FROM VIENNA, DUBROVNIK, AND THE ISLAND OF VIS
from Vienna, Austria. (July 25th)
Imperial monuments everywhere, stained in black from the centuries of dust and grit… The Austro-Hungarian empire took control over that notorious region of the Balkans, whose ethnic disputes brought its own destruction; but it also amassed great wealth, such that scores of huge libraries and palaces were built. Why so BIG ? ? we may politely ask. Perhaps the sacrifice of thousands of people is worth the feeling of eternity captured in these stone slabs. Given the meager 70 year lifespan of an Emperor, it is no wonder ambitious leaders may aim for the illusion of forever-ness in their projects.
Now, tourists gawk and take photos, that being their own individual way of immortalizing the moment ; they can show their friends/family in the future, ‘See ! I was there.’ We CRAVE to think that what is accomplished will outlive us, indeed, that the moment is not just a flirting wave of time ; so what do we do ? we built monuments, we record it in photos, we have children, perhaps my son will ‘be a doctor just like me’ when he grows up . Continue the family tradition ! Admire how the structures have ‘stood the test of time’, but also be aware of a deep hypocrisy – that there is general concensus that Empires (those big controlling bastards) are ‘bad’. Then again, without this much hated government control of society (eg, Patriot Act?), without a big State, there is no surplus of wealth to create eternal magnificence. Does morality govern this choice ? or is it just relative to your position in society, what you can gain, what you can lose.
In Dubrovnik, Croatia. (August 13th)
The post office is packed with Italians, French, Germans, all the neighboring rich countries ; yet they must speak English with the clerk behind the desk. How funny (and disconcerting !) it is to watch these educated folk struggle to communicate in a language which is foreign to all of them. I am sending off a package today – my cherished duffel bag of clothes, books, and other essentials – to a mysterious Post Office in France. I scribble an appeal on the outside of the box : Please Keep for Kristian Beadle ! I give it a 50-50 chance that I will ever see my bag again. Ah ! but it is impossible to journey northwards, in search of random encounters and adventure, burdened with gear. I also find it quite romantic, to arrive hundreds of kilometers later to find my precious bag, such that the stars will smile and I will continue on my voyage as if nothing had happened.
At the Island of Vis, Croatia (August 19th)
Feeling warm and fuzzy that I found a nice campspot near the beach, I fall asleep under a bright moon. But then I awake in the darkness to a gusty wind, and sudden shards of rain, and my first thought is : God 1, Kristian 0. The cosmic game of chance always seems to balance out, however ; and after 3 wide-eyed minutes of desperately packing my bag, the rain ends. I stand looking out on the sea, swaying slightly. Something strange is happening here, I think. The wet ground is suprisingly confortable, softened by pine needles, and I relegate myself to chance once again, and fall asleep.
In the morning I am confounded by what turns out to be a pseudo-nudist colony, directly in front of my camp ; I slowly learn to harmonize with these local customs, having some epic nudey swims. At night, the swarms of yatchs gather in the marina, people lounging about sipping wine in style. I ponder intensively : if hitchhiking works with cars, why not with boats ? So I plan a devious scheme to elicit sympathy and score a free yatch ride, as I lick my melting icecream.
How ? remained a tricky question. The moment of inspiration came when I remembered the lovely girls at UCSB, walking back and forth to class ; like the yatchs, they too were another ‘world’, difficult to access, tempting as ever. The thought experiment had developed over a beer at Espresso Roma, on that outdoor patio where one may sunbathe AND watch students scramble to school at every hour. The idea became a great unrealized moment of genius, entitled, a ‘Sociological Study on Behavior of College Girls’. The procedure would be a professional and courteous approach, with microfone and slick journalist hair, coplemented of course by diligent note-taking and photographic evidence of the subjects. It is sad to note that sheer busy-ness conspired against our finding time for this Study, forfeiting the sort of reckless opportunities one is expected to embrace during the Senior year of College. Still, however absurd the concept seemed to be (the ‘Sociological’ label was a vain attempt at making it sound legitimate), the idea of posing as a research student, to start an otherwise awkward conversation, seemed valid when confronted by the very seclusive Yatch-ies.
So striding off I went, deciding which boat to approach : The Blue Lady, Oceanus, No Man’s Land… I had drunk the licquor of fantasy, romantic visions of ‘sailing into the horizon’ too hard to bear. But wait – a dark thought struck me ; was this plan of mine, though based on minor deception, veering into the territory of immorality ? Lies and tricks are for lesser beings, I was convinced ; but could this not be the start of a spiral of dark confidence, where my ability to manipulate situations begins to overwhelm righteousness ? For I hold honesty in high regard, and I feared that setting such a precedent (no matter how slight) might short circuit my ethical boundaries. Ahhhh… pearing through the cracks of desire into that latent pool of untapped flux, the ‘dark side’ we keep concealed, consciously or not. A quizzical smile to the lips, as I had success before I had even started – learning about oneself, and this fickle thing called the mind, is the goal after all. With this I concluded matter of factly : hey I just want to meet people. So I walked up to the sailboat in front of me, and said Hello…. But no, I never got to ride in the sailboat.
.Now I know why I don’t like deception ; I end up liking the people I try to deceive ! The couple on the sailboat were very nice, I will have to email them one day ; spring up the courage to say I don’t actually work for a professor studying the Globalization of Leisure Activities in the Mediterranean Sea, and cross-cultural interactions blah blah blah…. yikes.
Monday, September 22, 2003
Thursday, September 18, 2003
From the Inside
SARAJEVO, BOSNIA
I realize I have skipped a wonderful chunk of time in my storytelling, from leaving the old imperial city of Vienna, until my profit seeking efforts in Dubrovnik three days ago. In the middle lies two fascinating weeks, crossing the Alps by train into Slovenia, spending the night at a lovely cottage in northern Croatia, where an old couple raise rabbits and vegetables and make brandy; driving into Bosnia where many roofs and walls are still crumbling from the bombs a few years ago; walking through Sarajevo¡s old town with picturesque Muslim quarters, new mosques being built next to machine gun shattered buildings; graveyards, endless endless rows of graves lining the hillsides.
We learned a lot from Paul's father who is a translator for the NATO generals in Bosnia - the conflict is complexity to the extreme, religious ethnic and political differences colliding after Yugoslavia broke down. Stayed at his girlfriend's apartment, who told us about the 2 or 3 year siege on Sarajevo, when no water or electricity was available; there is still a patched bullet hole on her fridge. Then drive through canyons and parched land all the way to the Mediterrenean glory of Dubrovnik and nearby towns, warm salty water and islands just offshore. Many days were spent on the beach... and there were many other random parables which will be re-told at a future time. For now I must pack and prepare to leave; and head West like so many have done before!!
I realize I have skipped a wonderful chunk of time in my storytelling, from leaving the old imperial city of Vienna, until my profit seeking efforts in Dubrovnik three days ago. In the middle lies two fascinating weeks, crossing the Alps by train into Slovenia, spending the night at a lovely cottage in northern Croatia, where an old couple raise rabbits and vegetables and make brandy; driving into Bosnia where many roofs and walls are still crumbling from the bombs a few years ago; walking through Sarajevo¡s old town with picturesque Muslim quarters, new mosques being built next to machine gun shattered buildings; graveyards, endless endless rows of graves lining the hillsides.
We learned a lot from Paul's father who is a translator for the NATO generals in Bosnia - the conflict is complexity to the extreme, religious ethnic and political differences colliding after Yugoslavia broke down. Stayed at his girlfriend's apartment, who told us about the 2 or 3 year siege on Sarajevo, when no water or electricity was available; there is still a patched bullet hole on her fridge. Then drive through canyons and parched land all the way to the Mediterrenean glory of Dubrovnik and nearby towns, warm salty water and islands just offshore. Many days were spent on the beach... and there were many other random parables which will be re-told at a future time. For now I must pack and prepare to leave; and head West like so many have done before!!
Monday, September 08, 2003
Thumb out in Croatia
HITCH HIKING TO ITALY
On the side of the road in Croatia, hot sun and blue skies, hitchhiking. One moment I was there, waving vigorously at passing cars, feeling quite frustrated and sweaty; the next moment I was inside airconditioning with two Italians, driving at high speed towards the border. The blessed fortunes had struck. Not only were they glad to drive me all the way to Venice (my hoped for destination), but these fiery people went further , offering me work at their family restaurant. Perhaps what appealed really was my proposal : free labor in exhange for food and shelter. After 3 weeks scrounging about in Croatia, being drilled by mosquitos at night, rides in trucks and cars of all sorts, long walks with my thumb out and a heavy pack, I was terribly excited to eat fresh Italian pasta, and working for free seemed a reasonable exchange.
That car ride, with Martino and Laura, was the start of a wonderful week in the Italian village of Sant’Anna Morisina, one hour away from Venice ; this is where the Pettenuzzo family runs a traditional Venetian restaurant, their specialty being roast duck, fresh from the backyard pond ( !). The father, Giovanni, the classic patriarch, shouting violently at times to maintain order ; the mother a plump lady with constant smile, non-stop washing clothes and setting tables. I labored with the stockpile of firewood, to help ready for winter. I also peeled many potatoes.
At night, long hours were spent with the crew of friends – os cavalieros de Sant’Anna – and I was soon adopted as the quizzical, cosmopolitan foreigner, being taken around everywhere. From a ‘buskers festival’ in the old town of Ferrara, where musicians/artists line the cobblestone streets for a week of flamenco, African dance, fire-jugglers, spray painting, and rock&roll…. To a wild bachelor party in the southern Alps, where the scenery of rocky beauty contrasted nicely with the constant pranks on the groom… and finally to an inspiring day with Martino’s uncle in Venice, a magical island city of art and culture… the Italians’ hospitality was unwavering. Soon though, I was boarding the train to the French Riviera, spending a sunny day in Nice ; then finally to Biarritz, where I am now, re-evaluating what is happening.
The speed at which things occur is puzzling; constanly I ask myself, where am I ? what is this place ? as I walk through strange hallways, awake in a strange bed. Dwelling on why these things happen becomes a forfeited luxury, it is no longer worth that philosophical effort. Not trying to make sense of life may prove, however, to be a blessing in disguise. The perceived logic and order in our life is comforting, albeit just a jumbled distortion of the moment. It takes a genuinely jumbled voyage, ironically, to focus more on the moment, as my Bosnian hitchhiking companion taught. He’d sporadically ask, with a rhetorical smirk : where am I ? as we walked along random stretches of highway on Croatia’s coastline. On such moments it was obvious that the answer was irrelevant, secondary to our immediate needs : get the next ride, wherever it goes, because its probably a better destination than this corn field.
I must credit Saleh, for I met him at a fortuitous time ; were it not for this encounter, I probably would not have pursued hitchhiking any further , and never have met the kind Italians and the Pettenuzzo family. I was alone, standing on (what I believed was) a strategic corner, with a polite sign marked ‘North’ in hand ; I was stagnating, cars flying by … when Saleh walks up, and after brief greetings in broken english, his eyes loose, shifting around strangely, he announces he will walk down the street a little ways and get us a ride. I am skeptical but admiring as he forcefully waves at cars, halfway into the street ; then a large truck pulls over, probably in shock at this bloke flailing his arms uncontrollably.
And we’re off, sipping beers in what turns out to be a Croatian beer truck . After being dropped off , with boosted confidence we pursue the next ride, so aggressively that a cop pulls over to check our passports. But fear not, we are not hindered ; and aboard a variety of vehicles several hundred kilometers pass by, and we arrive at a crossroad in our journeys. Saleh left Sarajevo with no money, zero, so I lend him $2 for the ferry accross to his friend’s house. Without money, he merely drank water, ate nothing, and indeed his pace of travel left me without appetite. He had only trust things would come together, and find his way to a friend’s house 600 kms away. It reminded me of a story by Satish Kumar, editor of Resurgence magazine, of how he walked from India to Britain in the name of peace. His guru had advised : take no money. So through trust in people’s kindness, and faith in hard times, he arrived in Britain 6 months later. No world peace, perhaps, but Satish brought peace of mind to himself and others, perhaps.
Saleh and I parted, and I continued on the road north to Italy, now a proud & solo hitchhiker…
On the side of the road in Croatia, hot sun and blue skies, hitchhiking. One moment I was there, waving vigorously at passing cars, feeling quite frustrated and sweaty; the next moment I was inside airconditioning with two Italians, driving at high speed towards the border. The blessed fortunes had struck. Not only were they glad to drive me all the way to Venice (my hoped for destination), but these fiery people went further , offering me work at their family restaurant. Perhaps what appealed really was my proposal : free labor in exhange for food and shelter. After 3 weeks scrounging about in Croatia, being drilled by mosquitos at night, rides in trucks and cars of all sorts, long walks with my thumb out and a heavy pack, I was terribly excited to eat fresh Italian pasta, and working for free seemed a reasonable exchange.
That car ride, with Martino and Laura, was the start of a wonderful week in the Italian village of Sant’Anna Morisina, one hour away from Venice ; this is where the Pettenuzzo family runs a traditional Venetian restaurant, their specialty being roast duck, fresh from the backyard pond ( !). The father, Giovanni, the classic patriarch, shouting violently at times to maintain order ; the mother a plump lady with constant smile, non-stop washing clothes and setting tables. I labored with the stockpile of firewood, to help ready for winter. I also peeled many potatoes.
At night, long hours were spent with the crew of friends – os cavalieros de Sant’Anna – and I was soon adopted as the quizzical, cosmopolitan foreigner, being taken around everywhere. From a ‘buskers festival’ in the old town of Ferrara, where musicians/artists line the cobblestone streets for a week of flamenco, African dance, fire-jugglers, spray painting, and rock&roll…. To a wild bachelor party in the southern Alps, where the scenery of rocky beauty contrasted nicely with the constant pranks on the groom… and finally to an inspiring day with Martino’s uncle in Venice, a magical island city of art and culture… the Italians’ hospitality was unwavering. Soon though, I was boarding the train to the French Riviera, spending a sunny day in Nice ; then finally to Biarritz, where I am now, re-evaluating what is happening.
The speed at which things occur is puzzling; constanly I ask myself, where am I ? what is this place ? as I walk through strange hallways, awake in a strange bed. Dwelling on why these things happen becomes a forfeited luxury, it is no longer worth that philosophical effort. Not trying to make sense of life may prove, however, to be a blessing in disguise. The perceived logic and order in our life is comforting, albeit just a jumbled distortion of the moment. It takes a genuinely jumbled voyage, ironically, to focus more on the moment, as my Bosnian hitchhiking companion taught. He’d sporadically ask, with a rhetorical smirk : where am I ? as we walked along random stretches of highway on Croatia’s coastline. On such moments it was obvious that the answer was irrelevant, secondary to our immediate needs : get the next ride, wherever it goes, because its probably a better destination than this corn field.
I must credit Saleh, for I met him at a fortuitous time ; were it not for this encounter, I probably would not have pursued hitchhiking any further , and never have met the kind Italians and the Pettenuzzo family. I was alone, standing on (what I believed was) a strategic corner, with a polite sign marked ‘North’ in hand ; I was stagnating, cars flying by … when Saleh walks up, and after brief greetings in broken english, his eyes loose, shifting around strangely, he announces he will walk down the street a little ways and get us a ride. I am skeptical but admiring as he forcefully waves at cars, halfway into the street ; then a large truck pulls over, probably in shock at this bloke flailing his arms uncontrollably.
And we’re off, sipping beers in what turns out to be a Croatian beer truck . After being dropped off , with boosted confidence we pursue the next ride, so aggressively that a cop pulls over to check our passports. But fear not, we are not hindered ; and aboard a variety of vehicles several hundred kilometers pass by, and we arrive at a crossroad in our journeys. Saleh left Sarajevo with no money, zero, so I lend him $2 for the ferry accross to his friend’s house. Without money, he merely drank water, ate nothing, and indeed his pace of travel left me without appetite. He had only trust things would come together, and find his way to a friend’s house 600 kms away. It reminded me of a story by Satish Kumar, editor of Resurgence magazine, of how he walked from India to Britain in the name of peace. His guru had advised : take no money. So through trust in people’s kindness, and faith in hard times, he arrived in Britain 6 months later. No world peace, perhaps, but Satish brought peace of mind to himself and others, perhaps.
Saleh and I parted, and I continued on the road north to Italy, now a proud & solo hitchhiker…
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
