Once upon a time...
In light of recent others posting memories of foreign living, I thought I'd post this short story of a trip to Sarajevo. I'll leave you to figure out which character is E.Once Upon a Time, I Was Assassinated by the Black Hand
A short story by S.D.
Thursday November 9th is certainly not a day that future history books will remember. To the untrained eye, it probably appeared much like any other Thursday, with all the tell-tale signs of an impending week-end: a dog barking quietly in the distance, wind out of the north-northwest at four knots, excited anticipation in any of Budapest's fine kocsmak. Yet this Thursday was two days before Armistice Day.
And on the eve of such a weighty day, ex-patriots must recall the climatic end of the Great War by paying homage at the scene of the crime. The crime: the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand on 28 June 1914 that started the whole mess. The scene: sunny downtown Sarajevo.
But before I regale you, dear reader, with tales of my escapades through enemy controlled Serbian territory, let me brief you a bit on the United States Department of State and their revered "travel advisories." If I've learned anything during my semester abroad, it is how to read between the lines of said "advisories." Clearly designed to encourage passive compliance, State Department "travel advisories" are exactly that: suggestions for stupid American tourists. They are meant to be taken with a grain of salt. And they are certainly not a reason not to drink coffee in the break-away Serbian controlled Republika Srpska in northern Bosnia.
So I'd be lying if I said that I was surprised to find myself on a train from Budapest to Zagreb at 17.35 on that magical Thursday, planning to connect in Zagreb on the 12.30 bus on Friday to Sarajevo. If the plan was flawless in foresight, it was sheer bliss in implementation. I was confident myself and my travelling partner (hereafter, we'll call her "Texas" to protect the innocent and simultaneously quietly remember the Bush family legacy) would travel to Sarajevo by the safest route possible.
Texas leaned over to me and asked, "We won't be travelling through the break-away Republika Srpska, will we?"
And I, quickly, calmly, responded, "Of course not. And don't worry; the Bosnians don't patrol their borders. They farm that out to the Croatians."
So imagine my surprise when I looked up to see a sign forever etched in my mind. It was written in three languages: Serbo-Croat in Cyrillic, Serbo-Croat in Latin (for the Bosnians in the crowd), and perfect English. It read:
I took the news with only minor unsolicited urination. Texas was more positive; "Do you think they'll stamp our passports?" I quickly called to mind a passage I read once in one of my many guidebooks: visitors are strongly cautioned against travel to the break-away Republika Srpska. Those who do venture there can expect to pay at least $40 USD and cigarettes as bribes when entering or leaving. Well, I had American dollars in my wallet and American cigarettes in my pocket.
Sadly, the border guard (who was Serbian, I hasten to point out) required neither large sums of cash nor American cigarettes. That said, if you open my passport to page 15, you may or may not find a stamp from the Serbian Republic.
We stopped twice in said Republic: once so Texas could pee (which she is wont to do, even in this wintry economic climate) and I could leisurely sip coffee while thumbing my nose at the State Departments bureaucrats in Washington, and once in the capital of the Republic, Banja Luka (which apparently even Bosnians are afraid of at night). Yet there's something about stopping in a rebel stronghold that just seems so right.
We arrived in Sarajevo around 21.00 that night and propositioned a taxi cab driver to find us a room. To make a long story (eerily told in Serbo-Croat, which both my lovely companion and I speak) short, we eventually found a nice old woman trapped in a loveless marriage who agreed to take us into her home for the night. She went off on a tangent about Oprah Winfrey, while Texas and I fell fast asleep.
Waking up (in the freezing cold, I might add) in Sarajevo does not happen by accident, nor does it leave the waked unchanged for the experienced. And strolling down the beautiful albeit bombed-out street is nothing if not eye-opening. That said, Sarajevo itself is quite a beautiful town, and after last Thursday's parliamentary elections, in appears on the road to EU acession in the year 3012.
So in conclusion, did I make it back safely? Perhaps you might say that. Did I buy a cane in Sarajevo? Of course. Did I celebrate the Armistice as we were meant to? Goodness no. And most importantly: did the McDonald's in Zagreb have Chicken McNuggets when I arrived on Sunday morning? In the words of two different employees: "No." Was I distraught? More than words can ever express.
I have to stop going to the Balkans.
posted by E @6:05 PM