to two, including the favorite from the right, Nicolas Sarcozy and female Sigmond Royale of the left. Sarcozy is a controversial figure to say the least, already provoking a few violent demonstrations around Paris. Upon the likelihood that he will win the presidency next month, the city is prepared for an angry backlash from his opponents. Need I say, the nation is politically divided and unlike the case in America, where political divisiveness usually poses a benign threat to the domestic peace of the people, France remains a different story. Here, the consequences of a divided nation can be severely problematic. Will the Guillotine make a comeback? It will be interesting to see. The day I returned from break, I attended a Bob Dylan concert at the premier entertainment venue in Paris. Having seen the show, I now can say I've seen two out of the short list of living legends that still remain; the other including, Michael Jordan. Dylan's antiquated voice made some songs less discernable but just as a piece of any antique furniture, the magnificence was found in its wear and tear. THE BALKINS I am writing to you all from Charles De Gaul Airport, just moments away from boarding my flight to Zagreb, Croatia. From Zagreb, I'll meet my connection, and if all goes well, I'll be observing my first Adriatic sunset on the rocky beaches of "old town" Dubrovnik. I now write from the inside of the plane as we prepare for take off. I just briefly viewed, not by any means to be mistaken for read, a Croatian newspaper. The overflow of the consonant letters affords a romantic linguist like myself little foundation to even deduce the connotations of the words. Ten minutes into the flight, I still have little strategy yet to identify a Croatian solely on appearance, but the flight attendant (perhaps the prettiest girl I've ever seen) will hopefully serve as an accurate reference point to discern other Croatians. I apologize, but I now write three days into my Dubrovnik visit. Currently, eight out of my ten toes are snuggled into the warm sand. I am surrounded by an eclectic ensemble of tourists, who all seemingly share the same sun-tanning ambition. While the locals are covered head to toe in jackets, scarves and pants, us vacationers are quite content with the 70 or so degree temperatures. The sun, so far unchallenged by cloud cover, monopolizes a breathtaking blue sky. The architecture of Dubrovnik is amazingly identical. Each building is constructed of an archaic off white brick, topped by terra cotta roofs. "Old Town," the center of tourism, is defined by high, mid-evil walls that circle around the entire perimeter, known to most as the "city walls." The main harbor is colorfully scattered with small rowboats, some afloat, others submerged. Larger boats provide various shuttling services to the neighboring islands. Yesterday, on one of these boats, we visited an island just a few football fields off the central pier. We spent the day hiking, sunbathing, cliff-diving, and familiarizing ourselves with the natives-who happened to be a frisky flock of peacocks, dreading the start of another tourist season. For the natives more inland, they certainly have less feathers and speak better English. They are very friendly and have ostensibly adjusted to the high-frequency and ephemeral nature of their guests. Our hostel is embedded into the compressed residencies of the city. Inaccessible by car, we must walk through narrow entries and up endless stairs in order to enter our building. The juxtaposition of a rapidly growing tourist industry with the nourished preservation of its old architecture and natural geography allows the experience to be relaxing but raw. We met a crazy Canadian, who prolonged what was once a week visit in Amsterdam to a 9 month tour of Europe-subsisting as a chef at a Belgium hostel, a laborer at a cattle farm in North Germany and now a bartender at our favorite travelers bar in Dubrovnik. He has turned out to be a great tour guide, leading us through the placid landscapes of the remote coast. At times, he is difficult to follow, often pouncing from rock to rock like a hungry bob cat. However, his energy and insight is surely something to be admired. (I now write from an idle bus in Mosta, Bosnia, on route to Sarejevo) Leaving Dubrovnik behind certainly was not easy. Over the span of a little less than a week, we were already weaving ourselves into the close-knit community of the "old town." Nevertheless, to be fair to the rest of Eastern Europe, we had to move on. Mosta, Bosnia, one of the hardest hit cities during the Bosnian War, was tragically picturesque. The majority of the pre-war architecture consists of doodling gravity, poke-a-dotted bullet holes and imploded roofs. Hundreds of buildings appear gutted and abandoned while others appear dilapidated yet still inhabited. Overgrown cemeteries sprawl around the city with the majority of tombstones recognizing the many lifes that were cut short between 1992-1995. Such hard and bitter evidence of war could not obscure the beauty of the geography. Outside my bus' window, I am taken back by massive green mountains complimented by rocky jiggered peaks and snow sprinkled tips. The water below is a sparkling translucent indigo. As I am currently meandering through this maze of mountain and river, I am arrested with memorization. I have never seen such a creation with my own eyes as breathtaking as Bosnia! If I had an insatiable appetite for natural beauty, let me tell you that the spoon full I am swallowing now could forever leave me with a full stomach. The coast of Croatia can be remembered as vibrant but viewing the virginal scenery between Mosta and Sarajevo, I have a new expectation for this planet's content. ( I now write from a moving bus chugging along the countryside of Serbia, in the direction of Belgrade.) In Mosta, we were greeted by an unbelievably sweet woman, who, with her mother, opened up their home as a hostel one year ago. For such a small space, she still managed to accommodate the eleven guests who had a booked a bed for the evening. Among the eleven, there was a nationalistic group of retired French middle school teachers, three Brits who were ambitiously driving East on an unfamiliar side of the road, a swiss girl and an Irish lad. During our visit, we went into another "old town," viewing most importantly the Mosta Bridge. This high bridge was recently restored after its destruction during the war. Before it was strategically bombed by the Bosnians themselves, the bridge enabled the Serbs to enter within the city walls. Mosta was a little quiet towards the evening but we managed to have a tiny taste of the unrivaled food we soon would experience in Sarajevo. As mentioned above, the scenery during the 2 ½ hour ride from Mosta to Sarajevo was intoxicating. We arrived in the hospitable hands of Jasmina, a Bosnian woman we found through some friends we made in Dubrovnik. Again, we overflowed the room with our suitcases, sharing seven beds between eight people. Sarajevo is definitively a city on the rebound. Tall, modern, glass and neon sky scrapers share the same shadow with the eerie remnants of the bombing and bloodshed that once dominated the way of life. There is no particular order to the layout of the city, just the palpable differences between the pre-war and post-war construction. Nevertheless, the center of the city is full of vitality and modernity. The Bosnian coffee culture, do I dare say, upstages the French. The cafes, all fluorescently colorful and hip, provide valleys and valleys of outside seating. The coffee itself is very unique-consisting of a thick powdery solution that is to be poured onto a bed of sugar cubes. Bosnia was as equally provoking to my taste buds as it was to my eyes. The first night, we heard the sound of a guitar from a truly authentic Bosnian restaurant. Four men were passing around an acoustic guitar, crooning Bosnian folk favorites. We were instantly enchanted by the reception and charm of the locals and quickly received five-star service. In such a local dwelling, it was very difficult to differentiate between who was a costumer and who was an employee. A man who had lived in Canada for ten or so years in his life assumed the role of translator, while a man sitting at a stool at the bar assumed the role of bartender. Lastly, the only woman present assumed the role as the chef, when she went behind the closed door and returned with some of the tastiest food I have ever digested. I am at fault for not remembering the exact names of the dishes, but I do recall the emphasis on unrecognizable meat. We ate, drank and were serenaded until we feared our stomachs were so enlarged, we would have trouble removing ourselves from the table. Eventually, we broke the shackles of our satiated stomachs and waddled to the dance floor. The local men were pleased to dance with my entourage of American and Canadian women, while I tiptoed to the bar in order to conduct some of my own interrogative research. Fascinating individuals who all fought in the war and prided themselves on the liberalism they had achieved. They all lost brothers or fathers during the war, but were the least reluctant to discuss the details of their past misery. For years, many of the residents I talked to lived within the city boundaries during the Serbian siege. By doing so, they were the constant targets of the Serbians who positioned themselves all around the perimeter, sniping and bombing every time a Bosnian decided to expose his or herself in the open. Just as deer in the forest during hunting season, any Bosnian who decided he would risk going outside to retrieve the newspaper or buy groceries would be fair game for the snipers above. I visited a museum devoted to the hand-shoveled tunnels that were built by the Bosnians during the war to clandestinely transport food, medicine, and the wounded from the outside into the inside of the city. We were shown a short film, showing real footage of the day to day during the war- successfully illustrating the unfathomable danger Bosnians put themselves every time they left safe shelter. All the Bosnian people I met were undoubtedly happy to be Bosnian and seemed ready to defend it if they had to again. During one of my rants about the appreciation I had for their homeland's beauty, a Bosnian man chuckled, and added, "Why do you think we continue to fight for it?" (I write from a moving train just outside Belgrade, Serbia, heading to Zagreb, Croatia to meet my early morning flight back to Paris) In the passenger car of what appears to be a washed up Soviet train, I lie listening to Dylan (in preparations for tomorrow's concert) as I pass the final hours of my Eastern European jaunt. My ipod's battery's low, my suntan a bit faded and my eyes heavy. Fortunately, my exhaustion only reminds me of the energy that was. For I have never ventured into a city that demanded so much energy as Belgrade did. Certainly living up to its reputation as the city in the East that does not sleep, Belgrade provided an assortment of activity. The streets were chock-a-block with shops, live music, vendors, cafes, clubs and bars. To my delight, Serbian fashion called for much more color than the monochrome attire my eyes have become use to in Paris. Indeed, the hordes of pedestrians provided for a colorful collage. Eastern Europeans also take whopping pride in the size of their sunglasses. Sunglasses in Belgrade walked a thin line between eyewear and face masks. I saw frames with lenses as large as wind shields. The irony in large and flashy glasses is when you are out checking out the girls, you really in turn are checking out yourself-conveniently in the reflection of the tint. So when I say I could see myself living in Belgrade, understand, on the sidewalks or at the cafes, I could literally see my self living in Belgrade.---------------------------------------------------------------- Those are just a few impressions, anecdotes and observations of my break. All and all, I am grateful to be living in Europe during the time that I am. I can't imagine that my parents and grandparents would have had the opportunity to freely frolic through Eastern Europe while they were my age. Now with the fall of the Soviet Union and the relative state of Peace between ex-Yugoslavian states, I urge all of you to consider your next Euro trip to incorporate some of the places I mentioned. In America, what we can dismiss as only war zones are often some of the most wondrous areas of the world. I have about one month of classes left in Paris. Following my finals, my mother is planning to come for a couple of weeks. In my mother's French cookbook conquest, we hope to gallop around a few regions of her favorite French recipes until I make it as south as Saint Tropez to spend a night or two with the Truppiano's (Annie and Jer, I hope Leo briefed you on this prospect, and if he hasn't, I then hope the news isn't too shocking) and then I must report to Dublin, on the 20th of June to meet my flight back to the states. That is about it for now. If you read all of this in one sitting, go outside and get a fresh breath of air. And if by any chance, I accidently agitated any curiosities, don't hesitate to respond with any questions you may have. The computer lab is closing so I must hurry but I wish you those May flowers, which after April (snow) showers seem to be rightfully yours! Best Wishes and Bon Weekend!!!Richard
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