Visit to Stasi headquarters

On Wednesday afternoon we visited the former headquarters of the East German security service, or Stasi. Our tour guide was an author who grew up in East Germany and whose father was arrested and imprisoned for not following close enough to the communist party line. The name (I can’t remember his name) found great irony and deep satisfaction in touring American students through the office of the former Stasi chief. He made a lot of quotable comments. For instance: “There is no such thing as peace in a dictatorship. Peace in such a place is merely a state of undeclared war on the state’s population. Therefore we should not argue against intervention on the basis of peace.”

Another Berlin post

On Tuesday, we started off our day with a visit to the German Institute for International and Security Affairs (expressed as the German acronym SWP), a think tank for German security issues. SWP is, however, very different from the American “think tank” concept because it receives funding from the federal government. SWP also has, theoretically, a direct line of influence to government officials that is unheard of in the US model. Is this a good thing? In this case, definitely no, but it might well explain why German foreign policy is usually amateur hour. The SWP representative that spoke to us blasted US foreign policy (expected) and said that all of Europe’s terrorism threats were caused by the US led war in Iraq. What is so absurd about this comment is that, though it may contain some truth, it ignores the glaring fact that France, Germany, and the UK have been sitting on a volcanic chain of unassimilated Muslim populations for the past 20 years. The Iraq war did not create an underclass of Islamic outcasts in Western Europe, the cultures and policies of those countries did. Even so, if the presenter had simply stopped there I wouldn’t have wanted to beat my head to unconsciousness on the table. But of course he didn’t. When pressed on the issue of intercepting terrorists abroad he said, “Well of course countries can catch terrorists abroad, but murdering them is unacceptable…blowing up suspected terrorist with missiles in Yemen is simply wrong.” I find this concept more than a little difficult to wrap my mind around; this clown wants us to send a diplomatic envoy to a country that doesn’t exercise effective control over 60 percent of its territory in the hopes that it will dispatch its ineffective and corrupt police force to arrest an admitted enemy of our country? I can discuss different policy options and perspectives with many different people with different opinions and backgrounds while keeping and open mind, however, I have no use for someone that does not see the value in a well placed HellFire missile from a Predator drone. So I decided to keep these thoughts to myself and I slipped into an intellectual coma, safe and out of the reach of the relativist black hole that had formed between his ears.

Perhaps this story provides a good opportunity to segue to an email question I received a couple of weeks back; Barrett wanted to know about the European reaction to Zarqawi’s death. I honestly didn’t find out until several days later and was informed by someone in Croatia who said, “Well, I guess your country finally managed to murder Zarqawi, huh?” I responded with a deadpan response of, “Interesting”, not really interested in the provocation. I’ve heard a few similar comments, but not many. The general feeling is that it won’t accomplish much. My take: My ethical response is best summarized by a quote from French philosopher Simone de Beauvoir, “Vengeance is pointless, but certain men did not have a place in the world we sought to construct.” My strategic evaluation of the situation is that he is replaceable but I doubt his successor will be as eager to stick his neck out. I also think that his death makes the reconciliation between Shiites and Sunnis much more plausible.

The photo is from the visit to the Bundestag the previous day.

Chancellery and Reichstag

On Tuesday we visited the German Chancellery and the Reichstag. A point of clarification from my point yesterday: The German parliament is building is still called the Reichstag while the law making body is referred to as the Bundestag. Both buildings are in a much more contemporary style than government buildings in D.C. Touring the Chancellery was strange because unlike a White House west wing tour, we pretty much had the entire building to ourselves. Very modern, kind of boring.

Missing photos from last post...

I think I've managed to find the worst internet connection in Germany...

So, what is it like being in Germany during the World Cup?

The atmosphere in Germany during the World Cup is not really comparable to any sporting event we have in the US. If you want a rough idea, I suggest you imagine what it would be like if the entire South Eastern US (about the population of Germany) only had one football team and it only played in a bowl game once every four years. We went to the main Berlin Fan Fest for the Argentina vs. Mexico game last night. We couldn’t go watch the Germany game there because there were 750,000 people in the square and the police were not allowing anyone else into that section of the city. People from all over the world are in Germany, not to attend the games (FIFA WC tickets are more illusive than a Golden Ticket to Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory), but just to watch them on a big screen with tens of thousands of screaming fans. The late game we showed up for was a lot calmer and only 300,000 to 400,000 packed into the square.

Me and two other guys left the game early and went up into the Bundestag (or Reichstag, as it was once known). This is the German parliament building that the Nazis burned to the ground to consolidate their grip on the government. When Germany was reunited and Berlin was restored as the national capital, a modern dome was added to the top to symbolize unity and hope for the future. In the pictures I had previously seen in magazines, the dome always seemed most beautiful at night, so I was insistent on visiting it then. We were not disappointed. On top of the Bundestag there is a wide open square from which to view the city and the dome. The dome itself has two long interlocking corkscrew ramps - one for up-bound traffic and one for down – that never intersect. This creates a mind-bending effect as you ascend to the top observatory. At the top the dome there is an open skylight and a circular bench on which you can lay down and gaze heavenward. I’m usually pretty uninspired by modern architecture, but given the history of the spot – once a gravesite of democracy and the point of cleavage between East and West – only a clear break with the past could convey Germany’s hope for the future.
We went on a bus tour of Germany today and saw some interesting things; however, I fell asleep and missed a lot of sites. After a month of traveling, it takes a lot more to get me excited than it did earlier on the trip. Tour guide: “And over here is the Holocaust monument…” Me: “Oh wow. I guess I should take a picture of it. By the way, is reason we haven’t eaten yet part of some Holocaust sympathy experience?”

Ever since visiting Sarajevo I’ve been thinking about how long it takes a city to recover from that level of destruction. Visiting Berlin is a clear warning not to be overly optimistic. There are quite a few buildings that are still tattered with bullet holes and if you look at the Greek Embassy on the West Berlin side, it looks like WWII ended yesterday, not 60 years ago.
We also visited the Berlin wall. The attached picture is of me and fellow UT student Jesse Cragwal on the East German side. And, it is possible that the two youths pictured above might be in possession of pieces of said wall. The Gipper told us to.

So, what exactly is Matt doing in Germany?

The Transatlantic Summer Academy (TASA) is a yearly summer program that focuses on a particular area of European – North American relations. This year the subject is terrorism and there are 24 students from 10 different countries. 14 of us are either Canadian or American, and the other 10 are mostly from Southeastern and Eastern Europe (Generally, the academy only invites members from non-European Union countries). The school, organized through the University of Bonn, is 3.5 weeks of intensive lectures, discussion, and travel pertaining to the philosophical, economic, political, and legal consequences and causes of terrorism. Our lecturers are all well known experts in their fields. In fact our first speaker, Paul Wilkinson, is something of legend in International Relations literature. We also take some equally impressive excursions, with visits scheduled for Berlin, NATO headquarters, and the European Parliament.

I’ve really enjoyed our group so far. The Americans and the Canadians initially gravitated to each other because we are all (either by national stereotype or coincidence of individual personalities) all loud, extroverted, and talk really fast. Half the fun of hanging out with the Canadians is making fun of them. Best Canadian joke so far: “Canada is like a quiet apartment over a really cool party.”

This year’s TASA is culturally diverse; we have 3 Muslims participants who have made our discussions very interesting. We also have a few odd-balls. For instance there is a girl from Illinois with, what sounds to me like a Persian accent, but she is a 100% homegrown American. When pressed about this fact, she told us that she developed an accent while studying abroad a few years back. Umm…okay…We’re pretty sure she’s an Al-Qaeda spy.

Missing three trains in 2 days turns Matt and Erica into homeless people

So why have your intrepid travelers disappeared for the last few days? Well, we were booked on a night train from Belgrade to start our journey back to the comforts of western civilization; however, the train was 3 hours late. This put us in Ljubljana, Slovenia one hour too late to catch our train to Venice. The resulting five hour layover in Ljubljana was actually a very pleasant disruption to the itinerary, aside from the never-ending computations of exchange rates (Slovenia joined the EU in 2004 but has yet to switch currencies). Erica and I explored the city in shifts and were impressed enough that we plan to revisit while en-route back to the Balkans in July.

At this point, all would have been fine…if our train to Venice had showed on time. I must interject and say that I am utterly stupefied as to how trains can be so regularly late. It’s not like the engineer is lounging around at home watching the world cup drinking a beer and it suddenly dawns on him, “Oh crap! I’ve got to pick up two-hundred people in Belgrade tonight!” Or maybe it is. That would certainly explain a lot. I mean, I suppose occasionally a train obliterates a herd of cattle or a broken down Lada, and they have to clean the remains off the track. But that can’t happen everyday, can it? In any case, we arrived in Venice too late to catch the train to Milan or any destination closer to Germany. I knew that there was a night train leaving for Zurich in 2.5 hours, so I hoped we could grab a couchette on it. I also knew it was probably going to be booked and we would need a reservation. Unfortunately, when we arrived in Venice the international ticket office was closed and the self-service kiosks only worked for inter-Italy tickets. When the train did arrive I ran out to see if there was anything else. Nada. It was midnight and the next train was not until 7 the next morning. So Erica got the extra night in Venice she had wished for, with a twist. We slept in shifts on the steps of the Venice train station.


It was kind of like the story of the monkey-paw that you wish on only to have an evil version of your wish come true. I slept one and a half hours, Erica managed 2. At around 5 AM, the train station opened and we got inside where it was warmer and I caught another few minutes of sleep. Luckily for us we were up and awake before the security guards starting harassing the other bums. During the course of the night, a homeless lady that had begged us for money in our first visit came and laid down near us. When she never asked us for money I realized it was because we had joined her social class.

On the train the next day we were disgustingly filthy and hungry. We had money for food but, almost everywhere we went was closed. After spending eight hours as pariahs on the train, we finally arrived in Lucerne. What’s Lucerne like? I don’t really know. We walked briefly and took some pictures. It looked really nice, but all we wanted was a shower and food. We arrived at 4:00 and went to bed at 8:30. Being back in the fluffy creature comforts of western culture has a rejuvenating effect. The tiny $80 hotel room we had last night might as well have been the Four Seasons.

I’m writing this on the train to Bonn, where I am attending this year’s Transatlantic Summer Academy for three and a-half weeks. I’m racing a dying battery, so I’ll have to end this post here. But I will end this post by saying that we are now clean, fed, and almost rested.

Serbia

I was a little apprehensive about visiting Serbia because of lingering anti-Americanism from the U.S. bombing campaigns in 1995 and 1999. Before the trip, every person knowledgeable of the area assuaged my concerns and encouraged me to visit. They were correct, though the anti-American sentiment is noticeable, it is not overt. In fact a lot of what I initially interpreted as an anti-American vibe was, as I later discovered, is really just part of a general xenophobia. It turns out that, in contrast to their forefathers, very few Serbians (less than 15%) have visited the West.
The Socialist Republic of Yugoslavia was the most economically successful of all the socialist bloc countries. When Stalin and Tito split in the 1950s, Yugoslavia needed to strengthen Western ties to discourage a Soviet invasion. The result was a communist country liberally engaged in trade with Western economies. Whatever prosperity had been accrued the following decades was obliterated by Milosovic’s maniacal mismanagement of the economy in the 1990s. In an eight year period 30 -40 percent of Serbia’s economy disappeared. Though Belgrade is today a modern and thriving metropolis, the results of the economic collapse can be seen in the large shanty-towns that appear along interstate overpasses on the city’s outskirts.

The most important interview of my trip was supposed to be here and I had planned the entire first half of our trip around his schedule. I called on our first day in Belgrade only to find out that we would be gone the entire week. However, the two consolation interviews, which turned into a 4.5 hour intellectual marathon, were extremely helpful.

The second interview was with the institution’s V.P., who is a western educated Bulgarian. We spent about two hours talking about my thesis specific questions, and another 1.5 talking about Balkan history. He, like many people who are erudite in their knowledge of the region, insists that you cannot understand any of the modern Balkan problems without viewing it through the lens of history. Unlike one of my earlier interviewees, this guy had no concerns over anonymity, though he made much more inflammatory statements. When I asked about the EU suspending candidacy talks with Serbia and what could motivate reform given this withdrawal, he responded very directly, “What Serbia needs is a second bombing campaign…and after that probably a third. I believe that is the only way they will ever wake up and realize that it is 2006 and that fighting over some hill because something happened 600 years ago is ridiculous.” To me, that was a shocking statement, given his position, the location of his office, and the fact that there five Serbian intelligence agencies. However, I’m sure he understands the delicacies of his situation better than I.

We will be returning in July, at which time I have two more interviews with staff members there. Tomorrow we are headed somewhere west and closer to Germany. I’m getting tired of Belgrade and especially tired of our “hostel”.

Final notes on Sarajevo

From reading my earlier post on Sarajevo you may have come to the conclusion that it is a moving yet depressing place. While it is emotionally stirring, it is not depressing. If anything, it is a testament to the human spirit which is capable of warmth and generosity even in the aftermath of supreme tragedy.

Unlike other places we have visited in the Balkans people open, friendly, and rarely suspicious. Even in Croatia, westerners attract a lot of cautious gawking. In Sarajevo (and for that matter all the places we stopped in Bosnia) foreigners are only casually noticed. I got the feeling that whether you walked down the street in an Armani suit, t-shirt and shorts, or a kimono, no one would give you a second look.

On our last full day in Sarajevo, we visited the 800 meter tunnel that the Army of Bosnia and Herzegovina constructed to save the city’s population when it was under siege by the Serb army and denied protection by the UN. Through this tiny tunnel passed all the electricity, petroleum, food, and weapons that the citizens had to survive. The UN controlled the airport, but only provided food and would turn back anyone who they caught crossing into free Bosnia. One of the tunnels former users said, “We lived every moment with the fear of being killed, but all the UN cared about was whether we were well-fed when we died.” About 11,000 people died in the siege of Sarajevo.

Dear Readers,

Sorry posting has been so light. We have had trouble getting to and settling into Germany. However, I have been writing posts for the last week and I should finally be able to post them today. Keep reading!

This is a picture of me standing in the exact spot that Gavrilo Princip did on June 28, 1914 as he shot and killed Austro-Hungarian Arch Duke Franz Ferdinand and his wife Sofia. This event was the flash point that began the First World War. Amazing!

We have posted some pics that were previously missing aslo. Enjoy!

We are off to Belgrade tomorrow morning.

…Into Bosnia

“I hate the corpses of empires, they stink as nothing else. They stink so badly that I cannot believe that even in life they were healthy.” - Rebecca West in her 1940 masterpiece Black Lamb and Grey Falcon: A Journey Through Yugoslavia.

The first real signs of war damage we saw today began about 30 miles outside of the Bosnian town of Mostar, just after we passed the first mosque. Most of the buildings showed a light peppering of small arms fire, with the occasional unlucky one mortared to rubble. There were cemeteries on either side of the street, one side Muslim, one Croat-Catholic. The back of the cemeteries were lined with several generations of tombs that demonstrate the natural proportions of life’s progression; just a handful of dead from each decade. But the natural course abruptly shattered by many more rows of newer crypts. Even as our bus passed by there were many people, on both sides, out paying their respects. The cemeteries were chocked full of flowers and wreaths, and on the Catholic side, Croatian flags flew defiantly over the dead.

In Mostar, the destruction was much more pronounced. Here every building bore the scars of bullets, though some had haphazardly plastered over the bullet holes. In some places the entire apartment building remained functioning except for the odd apartment punched out by artillery fire. At this point, Erica gave, what is thus far, my favorite quote of the trip, “Why…are there holes in the buildings?” she asked, obviously afraid she knew the answer. It wasn’t funny at the time because I was myself in a state of mild shock; I had seen recent pictures of Mostar, showing what appeared to be a recovered city. I still don’t know how the photographer was so selective.

Fortunately, the next hour of the drive erased a lot of the unpleasantness of Mostar. The road between Mostar and Sarajevo has to be one of the most beautiful highways in the world. I wasn’t prepared for how dramatic the terrain would be; it’s like a mix of Yosemite and Rockies with a turquoise river snaking through it.

Entering Sarajevo brought us back to reality. For the next 45 minutes, my mind was occupied with digesting the shock Sarajevo’s ugliness. Really, I don’t think I have ever seen so many utilitarian buildings in such a state ruin, anywhere. Not Kiev, not Tegucigalpa, nowhere. Simply the worst architecture of communism in its furthest phase of ruin. That’s before factoring in the bullet holes.

What I expected at the bus station was something similar to what we got in Dubrovnik; a bunch of old ladies and pensioners trying to sell us a room. There was only one. She was trying to sell us on a hostel, which I didn’t know even existed in Sarajevo, despite all my research before hand. Sounded shady, but we had no other choice but to check it out. She then proceeded to lead us on the Balkan version of the Baton Death March, which I think Erica might write about further.

As the Death March wore on into the old town, Sarajevo actually became very beautiful. Surprisingly beautiful. We got a private room….which is well…well it probably deserves a post to itself. Anyway, we were starved and all that had sustained me through the course of the Death March was the promise of the local specialties of lamb, boiled potatoes, and Turkish coffee. I was not disappointed, we further violated our budget and splurged (actually, given the exchange rate it was only about $32) for a 4 course meal. It was the best meal I have had in months. We all have occasional cravings, but, in my experience, they are rarely fully satisfied. When they are, it’s a special moment in your life time, like Haley’s Comet or a UT national championship. Call me shallow, but right now, there are few experiences better timed in my life than that lamb and spinach dish.

The “proprietor”, as he refered to himself, had and autographed picture of Bill Clinton and had saved copy of mass email (which he couldn’t read) from the Clinton Foundation announcing the opening of his presidential library. When he found out we were American he put American and U.S.A.F. flags on our table. Clinton is pretty popular around here for green-lighting air strikes on the Serbs and for brokering the Dayton Peace Accords. I’m not a Clinton hater, but his administration could have done a lot more a lot sooner to fix things here. And no, this is not a hindsight-is-20-20 situation. But I’ll blog about that later.

It’s Sarajevo’s beauty (and its potential for beauty) contrasted with its history that makes it such a tragic landscape. The saddest moment I experienced today was walking around the historic downtown. Throughout Sarajevo, sniper victims (who were many) are memorialized by a red splotch of paint where they were slain. I saw a few on the way in, but they didn’t especially move me. Later in the day I found one that did. Walking around the corner of one of the Christian churches downtown, I saw one of the unmistakable circles of paint next to some young teenagers loitering around. What struck me were the obvious circumstances of this death; the circle was located just behind a pillar which should have provided some cover from most of the surrounding area. I scanned the area for where the shot could have come from and quickly realized there was only one possibility; from an apartment building 400 meters away, someone had put a bullet through what little this person could not hide behind the pillar, and that was enough.

After playing this anonymous victim’s last moments through my head we walked a block to an internet café. Inside all the computers were full of teenagers playing videogames. Almost all were of the First-Person-Shooter variety and the first one I saw was looking down a sniper scope at one of his opponents. I’ll say for the record that I don’t buy into the criticisms of violent video games and their effects on kids. But still, something about the juxtaposition of that reality and that fiction made me very uncomfortable.

Out of Eden...

Travel adventures, like the rest of life, are rollercoaster rides of emotion. After three great days in Dubrovnik, I guess we should have seen the inevitable descent coming. We woke up early to catch the 8:00 bus to Sarajevo (actually, we woke up to catch a bus to catch our bus). The day started out with some minor annoyances; namely an unexplained bubbly rash on the back of my hands and the worst allergies I’ve had in years. Checking out at 6:30 AM was complicated by the fact that we were staying in a room belonging to a pizzeria and we could only exit through their doors, which we had to lock on the way out. We exited, locked the outer door of the pizzeria, and I went through a mental checklist of possible forgotten items, lest we orphan them when I dropped the key in the mail slot. When I was positive everything was go, I released the keychain into the slot and pulled back my left hand to reveal bare skin usually covered by a, now conspicuously absent, platinum wedding ring…

Any description I might attempt could do no justice to how I felt. If you really require a visual portrayal of my despair I suggest this: Pour a bottle of ink on a blank page, place a small dying small animal in the ink and let it writhe around. Then repeat for five pages. At least that’s what it’s going to look like in my autobiography. Maybe the PETA boycott will make headlines and boost sales…

We really didn’t know what to do. I knew it hadn’t fallen into the mail slot and I was pretty sure it wasn’t in the room…”How sure are you?” Mmmm…well, mostly sure. Our immediate solution was to write a note explaining the loss, include our address, and attach 20 Kuna for postage. As we walked to the bus stop (the bus to catch our bus) I began to feel even worse about the situation. When we reached the bus stop I realized that I didn’t even know the name of the place we had stayed at. After a couple minutes of nervous nauseous indecision, I decided to run back to the pizza place to see if anyone might have come in early. After a few minutes of sitting outside the pizza place, I decided that we were just going to have to miss the bus. Further obliterating our budget with another night in Dubrovnik and messing up my interview schedule were just going to have to be the price of my idiocy. I slowly slogged my way out of the old city and back up the hill to the bus stop where Erica was at. She had been really quite and calm about the whole thing so far, but I was playing it safe and avoiding eye contact all the same.

It turns out that my wife, having a cooler head and better sense than I, went through all my luggage while I was gone and found the ring in the toe of one of my shoes. No, I haven’t the slightest idea how it got there, and I’m not going to try to explain it. Kind of like the time I ended up in Mississippi while driving to Florida, I’m going to have to add this to the list of my indefensibly stupid misadventures. Nonetheless, I want my 20 Kuna back.

Changes to the Comments section...

I have removed the membership requirement for commenting, so it should be easier for all of you to leave comments now. If we get inundated with spam I'll have to switch it back.

We are in Sarajevo now but will not be able to post something until tomorrow. It's going to be a good one, so tune in.

Technical difficulties...

Posting photos is not working too well right now. I may emial them to Barrett and see if he has better luck posting state-side.

Some Notes on Croatia and Dubrovnik

On the long bus ride to Dubrovnik I had time to make a couple of observation about the current state of Croatia. For one, I am impressed with the infrastructural development going on here. Once again, I am inclined from my experience to compare this case with that of Ukraine. Both in Croatia and last summer in Ukraine I have seen a lot of construction going on. In Ukraine the construction is only relevant to the wealthiest consumers and often at the expense of the lower economic strata; public parks have been razed to put up luxury apartments. I also received the impression that all the building was slow, inefficient, and hopelessly corrupt, true to its communist lineage. In Croatia however, the majority of the construction I have seen has been in middle class locations. There is also a higher attention to public infrastructure; the Zagreb neighborhood in which we were staying was receiving new sidewalks while we were there. They were installed with shocking speed. Crews were working from 6 AM until 7 or 8 at night and making progress that would put most American crews to shame.

Another important area of progress is obvious in Croatia’s law enforcement. Unlike the scowling ex-Red Army extortionist that typifies the Ukrainian law enforcement official, Croatian police are generally young, smiling, professionally dressed, and progressively courteous. Unlike their Ukrainian counterparts, you don’t have to avoid making eye contact with them. In Ukraine, if I was the victim of some crime, I would never consider going to the local police station – first stop, American Embassy. But here the rule of law, though not developed to Western standards, seems trustworthy. In my interview the other day I learned that Croatia has no division of its courts and there are currently 2.21 million unresolved cases, so there is certainly room for improvement. At least there is a place to start, further east, in places like Ukraine, they have much more dire need than judicial reform.

Dubrovnik

Dubrovnik is a medieval castle version of Venice. Thought Dubrovnik cannot compete with Venice on the playing field of culture, it is founded on some aesthetic qualities which Venice lacks. A 2,000 ft mountain curls dramatically down to the city’s back gate, while the city wall itself is built around a steep hill that slumps into the Adriatic. The effect this has, aside from stair climbing exhaustion, is a series of vistas that Venice is poorly geographically endowed to match. Unlike Venice, Dubrovnik is monotone; the entire city remains true to its bleached stone block foundation. This would look bland if it were not encased by the greens of surrounding mountains and the deep clear blues of the Adriatic.

Dubrovnik was once a very powerful force in history. It was known worldwide as the gateway port to the East, where goods could be shipped over land to Constantinople. Dubrovnik, unlike the rest of the Dalmatian Coast, never succumbed to the Venetian expansion. Through shrewd diplomacy, it also (and improbably) held both the Hungarians and Ottomans at bay. Staunchly Catholic, Dubrovnik held key alliances with Spain which sustained it in many dark hours of history.

Given Dubrovnik’s history of independence and physical isolation from the rest of Croatia, I was surprised at the level of Croat nationalism on display; Croat flags are on most buildings, t-shirts, hats, cars, etc.,. However, Dubrovnik has been the victim of fairly recent trauma which is responsible for these visible sentiments. In the 1990’s conflict, Dubrovnik was shelled by Serbian and Montenegrin artillery and the city was blockaded for a number of months. As a result, roughly 100 residents lost their lives. Certain portions of the city have not been reconstructed, I assume intentionally, as a living reminder of Serbian aggression. In light of these facts, I think the level of Croatian nationalism on display is really just an expression of anti-Serb and Montenegrin sentiment, but they don’t really make a flag for that.

My best description of Dubrovnik today is a Greek version of Venice. I say Greek because that was the ethnicity of the original settlers. Despite the recent the superficial Croat nationalism, Greek faces and mannerisms shine through. It has been a nice place to relax and regroup before heading into Bosnia.

To Dubrovnik

After our first overnight train experience, and on the strong recommendation of some locals, I opted to upgrade us to the first class sleeping compartment on the way out of Zagreb. It was a little expensive: 400 kuna or about $80. Worth. Every. Penny. The extra $40 dollars gets you a miniature apartment (or oversized closet depending on your perspective) with a locking door, sink, climate control, and much more comfortable bed.

Our train arrived in Split a few minutes before 7:00 AM with us slightly rested. Getting to Dubrovnik is not a simple task; it is isolated on a narrow strip of land separated from the rest of the nation by a little slip of Bosnia and Herzegovina which interrupts the Croatian coastline near Ploče. Due to the 1990’s conflict and logistical problems, there is no direct rail connection. From Split, the southern most rail stop, the only choices available are either a day and a half ferry ride or a five hour bus ride. We got two bus tickets $40 and got rolling by 8:00.

Now, of the many archetypes of people that have started to annoy me on this trip, I think the know-it-all-hippie-backpacker (henceforth KIAHB) is currently at the top of my list. When we bought our tickets the cashier made it a point of telling us what seats we had been assigned, and I requested seats on what would be the east-facing side of the bus because I knew it would have a better view. As we boarded the bus a young Croatian guy was sitting in one of our seats. Erica politely asked him to move, but as he started to politely comply the KIAHB comes toward us and says smugly, “Umm…I hate to break it to you guys but this is C-R-O-A-T-I-A and reservations don’t happen here.” My response, “Well, they just did”. Seriously, if I have to deal with many more KIAHBs I’m going to decapitate one and parade his/her head around on a stick so that all KIAHBs will know to maintain a respectful distance…preferably at least one time zone.

The bus was ok, the scenery was incredible (PCH eat your heart out), but everything else about the ride sucked. Croatian roads are better than Ukrainian roads, but not much. The highway was a bumpy corkscrew path through the mountains along the coast. All the ancillary motion pretty much ruled out reading, writing, or thinking, and since I had left my IPOD in my backpack under the bus, I was subjected to the World Cup Dance Mix, which included The Macarena. Despite that every time I hear The Macarena I have a barely-resistible urge to jump out the window into oncoming traffic, I have decided that it contains the secret to world peace. I’m pretty sure every country in the world loves this song…which may also explain why the human race hasn’t been smart enough to figure out world peace.

The Macarena, sleep deprivation, KIAHBs, the sun-baked 3-day-old goat cheese pastry I had for breakfast, and tilt-a-whirl bus ride were making me really nauseous. But it was only when the ticket collector came by, carrying what I can only describe as the second generation of the abacus, that I almost threw up. It was his smell that almost got me. Actually the mix of two smells. Given the correct environmental surrounding and a temporary lapse in hygiene, people give off an odor that my brain interprets as a really pungent version of Cambell’s Chicken-Noodle Soup. Though, its not one of my favorite smells, this aroma did do me in alone. The second smell, also not physically revolting alone, was a liberally applied veneer of Old Spice. From about 7 feet away his signature flavour was wafting my direction and I could feel my face turning green. When he lingered next to my seat to re-calibrate the gears of his Abacus 2.0 ticket counter, I had put myself into a deep zen-like state to keep from covering his shoes in half-digested goat cheese pastry. I succeeded, which was good because he was a really nice guy.

Research Begins

Today I conducted my first interview for my thesis research. For those of you who don’t know, I am looking into UN, EU, and American efforts to reform Balkan governments in regards to illicit arms trades, a legacy of the 1990’s conflict. After literally spending an entire day trying to figure out how to correctly use Croatian phones, I finally had an interview arranged. The subject of today’s interview was a UN/EU official working on arms control negotiations with the Croatian government. What I expected was a bland conversation with a late middle-age Brussels bureaucrat in a $700 suit under the fluorescent whitewash of a UN Embassy office; I was wrong. I met this guy in an upscale café near the main square in Zagreb and his appearance immediately threw me off my game. He was more like Brad Pitt from Spy Game than the Hans Blitz stereotype I had in my head. As I started into my questions, he interrupted to ask how I planned to cite the information. A lot of the organizations I have dealt with so far have been very concerned that they and their partners get full credit for the information they provide since they depend on some level of visibility for continued funding, so I start into my standard schpeel about how I will faithfully cite his title and organization and any organizational partners he wants me to include. His reaction to this was also unexpected, which I can only describe as visceral alarm. He then informed me that everything he said was to be strictly background unless I resubmitted specific quotes to him for approval. I agreed and tried too keep from cracking a Cheshire grin; this was going to be a great interview. As my questions got going again, he got up and suggested we move to some place else to talk. We walked down the main square and took a seat at an outdoor café that was a little more private.

Most of the info I got from the interviewee was not truly citable since the juiciest stuff relied on hearsay and he certainly wasn’t willing to have his name next to it. However, all these tidbits and the wealth of contact information he provided were extremely helpful. His steadfast protection of his opinions and sensitive information was due the delicate relationship he has to maintain with the Croatian government. Having the wrong thing put into print could cause serious damage to his work.

Tonight we are headed to Split, Croatia by train. From where we will head to Dubrovnik (and the ocean) if all goes as planned. I really don’t know if we’ll be in Split, Dubrovnik, or in between tomorrow night. I have no idea if we will be able to post in the next few days, but hopefully if we do it will be pictures of sun and sand.

P.S. I’m watching the Croatian version of “Who Wants to be a Millionaire?” and the Croatian Regis is hilarious.

P.P.S. The Ravnice Youth Hostel is great! If you ever find yourself in Zagreb and need a cheap fun place to stay, do yourself a favor and stay here. However, make sure and avoid rooms with snoring Scottish girls.

Destination Balkanization

We arrived, as planned at the Zagreb train station at about 5 am. The three hour dead time turned out to be good thing as it basically took that long to decipher the local the tram system. Erica was in a well lit, modestly comfortable, and safe area in the train station, so I ventured out to find the correct tram for our hostel. There were actually a lot of people out for 5:00 in the morning, but none spoke English. So I tried some Russian (Croatian and Russian are somewhat similar). I found out that a lot of people understood Russian but were not especially happy to hear me speaking it. I got a couple of very icy receptions to my questions. Over the course of several failed attempts at interrogating in Russian, I realized that the responses were much gentler if I started off asking in Russian if they spoke Russian. I finally got one woman talking and she gave me some tram info in Russian (or in Croatian and I just understood her, I’m not sure which because it sounded funny). But when I followed up by asking how much it cost, she said she didn’t know. At this response I started to get pretty angry. I asked her how long she had lived in Zagreb, she replied "always". I told her I couldn’t believe she didn’t know how much it cost. She told me to go away. As it turned out, she wasn’t lying; the tram does cost money but no one buys tickets. Evidently no one ever checks tickets so no one buys them. Of course it took a while longer to figure this out.

My next stop was an ATM to get some local currency; my Euros had already been turned down twice which surprised me. Just a year or two ago all of the former Yugoslavia was Euro-hungry, but apparently the economy is booming with a resurgence in tourism and business investment related to Croatia’s eminent EU membership. The problem with my ATM search was that I could not remember the exchange rate. So looking at a screen filled with withdrawal choices of large numbers of Kuna, I had to text-message my Mom to get her to look up the exchange rate. (Now you know why, mom).

I returned to the train station to find Erica in conversation with a drunk (and getting drunker) Croatian guy ("I am not a Croatian, I have German heritage.") The rest of the time went as you would expect in Eastern Europe; drunk Croatian ("No! I am a German!") hitting on my wife, showing us photos from semi-pornographic magazines, quoting American action movies, reciting the lyrics to Duran Duran songs and repeatedly giving me copies of early 1990s Croatian sports magazines, which he insisted were collectors items.

The best place I have been to base a comparison of Zagreb off of is Kiev. The first and most obvious impression is that Zagreb has not experienced the level oligarchial theft that has destroyed any hopes of economic equality in the Ukraine; here, wealth is somewhat more modest (Mercedes for the rich instead of Bentleys and Rolls) and there is a lot of middle class construction going on. Zagreb is a slightly charming though not exciting city, but it is trying to capitalize off the Dalmatian Coast tourism boom. All this said, there are still many people that have obviously been left behind by the new economy and will suffer at its expense, as is the case in all transforming, post-communist countries. Furthermore, although many business people and government officials are enthusiastic about integrating with Europe (most gov’t buildings already display EU flags), I think there remains among the general population, an acute xenophobia that will impede any chance of cultural assimilation. Communism, or more precisely in this case Titoism, leaves a long and painful scar that is not easily excised.

Last day in Venice

Our last day in Venice started with us rushing to check out of our hotel and no idea when or how we might spend the next night. We new that we needed to get to Zagreb, Croatia for an interview I needed to conduct, but scheduling a train and sleeping arrangements posed a problem. We had no good options, it was either a train that left at 3 PM and arrived at midnight (hostel would be closed) or a train that left at 9 PM and arrived at 4:55 AM (hostel would not open until 8). We wandered around Venice for the day and covered what little of the island we had not seen. Tired of what had become the typical meal of pizza and gellatto, we decided to go cheap and creative and visited the local grocery store. Fresh baked rolls, bologna, salad dressing, and some slightly stinky cheese made and excellent meal which we topped off with a pastry from their bakery. All this and a view of Grand Canal from a park bench for less than $10.
After spending the entire day beating the streets of Venice, we had decided by default to take the night train to Zagreb. We booked a couchette which is supposed to house six beds in cramped quarters. Luckily, the train was near empty and we had the room all to ourselves. Now, I admit there was one naïve moment where I thought I would be able to catch some quality sleep…lesson quickly and thoroughly learned. The train was servicing Venice to Budapest, Hungary, and I quickly realized that they were not calling out stops. Most of my night was filled with nightmares of waking up to a Hungarian customs official 600 miles past my destination. The other constant interruptions to peaceful slumber were the actual customs officials. Erica and I were both sleeping with our IPods on to drown out the drunks in the next car, however, this also drowned out a very frustrated customs officer at the Slovenian border. Now the next four customs officials to knock on our door are still a source of confusion to me; being a geographer, I was relatively certain that there were no countries between Slovenia and Croatia. I still hold this conviction, however, we had three extra visits by customs officers and illegible passport stamps to match.

No, he didn't!

I was just informed that the infamous 8 year undergraduate Jason Sanks graduated from college, with a math degree no less! This is like the Saints winning the Super Bowl, no betting man would have picked it. Congrats Jason!

Venezia

Unlike the fairytale land of Venice, the reality is in fact brittle, perpetually rundown, and sinking into the ocean. No cars. No buses. No subway. Its transportation network, made entirely of claustrophobia inducing pedestrian alleyways and constricted canals, is virtually un-navigable with rarely anything resembling a thoroughfare. Case in point, the straight-line distance from our hotel to San Marco is less than one mile, however, the most direct route requires roughly 30 turns to arrive! Add to this the fact that there are almost no vantage points from which you can gain your bearing and you realize Venice is actually a 1,600 year old maze. Also incredibly crowded: Venice is only 7.6 km², yet has a population of roughly 275,000 and is assailed by some 6 million photo snapping tourists per year! That’s like all of Knoxville and Maryville living on UT’s campus with all of the Smokey’s visitors coming to visit. With all these crowds there must be an incredible level of public services right? Wrong. Want to find a trashcan or bathroom? More precious and rare than Venetian glass; you’ll have to hold it, whichever it is. So given all the grittiness and dysfunction of Venice, would I live here? In a heartbeat.

My true take on Venice: Utterly. Amazing. City. Honestly, no other place I have visited gives me any basis for comparison. Venice is really more of a Renaissance theme park than a city. The most amazing aspect of the island is its continuity of style; every bridge, alley, street, and apartment is picturesque. There is nowhere you can turn and not know you are in Venice. The Venetian look has not been achieved in the American sense of city planning; it is really just a hodgepodge unplanned and understated local style thrust together and topped off with the occasional grandiose Byzantine, Roman, Renaissance, or Baroque exclamation point. The Venetian Miracle is really that a sense of continuity prevails through a millennia and a half of chaos.



Quick facts:
Oldest church – San Giacomo di Rialto, built in 427 A.D.
The Basilica San Marco was built in 1094 and is the third church to be built on the site.
The Santa Maria della Salute was built in the mid 1600s, fulfilling a promise to construct a church if God would end the plague which had killed off a third of Venice.

Leaving London

Our flight didn’t leave until 6:40 so we had one more day to spend in London. We managed to waste most of the morning on poor transportation planning (mea culpa), leaving only 1.5 hours for The British Museum. If any of you have been to the British Museum, you know that it is more of a 1.5 day affair. I just don’t have the energy to relate the scope and quality of the artifacts on display, so I’ll just leave it at ‘world class’.

The rest of the day was spent in a hectic and, once again, expensive rush back to Gatwick Airport. A Saturday evening, the airport was dead. Our flight to Venice was only two hours long and completely uneventful.

P.S. For some reason I can't post photos right now...I'll go back and add them later.

So it begins...

So, the journey has officially begun! On the plane I was thinking about kicking off this first post with some poetic reference to the explorer Magellan and his voyage around the world, but then I remembered that Magellan did not actually survive that little boat trip, a little known fact that makes for an unfortunate metaphor.

We arrived at Gatwick airport at 6 in the a.m., in the midst of a “security incident”, which translated into us standing in the custom’s “queue” for a couple of hours. The queue is something of a British art form; no other culture in the world can match the enthusiasm with which Britons wait in line. Today’s particular queue was nothing less than a masterpiece. It consisted of no less than 10 switchbacks and, on occasion, looped back around the entire group. I half seriously/half jokingly think that this obsession with lines has something to do with the fact that the British spent the better part of the last century waiting in rations lines (rationing from WWII didn’t end until the 1950s). In any case, the “security incident” ended in a guy being lead away in handcuffs and a female security officer admonishing him, “We don’t take kindly to people causing disturbances in our customs area.” No wonder we beat the Revolutionary crap out of them. I can just hear King George saying, “We don’t take kindly to people seceding in our colony areas.”

The mere fact that we arrived at Gatwick caused some problems in itself. For some reason, up until about 30 min. before we boarded our flight, I was convinced that we were flying into Heathrow. Gatwick is about twelve miles further out of the city than Heathrow and not connected to the tube system. This left us to choose between a $160 taxi ride, a mythical bus, or train. We chose the train and it cost us $36 and one of Erica’s shoes to get into the city (I’ll leave that part of the story to her). Another hour or two of frantic train and subway swapping wandering around looking for the hotel, and we finally arrived at our hostel. We were still 4 hours too early for check-in, so we tossed our stuff in the luggage room and walked a block to Hyde Park. We wandered over to the fountain area and took short naps in shifts on a park bench. A very peaceful contrast to airports and train stations.

From Hyde Park, we crossed the Thames and went over to Southwark to see Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre. We didn’t go inside because we could only afford standing room only tickets, and by this point the prospect of standing for a 3.5 hour play was less than appealing.

From the Globe we walked to the Imperial War Museum. Best. Museum. Ever. And completely free. They have everything from Monty’s WWII tank to a WWI trench warfare simulation (along with amazing artifacts from pretty much every war ever fought. Two hours of the museum later and our two hours of plane sleep had caught up with us. We ate cheap by stopping at a grocery store and getting some pre-prepared falafel stuff and a carton of orange juice. We took it to a playground in a little rundown housing complex and ate while trying not to get hit by soccer balls.

After eating, we came back to the hostel and crashed. The hostel is ok. Kind of like summer camp with more hippies and alcohol. Aside from that description, I’ll say it would be a lot more fun if we were 19 or 20. At 25.5 I feel I a little old for this place.

Well, I’m going to doze off again to the soothing sounds of Euro techno thumping through the wall from the bar two rooms away. Tomorrow night, Venice.