Part 1/2: Prologue
Part 1: New York LaGuardia (LGA) to Washington National on US Airways
Part 2: Washington Dulles (IAD) to Frankfurt (FRA) on United
Part 3: FRA – Vienna (VIE) – Skopje (SKP) on Austrian
Part 4: Arrival in Skopje, and Day 1 in Skopje
Part 5: Day 2 in Skopje
Part 6: A bit more Skopje
Part 7: Daytrip to Pristina, Kosovo
Part 8: SKP – Zagreb (ZAG) – VIE on Croatian Airlines
Part 9: VIE – Erbil, Iraq (EBL) on Austrian
Part 10: Erbil, Iraq
Part 11: EBL – VIE on Austrian
Part 12: Hilton Vienna Stadtpark
Part 13: VIE – Zurich (ZRH) – JFK on Swiss
* * * * * * * * *
Part 6:
A bit of a note: When I first began this section, I had originally planned to include both the account of the crazy evening in Skopje and my daytrip to Kosovo in the same section. When I began writing, however, I realized that the evening was rapidly becoming extremely lengthy, and didn’t want to cram the two sections together, at the risk of overwhelming readers. I have, thus, decided to bifurcate the two sections.
Ah, when we last left our hero, yours truly, (just a few days since I wrote the last section, it must be!), I had finished my oven-temperatured trek of touring Skopje in the late afternoon. I had milled back to my hotel, and was planning my quiet, subdued, rest home caliber evening.
Oh – let me interject, at this point, and write the obligatory apologies for slacking on this trip report. It has been a hellish last few weeks, and if it makes anyone feel any better, I’ve neglected most of my life – returning phone calls, e-mails, paying bills, food shopping, and cleaning my room (looks like an ol’ Category 5 just passed through). Perhaps it is simply me adjusting to heightened intensity of the school schedule this year, but, for some reason, when academics ramp up, the rest of my life shuts down. If anyone has any tips for how not to completely abandon the rest of your life when other aspects become intense, besides hiring someone to take care of everything else for you, I’d be very interested to hear.
With that, I had returned to my hotel, thankful for the air conditioning and a chance to lie down. You see, in my older age, and my current course of study, I have become much more boring. In truth, I was looking forward to a quiet evening – relaxing for a bit, a run, dinner, and a few beers on that leafy, hip boulevard I had found, while doing a bit of reading and people watching. Not exactly a night that would impress Linsday Lohan, or make its way to the tabloids, I know, but it was vacation, and one of my main goals was to relax. As I think about it now, it represents a major departure from my younger self when traveling, when I visited Europe during my college years. During those trips, my friends and I were only eager to find the cheapest bottle of vodka available at a corner market, down it with terrible rap music playing in the background, and then head out, trolling for women. Well, now that I think about it, maybe it’s not that I’ve become less exciting, or more boring, but a bit more mature. Moreover, I also planned to awaken early the next morning for an early trip to Kosovo.
It’s only fitting, of course, that my night veered so unexpectedly, incongruously out of control from the original plan, in one of those wonderful it-could-only-happening-while-traveling kind of progression of events. I realllllllly deviated from my original plan.
At first, I stuck to my wonderful script. I decided to lie down a bit, and flip on the TV in my hotel room. I love watching TV abroad, for both being absolutely bewildered and enthralled by local programming, and for also trying to catch a bit of English. Usually, for English, I have to succumb to watching CNN International for their boiled-down and nutrients-removed news, repeated over, and over, and over again each segment, but that evening, I thought myself truly lucky to find an episode of The O.C., in English, with Macedonian subtitles. Jackpot. Now, I know I am divesting myself of a lot of dignity and credibility, here, but I really enjoy The O.C. Yes, the show fell apart in seasons three and four, but the first two seasons were really excellently written and adroitly constructed, with compelling storylines and strong characters. That, and I must admit, Thursday nights during junior year of college consisted of getting drunk off 40-ounces with my roommates and leering at Mischa Barton – see what I mean about becoming more mature? The episode showing was actually from season three, an episode I actually remember watching in my apartment’s living room with my forty of Bud Lite while sitting in the Lay-Z-Boy recliners my roommates found on the street. It hearkened back to the days of undergrad when it was mostly acceptable to live in such conditions. Sigh.
After a bit of TV, I went on another run along the river in the setting sun, showered, and then returned to the same restaurant as the previous night, and ordered the same items. In my defense, I had enjoyed the food so much from the previous evening, I decided to return again. Sometimes, I’ll get like that when I something I really enjoy eating, and will eat it again, and again, for days at a time. It’s, perhaps, a foible of mine. I owe the drainage of my already meager bank account to my ten dollar a day sandwich habit I had last summer at a market near campus, whose sandwiches I could absolutely not stop eating.
After dinner, I ventured over to the hip boulevard, now, approaching 9pm, starting to fill with well-dressed young Macedonians, having drinks under umbrellas. The weather was still wonderful, and the night was charging up for the clientele, with techno music beginning to blare from speakers. I walked past a few places before I found a cafe that had enough light and open space to sit down to read, and ordered a Skopsko beer (a nice brew pronounced with an enjoyable slur of Shhhkopsshhhko). I was the only one sitting alone at this particular cafe – everyone else had a friend or significant other with them, and after a few minutes, and especially after the young waitress approached me and asked me if no one else was joining me, if she could remove the extra chairs from my table, I was starting to feel conspicuously alone, and a bit self-conscious. Maybe I should’ve had her keep the chairs in place, and order some other beers just to place across the table, so at least it had the appearance that someone was actually with me, or, that someone was with me at one point. Hey – having date that rudely ran out on you when she espied an ex-Macedonian boyfriend across the street at one of the louder sidewalk cafes was better than having no date at all, I thought.
Nonetheless, I sat, and read, and ordered another beer. I was enjoying the time, and found myself looking up from my book to sneak glances at other tables and peoplewatch. The diminutive, dark-haired waitress (server?) was friendly and attentive, and the night remained a perfect warmth with just an ever-present hint of breeze.
Soon, the diminutive server (waitress?) returned, and asked me again if anyone else was joining me. No, I fully conceded. “Well, in that case, there are two people over there who are wondering if you would like to join them, and practice their English. Just if you wanted to.” She seemed a bit cautious, and even a bit embarrassed by her suggestion (perhaps she was embarrassed for me). “Of course! Definitely!” I responded. Why the hell not? Something I have mulled over in the past is this idea of the art of traveling alone, and meeting people. I’ve met some great folks while traveling with other people – some of whom became friends for years to come, from the group of social workers on a train from Budapest to Bucharest whose friend owned a Romanian restaurant, to the group of Japanese folks who took my roommate and I karaoking, and with whom we had to communicate via a cell phone translator. Meeting people immediately enhances the travel experience, creates more profound, and personal memories, and places a more involved context on your trip. But – in my instances of traveling alone, I had never really succeeded in meeting people beyond brief conversations (this would later change, too, on my trip to Iraq). Yes, language barrier plays a crucial role – and, in my most recent trip alone, to Uzbekistan, simply, not many people at all spoke English, and my Russian consists of two phrases: “Is that a country house? and “We’re in a minefield!” There is certainly a craft to traveling alone, but a craft that each person hones and places into practice. Some people I know simply sit in bars, and wait for people to come to them, and some people actively try to seek out conversation with others. For now, my passivity had been rewarded with serendipity. My night had instantaneously changed, and, yeah, perhaps it was a bit rash just to join two people at a random table, but I was looking for a bit of excitement, and honestly, everyone I had met, thus far, in Macedonia, and been exceedingly nice.
I got up and joined the table of a clean-cut guy and girl who looked at about my age. I was met by the jovial and chain-smoking Vlatko and Ilyana, who I soon learned were students from Skopje. Ilyana was studying abroad in Germany. Vlatko was a political science student in Skopje who ultimately wanted to obtain his political science PhD at some institute in Moscow, and who had a raging sex addiction. In just the first minutes alone, he had mentioned his club experiences – his times in several European countries, sleeping with multiple people each trip, and also regaled us with several tales of stories where he had been propositioned by men (for good measure, I guess). His connection to the server/waitress (I’m trying to be PC here) was that he used to sleep with her, as well. Apparently, there were few people in the greater Skopje area that Vlatko had not bedded – apparently, I had met the Macedonian Lothario.
Once the conversation finally veered from Vlatko’s Girl’s Gone Wild type exploits, we ordered another round of beers and a dish of the famous Macedonian roasted peanuts. “What are you doing after this?” the ebullient Vlatko inquired.
“Uh, truthfully, I am not doing anything,” I responded a bit sheepishly.
“Then you will come with us, to discotheque!” Vlatko effervesced, taking a drag of his ubiquitous cigarette.
“Discotheque?” I responded. “Of course!” interjected the brash Ilyana. “It is so close to here. You must come!”
“Okay, sounds good, I responded. And, it did, the irony of the situation not quite lost on me, as I had found that quintessential European situation my friends and I had hungered for since we first arrived in Europe with our overactive endocrine systems – being invited by a group of locals to a discotheque, partying until they kicked us out at 9am, with the swagger of knowing there was nothing our parents could do about it. Now, as a somewhat more subdued individual, looking for more relaxation and self-reflection on this particular trip, I would soon immerse myself in a land of sweaty, grinding, poorly-dancing, drunk Europeans, to music that I hadn’t heard since sixth grade, but for some reason, the DJ insists on reviving it there at 200 decibels and a bassline. I couldn’t wait.
One problem, though. My attire wasn’t exactly Fifth Avenue caliber. As a casual bar crawler that evening, I was dressed in shorts, flip-flops, and a shirt from a my theater group in college (not exactly lady-killing attire, either).”Oh, do not worry!” Vlatko responded dismissively. “You are American. You have money. You can get anything you want here.”
The conversation then switched to what on earth I was doing in Macedonia. They couldn’t even believe I would want to visit. But – even more incredulous, to them, was the idea of my wanting to visit Kosovo the next day. “You will be killed!” Vlatko said dramatically. “Yes,” added Ilyana. “Do not go there. Pretend you are British. They hate Americans there.” “Yes, please do not go there,” pleaded Vlatko again. Ilyana suggested a nearby lake as an alternative. Funny, I thought. Every time I mentioned the potential trip to Kosovo to someone, I always heard some doom-filled response. Either my car would be stolen, I would be killed, or I would be backed into an alley and robbed at gunpoint – perhaps, a little like Detroit. The Macedonians are no friends of the Kosovars – the only people they seem to hate more are the Alabanians. “Well, if you come back alive, tomorrow,” Vlatko said, “we can have coffee.”
We talked more about the difference in school systems, economics, and politics of Macedonia and the United States. As I have said before, I always enjoy learning how the day-to-day life runs in a country. Vlatko and Ilyana seemed interested, as well. Their most pressing question, they said, came during closing time, as we were getting ready to leave for the discotheque: “How do you Americans all have such nice teeth?”
We soon left the cafe, including the server/waitress whose name I have forgotten (or failed to ever learn). Let us call her Diana. We made a short walk near the main park, the stadium, and finally approached the venue. I always get a cheeky little nostalgic laugh whenever I approach a European discotheque – it’s always the same, and always quite idiosyncratic of a trip to Europe, and just a bit kitschy. You hear it before you really see it – a muffled thump of bass and that prickly-electrostatic-sounding notes, slowly becoming clearer on approach. Then, you see the lights swimming on the backdrop, criss-crossing the hanging sign that’s always announcing the party’s name, in some slightly clunky English that someone must’ve thought sounded hip. It’s always, always, without fail, something like “Macedonia Euro Summer Party Place” or “Disco Night Fun Party 2009.”
We paid, entered, and joined the hordes. I was pleased to report – it was exactly, exactly, as I thought it would be: hordes of drunken, smoking Macedonians, looking to get down. Where they found the DJ, I also want to know. His musical selection lacked any sort of continuity, theme, lyrical, or musical connection for that matter. He spun records perfect for a Euro discotheque: first, a hit from today, then, something they would’ve played on MTV mid-90s, then, back to something a bit more modern (but, perhaps, like four or five years old – but, seemingly still a hit in Macedonia, judging my the screams of the crowd), then a Macedonian hit, and then, back to something from the 90s. I was impressed – Macedonians, who learn English in school, from a very early age, knew most of the lyrics – even some of the more advanced grammatical and rhetorical structures of some of the songs, such as “good gracious, ass is bodacious” and “I’m in to havin’ sex/I ain’t in to makin’ love.” Furthermore, it seemed as if the DJ was mixing with one of the first Sony Discmen – the man did not beat match, sync, or link any of his songs, and just plowed one into another, like a car accident on a busy interstate. And, it was absolutely wonderful – that perfect, endearing, cheesy atmosphere, but filled with dancing Europeans, who, were absolutely, apologetically, and sincerely going to get down. No one can match the utter dedication and diligence the Europeans put into their discotheque visits. Without swallowing loads of some stimulant, I just have no idea how they could stay out until 9am. Vlatko thought it was no problem. “Sometimes, we leave the club at 9am, head to this park, and buy wine. Then, we sit, and we are drunk all day!” I think I would commit suicide.
I enjoyed myself heartily – dancing, chatting, and at points, screaming out lyrics, when no one else seemed to know them. Yes, I took the solo on House of Pain’s Jump Around. Though my dancing skills, are, uh, lacking/non existent, I still had one helluva time. I’m never quite sure as to what to do when one dances. At first, I try to move my arms and torso in a somewhat rhythmic fashion, but realize that my feet are not moving at all, and I must look as if I’m standing in rapidly setting concrete and trying to wave for help, and to compensate, I must try to move my feet. Unfortunately, my feet move in some sort of spastic shuffle, similar to, I imagine, what an elephant would like in one of those experiments where they inject large animals with PCP.
At 4am, realizing that I needed to be up early to head to the bus station to catch my bus to Kosovo, where I would probably be killed. I bid my farewells to Ilyana and Diana. Vlatko and I were heading in the same direction, and we began to walk from the park. As we walked past toward the stadium, Vlatko, himself an accomplished track runner, told a poignant tale of how because of a lack of funds, the track team had to train on circa-1960s equipment, and outside in the middle of winter, because of no money for indoor facilities. He interrupted his story to grab my arm with both hands. “Did you see her?” he asked, seemingly out of breath, in reference to a tall blond dressed in black walking in the opposite direction.
“I did,” I responded.
“Wowwwwww.” He looked dazed. “She is so beautiful. Her pussy – it would be like a flower!”
I told you Macedonian English teaching was excellent.
We walked through the park. “I just don’t think you understand how much I need sex,” Vlatko commiserated. “It has been over a month since I have had sex.” Poor guy – I could see his mind was so focused on that one thing – and, good thing, as he had told me earlier in the night, that RedTube.com was his favorite website.
At my block, we said goodbye, and made tentative plans for all of us to meet up the next day. A funny, funny guy. I went up to my room, and got ready for bed, not looking forward to the early wake up in just a few hours. I guess I had done a good job of adjusting to the time change.
Even more importantly, I wonder, if Vlatko put all the effort he puts into getting laid, and thinking about getting laid, into his political science studies, we’re finally going to have someone solve all of the world’s political problems. The trouble, is, though, Vlatko’s solution might be pornographic.
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