Belgrade, Serbia

After visiting Romania, it seemed only logical to head to Serbia and see what a country just out of a war thinks about American tourists. While I did know that my little bit of Slovak would help me communicate, I wasn't sure how it would be received.

At the border we were apologized to by the agent because his English wasn't very good, and he had to spell our names over his radio. He looked embarrassed. And at the hotel in Belgrade they apologized because there would only be space for two nights, after which the European basketball tournament would begin and all of the cities 400 hotel rooms had been booked far in advanced. At a pub I was told by the owner that I spoke very good Serbian, even though I was speaking Slovak. They seemed happy to have us there.

Belgrade as a city had a beautiful park and citadel overlooking the Danube River, a large pedestrian zone filled with your typical cafes and shops, and wonderful tree lined streets. Everyone in the city seemed to be in a constant hurry as they ran to catch the tram, or cross the street. The sidewalks were packed with people going about their daily routeine. But around them were the subtle reminders of not too long ago; a military museum with American uniforms, parachutes and plane parts, a Radio Shack computer in the glass case. Graphic pictures from the 88 days of NATO bombings. A proud boast how the citizens had saved their bridges during the bombings. A bad joke that made fun of the Croatians and the Bosnians. And the grafiti on the wall.

Yet, life goes on and, even though the trains always run late and the border triple checks your papers, it was hard to tell from the daily surroundings that this city was any different then the cities in the EU.

Transylvania, Romania

Few places in Eastern and Central Europe have charmed me the way Transylvania did. Perhaps it was because it is so off the beaten track that it is still wild, and unpredictable. Perhaps it was because a majority of the people still travel around on horse and wagons, though in the cities they drive alongside fancy new cars. Perhaps it was because I was reading Dracula while wandering through the fog filled streets and valleys. It doesn't matter why I liked it. I just did.


At first glance you know you've crossed the border. To begin, in the rolling hills and farm lands you will see solitary men watching the cows or sheep graze. They still harvest their hay by hand, (as they do in many places in Slovakia), but waiting alongide the fields are the horses, waiting for the wagons to fill up. A while later you come across the potato fields, and the rows of people bent over, digging in the rich, dark soil. Sometimes there was a tractor waiting, but usually a horse.

And the people, too, seem to to be of that land, and far removed from their Mygar and Slavic neighbors. Their language rolls off their tounge like poetry. Their skin is the color of the soil, and though it sounds like a huge stereotype, their facial structure really does look like the vampires in the old movies. Their brow is pronounces, lips thin and receded and the two are connected by the highest cheekbones immaginable.

To add to the mystery of the land, far off any major road (and there are no highways except near Bucharest), on a forested one lane gravel and dirt path 20 kilometers from the nearest village, the dirt suddenly turned to cobblestone. Why was it there, and how old it must have been, I can barely immaging. It just was.

My new Flat

So I have moved into my new flat. Just remodeled, it is a unique mixture of a traditional Slovak flat and IKEA. The new floors, lighting and some of the furniture can easily be found in the new 2005 IKEA catalogue. The rest appear to have been in the family for some time, and like the other flats I have seen, decorations include porcelain animals and dishes, fake flowers, and of course, religious icons.

Pan and Pani Kalincic showed me around the new flat, that they have been remodeling all summer, through the interpretation of their son, Zdeno, who speaks quite good English. They began with showing me what every light switch does, how to open the windows, and what was in all of the cabinets. Next came the task of how to work the washing machine, (which this is not the first time I have had the washer in the kitchen), stove, oven, TV, VCR, iron and finally the microwave.

As the mom talked, the son stops interpreting. “You’re American. You know how to use a microwave, yes?”

“Yes. And all of the dials are in English.”

Zdeno agrees, but his mother continued to show me how to turn the knobs. They are obviously very proud of the work they had done to remodel the flat, and also of all the conveniences it has, which I admit was more then I ever would have expected, or even wanted. On top of all the appliances, there are also linens, towels, cleaning supplies and some instant coffee. But it also reminds me how often we interpret people who do not speak the language as stupid or naive. Admit it, we all do it. How odd it is to be on the receiving side, though.

Anyway, my new flat has plenty of room, and even a sofa bed, so come over and stay awhile. I’ll even show you how to use the microwave.

Krakow, Poland

What do football and the catholic church have in common? Not much unless you’re in Krakow, Poland and trying to find a pub playing the Poland/Austria Football match where there’s room enough to stand and see the TV. And it’s September 3rd.

There’s nothing like watching football (US soccer) in Poland, since they’re crazy fanatics who sing and cheer at every good move, toast beer glasses, hug, kiss, and fight back at the TV when the yellow card isn’t flashed to the opponent. And at the games conclusion, when Poland proves victorious, as they did this night with a score of 3 to 2, they all break out into song, cheering on the Polish team, that inevitably you will hear continued throughout the night and into the late hours of the morning.

But on September 3rd, as I was making my way to another pub, hoping for standing space, I passed by Saint Mary’s Church, most well known for the hourly trumpet song from the watchtower, which ends on a broken note because in the 13th century, during the Tartar invasion, the trumpeter/watchman was shot in the throat mid note and died.

Only this night, there was a different song.

A large crowd stood in the square, candles lit and eyes gazing towards the tower where the trumpeter played a different tune, though I’m not aware what it was. Then, after applause, broke into their own song, sung with melancholy voices and tears in their eyes. It was a crowd of mostly older people, obviously locals, which included a group of nuns, sang their beautiful tunes, doused their candles and went of in scattered directions (including the pub where the match was in the second period with Poland leading 2-0).

So why this special event? As it turns out, the personal secretary of late Pope John Paul II, who was from Krakow, was named the archbishop of the town, a job that the former pope once had himself. And Krakow, and Poland, are extremely religious as one can tell by the numerous painted portraits of the late pope for sale at most vendors around town. And if that’s not proof enough, ask the fans at the pub, who were on their knees when Poland proved victorious again.