Let me just preface by saying that Istanbul is the 5th largest city in the world.
The second we landed at Ataturk airport after the day from hell in Sarajevo (although the day was far from over), I knew I was going to like Istanbul. Granted, I had really high expectations which usually fail me in these situations, but I haven't yet been disappointed. The airport was huge and bustling and oddly reminiscent of Hartsfield. It was a strange comfort to be back in crowds...that sounds weird.
We schlepped our bags off the carousel and were met by our ride to the hostel...it was a HUGE van. Grand success. We were offered juice and explained some of the passing surroundings in the car by the driver who spoke no english. So, while I was left to my own devices to figure out where exactly I had just arrived, I couldn't help but confirm my excitement as we passed ocean, sky scrapers, and minarets, all in a miles' distance. I immediately felt comfortable and I still can't figure out why...
However, continuing the epic fail that was May 25, our nice little driver dropped us off at a hostel. Not our hostel, another one. Fail. We get out and have to explain to the poor woman who came to the door that this was not our hostel and work out a chain to communicate back to the driver that we were at the wrong place. Back in the car we went and off to the correct hostel. We arrived to an empty 10 bed room, HOT showers, and our bags being carried FOR us down the stairs. It was so super.
Side note: cats must just be an Eastern European thing. They are quite populous here as well. This particular evening, we even had the fortune to see one fall off the roof behind us, as it crept up on and terrified Tatum, and her scream conversely terrified the cat. Cats really do have 9 lives. And always land on their feet. Always. It's unbelievable.
In the morning, we went up to the hostel's roof top terrace and ate breakfast overlooking the Bosphorous on a glorious morning. After two very large and very needed cups of coffee, we ventured out and saw Turkey. Ayasofya (Hagia Sophia), the Blue Mosque, Topkapi Palace and the public bathrooms. I paid 50 cents to pee in a hole in the ground (the one lacking aspect of this country's westernization...they're everywhere. Mistake #1, but I quickly learned). Turkey is wonderful, mosques never cease to be an artistic and architectural marvel to me, and they have great street food. If you give me a country that serves sesame seed-esque (but better) bagels, roasted corn on the cob, chestnuts and almonds, and orange juice for their street food, I'm pretty sure I could be contented with that alone. Oh, and the call to prayer never EVER gets old.
Turkey is also HOT. Sure, I'm used to it, but problem is, it's not entirely acceptable to run around in shorts here. It's also apparently rude to show the soles of your feet. Not that it's not allowed (it is, after all, an incredibly secular and western country), you just get looks. And cat calls (although, being anything but Turkish-or even being Turkish, I of course wouldn't know-that's sort of inevitable). I'm trying to decide my favorite line, but right now it's a tossup between "are you America's next top model?" and "Hey, black girl" (assumedly referencing the black dress I was wearing.) And then there was the "I have some diet pills for you, ladies." Ouch. Vendors also have a strange obsession with Charlie's Angels...but maybe that's cause there's 3 of us. Anyway...moral of the story, I still have yet to figure out how the women who are fully veiled and covered, down to gloves, don't melt here. Literally. On the note of covering, it's obviously crucial for entering mosques, so I'm constantly with scarf and sweater in my bag, but the day we decided to wear dresses rather than pants and bring leggings to don before going inside certainly warranted some looks. Fail.
The next day we went to the Basilica Cistern, a huge underground pool built in the 6th century by Justinian to provide water to his palace with over 330 massive stone columns and fish swimming in the water. After, we ventured to the spice market, smelled lots of curry, wanted Indian food, and remembered we were in Turkey, land of the kebab (Indian food updates to come when in London). We were supposed to meet a friend of Lauren's in a different district, but plans failed and so we were left to walk around an entirely new district right on the water with views of Asia that we would have never known to exist otherwise.
That night, we returned to our room to find 2 new room mates. As I got in bed and was ready to fall asleep, I realized I couldn't...because there was a FREIGHT TRAIN in our room. That, and a barking pitbull. My dad snores so loudly that he normally sleeps in another room, and he has NOTHING on this girl. And the other evidently has some bronchial infection that sounds like she might actually cough up her lungs. I'd say it took me about 3 hours to fall asleep. And staying that way was hopeless. I would also say that I hate these people a lot and want to stab them in their noisy sleep, but I'm afraid I can't do that. Turns out, they've just returned from 2 weeks in Kazakhstan on their anual visit to the orphanage from which they both adopted their children. They're saints. And I wanted to suffocate them for the sake of my sleep. Fail. Oh, and one of them is a champion knitter-just thought that detail was necessary.
Today, we ventured to the spectacle that is the Grand Bazaar. I went in with wide eyes and terror of being harassed and heckled but was pleasantly surprised when we entered the massive covered, air conditioned market lined with shops all selling pretty much the same things. After the first 5 minutes, you realize that it's not rude to blatantly ignore the shopkeepers, and that you can usually reduce the offered price by at least half. In fact, shopping in Istanbul is more of a social interaction than anything else. It's not unusual for shopkeepers to converse with you about your country, explain their heritage, talk about their families, offer you tea (apple tea is amazing), etc. Dare I say, this whole experience actually became kind of...fun?
Other than that, our trip's been the sight seeing, visiting mosques, and walking to areas of the town that make you feel like you're in a different city entirely, and I couldn't be happier. Anyhow, tomorrow it's off to the Asian side, so more news to come.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Friday, May 28, 2010
Out of the Balkans
I've been slacking lately-much to some family's dismay. Sorry for the delay...this will be the first of a lot of posts catching up.
Sarajevo, what a wonderful little town. And by little town I mean huge city. A very close friend lived there when she was young, so I had seen pictures and heard stories, but beyond that, I was going off very little. Thankfully, Lauren (one of the girls I'm travelling with) had been a few weeks ago and more or less knew the ropes.
Our bus pulled in to the station, and, as per is normally the case with our luck, it started POURING the second we stepped off. Earlier in the trip, Tatum's suitcase broke (that's what you get for 20 euros in Rome...r.i.p. Tardo), as in the seam ripped, the bottom rod on the frame cracked, and a wheel fell off, so walking and dealing with rain was pretty much last on our list of things we needed. Thankfully, we were getting picked up for free by the hostel and driven into town. Sure enough, 20 minutes later, up rolls a tiny 2 door 1982 lord-knows-what black hatch back with pink and green stripes along the side. Keep in mind we are travelling with all of our luggage since January...The poor little Bosnian man got out of the car and laughed. Ultimately we made two trips: one for our bags and the other for us.
We finally made it to the hostel and were served tea and left to converse with the other guests, one of which was in our last hotel in Mostar and another eccentric South-African man with a big agenda (more to come). We set out for the town to find pie. Sarajevo is known for their pies...our picks for the days we were there were burek (meat filled) and zelajsdhjfkh-ok thats not actually how it's spelled but you get the gist, my serbo-croatian never really reached that point-(spinach filled). We ate pie probably an average of every single day, if not twice a day. Mmm...
That night, as we were coming back to the hostel to settle in for the night, we ran into our South African friend who convinced us to go out with him and some of the others. Our rationale? An excuse to avoid returning to our tiny HOT smelly room and old German businessman room mate with a grizzly bear snore. So out we went. First stop was a little cafe-bar that was showing the Bayern Munchen vs. Inter Milan champion's legue final on a projection screen outside with about 50 people crowded into and outside of the place. I really wish the US liked soccer. Post-game, South African friend said that we just HAD to go to this SWEET bar that played wild Russian pop music. Huge fail. Needless to say, we pretty immediately left and ventured to another little bar down the street as our rating for our new friend steadily dropped. Here, we met a few other people who were also staying near us and talked outside for a while. In the mean time, South African friend goes inside and begins to dance. Alone. And not just sway and listen to the music. He was ready to rage. Aaaaanyhow, we all know I'm certainly not one to judge dancing...so to each his own.
The next day, we saw the sights of Sarajevo, mosques, bridges, fountains, churches, markets, tea, coffee, pie, rain, etc. As huge of a city as Sarajevo is, its really very manageable and has a specific character to it. Very Western but at the same time, not at all. One second youre staring at a war-torn house in a small neighborhood, and the next, you're on a busy shopping street packed with stores, banks, and restaurants. By evening, we were just about sick of terribly greasy, heavy food, and to our delight, discovered...SALAD (AND regular filter coffee!!! Espresso's great, but there's nothing like a cuppa joe every now and again) on the menu of the cafe we had stopped at to get out of the rain. That evening, we were not about to attempt round two with any of our fellow guests, so we called it a night and went home. The next day was spent doing much of the same, although this time in the sunshine. We walked all the way to the National Museum to discover it was closed, and so resorted to finishing our day with the purchase of a new suitcase for Tatum and a very large piece of cake.
Then came May 25th, the day of epic failure. We woke up and decided to just take public transportation to the airport. We were in no hurry because our flight wasn't until 6:45 that evening, but our hostel made us checkout at 11 and wouldn't hold our bags. Plan was to leave them at left luggage in the airport and see the Tunnel of Hope from the war that was built under the runways. So, we lug our grossly overweight bags down to the tram stop and wait. And wait. After about an hour and a half, 3 people telling us that they were broken (fail #1), us being stupidly stubborn and not wanting to take the 10 euro cab to the airport, and deciding on it but trying to find a cab big enough for us AND our bags, a tram came. On we hopped (or fell, as it were). We stood all the way in the back as the tram got more and more crowded, when suddenly a man told Tatum to close her purse. She thanked him, looked inside, and realized her wallet was gone. Fail #2. Luckily, she had moved her cards to a different bag that morning and was only short a bit of cash. From the end of the tram line, we had to take a cab to the airport, a ride that was only supposed to be 2 marks...about a euro. The driver charged us 15 euro. Fail #3. At that point, all we wanted to do was go sit. Screw the tunnel, because there wasn't even a place to leave luggage (fail #4). The Sarajevo International Airport was truly unbelievable. Because we were there a good 4 hours before our flight, we couldn't check in yet, and so sat at the one cafe in the entire airport which didn't serve food. fail #5, and had a perfectly adequate cup of tea for lunch it said the cafe was in terminal "B", but I'm pretty positive there was only one terminal and the " " were dubious. The one godsend of the day was the miracle that I didn't get charged for the 6 kilos over the weight limit that my bag was. Sitting at the gate, we saw the flight crew walking around looking for the door...lost. Fail #6, our own flight crew couldn't find the plane. To make things better, we were all pretty sure it would be physically impossible for our plane to actually come to a stop on landing by the sounds of the breaks during taxi. Get me out of this godforsaken place, please.
On our flight, we were served a sandwich and hummus and salad as we made our way to Turkey. I knew things could only go up from here. Or so I thought...
Sarajevo, what a wonderful little town. And by little town I mean huge city. A very close friend lived there when she was young, so I had seen pictures and heard stories, but beyond that, I was going off very little. Thankfully, Lauren (one of the girls I'm travelling with) had been a few weeks ago and more or less knew the ropes.
Our bus pulled in to the station, and, as per is normally the case with our luck, it started POURING the second we stepped off. Earlier in the trip, Tatum's suitcase broke (that's what you get for 20 euros in Rome...r.i.p. Tardo), as in the seam ripped, the bottom rod on the frame cracked, and a wheel fell off, so walking and dealing with rain was pretty much last on our list of things we needed. Thankfully, we were getting picked up for free by the hostel and driven into town. Sure enough, 20 minutes later, up rolls a tiny 2 door 1982 lord-knows-what black hatch back with pink and green stripes along the side. Keep in mind we are travelling with all of our luggage since January...The poor little Bosnian man got out of the car and laughed. Ultimately we made two trips: one for our bags and the other for us.
We finally made it to the hostel and were served tea and left to converse with the other guests, one of which was in our last hotel in Mostar and another eccentric South-African man with a big agenda (more to come). We set out for the town to find pie. Sarajevo is known for their pies...our picks for the days we were there were burek (meat filled) and zelajsdhjfkh-ok thats not actually how it's spelled but you get the gist, my serbo-croatian never really reached that point-(spinach filled). We ate pie probably an average of every single day, if not twice a day. Mmm...
That night, as we were coming back to the hostel to settle in for the night, we ran into our South African friend who convinced us to go out with him and some of the others. Our rationale? An excuse to avoid returning to our tiny HOT smelly room and old German businessman room mate with a grizzly bear snore. So out we went. First stop was a little cafe-bar that was showing the Bayern Munchen vs. Inter Milan champion's legue final on a projection screen outside with about 50 people crowded into and outside of the place. I really wish the US liked soccer. Post-game, South African friend said that we just HAD to go to this SWEET bar that played wild Russian pop music. Huge fail. Needless to say, we pretty immediately left and ventured to another little bar down the street as our rating for our new friend steadily dropped. Here, we met a few other people who were also staying near us and talked outside for a while. In the mean time, South African friend goes inside and begins to dance. Alone. And not just sway and listen to the music. He was ready to rage. Aaaaanyhow, we all know I'm certainly not one to judge dancing...so to each his own.
The next day, we saw the sights of Sarajevo, mosques, bridges, fountains, churches, markets, tea, coffee, pie, rain, etc. As huge of a city as Sarajevo is, its really very manageable and has a specific character to it. Very Western but at the same time, not at all. One second youre staring at a war-torn house in a small neighborhood, and the next, you're on a busy shopping street packed with stores, banks, and restaurants. By evening, we were just about sick of terribly greasy, heavy food, and to our delight, discovered...SALAD (AND regular filter coffee!!! Espresso's great, but there's nothing like a cuppa joe every now and again) on the menu of the cafe we had stopped at to get out of the rain. That evening, we were not about to attempt round two with any of our fellow guests, so we called it a night and went home. The next day was spent doing much of the same, although this time in the sunshine. We walked all the way to the National Museum to discover it was closed, and so resorted to finishing our day with the purchase of a new suitcase for Tatum and a very large piece of cake.
Then came May 25th, the day of epic failure. We woke up and decided to just take public transportation to the airport. We were in no hurry because our flight wasn't until 6:45 that evening, but our hostel made us checkout at 11 and wouldn't hold our bags. Plan was to leave them at left luggage in the airport and see the Tunnel of Hope from the war that was built under the runways. So, we lug our grossly overweight bags down to the tram stop and wait. And wait. After about an hour and a half, 3 people telling us that they were broken (fail #1), us being stupidly stubborn and not wanting to take the 10 euro cab to the airport, and deciding on it but trying to find a cab big enough for us AND our bags, a tram came. On we hopped (or fell, as it were). We stood all the way in the back as the tram got more and more crowded, when suddenly a man told Tatum to close her purse. She thanked him, looked inside, and realized her wallet was gone. Fail #2. Luckily, she had moved her cards to a different bag that morning and was only short a bit of cash. From the end of the tram line, we had to take a cab to the airport, a ride that was only supposed to be 2 marks...about a euro. The driver charged us 15 euro. Fail #3. At that point, all we wanted to do was go sit. Screw the tunnel, because there wasn't even a place to leave luggage (fail #4). The Sarajevo International Airport was truly unbelievable. Because we were there a good 4 hours before our flight, we couldn't check in yet, and so sat at the one cafe in the entire airport which didn't serve food. fail #5, and had a perfectly adequate cup of tea for lunch it said the cafe was in terminal "B", but I'm pretty positive there was only one terminal and the " " were dubious. The one godsend of the day was the miracle that I didn't get charged for the 6 kilos over the weight limit that my bag was. Sitting at the gate, we saw the flight crew walking around looking for the door...lost. Fail #6, our own flight crew couldn't find the plane. To make things better, we were all pretty sure it would be physically impossible for our plane to actually come to a stop on landing by the sounds of the breaks during taxi. Get me out of this godforsaken place, please.
On our flight, we were served a sandwich and hummus and salad as we made our way to Turkey. I knew things could only go up from here. Or so I thought...
Sunday, May 23, 2010
BiH
Trip # 3 of my post-SIT travels down…leaving Mostar and headed to Sarajevo. Perhaps the most exciting prospect of this trip is that it is my last on a bus. As strange as it is (despite the dread that comes along with trying to somehow manage under 20 kilos out of a bag that currently ways what feels like 80), I’m really looking forward to getting on a plane. While buses are indeed easier and cheaper, they are rarely on time (definitely took the Swiss transportation system for granted), usually hot, and likely very smelly (the stereotype that some Europeans aren’t fans of deodorant is all too evident in such close quarters). Also, the bus companies seem to have capitalized on the airlines’ thievery and have now started charging to put a bag underneath. Granted, it’s only around 1 euro but still, principle.
Mostar: The bus ride from Dubrovnik (where we had a 3 hour ‘layover’ after taking a bus that morning from Kotor…much time was spent drawing out two cups of tea and 4 games of sporcle at Pizza Retro across the street from the bus station-we managed to name 137 out of 195 countries of the world in under 15 minutes) to Mostar was by far the most scenic. The mountains in the Balkans, while nothing compared to the Alps (I know, I’m sure I’ve driven the point into the ground that nothing is quite like the Alps, but I’ll continue to say it), are actually quite peculiar. They are green and covered with trees, but when you look at the actual mountain surface, it’s all rock…how DO they do it? Furthermore, it’s as if someone hand-sculpted the hills out of playdoh (I always knew God was a fun-loving kid at heart). They have huge canyons and ridges that are precisely equidistant from one another, and the tops are almost completely uniform in height and surface-even flat in some place. As we barreled along the route from Croatia to Bosnia-Herzegovina, I began to feel as though I was more on a Disney World ride than a bus ride. The tunnels that cut through the mountains were unlit and about 100 meters too long to make enjoying a book on the bus worthwhile, as I found myself putting my book down approximately every 3 minutes while the light disappeared, only to find the world re-illuminated with a view of a river or ocean with water too green and clear to be natural.
If anyone ever ventures to Mostar, STAY WITH MAJDA. Majda, the owner of a guesthouse/hostel in the town, greeted us at the bus station. After piecing together the puzzle of fitting 3 oversized suitcases and 3 camping backpacks (oh, and 4 people) into her tiny VW Golf, I was pretty sure the car wasn’t going to make it, but alas we were please to find ourselves in an adorable apartment with a few other globetrotters where we were immediately ushered onto the sunlit porch and offered tea and cake. We ventured out that evening for Lauren’s birthday dinner (where we gorged ourselves on plates of meat, fish, and house wine all for about 8 euros each) in the Old City and caught our first glimpse of the bridge, the landmark of Mostar.
Out of all the cities in the Balkans, Mostar was hit the hardest during the war. As most of you probably know, I’m not one for sentimental thoughts or reflection, but coming into a city that had been so completely and utterly destroyed a mere 15 years ago and seeing the very evident remains is bone-chilling. I don’t know if it was because we’ve only really read about the experience of war in textbooks (thank god) or because I’m just that naïve, but walking past buildings that had gaping holes from shrapnel, bullets and bombs really left me at a loss for words. The bridge was just recently reconstructed (and to be honest, it wasn’t even that pretty, keeping in mind some of the other bridges I’ve seen in Europe), but it was all but demolished in the war and thought to be one of the most unifying reconstruction projects and crowning achievements of Mostar as it got back on its feet. Of course now, the bridge is mostly populated with tourists who blindly drop coins into a fez to encourage a few locals to jump into the currents below. Frankly, I applaud these men. If I could pull off a Bosnian accent and persuade people to pay me to jump 20 meters into a river? Done. But I digress. We walked around the city for a while, saw the markets, ate some cevapcici (crucial), drank some Bosnian coffee, and saw the outsides of the town’s mosques (frankly, most other buildings in the town are anything but aesthetically pleasing, considering the majority of them were built on a budget in the last 15 years). But before moving on, this coffee deserves special mention. Bosnian coffee is unlike anything I have tasted. The thickest, darkest coffee you’ve ever seen, served in a copper pot and poured directly over a sugar cube-tastes more like chocolate than coffee. Apparently a small pot of this liquid gold costs 1 kyme (.50 euro) in Sarajevo. Can’t wait. Re: the mosques. I’ve once again been reminded how much of a dumb, uncultured, naïve, lived in a bubble my whole life American I am (or would like to think, was). Hearing the call to prayer echo from the minaret towers was one of the most beautiful, foreign, and intriguing things I’ve heard. What’s more, we were actually allowed in one of the mosques, and I was thrilled to be asked to cover my head with my obnoxious yellow scarf and remove my shoes. I should get out more…
That afternoon, we got on a bus to the neighboring town of Blagaj. Here, the river that runs through the city of Mostar originates from deep underneath a cave and is so pure and flows quickly enough that it’s drinkable right from the source. My aspiring doctor germaphobe tendencies went right out the window as I picked up the ornately carved silver bowl that was attached to a long chain by the steps down to the water, dipped it in, and drank. We made it back to the bus stop (i.e. curb) for what we thought was a 5:45 bus, but after waiting until 6 and attempting communication with the man across the street at the café, we learned that the next bus back to Mostar wasn’t until 7. Fail. Cup of tea #3 for the day it was.
Making it back to Mostar, we headed out to dinner and enjoyed another meat-filled meal outside by the river with 4 newfound feline friends who seemed just as hungry as we were. I was flattered yet extremely disappointed in myself when, after greeting the waiter with a “dobar dan” and “hvala,” he cheerfully responded in rapid serbo-croatian and I ashamedly had to say “English?” This morning, we awoke to fresh French toast, tea, and some of the other hostel guests chatting around the patio table about law and politics and were informed that we’d be driven to the bus station…for free. I felt like I was leaving home.
And so it is that we’re off to the second city in this “semi-failed” state (as deemed by the EU-how depressing…congratulations, your infrastructure only kind of sucks…good job, but best of luck on your way to complete failure). More to come, along with pictures…I know you’re probably sick of reading my babble, props to you if you’ve even gotten this far, I know I wouldn’t have.
Mostar: The bus ride from Dubrovnik (where we had a 3 hour ‘layover’ after taking a bus that morning from Kotor…much time was spent drawing out two cups of tea and 4 games of sporcle at Pizza Retro across the street from the bus station-we managed to name 137 out of 195 countries of the world in under 15 minutes) to Mostar was by far the most scenic. The mountains in the Balkans, while nothing compared to the Alps (I know, I’m sure I’ve driven the point into the ground that nothing is quite like the Alps, but I’ll continue to say it), are actually quite peculiar. They are green and covered with trees, but when you look at the actual mountain surface, it’s all rock…how DO they do it? Furthermore, it’s as if someone hand-sculpted the hills out of playdoh (I always knew God was a fun-loving kid at heart). They have huge canyons and ridges that are precisely equidistant from one another, and the tops are almost completely uniform in height and surface-even flat in some place. As we barreled along the route from Croatia to Bosnia-Herzegovina, I began to feel as though I was more on a Disney World ride than a bus ride. The tunnels that cut through the mountains were unlit and about 100 meters too long to make enjoying a book on the bus worthwhile, as I found myself putting my book down approximately every 3 minutes while the light disappeared, only to find the world re-illuminated with a view of a river or ocean with water too green and clear to be natural.
If anyone ever ventures to Mostar, STAY WITH MAJDA. Majda, the owner of a guesthouse/hostel in the town, greeted us at the bus station. After piecing together the puzzle of fitting 3 oversized suitcases and 3 camping backpacks (oh, and 4 people) into her tiny VW Golf, I was pretty sure the car wasn’t going to make it, but alas we were please to find ourselves in an adorable apartment with a few other globetrotters where we were immediately ushered onto the sunlit porch and offered tea and cake. We ventured out that evening for Lauren’s birthday dinner (where we gorged ourselves on plates of meat, fish, and house wine all for about 8 euros each) in the Old City and caught our first glimpse of the bridge, the landmark of Mostar.
Out of all the cities in the Balkans, Mostar was hit the hardest during the war. As most of you probably know, I’m not one for sentimental thoughts or reflection, but coming into a city that had been so completely and utterly destroyed a mere 15 years ago and seeing the very evident remains is bone-chilling. I don’t know if it was because we’ve only really read about the experience of war in textbooks (thank god) or because I’m just that naïve, but walking past buildings that had gaping holes from shrapnel, bullets and bombs really left me at a loss for words. The bridge was just recently reconstructed (and to be honest, it wasn’t even that pretty, keeping in mind some of the other bridges I’ve seen in Europe), but it was all but demolished in the war and thought to be one of the most unifying reconstruction projects and crowning achievements of Mostar as it got back on its feet. Of course now, the bridge is mostly populated with tourists who blindly drop coins into a fez to encourage a few locals to jump into the currents below. Frankly, I applaud these men. If I could pull off a Bosnian accent and persuade people to pay me to jump 20 meters into a river? Done. But I digress. We walked around the city for a while, saw the markets, ate some cevapcici (crucial), drank some Bosnian coffee, and saw the outsides of the town’s mosques (frankly, most other buildings in the town are anything but aesthetically pleasing, considering the majority of them were built on a budget in the last 15 years). But before moving on, this coffee deserves special mention. Bosnian coffee is unlike anything I have tasted. The thickest, darkest coffee you’ve ever seen, served in a copper pot and poured directly over a sugar cube-tastes more like chocolate than coffee. Apparently a small pot of this liquid gold costs 1 kyme (.50 euro) in Sarajevo. Can’t wait. Re: the mosques. I’ve once again been reminded how much of a dumb, uncultured, naïve, lived in a bubble my whole life American I am (or would like to think, was). Hearing the call to prayer echo from the minaret towers was one of the most beautiful, foreign, and intriguing things I’ve heard. What’s more, we were actually allowed in one of the mosques, and I was thrilled to be asked to cover my head with my obnoxious yellow scarf and remove my shoes. I should get out more…
That afternoon, we got on a bus to the neighboring town of Blagaj. Here, the river that runs through the city of Mostar originates from deep underneath a cave and is so pure and flows quickly enough that it’s drinkable right from the source. My aspiring doctor germaphobe tendencies went right out the window as I picked up the ornately carved silver bowl that was attached to a long chain by the steps down to the water, dipped it in, and drank. We made it back to the bus stop (i.e. curb) for what we thought was a 5:45 bus, but after waiting until 6 and attempting communication with the man across the street at the café, we learned that the next bus back to Mostar wasn’t until 7. Fail. Cup of tea #3 for the day it was.
Making it back to Mostar, we headed out to dinner and enjoyed another meat-filled meal outside by the river with 4 newfound feline friends who seemed just as hungry as we were. I was flattered yet extremely disappointed in myself when, after greeting the waiter with a “dobar dan” and “hvala,” he cheerfully responded in rapid serbo-croatian and I ashamedly had to say “English?” This morning, we awoke to fresh French toast, tea, and some of the other hostel guests chatting around the patio table about law and politics and were informed that we’d be driven to the bus station…for free. I felt like I was leaving home.
And so it is that we’re off to the second city in this “semi-failed” state (as deemed by the EU-how depressing…congratulations, your infrastructure only kind of sucks…good job, but best of luck on your way to complete failure). More to come, along with pictures…I know you’re probably sick of reading my babble, props to you if you’ve even gotten this far, I know I wouldn’t have.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
school's out for summer
Junior year is officially over, so I guess that means I'm a senior...but we won't talk about that.
We spent the last week in Dubrovnink, a UNESCO world heritage site, in an adorable little apartment with a jasmine-covered porch, a dog named Bepo/Max/Bow Wow (we weren't really sure) and a very leaky sink problem (the solution to which, per request of the owner, was to layer 6 towels on the floor every morning). Dubrovnik was great. There are cafes, castles, walls, beaches, and, most importantly, great rocks for jumping off of. After venturing down to a beach past the Old Town on day 2, jumping in to the crystal clear Adriatic, swimming to a hotel I'm pretty sure we weren't supposed to end up at, meeting some friendly British tourists who had the same idea, swimming even further, climbing a whole bunch of rocks. and coming back to lay in the sun (and try and rid myself of the horrendous shorts tan I have from Split), we made it a point to take the ferry over to the neighboring island of Lopud the next day for more beach. And then it rained. For 4 days.
I'll be honest, Dubrovnik is great, but there really isn't a ton to do when it rains in a town that gains its reputation for being one of the top ten best beaches in the world. But we made the best, I suppose. After many a quest to find cevapcici (Croatian meat dish-sauce, beef, pita, onion, greatness) to no avail, we found it at the grocery store and Chip, a seasoned cevapi vet, played chef to give the rest of us our first taste. After one too many movies and venturing out to brave the elements to stave off a terrible case of cabin fever, we left Dubrovnik, all 5 of us (one back to the states, one to Paris, and the rest of us to Montenegro), and it was off to Kotor for a grand total of $15. After stopping at border control, having our passports taken, driving for 10 minutes before getting them back, and seeing a sign that said "welcome to the Ukraine," I'll admit we were a little worried, but 2.5 hours later we pulled into the autobuska standnica in Kotor.
Kotor is a little port-side town in Montenegro, surrounded by mountains that runs along the inlet port right outside the city walls. As a friend quite aptly put it, many Balkans cities, or at least the ones we've seen, are a chain of a bunch of towns characterized by adorable little fortresses. I guess "little" is an understatement considering the fortress walls of Kotor stretch more than halfway up a mountain side, and the mote surrounding them at the bottom has waters more raging than a class 5 rapid. But that's not the point. One of the most remarkable things about these city walls is the difference between inside and outside. Here, it's like night and day. One minute you feel like you're in the projects, and the next, you're in 7th century paradise. I'm sure much of this in Dubrovnik was attributable to the tourism that ran rampant in Dubrovnik, but little old Kotor seems somehow more authentic. Just outside the walls is a daily market, mostly run and funded by locals, selling everything from fruits and vegetables to jewelry and cowboy hats (I kid you not). But venture inside and find a multitude of cafes (there is a SERIOUS obsession here with "cafe bars," sprawling establishments along squares and sidewalks that sell nothing but drinks where it's not unusual for people to sit for 3 hours and just stare. I'm not complaining, but we have asked ourselves more than once if people actually work here and if so, how can I get one of their jobs...There's a huge population of cats (and even a few dogs...which pleases me because dogs are obviously superior) that contribute to the nightly soundtrack outside our window of meowing and church bells (on the hour, every hour, all hours), that is heightened in the mornings around 7 am with the walking and talking of tourist groups and, yesterday, the drum and song celebration of the Montenegrin water polo team.
Most of these little cities are best seen by wandering aimlessly among the streets and alleys, stopping for a coffee (yesterday we discovered iced coffee-cold coffee with a scoop of vanilla gelato and a heap of whipped cream, topped with chocolate syrup) or stumbling into an old church. Churches here are certainly plentiful. Most of them are Orthodox, with ornate gold and woodwork (and priests who offer to take your picture in front of the altar?? ...) and we went in one yesterday that was built in 809 and only slightly restored once. The 1 isn't missing from the date.
After checking into our hostel and dragging our 60 pound suitcases (travelling with enough luggage to last me since January, terrible idea. Europe doesn't have elevators. Ever.) back down the flight of stairs and up another at our room down the street, we settled into our surprisingly nice room, glad to get away from the other hostel guests who, as we've discovered, spend their days in the reception area eating pizza, drinking beer, giggling to Arrested Development and playing "never have I ever" (Whilst sitting on the floor in the hallway trying to steal the free wifi, angry that we were put down the street sans wifi because they lost the reservation, we ACTUALLY heard someone ask for a clarification on a question that went something like "well, I've never slept with two GIRLS at the same time, if that's what you mean." I'm being dead serious. It was then that we counted the lost booking as a blessing in disguise, as we now have an 8 person dorm entirely to ourselves.)
Today, it's off to scale the mountain side to climb to the top of the fortress, but that's only after we sit at an outdoor cafe to enjoy a leisurely breakfast of tea, bread, coffee, and omelets (a meal that yesterday totalled 10 euros for 3 of us). And on that note, I'm really hungry. More to come when we get to Mostar tomorrow.
We spent the last week in Dubrovnink, a UNESCO world heritage site, in an adorable little apartment with a jasmine-covered porch, a dog named Bepo/Max/Bow Wow (we weren't really sure) and a very leaky sink problem (the solution to which, per request of the owner, was to layer 6 towels on the floor every morning). Dubrovnik was great. There are cafes, castles, walls, beaches, and, most importantly, great rocks for jumping off of. After venturing down to a beach past the Old Town on day 2, jumping in to the crystal clear Adriatic, swimming to a hotel I'm pretty sure we weren't supposed to end up at, meeting some friendly British tourists who had the same idea, swimming even further, climbing a whole bunch of rocks. and coming back to lay in the sun (and try and rid myself of the horrendous shorts tan I have from Split), we made it a point to take the ferry over to the neighboring island of Lopud the next day for more beach. And then it rained. For 4 days.
I'll be honest, Dubrovnik is great, but there really isn't a ton to do when it rains in a town that gains its reputation for being one of the top ten best beaches in the world. But we made the best, I suppose. After many a quest to find cevapcici (Croatian meat dish-sauce, beef, pita, onion, greatness) to no avail, we found it at the grocery store and Chip, a seasoned cevapi vet, played chef to give the rest of us our first taste. After one too many movies and venturing out to brave the elements to stave off a terrible case of cabin fever, we left Dubrovnik, all 5 of us (one back to the states, one to Paris, and the rest of us to Montenegro), and it was off to Kotor for a grand total of $15. After stopping at border control, having our passports taken, driving for 10 minutes before getting them back, and seeing a sign that said "welcome to the Ukraine," I'll admit we were a little worried, but 2.5 hours later we pulled into the autobuska standnica in Kotor.
Kotor is a little port-side town in Montenegro, surrounded by mountains that runs along the inlet port right outside the city walls. As a friend quite aptly put it, many Balkans cities, or at least the ones we've seen, are a chain of a bunch of towns characterized by adorable little fortresses. I guess "little" is an understatement considering the fortress walls of Kotor stretch more than halfway up a mountain side, and the mote surrounding them at the bottom has waters more raging than a class 5 rapid. But that's not the point. One of the most remarkable things about these city walls is the difference between inside and outside. Here, it's like night and day. One minute you feel like you're in the projects, and the next, you're in 7th century paradise. I'm sure much of this in Dubrovnik was attributable to the tourism that ran rampant in Dubrovnik, but little old Kotor seems somehow more authentic. Just outside the walls is a daily market, mostly run and funded by locals, selling everything from fruits and vegetables to jewelry and cowboy hats (I kid you not). But venture inside and find a multitude of cafes (there is a SERIOUS obsession here with "cafe bars," sprawling establishments along squares and sidewalks that sell nothing but drinks where it's not unusual for people to sit for 3 hours and just stare. I'm not complaining, but we have asked ourselves more than once if people actually work here and if so, how can I get one of their jobs...There's a huge population of cats (and even a few dogs...which pleases me because dogs are obviously superior) that contribute to the nightly soundtrack outside our window of meowing and church bells (on the hour, every hour, all hours), that is heightened in the mornings around 7 am with the walking and talking of tourist groups and, yesterday, the drum and song celebration of the Montenegrin water polo team.
Most of these little cities are best seen by wandering aimlessly among the streets and alleys, stopping for a coffee (yesterday we discovered iced coffee-cold coffee with a scoop of vanilla gelato and a heap of whipped cream, topped with chocolate syrup) or stumbling into an old church. Churches here are certainly plentiful. Most of them are Orthodox, with ornate gold and woodwork (and priests who offer to take your picture in front of the altar?? ...) and we went in one yesterday that was built in 809 and only slightly restored once. The 1 isn't missing from the date.
After checking into our hostel and dragging our 60 pound suitcases (travelling with enough luggage to last me since January, terrible idea. Europe doesn't have elevators. Ever.) back down the flight of stairs and up another at our room down the street, we settled into our surprisingly nice room, glad to get away from the other hostel guests who, as we've discovered, spend their days in the reception area eating pizza, drinking beer, giggling to Arrested Development and playing "never have I ever" (Whilst sitting on the floor in the hallway trying to steal the free wifi, angry that we were put down the street sans wifi because they lost the reservation, we ACTUALLY heard someone ask for a clarification on a question that went something like "well, I've never slept with two GIRLS at the same time, if that's what you mean." I'm being dead serious. It was then that we counted the lost booking as a blessing in disguise, as we now have an 8 person dorm entirely to ourselves.)
Today, it's off to scale the mountain side to climb to the top of the fortress, but that's only after we sit at an outdoor cafe to enjoy a leisurely breakfast of tea, bread, coffee, and omelets (a meal that yesterday totalled 10 euros for 3 of us). And on that note, I'm really hungry. More to come when we get to Mostar tomorrow.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
the end. again.
This time, it's for real. End of my semester, end of school, end of ISP...given that I had an 11 hour bus ride to Dubrovnik from Zagreb, I had quite a bit of time to think. These are my thoughts...
With all the complaining I've done about my program and SIT, I'd like to say that I've come out of the semester realizing that in hindsight, I am a smarter person, I've learned so much, I'm ready to go save the public health world, etc etc. Sadly, this is certainly not the case...at least that's not how I feel. However, thinking back on all the experiences I've had over the past 4 months, the ones that stick out the most are completely unrelated to school. After many a discussion with someone quite close to me, I've come to terms that yes, I feel like I've been ripped off, academics-wise, and yes, I could have probably learned more in my classes at school, but is that really the point of going abroad? Of course I would have learned more at GW, that's why I go there. People always talk about how much they've changed whilst abroad and how different things seem when they return. I can't say that I've outwardly changed (but then again, I'm not one to judge), but I would like to think that everything I've gotten to do while abroad (study in the UN library, go to 11 different countries, go swimming at the beach and skiing in the Alps in the same weekend) has had some impact on me, even if it's not noticeable.
Even dealing with a crazy host family has taught me a lot. For example, no matter how much you disagree with raging conservative ideals (yes, even in Switzerland), sometimes it's easiest to keep you mouth shut. Families have different customs...some that are easier to settle with than others. A comparison: host sister who was self-proclaimed "best kisser in town" at age 11 sleeping over at her boyfriend's house at age 14...versus...host sister who is living at home, age 30. The lifestyles between Croatia and Switzerland are so unbelievably different, but considering how terrified I was to come to another homestay in Croatia, I could NOT have been happier with my family. Dinner was never at a set time. Food was always on the table for me to heat up, no matter the time I came home. In Switzerland, the world was over if I was late (i.e. past 7), but here, I'm encouraged every day to stay out more, see the town (...), come home at 2 am if I so desire. Totally on my own schedule and I love it.
This brings me to the next topic, food (crucial-a topic of the majority of my conversations). If I had to pick one word to describe the food here, it would absolutely be oil. EVERYTHING is in oil-soups have a layer on top, vegetables are soaked in it, even pastries leave it on your hands. But host mama, the angel that she is, picked up on this (perhaps from the rate at which the Special K was disappearing from the cupboard and the corresponding rate the food was not disappearing from the dishes on the table) and, to compensate, SHOVES fruit at me. Every morning, 3 apples, 2 bananas. After dinner, "another jabuka?" For those of you who know me, live with me, or have ever been in a grocery store with me, I could not be happier.
While any hope of learning Croatian was lost on day 1, on a brighter note, I AM getting to use my new German skills with host mama. She speaks hardly any English, but she's decent in German, and I've pulled out the occasional "zug" for transportation questions or thrown out a "bitte" to ask how to say please in Croatian, and even used the numbers to tell her what time I had to leave. I KNEW it would come in handy somewhere...I just never figured out it would be in Croatia. This can be added to my list of reasons that justify wanting to learn German (other than the fact that the words Munchen Flughafen might comprise the greatest phrase ever).
During a final lunch with our group of 22, Earl made a last toast to each one of us. Some were bizarre and some heartfelt, and I couldn't help but put aside my sometimes...strong (there has to be a better word?)...feelings about Earl and think about his role during the whole semester. Despite all of the frustrations, to put it lightly, I can't think of a memorable day of class or lecture that didn't somehow directly involve Earl and end in a story to tell. Looking back on all the memories throughout the past months, the end of everything is really bitter-sweet. Everyone else is ready to pack up and get on the plane tomorrow, headed back to America. I'm here for 6 more weeks. On the one hand, I couldn't be more thrilled, on the other, home is sounding pretty excellent right about now. I keep telling myself it's just because everyone else is leaving, but I guess a few weeks' time will answer that question. So as I sit here thinking about my upcoming travels to the Croatian coast, Montenegro, Bosnia, Turkey, Ireland, and the UK, in many respects, my trip's only just begun. With most of my memories from the past months taken from personal rather than academic experience, I have to ask myself, would I really do it all again? In a heartbeat.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
lost.
I've been in Zagreb for about 2 weeks now, and to be honest, it has most certainly not gotten any easier. Words are still just letters jumbled together, and people are not as helpful when it comes to English as we were told. Example: tried to mail a package from the post office yesterday, took about 45 minutes and took much physical activity from hand motions and re-filling out forms that i screwed up the first time. I'm all about new experiences and languages, but such a drastic difference from the Switzerland I had become so accustomed to for the last 4 months to this part of Europe is pretty jolting, especially when I've got my final research paper and presentation to focus on.
Zagreb is...for lack of a better term...pretty ugly, but I was fortunate enough to go with a friend last weekend to the island of Brac to their family house. To begin, I get a phone call from her host dad on friday night telling (not asking) me that we are going to the coast on Saturday. And that we will leave at 4. AM. I should be ready at 3:45. So 11:30 pm and it's off to bed I go. Sure enough, 3:15 rolls around and at 3:40 my poor host mother calls me downstairs to say my ride is here. She sends me on my way with 2 sandwiches, 2 Bananas, 2 apples, and a bottle of Cedevita ("juice" as they call it, more like Airborne meets Emergen-C) and I get in the car, only to find 2 complete (non-english speaking) strangers in the front seat and Jenn Sloan nowhere in sight. I'm driven to a house and thankfully see Jenn come outside, soon learning that the man in the front seat was both her and my host dads' brother. This was just the beginning of our adventure.
I don't think I've ever been so scared of dying in my entire life. Bronco (Jenn's host dad) decided to take the scenic route through the mountains (us Swiss Alps natives call them more "hills"). The road was beautiful, but I think hairpin turns are an understatement. Aaaand there were no guardrails. Meantime, we heard screeching tires as we took the curves. Lanes were no object to Bronco, and as he told us (direct quote), when the speed limit says 50 km it really means 150. It was hard to sleep from the whiplash we were incurring but we kept our eyes shut for fear of what we'd see if we looked out the window. We finally arrive in Split, the city on the mainland where we catch the ferry to Brac and head straight to the ice cream shop. It was 9 am. After eating the ice cream and walking around for a bit, we walked (and ran) up to the ferry, only to arrive just as the gate was pulling away...leaving us 2 more hours to kill before the next one. Branco had told us not to worry about finishing our final projects because we would have all the free time in the world to work and do as we pleased, but we rather quickly found out this was false. In fact, we didn't see the beach the whole weekend.
After the hour-long ferry ride, we get off the boat and stand where the cars pull off. Bronco had joked about hitchhiking from the ferry to the house earlier. This was not a joke. We stood at the ferry entrance until every car had driven off, and after watching Bronco give pleading looks to every driver, we made our way to the bus station. Upon arrival to the completely unfinished house (sans electricity, sans water), we walked in, put our bags in the sawdust, and saw a twin mattress on the floor in the middle. We said nothing. Across the street, we met Bronco's friend who was a national champion of olive oil and also made his own wine, both of which we tried. Croatian wine is certainly not like Swiss wine, that's for sure. Also, people here have a tradition of putting water in their wine (although I'm not entirely convinced it's just because of the taste...more later). Coming up from the wine cellar into the garden, we saw 3 adorable baby lambs. Then, up from another basement comes a mad scientist man-long blue labcoat, black rubber boots, little round glasses, crazy white hair, AND A KNIFE IN HIS HAND. All we hear is, "he going to kill lamb for dinner, you watch?" Jenn, being a vegetarian and myself, being a sane human being, respectfully declined and ran away to the sound of the bleating lambs. I don't think I've ever been so close to becoming vegetarian in my life (but somehow I just couldn't do it...) Next, we were told to get in a car to go to a "surprise" for us (turns out the surprise was really someone else's birthday). We drive 20 minutes up the mountain, walk 20 minutes through a field (all the while getting NO ideas as to where we were being led-no civilization in sight), and come upon a little stone house with a fire in the garden and 4 old men sitting around the table. There was a whole lamb rosting on the spit and 4 bottles of wine on the table. The rest of the afternoon (and evening, the ordeal lasted about 6.5 hours...so much for free time) consisted of more old men (the total reached 16) telling us we were not drinking enough wine (pretty sure THIS is why they add the water...they'd been going since noon) and eating the salad that was on the table and the vegetables they made especially for us. With Jenn being vegetarian, she might as well have been an alien. These men simply could not wrap their minds around the fact that she didn't eat meat. It was just unheard of. Although we couldn't understand the conversation (which was probably a good thing, since Bronco told us much of it consisted of sex and dirty jokes...), the two words we learned to pick out quite easily were 'vegetarian' and 'american.' At one point, Jenn was even led into the yard, shown the grass, and told to eat.
Finally, at about 8 that night, we left the table, and one of the brothers got the keys. To DRIVE. A CAR. Again, fearing for our lives, we got in and fastened our seat belts. Except for there were none. It really is a miracle that we made it out of this weekend alive. The 3 brothers in the car were singing at the top of their lungs, laughing, cracking jokes, all the way home. We always felt obliged to laugh along even though we didn't understand most of them, even with translation, but we later learned from my host family that no one really gets Bronco's jokes...even in Croatian. We ended up sleeping in the beautifully remodeled house of my host family that was next door, and were on our way home again with a gasoline container full of olive oil in the trunk. What a weekend.
Getting back to Zagreb, the next week was spent entirely at the SIT office finishing papers and presentations. I must say, in each of the 22 hour-long project presentations, I think I learned more about public health than I had learned the whole semester (but that's an issue to be discussed in a strongly worded evaluation for SIT next week...). Being done with such an endeavor feels oddly liberating, and we spent the last weekend, all 22 of us (even Chip and Thomas made it...eventually) at the beach in Split, home of Diocletian's palace and beautiful Adriatic coastline. Our "hostel" really ended up being a 5 bed apartment with a kitchen for a few of us, and we cooked dinner and celebrated the end of the semester with everyone. I really have come to realize how lucky we got...according to directors and host parents alike, there has NEVER been a group that has gotten along as well as we have. Quite a feat for 22.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Putovanje u Hrvatska!
That's "a trip to Croatia" for all you non-croatian speakers. Reason number 1 why I'm unbelievably terrified.
Earl falsity #77-everyone, including homestay parents, in Croatia speak English. False. But maybe I should begin at the beginning.
After waking up at 5 am this morning, going upstairs for one last breakfast feast, only to be hurried along and then guilted because host mama thought I said 5:45 (moins quart) versus 6:15 (et quart) as the departure time (the departure that, to my relief, was from Yens straight to the airport...thanks, Lauren's host mom). After all, what would my last morning chez Andres have been without some misunderstanding or reprimand? Anyways, after having shipped off my brand new suitcase full of chocolate-find me when I'm back-courtesy of host mama and the cobblestoned streets of Venice (the suitcase that is, not the chocolate)...and the Yens post office is another story (that involves shoving a 20 kg suitcase over the counter and cash register and through the glass reception window, only to be told its actually 20.01 kg and that it'd be 40 chf more to ship)...and stepping on and off the scale about 50 times holding my suitcase to endure it was under 20 kg (ridiculous for 6 months of clothes over 2 seasons? Oui.), I was finally off. Host parents gave a sentimental goodbye at the top of the driveway as the kids lay fast asleep in their beds, and I was en route to Geneve Aeroport.
After 2 flights, a stopover in Munchen Flughafen, and 3 very cool passport stamps later, we were in Zagreb. The other SIT Geneva program is currently spending the final days of their program at a beachside resort in the costal town of Pula, but we are going once again to homestays in the very urban capital of Zagreb. Don't get me wrong, I'm all for new experiences, but not twice being plunged into an entirely new culture, language, home, and family. It definitely takes some adjustment to learn how a family functions, and with the added stress of our 30 page ISP presentations looming in the near future (ie. 1 week) does NOT help the acclimation process. I would love to get to explore the city and get to know my new host family, a process which took a good week or so in Switzerland, but that's pretty hard when we have these papers to finish. And what's more, a good 60% of the students here don't have internet in their new homes. Fail.
So as we sat in a restaurant, all awkward and nervous with a strange feeling of deja vu that we did this just over 3 months ago (oh wait, we did.), we awaited the arrival of our new host families to come whisk us away for the next 2 weeks. We were reassured that they would speak english, but quickly discovered that this was not the case for some. I, however, got lucky...for once. I live on the same street as one of the other SIT students (Mel!), my host mother is a psychologist (although she speaks no english, my 30 year old host sister is the sweetest person alive and is an english and italian teacher (perfect english and I get to brush up on italian), and the 24 year old brother speaks very decent english as well (and plays a mean game of pool, as I discovered this afternoon). The mother is a little terrifying, but I think that might just be a combination of her looks and the fact that I haven't the slightest clue what she's saying. That's the thing with Croatian, you can't even BEGIN to deduce what things mean unless you might have some background in Russian or something. Good, now I get to put my Russian to use finally. Example: "parmacy"...french: 'pharmacie,' italian: 'farmacia,' german: 'apotheke,' croatian: 'LJEKARNA'?!?!?!? You can see how coming here not even knowing how to say "hello" has proven challenging (although surprisingly many people do speak english here). Thank god I already knew how to say "I'm cold" and "I love you" (thanks Andrea), that's all I should need to get by, right??
So as I sit here alone in my new little bedroom (aptly called a barn by someone viewing it via skype) eating the last bread and cheese sandwich from Switzerland that I'll have for my dinner (they don't quite have the tradition of eating dinner together here), I can't help but think back on a) how great Switzerland was in so many regards (excluding economically...$0.18 to the Kuna here!), despite crazy families and crazy teachers and b) how...enlightening...these next few weeks are going to be.
Earl falsity #77-everyone, including homestay parents, in Croatia speak English. False. But maybe I should begin at the beginning.
After waking up at 5 am this morning, going upstairs for one last breakfast feast, only to be hurried along and then guilted because host mama thought I said 5:45 (moins quart) versus 6:15 (et quart) as the departure time (the departure that, to my relief, was from Yens straight to the airport...thanks, Lauren's host mom). After all, what would my last morning chez Andres have been without some misunderstanding or reprimand? Anyways, after having shipped off my brand new suitcase full of chocolate-find me when I'm back-courtesy of host mama and the cobblestoned streets of Venice (the suitcase that is, not the chocolate)...and the Yens post office is another story (that involves shoving a 20 kg suitcase over the counter and cash register and through the glass reception window, only to be told its actually 20.01 kg and that it'd be 40 chf more to ship)...and stepping on and off the scale about 50 times holding my suitcase to endure it was under 20 kg (ridiculous for 6 months of clothes over 2 seasons? Oui.), I was finally off. Host parents gave a sentimental goodbye at the top of the driveway as the kids lay fast asleep in their beds, and I was en route to Geneve Aeroport.
After 2 flights, a stopover in Munchen Flughafen, and 3 very cool passport stamps later, we were in Zagreb. The other SIT Geneva program is currently spending the final days of their program at a beachside resort in the costal town of Pula, but we are going once again to homestays in the very urban capital of Zagreb. Don't get me wrong, I'm all for new experiences, but not twice being plunged into an entirely new culture, language, home, and family. It definitely takes some adjustment to learn how a family functions, and with the added stress of our 30 page ISP presentations looming in the near future (ie. 1 week) does NOT help the acclimation process. I would love to get to explore the city and get to know my new host family, a process which took a good week or so in Switzerland, but that's pretty hard when we have these papers to finish. And what's more, a good 60% of the students here don't have internet in their new homes. Fail.
So as we sat in a restaurant, all awkward and nervous with a strange feeling of deja vu that we did this just over 3 months ago (oh wait, we did.), we awaited the arrival of our new host families to come whisk us away for the next 2 weeks. We were reassured that they would speak english, but quickly discovered that this was not the case for some. I, however, got lucky...for once. I live on the same street as one of the other SIT students (Mel!), my host mother is a psychologist (although she speaks no english, my 30 year old host sister is the sweetest person alive and is an english and italian teacher (perfect english and I get to brush up on italian), and the 24 year old brother speaks very decent english as well (and plays a mean game of pool, as I discovered this afternoon). The mother is a little terrifying, but I think that might just be a combination of her looks and the fact that I haven't the slightest clue what she's saying. That's the thing with Croatian, you can't even BEGIN to deduce what things mean unless you might have some background in Russian or something. Good, now I get to put my Russian to use finally. Example: "parmacy"...french: 'pharmacie,' italian: 'farmacia,' german: 'apotheke,' croatian: 'LJEKARNA'?!?!?!? You can see how coming here not even knowing how to say "hello" has proven challenging (although surprisingly many people do speak english here). Thank god I already knew how to say "I'm cold" and "I love you" (thanks Andrea), that's all I should need to get by, right??
So as I sit here alone in my new little bedroom (aptly called a barn by someone viewing it via skype) eating the last bread and cheese sandwich from Switzerland that I'll have for my dinner (they don't quite have the tradition of eating dinner together here), I can't help but think back on a) how great Switzerland was in so many regards (excluding economically...$0.18 to the Kuna here!), despite crazy families and crazy teachers and b) how...enlightening...these next few weeks are going to be.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)