Trainride to Montenegro

Belgrade is a fascinating place, but after three days of wandering and awkwardly attempting to flirt with the hostel staff, I was ready to move on again.  So I bought a ticket to Bar, Montenegro.  The trip took 11 hours on paper, but I had heard that it usually lasted more like 13 (it actually took just over 14 hours) so I headed to the train station, hoping to find a comfy little corner of a train car to make a home in for half a day.

The winter sun had set by the time I got to the train station, and at night it was full of a lurking energy.  Empty trains were massive on nearly every track, standing silently like forbidding gods at your divine tribunal.   In among the shadows of iron colossuses was one which showed no outward signs of life, but was overflowing with people, arms (and maybe even a couple legs) hung out the windows like the wet laundry in the city.

Squeezing onto the train in my backpack felt like I was doing a training exercise for NFL tight ends.  Only since it was an Eastern European train yard after dark with steam blowing everywhere it was like the 49ers were playing Humphrey Bogart.  It smelled like salami and cigarettes.

Here's the train:

I found my compartment.  There were 6 seats, 5 taken by a Serbian family looking at me with incredibly incurious eyes, and the 6th with a tie draped over it that evidently belonged to the businessman standing at the window.  I made my apologetic gestures for “Sorry, I’m going to need to park my tush there for the foreseeable future” and Businessman grabbed his tie and gestured me to sit.  This meant climbing over the resolutely immobile family members, who lay like giant fleshy cannelloni in the dim light.  It felt like I was living a multiple choice question:

Q:  Climbing over the recumbent shapes of sleepy Serbians in a dark and crowded train car while carrying a big assed backpack will result in:
A: a smooth crossing and easy landing,
B: tripping and falling right out the window, or
C: tripping and landing face-in-crotch on the grandmother.

Luckily for me (since I don’t know the Serbian for “I’m sorry I fell in your grandmother’s crotch, but let‘s be friends”) I managed to pull off answer A.  It was a proud moment.

I was now ensconced with the weirdest train car family I met on my trip (though their only competition that I can think of offhand was a family on an overnight train to Stockholm with an insane Indian Einstein…and they just slept and ignored him, although they were very good at both.)  Once we were well underway these people were on a precise schedule of sleeping for 35 minutes, simultaneously waking up and talking at full Balkan volume for 15 minutes, then falling asleep again.  This repeated until some hazy minute around 3:00 AM when they all popped to their feet and disembarked, seemingly in a random and empty field.  I half-expected the conductor to tell me there was no town there and no one had gotten off, that I had been witness to the local legendary annoying ghost train travelers.

But before we left Belgrade, I got better acquainted with the businessman with the tie.  He was Russian.  He was drunk.  I’m sorry!  I really don’t mean to enforce stereotypes, and I am positively not saying Russians are always drunk, but this guy had clearly had a few.  We quickly established that I spoke no Russian and he spoke no English beyond “America?  Psh!” with an expressive shooing motion.  But he was amiable enough, shaking my hand several times and telling me extensive stories about his life story, or maybe how to build a hang-glider, or maybe about 9th century linguistic shifts in Sanskrit; as I mentioned, I don’t speak Russian.  I did understand when he invited me to go drink with him.  Very generous, and if I was a drinking man, I’m sure we would have had a fabulous night and/or gotten thrown off the train and/or reenacted Rocky IV.

He wandered off, and I spent the night with the Timetable for Madness family until they got off the train.  I was thinking I may be able to sleep now, but the train was overloaded, and as soon as their seats were empty I got a new set of companions, none of whom seemed eager to talk.  And the Russian came back.  Apparently he was unsuccessful in his carousing, because he came back stone sober.

This company proved beneficial because it meant I was awake and looking out the window as dawn burgled up and into the sky above the mountains of Montenegro, and gradually seeped down into the astonishingly picturesque valleys and slopes that surround the train route through the Dinaric Alps.

The Dinaric Alps are an example of karst, where the limestone mountains have resisted erosion, but water seeps down into the porous stone, dissolving it, creating jagged fissures and channels.  The water then travels down these and into the mountains, where it continues dissolving the hard stone, forming underground caves, tunnels, and grottoes, some of which eventually collapse, further augmenting the steep valleys of the mountain range.

The train sneaks along a series of ridges above these shattered sharp ravines.  The sun was rising over the mountain behind us, the darkness taking on shades that became a thick layer of fog breaking into individual patches which shrank when you weren’t looking into shy little wisps that lingered wherever they found autumn trees to hang in.

I stood next to my Russian friend and gazed in slightly gritty-eyed wonder at the green fields, craggy mountain slopes, and pastoral communities around and below us.  Then he blew his nose into his hand and flicked it out the window.  Repeatedly.  Then I noticed that his untucked shirttails were splattered with old blood.  Then, remembering shaking hands with him throughout the predawn hours, I resolved to wash my hands as soon as humanly possible.

We got to the capital of Montenegro, Podgorica, at a nice hour of the morning, early enough to be fresh, but late enough to be awake, and most of the train got off, including Comrade Snot-flinger, and I settled down in the suddenly spacious train car to see if I could sleep…I doubted it.

Right after I stretched out, a man in bright blue overalls walked past and looked at me in surprise.  I am sure I returned the look, not understanding the bright blue-clad figure standing over me like a Balkan Power Ranger.  He asked a question and immediately followed it with a shooing motion.

I realized it was several hours later, late morning, and the train had that steady feel of a large piece of metal that has been immobile for some time.  Oops.

I stumbled (literally) off the train and towards the train station in Bar.

Belgrade, Serbia

I spent the night with three Finnish girls (I love misleading sentences like that) on the train in from Budapest, and arrived in Belgrade in time to watch the sun rise on Serbia.  It was a good example of the “wrong side of the tracks” reality.  On the left side of the train rose giant, modern, ominous apartment complexes looming in repeating patterns of cement walls, glass windows, and moderate variations on the theme of gray, gray, and gray.  Out the right side were rubble expanses and near-shantytowns that made it clear I had finally left the more wealthy areas of Europe.  (I was back off some of the “Europe” guide books, which apparently consider Europe to end at Germany, the Czech Republic, Hungary, and Italy.)

In case the rubble scenery wasn’t enough to make me feel like I was finally someplace substantially different from home, I headed out to find my hostel and discovered that my list of streets to follow was useless; Serbian street signs are in Cyrillic.  (So I was looking for “Zagrebacka Street” and found “БупеДар Аесиота СґєфаИа.”)

(*One of the streets I was looking for was Gavrila Principa Street, named after the guy who shot Archduke Ferdinand in Sarajevo and kind of started that whole World War One thing.  You know, the War to End All Wars, that basically wiped out an entire generation and plunged the world into hitherto unknown suffering and death? Interesting choice to name a big street.)

I found a fruit seller under an overpass who recognized the street name despite my undoubtedly substantial accent, and before long I was standing outside the hostel.  Probably.  It was 6:00 AM, and the hostel opened at 8:00 AM.  So putting my trust in the address number (there was no visible signage) I sat my sleep-deprived arse down and watched a Belgrade street wake up.

Across the way was a school, whose student body seemed to be around 14 years old, although it was hard to tell through the clouds of smoke from their pre-school cigarettes.  Yup, not in the San Francisco Bay Area anymore* although the teen angst was still palpable.  Some things transcend culture.  It was beautiful.  Girls hanging out of windows yelling demonstrative hellos to female friends while energetically ignoring the boys standing below or lurking in the next window.

[*I bet we have plenty of 14 year olds who smoke too, but I’m going to be optimistic/naïve/nostalgic enough to believe they don’t brazenly puff away while standing in school doorways and hanging out of classroom windows.]

Right about the time I was growing concerned about the lack of feeling in my buttocks, the serious looking hostel staff girl arrived and showed me up the stairs.  Then some more stairs.  Then another few flights.  Neither of us mentioned the elevator…it clearly was not an option.  But the hostel was cozy, and it turned out that for most of my time there I was the only guest, so after the staff went home at 8:00 every night it was like having my own personal flat near downtown Belgrade.

Sign from my hostel in Belgrade:

The building seemed to be mostly uninhabited, and at night I would only hear occasional sounds from the other units as old women hung wet clothes on lines strung on their balconies, or rumors of Serbian television floated between the buildings.  The nights were much colder, and with the temperature changes came plenty of popping sounds from the walls, and creaks from the floors.  Realizing I was all alone, far away from anyone I knew, with no way of calling for help of any kind, I made a game of convincing myself the place was haunted.  I got pretty good at it.

Belgrade is a peculiar place.  My hostel was in the Stari Grad (Old Town) section, which was nice because I admit, I did not manage to decipher the public transportation system of Belgrade.  (Did I mention the Cyrillic?)

There was an interesting little downtown pedestrian area, with modern swanky Euro boutiques, above which is one of those incredibly obnoxious giant TVs showing a looped set of commercials, which while I was there relied heavily on an ad for an indiscernible product featuring a woman in torn acid washed jeans, a striped neon blouse, suspenders and a headband dancing around, poorly, in various areas of an anonymous city after apparently time traveling from the mid 1980s.  It was like Cindy Lauper had emerged from her time capsule and decided to boogey down in Anytown, Serbia.

The people in the pedestrian area generally belonged to one of two groups: chestnut roasters or runway models.  I’m telling you, peculiar place.  There was a sprinkling of Roma, punk rockers, babushka grandmothers, businessmen, and presumably a few other tourists, but the majority seemed to either be strutting by on the invisible catwalk with fashion pizzaz splattering off their designer boots, or looming over their post-apocalyptic amorphous metal bins, roasting chestnuts and chain smoking with ash floating down into the nuts like mana from heaven, only gross.  (Seriously, it was like the guys were doing their Vesuvius impersonations for your carcinogenic amusement.)

Outside of this district Belgrade seemed a lot more grey, with battered buildings, enthusiastic graffiti, and clunking cars either speeding past, trailing clouds of dark air, or hulking in stillness like they fully intended to rust away to nothing exactly there.

At the west end of Stari Grad lies Kalemegdan, the cliff-like ridge that overlooks the confluence of the Sava and Danube rivers.  With a commanding view of such a tactically important spot, in this part of the world, you can guess what its history is like.  That hunk of hill has been fortified, attacked, razed, and re-raised more times than anyone cares to count.  Kalemegdan means “battlefield fortress” in Turkish, and legend says old fun-loving Attila the Hun is buried underneath it.

It’s the type of place where old men sit and play chess, while a half dozen others offer unsolicited and generally unheeded advice.  Where a boyish police officer in a new uniform tries to flirt with girls sitting on the bench.

Where a couple of homeless guys sleep on benches in front of small unmarked stone structures that appear to definitely be centuries-old.  Sunlight sneaks through bare tree branches to lie, off duty, on the chilly ground.  A scattering of geometric paths take you deeper into the park-like grounds.  And then you turn a corner and there’s the muzzle of a Soviet tank aimed at your face.

The southern corner of Kalemegdan is called Veliki Kalemegdan, and has several museums and monuments, including the Military Museum which displays Greek helmets, Roman swords, and western Medieval armor.  Alongside the ancient relics are the pieces of the US F-117 stealth aircraft shot down by Serbian forces during the Kosovo conflict in 1999.  (There are also somber exhibits from the Balkan War about a variety of weapons used that may have violated international law, including cluster bombs, depleted uranium, and graphite bombs.)

The outside walkways are lined with tanks, howitzers, anti-aircraft guns, and other boys’ toys of war.  All slowly rusting away, their interiors filled with beer cans and cigarette butts.  Thick moss and relentless damp.  Plants grow over some of the torpedoes, and leaves from a small tree hang down over rust-flecked grey depth-charges.

And there just may be some pissed-off ghosts lurking around.

The Soviet tank at the entrance is massive.  The American Sherman just past it looks ready.  The Italian tank behind that is rusting far more than anything else on the field.  And the Polish one?  Oh dear.  They call it a “tanketa” and no offense, but it looks like the most badass piece of military hardware ever built…by the kids in your neighborhood.  And only little Jimmy Tonselburger would be small enough to fit in the thing.

After wandering around the spooky machines, which look just a little senile now, sitting harmlessly in meadows, their killing powers long gone.  I headed back into town to continue the endless walking that is a blend of tourist curiosity and animal grazing that happens when you never know where your next meal will come from and how hard it will be to procure.  I think that night I ended up with a sort of sandwich whose name I could not pronounce, with meat I could not identify, but tasted pretty good.*

(*I’m pretty sure I had a horse burger one night (big mistake) but I think that sandwich may have been a version of rostilj, which is a variety of unseasoned grilled meats, wrapped in bacon and stuffed with cheese.  Maybe I need to go back…)

I fully realize and readily admit that my experience in Belgrade was heavily influenced by my not speaking the language, and traveling alone in the off-season.  Belgrade is known as one of the top cities in Europe for parties.  In fact, in their 1000 Ultimate Experiences book, Lonely Planet ranked it as the number one party city in the world.  There are bars everywhere, including on barges that line areas of the rivers.

Belgrade is a fascinating place, but after three days of wandering and awkwardly attempting to flirt with the hostel staff, I was ready to move on again.  So I bought a ticket to Bar, Montenegro.

Before the beginning

In June of 2008 it suddenly bothered me that most of my food was better traveled than I was.  So I bought a one-way ticket to Europe.

Okay, maybe there was a little more to it (but you have to admit, that's ridiculous.  Of course a better solution is to get local food, but we can talk about that some other time.)  My decision to leave had the familiar and dependable ingredients of a too-long-deferred desire to travel, boredom at work, a light/moderate quarter-life crisis, and with a seasoning of heartbreak.

In college I had majored in Language Studies, which included study of two languages.  I already loved Spanish, and of the few options for a second language (they briefly offered Arabic but budget cuts quickly cut that one right out.  Gotta love our priorities, right?) the one that sounded best to my ear (and whose country I felt most inclined to visit) was Italian.

Plus, let’s be honest, Italian is hot.

In all my language classes, I was one of the very few people who had not traveled or lived overseas.  I meant to…just as soon as I had some money…  Familiar story, right?

So I got a job.  It was okay, I basically enjoyed it, can’t complain.  I was spoiled by my first boss, who basically let me run things the way I wanted, and if I had a question was there to help.  This made my second boss seem like one of those notorious micro-managers (in hindsight I realize she wasn’t, but good thing that little bit of wisdom came too late).

I worked there for five years, and my growing dissatisfaction with the job coincided with the end of my 27th year.  Now, I’m not hung up on turning 30 or anything…but I did want to have done some stuff first.  Plus, I knew traveling, and backpacking in particular, meant crappy hostel beds, sometimes sleeping on a bench or on the deck of a ferry, or riding on a bus for 10 hours.  You know, the type of things you want a fairly resilient body for.  My body still felt pretty spry, but I noticed my toes were getting farther from my reach and after a day of bad posture at a desk my back was griping beyond its years.  Plus, I was starting to use words like "spry."  Time to get out and feel young.

And finally, an accenting marinade of heartache.  Sounds so dramatic.  (And whiney.)  Let’s see, how much information do you want?  How much information do you really need?  Suffice to say affairs of the heart were not a hugely uplifting thing.  Fairly emblematically, 2008 started off bitter and angry with my worst New Year’s yet (including the one that I spent being spurned by a high school crush) and I had been notified by some Wise Men that one’s 27th year is a crucial year, often a chance for significant renewal, adjustment, and determination of direction in life.

(Any astrologers out there want to inform me as to this “Saturn Return” business?)

The casserole of my significantly delayed desire to travel, substantial boredom at work, moderate awareness of mortality, and sufficient heart-break was ready.  I traded it for Frankfurt, Germany.