TravelStream™ news feed for member modernoddyseus on TravelPod's free travel blogs service http://www.travelpod.com/syndication/rss/modernoddyseus en-us Copyright ©2009 TravelPod.com Wed, 10 Jun 2009 15:27:55 -0400 http://www.travelpod.com http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/modernoddyseus/15/1244228339/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/modernoddyseus/15/1244228339/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/modernoddyseus/15/1244228339/tpod.html Wed, 10 Jun 2009 15:27:55 -0400 A journey to IRAN??? to study people, life, and happiness.

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Sofia, Bulgaria

Albania was my last big stop before going home.I'd decided long ago that I'd try to make it to Istanbul, and then fly home.  The challenge of hitchhiking to Istanbul, via Albania, would reinstate my traveling confidence.  I could go home, see family, see friends, eat my mom's baked chicken and green peas and mashed potatoes, make money, and fly back to Istanbul, if I chose, and continue on towards Iran.  It was a decision Allah could be proud of.My last little stop before going home, though, was going to be Bulgaria.To get there, I had to pass through Macedonia.  70% of this country's inhabitants, apparently, were Albanians.  They didn't live in the capital nor have power; they lived in modest, pinkish mortar with red, wavy roofs.Incidentally, in Albania, I was told Kosovo had historically been Albanian people's land, that Serbia had gotten hold of it thanks to a European treaty following World War I or something.  But, my Bulgarian driver in Macedonia disagreed; he upheld Slavic Serbia's claim to the land.  So, everywhere I went, I got a different story.The Bulgarian and I stopped for coffee in view of one of Macedonia's Olympus-sized mountains we had to go around.  A Serbian had told me a famous poet/traveler had declared the Balkans to be the most magnificent land on Earth.On the other side of that visible mountain was Kosovo, and army vehicles with German plates pulled into the cafe.  I spoke briefly with a German, who was very willing to answer my questions, but unfortunately I couldn't think of many.  He and his peers were, of course, peace-keepers in Kosovo.  He said each of them spoke many languages, and that they were "neutral".  It seemed like a meaningful job --- however, there was an occurence when Albanshees burned/destroyed a few dozen Serbian churches, and U.N. peace-keepers couldn't stop them.On the road, "Lyublyu instrumental," said my Bulgarian truck-driver. (I love instrumental.)  We listened to a band play what sounded like an accordian, bagpipes, a horn, and a synthesizer, in a free-style celebration of life.  This cocky, talented music made me excited to be going to Bulgaria.I was sad, though, upon saying good-bye to my driver without getting his address so I could write him.  Gray-haired Ivan had a round and unthreatening body, a round and unthreatening smile, and eyes that closed when he was happy.  And he was nostalgic while speaking Russian with me.  He recalled when he'd driven children from Moscow on buses to Bulgaria's Black Sea.  Happy, he said, "Oni byli xoroshie deti.  Ya sprashival, 'U tebya yest mama i papa?'  Mne govorili, 'Da.'  Ya sprashival, 'I tvoya mama xoroshaya?'  'Da!" (They were good children.  I asked them, 'Do you have a mom and a dad?'  They said, 'Yes.'  I asked, 'And do you have a good mom?'  'Yes!')Ivan also said communism had been better than capitalism because everyone had work, and everyone was guaranteed a two-week vacation every year.  He dropped me off in Konstandil, his town, where he lived with his wife and enjoyed riding his horses.I loved the center of small town, Konstandil.  White statues of giant, naked warrior women guarded a bridge.  This led to a sidewalk in the shade of young trees, surrounded by fashionable cafes and restaurants, on which blubbery, hair-less guys with off-yellow skin walked with pettite girlfriends in sexy skirts.  That led to an open square bordered on two sides by parks, and on the final side by a pine-forest hill sticking up behind a yellow saloon.  Locals of all ages were out enjoying themselves, and I felt very comfortable.But, I moved on to Sofia.  Sofia was an uncomfortably big city with a 12th-century, stone church and a voluminous Orthodox church we could walk around in.I was visiting Hristiana, a Bulgarian model whose picture had recently been up in Times Square, New York.  My top three highlights from visiting her were: 1. the orange-and-red dress she wore, beneath her round blond mane of hair, on a Saturday night; 2. the way she slapped my knee, with the familiarity of college buddies who'd sculpted together with clay, during "Date of the Week" V; 3. reading her one of my stories by candle-light.Since graduating from a Florida college in 2003, she'd been working and continuing her studies in Manhattan's financial district.  She debated aloud, during my visit, on whether or not she should return to New York.  She compared her job in Sofia to other jobs in finance in New York, and she was preoccupied by the possibilities of promotions.  I advised her to stop thinking about "moving up", and to try to find a place she was happy NOW.As I was on the way to buying MY ticket HOME, a guy on the street tried to sell me a Hari Krishna book.  He wasn't trying too hard, and when I told him I couldn't read Bulgarian, he just started to speak to me like a happy friend.  He told me he was a teacher.  But, in order to try to educate the masses, he was selling these books on the street.  He was kind of a missionary then, actually, but it seemed like he was spreading a good word.  I didn't envy him, though; the busy Sofiites didn't look like spiritual harmony would interest them.He reminded me (a little) of Bulgaria's national hero, Vasil Levsky, who in the 1800s organized peoples' revolts against their Turkish occupiers.  Selflessly, he said, "If I succeed, the victory will belong to all of us.  If I fail, the loss will be only mine."  But, in the end, a fellow countryman betrayed Levsky, and he was put to death.Happy to be alive - and happy to be returning home - after a few days in Sofia, I rode buses to the end of the city.  I had purchased a roundtrip ticket from Istanbul to Chicago, and I had to travel 360 miles to catch my flight, which would be leaving from Istanbul in twenty-four hours.  Normally, I disliked hitchhiking with a deadline.  But, I figured I had plenty of time.All day, nice Bulgarian drivers picked me up.I got closer, and closer, and closer to the border.  But, I couldn't get to it.  Why weren't the Turkish drivers picking me up!!?  I got mad, started screaming obscenities, essentially decided I would never travel again.  Borders were always tough to hitchhike through.  Maybe it was the deadline that was causing me to lose my temper?In the end, nice Turkish drivers took me all the way to Istanbul's airport, which was easily accessible from the West.  We arrived at 2:30 a.m., on May 27th.  My flight was at 11:30.  I slept in my sleeping bag in a hidden spot on the airport's lawn.  I flew to Chicago.I was going to see grandparents and parents and friends!!!Would I use the flight to Istanbul on July 27th!!!?  Would I continue towards Iran?"Khoda hafz!" (Good-bye! (in Persian))Modern OddyseusThanks to Ivan; Mitko; Bozdar; Lyudmil; Yeorgi; Pencho & Elena; Ilian; Valeri; Iviolo; Angel; Mehemmet; Nazim, Mustek, Ergin, & Pasha; and Dili Fati & Eyeshor for rides!Much thanks to Hristiana & her mom for the place to stay!
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/modernoddyseus/15/1244158943/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/modernoddyseus/15/1244158943/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/modernoddyseus/15/1244158943/tpod.html Thu, 04 Jun 2009 21:18:21 -0400 A journey to IRAN??? to study people, life, and happiness.

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Lin, Lake Ohr, Korçë, Albania

I was well aware that, in my writings of the country, Montenegro didn't come off sounding too good.I only spent twenty-eight hours there.As I was walking around a quiet town square, between a fountain surrounded by loungers, and the tall towers of a rectangular church, minutes away from my exit to Albania, some boys called me to join them in a cafe.  They, in their early twenties, played cards (Rummy) there nearly every day.  Some were fat-bellied; all had tan-colored skin and short, dark hair; several wore pink t-shirts.  (Pink was very popular among Black Mountainite guys this fashion season.)  They didn't have much to say, but they bought me a strawberry juice and were friendly.I hoped that, 168 hours later, I'd have something nice to write about the people of Albania.Albania was kind of Europe's leftout.  It was basically ignored by European news.  Its cars and semi-trucks were seldom seen on European highways.  It never got invited to the best parties.  A gentle, sixteen-year-old boy in Greece was the only Albunny I'd ever met.  My only inspiration for going there was "tiagorelvao" on travelpod.com, a hitchhiker who wrote of the Albundi's: "Pessoas 5 estrelas" (5-star people).  I expected to find a country of one-and-a-half million people, people who'd never heard of expressways or international companies, gentle people who farmed and cooked and sat around."This is AWESOME!" said British Alex, one of four young road-trippers who took me into Albania in their van."This is eerie," said Canadian Courtney.  "This place is creeping me out."At first, Albania was as different as I'd expected it to be.  Our lumpy road drove through eerie, violet dusk.  We passed rural an ancient stone temple; rural homes; neighbors helping each other pull a farm vehicle out of the ditch; and a giant lake bordered by bright crops on our side, dark mountains on the other.  We drove through a northern city this Saturday evening, and its streets and wide esplanades and an amusement park were so full of pedestrians it seemed the whole city was taking a walk.  "Wow, this is great," said American Ian.  "They have such a community."  "The New" was causing me to smile so gluttonously it seemed "Life" would only allow a person a few moments so happy.The four road-trippers and their van and I and our tents found a free place to camp, beside a dirt road in this dark land.  Flashing fireflies were so many in the hay fields around us that it seemed we were inside a computer.And I spent the next four nights by myself on a deserted beach.  Lots of rubbery jellyfish bounced their big heads off me as I swam.  Actually, I only spent two nights on the beach, because Alessandro's family twice made up a bed for me in their nearby village.Alessandro, and many other Albanjo's, disproved my theory that the people liked to sit around.  These thin, white-skinned guys wore sun burns, as a result of manual labor jobs, or gardening at home.  Forty-two-year-old Alessandro, like many others, had worked long years in Italy, where he'd picked up Italian so he could speak to me.  In addition to hard-working, Albungi's were ambitious.  Their large, two-story or huge, three-story homes stood like concrete, ugly squares in the countryside - most of them unfinished.  And the country's roads were busily being transformed from dirt to asphalt.Beneath Alessandro's large home, in the coastal village of Shempieter, sat the tiny mortar home of Alessandro's parents.  During the communist dictatorship of Enver Hozha, people lived in tiny red-roof homes, even if they had seven children, as Alessandro's parents had had.  Alessandro called Hozha's regime "brutal".  Alessandro's father had been imprisoned for fifteen days for secretly owning a piglet.  Alessandro's uncle died in prison, after he was caught trying to take a boat to Western Europe.In spite of Hozha's brutality, Albania had a population two or three times as great as I'd originally expected.  I now knew, because I counted them all.A third theory of mine that got disproven was the belief that I'd feel comfortable in this "gentle" land.First, an evil-looking boy called at me, "Oh ... Yeah! ... Oh ... Yeah! ... Oh ... Yeah!"  Immediately afterwards, an eighteen-year-old with his muscles showing gave me a ride and wanted to be my boyfriend.  "No a paura," he told me (Don't be afraid), though he was more comical than threatening.  Later, in the touristy town of Kruja, young men in cafes seemed to have nothing better to do than stare at me darkly or make lewd gestures.  Finally, a fat bus-driver spit on me while trying to spit on a friend; and, I suspected he made rude comments to a girl who eagerly spoke English with me.Of course, because I didn't speak Albanian, because the people historically were more Muslim than Christian, and because I wasn't used to seeing blue eyes on such sun-burnt people, maybe I was just misinterpreting the culture.  After all, most guys I spoke to were well-meaning.Regardless, after 137 hours, Albania was leaving a negative impression.  Friendly Alessandro and his firefly-catching children and freshfish-cooking wife were my only joy.I had to pause, to see if I couldn't come up with at least four more good things about this Adriatic country.  This sounded like a job for ... duh duh duh-duh ... the superheroic MODERN ODDYSEUS' TOP 5!!!  Albania and all the Albaniacs had to be saved!The Top 5 Worst Things About Albania! probably weren't going to help:1. DARK STARES FROM GUYS -One person told me young Albatrosses liked to fight.2. BUNKERS -Six-foot-tall, concrete toadstools were positioned all over the country for military purposes.  The local communists had built them, figuring if any imperialist invaders came the Albagators could shoot at them from the protection of the bunkers.  They gave the Albanian beaches, fields, etc. the look of an alien war-zone.3. LITTER4. BIG HOUSES -The old houses had been cuter than the newer, concrete cubes.5. LOST THEIR IDENTITY TO THE COMMUNIST/CAPITALIST TRANSFORMATION -The Albanana's didn't have many interests nor hobbies, besides sitting in cafes.  It seemed like they worked to build big houses, for a reason they themselves didn't understand.My understanding of the Albows was truly superheroic.  It was especially superheroic when one considered I spent most of my 139 hours there on a beach, alone.  Thus, it shouldn't surprise anyone if The Top 5 Best Things About Albania! were 1. A SHELL, 2. A TABLE I MADE OUT OF CINDER BLOCKS AND CARDBOARD, 3. SWIMMING ... No, no, no!  Here was the list:1. LIN, ON LAKE OHR2. SHEMPIETER -Older men, especially those in villages, were warm and harmless.  Alessandro himself told me two of the best things about Albania were the gentleness of its people, and its tradition.  Every June, Shempieter had a dance/party in which children and adults wore folkloric, white-and-red dress.  And Alessandro's balding, sun-tanned brother still made his living as a fisherman in a small boat.3. OLD MERCEDES' -Alessandro explained that many people drove long, white 1980's Mercedes', because the cars managed the country's bad roads well.4. IT'S CHEAP -Albania was cheap even for the locals, especially those who'd worked overseas, and so the country seemed to be experiencing a sort of golden age.5. LIVESTOCK -Alessandro's father took his cow to graze every morning, and came back with her in the evening.  Thus, I could drink fresh, unpasteurized milk and yogurt.  I hoped that, when I grew older, I'd be able to take long walks with a cow, or a honking donkey, or sheep and goats.There.  But, Albania wasn't saved just yet!Superheroically, I passed through Tirane.This attractive capital had wide boulevards; banana-yellow government buildings; the statue of a guy on a horse, in front of the red Albanian flag with its black spider; a green park; and a mural of a young woman leading a mob of countryside fighters.  A beautiful Jessica Alba gave me directions.  This floating girl wore light jeans, high heels, a purple blouse, and poofy light-brown hair.  If I wouldn't have gotten sick from the heat the day before, I might not have let her walk away.I went all the way to Lake Ohr on the Albanian-Macedonian border.This lake occupied a desolate, moon-sized basin, except that the water was bright blue and the mountains around it bright green.  A strong wind carried a part of the cold lake, cooling me and the village of Lin.  The few alleys of Lin curled around a mound, making it so I could never see much of the village at once.The clean town was a mess of old homes, stone homes, crooked homes, homes whose mortar was deteriorating, all with red roofs and connected to one another, flimsy green balconies, picket fence porches, vines growing everywhere, stone steps and walkways between houses, old white windows, green wooden doors, crops pushed up against the lake, a humble mosque, livestock and chicken families, kids at play, women and daughters in gardens, men building with concrete or heavy stones, fat guys in suits on mopeds, shopkeepers selling me "bukke" (bread), and friendly people greeting me, "Mir."  It was alive!This darkening Friday night, I walked past acres and acres of crops to my tent beside the lake.  I wished I'd found this place earlier."Mir!"Modern OddyseusThanks to Ian, Courtney, Alex, & Matt; George; Arben; Berti & Darlin; Zene; a family driving and cleaning a school bus; Castrio; Shtepim; Piaci; Elio; 4 guys; Estrad; Emiliano; Eldi; Aleksei; and a talkative Albanese guy whose name I couldn't extract, for rides!Much thanks to Alessandro, Molja, Daniella, Nikola, & Fabian for the place to sleep!
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/modernoddyseus/15/1242820500/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/modernoddyseus/15/1242820500/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/modernoddyseus/15/1242820500/tpod.html Fri, 22 May 2009 08:22:13 -0400 A journey to IRAN??? to study people, life, and happiness.

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Lake Biograd, Montenegro

Big cities wore me out.The agitated sound of motoring vehicles was constant.  The air tasted gray and poisonous.  The hard concrete gradually beat my feet, as I walked long distances on it.Thus, I felt envigorated to leave Belgrade and its 1.8 million people - even though many of them were good people.South of Belgrade, dirty, red, wavy, clay roofs on white homes intermingled with dark-green trees and fields so sunny and clear that the whole hillside countryside seemed heavenly.Further south, the steep slopes of green mountains were painted up-and-down with these Serbian red roofs, because there was no other place to build cities or small towns.My favorite driver of this hitchhiking trip was Ilea, a tanned, bulbous man who otherwise looked young and happy to be retired.  He'd picked me up in heavy rain.  We'd seperately witnessed rockets being fired at white clouds, which brought the rain.  Ilea said Serbia had shot those same hissing rockets at NATO airplanes in 1999, but they only managed to knock down two.In "Czecherbian" (if this made-up word seemed tough to pronounce, the language was even tougher to speak!), Ilea said he'd picked me up because a person's "dusha" (soul) was what mattered.  Money wasn't important.  He blamed Josip Broz's (Tito's) communism for destroying the country's moral character.  He said the only thing good about communism was that women became free sexually; there had been little else to do.And, prophetically, he said Serbia would be in Kosovo again.But, I wasn't on my way to Kosovo, I was on my way to Montenegro.It didn't make much sense to me why we English-speaking people used "Montenegro", the Italian translation of the local name, "Crna Gora", which meant "Black Mountain."But, at first, it seemed like the whole country was on a single, black mountain.  Big houses had personalities that could handle winter, and they claimed lonely spots on the endless plateau.  Snow clung to far-away, black mountains.  The air was fresh and black with clouds.  In one spot, a river cut through mountains like a knife cuts cake, to make a foggy valley which resembled Alaska, and it seemed strange that this valley should be overflowing with white, red-roofed houses.It also seemed like the whole country of 800,000 was one small village.  My driver loudly honked his horn at his friends, who were almost everyone.  If it was like a village, it might've explained why people in Belgrade described Montenegronians as "bezobrazny" (uneducated) and "malo grazdanin" (small citizen).To my surprise, the Montenegroins I saw didn't resemble Slavs.  They looked more Mediterranean, with sandy-colored skin.  They said Serbia had occupied them in 1912, in order to have access to the sea.The "Montenegronian" language was born two years ago; but, it sounded like they were essentially speaking Serbian.My first driver, a twenty-one-year-old policeman returning from an overnight visit to a Serbian woman, said female Crna Gorilla's were very conservative romantically.  My second driver, well-groomed and healthy-looking on the outside, dark and untrustworthy on the inside, spoke only about sex, in Czemontenegronianech, though I told him I wasn't interested.From my experience, we hitchhikers were more likely to get picked up by aggressive, sexually-interested guys in countries where the women were conservative - for example, Greece and Turkey.My third driver had lived in New York but said he was happy he was married to a Montenegirl, because he was allowed to "beat the hell" out of her.And the Black Mountainite women didn't have much to say for themselves; I only saw one.  Her skin was like a chalky peach.  Her dark hair was wound up, with a tail.  She had strong hips, in a long, white skirt with red shapes on it.The third guy drove me on one of the country's dangerous roads, through a canyon so deep it was like Zeus had thrown a terrible snake into the land.  That snake was the dark-aqua Moracha River.  It now had a wide gulley to relax and play with boulders in, as it went by.  Pyramidal, concrete-colored mountains stretched up and away from the crazy, local drivers, or leaned over the river.My one night in Black Mountain was spent in nature.  I camped in Lake Biograd's National Park.  Yellow-green, dark-green, and green-green-green forest crowded around a lake 3300 feet above sea level.  I pushed myself through the warmbody-swallowing water, which gave me a happy zap better than that of any drug.  This was what I lived for!The lake calmed me down.  I'd been moving and writing so much lately, it took a second for me to relax and be still.  The black lake ... the lack of people's voices and machines ... the twittering of small birds ... the splashing of water fowl as they hit the lake ... the darkness ... minks squeaking ... trees breaking ... there could've been bears ... my tent ........Thanks, Dusha; Sasha & Isadoara; Ilea; Miroslav; Micko; Rifko; disgusting guy; and Nesrut for rides!
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/modernoddyseus/15/1242752460/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/modernoddyseus/15/1242752460/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/modernoddyseus/15/1242752460/tpod.html Tue, 19 May 2009 13:41:25 -0400 A journey to IRAN??? to study people, life, and happiness.

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Belgrade, Serbia

Of course, Serbia wasn't Russia.  It was Serbia, silly.One thing I noticed about Serbia was that - in addition to tough guys - there were lots of thin, back-muscle-less guys with scrawny necks and dark hair.  They reminded me of former Yugoslavian basketball star, Vlade Divac.Another observation was that many young boys and girls, and sporting adults, played tennis.  The children played on plaza's and on basketball courts, without nets.  Belgrade had just hosted its first important tennis tournament - which a Serbian player won - and maybe that was making the country tennis-crazy.And, another Serbian thing I got to watch was a show of traditional dances and music, put on by University of Belgrade students.Each dance was danced by about fifteen boys and fifteen girls.  In the first dance, the guys wore glittering blue vests over white long-sleeved shirts, baggy black pants with rainbow-colored belts around their waists, and cloth shoes with curly points that resembled clogs.  Girls wore glittering red-orange aprons, baggy white pants, bright-orange hair shawls, and the same shoes.  Everyone wore smiles.  Even shaven-headed "tough guys" wore the costumes, and intensely happy smiles.They didn't dance as couples.  Instead, neighbors held neighbors by the belts, or placed arms on each other's shoulders.  In all-male or all-female lines, and sometimes in girl-guy-girl lines, the dancers kicked their feet in patterns and stepped around to the music.  A crazy accordian, melancholy violin, Jewish-sounding fiddle, Balkan horns, and a stand-up bass that was plucked repetatively as if accompanying a car chase, sped up as the songs went on.  It was a jolly spectacle.In other dances, guys wore white beneath royal, red vests and princely, red hats; white, fluffy hats that made them resemble albino seal pups; brown, cone-shaped hats like bears; and white shirts beneath forest-dark pants and boots and unbuttoned vests, which made them look like wood-cabin dwellers or tree-axers.  Girls wore rectangular, navy aprons that made them look like dominoes; and yellow head scarves with long frills that resembled blond braids.Nearly all of the dances were similar to the first.  Sometimes, the girls ands guys sang and serenaded as they quickly danced, which was moving.But, in one very different dance, a "tough guy" pounded on a heavy drum that hung from his shoulders, while a girl twirled around him holding a fan, Arabic-style.  To each side, guys wearing black sashes and puffy, white shirts danced.  They stood erect ansd held their arms at chest level in front of them, in circles, as if they balanced on unicycles on tight-ropes.  They swung their forearms powerfully from side-to-side.  They jumped and twirled like ribbons.  They dropped to one knee and pointed their powerful fists towards the dancing girl.  When they saw her do something seductively, they slapped the floor in agony.  I wanted to start incorporating some of their dance moves in my routine.Also, there was singing.  A guy sang a solo, with a voice low but expressive, as if singing from a mountain to a valley with some villages in it.  The voices of a female septet, in one song, made me like a dove flying over cropland in the countryside, free and harmonious.  Their slow and emotional second song made me want to slow-dance alone.  We spectators, and the performers, smiled throughout most of the show.A fourth thing I happily noticed about Serbia was that it was very revolution-minded.  Many Serbians didn't want to conform to a Western system in which the poor served the rich, and the rich got richer.  Around Belgrade, someone had put up stickers in which "EU"* was crossed out, and the words "Ne, hvala" (No, thanks) were written below.  There was anti-NATO graffiti; and posters said, "Serbia is the World: The World Against NATO", and showed Serbia's flag alongside Russia's and China's and Libya's and Brazil's, etc.* - European UnionSerbians, like South Americans, were the unfortunate, and believed a greater evil was responsible.  They spoke about conspiracies, and I always loved a good conspiracy theory.  People spoke about the "masons", saying former dictator Tito had been one.  Someone said they thought all Canadians and Americans had traceable microchips inside them, from the government.  A girl named Biljana worried that all the new diseases that had been popping up lately were being made by a power that might one day want to eliminate whole populations.Biljana and her roommate let me take a shower in their dorm room, one evening.  Biljana wore a black skirt and sleeve-less, orange blouse.  Her skin wasn't light.  She was thicker than most Serbs.  She and her long hair were especially cute when she was passionate.  And she was primarily passionate about making fun of the U.S.A.She was fun at other times, too.  I showed her, a student of languages, how I wrote in my journal in Farsi every day.  She said, "That's good.  I always say, you should learn something new every day."  I said, "Ahh.  So, you learn something new every day?"  She: "No.  I just say that.  I don't do it.  I like sleeping too much."  She liked laughing a lot, too.I'd told her I often thought ambition made people unhappy.  So, if she slept all the time, it explained why she was so happy.And when I was leaving, she and her quieter roommate said, "We're happy.  We're happy because we met a good person from America!" which was cute.  I didn't know how they could tell I was a good person after only two hours, though.  Heck, even I didn't know if I was a good person!Two days after my shower, I went to the center of Belgrade to search for a fun night out.  Deep down, I figured Serbian people were like Russians.  I figured the sexy Serbian women, like Russians, loved love.The city cener was foul-smelling in parts, fashion-obsessed in other parts, and hectic with pedestrians everywhere.  It took me a while to gain control of the situation.  I'd obtained a "nightlife guidebook" from the unversity's ticket office.  I got maps from the tourist information center.  I paid a few dinars so I could take a pee.  I identified my whereabouts.  And I was off!There was no life to speak of, in the first night spots I visited.  And then, I strolled through a city park.On many benches in the dark, couples sat, making out.  Hmmm, I thought.  Maybe THIS was the place to meet people?The brown eyes of a girl on the last bench opened wide as I passed.  It was a strange glance.  Upon returning to the bench, to ask the translation of the name of a band scheduled to play nearby, I found out the glance had come from a strange woman.In English, the girl and her friend made obscure American movie quotes and laughed.  They said they were excited about going to my tent, teasing me.  They pretended they wanted me to spend money on them, which probably wasn't true.  They told me they were too strange for most guys.  But, once they woke up my hybernating sense of humor, we started laughing a lot together.They said they'd show me Belgrade.  We boarded a trolley without paying.We went to St. Mixaela, the main pedestrian shopping street.  As we watched a funny juggler, I put my arm around the waist of brown-eyed, brown-haired Ivana, in her sleeve-less turquoise shirt.We went to Kalimegdan, which I called "Karmageddon", a Medieval fort and courtyard overlooking the Sava and Danube Rivers.  Ivana wanted me to ask a guy for a cigarette for her, which I didn't really want to do.  She wouldn't agree to a kiss in exchange for the favor.  So, we went to see a display of photo's from Serbia.Meanwhile, Ivana's friend, Kacha, wore a silky turquoise blouse whose left sleeve kept exposing her shoulder.  She had a light-blond ponytail, light eyes, and light lips that were smiling all night, with a baby's lack of worry.  Maybe I should've made my move on HER?  It was assumed that there should be romantic tension between Ivana and me, and this could've put pressure on Ivana to act conservatively.  But, Kacha - on whom there was no pressure, but who was enjoying our company very much; who'd asked "Where's your hair?" while feeling my thin, unwashed strands - may've felt free enough to have no worries standing in the way of the initial excitement of the thought of a kiss.I remembered my two girlfriends in Russia.  It had seemed all along that Nadezda liked me; but, Nadezda was worried what Elina would think if Nadezda kissed me too soon; and then, unexpectedly, Elina kissed me first!Ivana and Kacha were great, twenty-year-old girls.  After three hours of talking, I was too tired to go with them to see the aforementioned rock band.  Kacha's cheek-kiss good-night was softer than Ivana's.  We made plans to meet the next day.  But, I was a bit late, or else they just didn't come.  It was pretty disappointing.- Modern O.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/modernoddyseus/15/1242661980/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/modernoddyseus/15/1242661980/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/modernoddyseus/15/1242661980/tpod.html Tue, 19 May 2009 12:22:25 -0400 A journey to IRAN??? to study people, life, and happiness.

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Belgrade, Serbia

Once my one-day visit to Hungary was over, I returned to land inhabited by Slavs.Not only were the Serbs who inhabited Serbia Slavs, but their religion was Orthodox.  Not only was their religion Orthodox, but they said things like "Ladno" (Well ...) and "Izvini" (Excuse me) and "Da" (Yes).  Not only did they say these things, but they (the guys) said them whilst inflating their chests big with air, to make themselves sound tough.  In all these qualities, they resembled Russians.I'd say that typical Russian guys were strong physically, liked to show that they were feeling comfortable and the ones in charge, and yelled often - but most were harmless.Recently, I'd been wishing I could emulate these guys - in at least one aspect.During winter in the Czech Republic, a few of my former best friends, plus a few girls I was beginning to become friends with, didn't hang out with me or stopped responding to my calls.  I wanted to tell them I was disappointed or missed them.  But, scared that they wouldn't care, I usually just stopped talking to them altogether.  But, in this situation, a tough Russian would've said:"Chto ty!?  Prezident S.SH.A.!?  U tebya net vremya viditsya s drugom?" (What are you!?  The president of the U.S.A.!?  You don't have time to see a friend?)  Or: What are you!?  Are your fingers broken!?  Can't you write an SMS?  Or: What are you!?  Did you forget how to say "Hi", or what?And, just like that, by being an intimidating yeller, the Russian would've had tons of friends.  Yep.I was well aware of the fact that I hadn't bonded with too many Slavic tough guys in the past.  I figured I needed to, so I could go back to the Czech Republic and kick some lousy friends' butts.I went to Belgrade, because I didn't have luck hitchhiking through it.  In the nighttime, I went to a plaza amongst the University of Belgrade's dormitories.  Some people were playing guitar and singing.The girls of this group - compared to other Serbian women, who wore high heels and tight clothes brightly displaying their best parts - comfortably wore looser sweatshirts.  One energetic girl stood while the others sat, swaying back and forth as she sang, and smoking lots of cigarettes.They played a catchy, upbeat song with the rhythm of a song from a Russian movie, but with Serbian lyrics, and when I told them about the Russian version they said they hadn't known.  They invited me to join them. On this dark plaza, the first person to whom I extended my hand was a large, short-haired guy.  "Bora," was his name.  Instead of "Justin", the five girls and three guys of the group often called me Charlie or Jasmin.I knew I could get along well with the girls, but I was worried about being accepted by the guys.  Thus, when Bora asked in a brawny voice if I drank beer, I knew it would be easier if I said yes.  We began passing around two-litre, plastic bottles of "Jelen Pivo" (Deer Beer).In stumbly English, Bora told me he was twenty-four, and that he and the other guys weren't students but were from a small town called Shabats.  He excitedly wished he could show me to his friends in Shabats.  I wondered if he and those friends would then beat me up?  Meanwhile, a small guy whose face wore a disgusted look said, disbelievingly, "Dolivai iz Michigan!?" (Is he really from Michigan!?)  And when I told Bora my father had had a Yugoslavian "Yugo" car when I was young, this guy said of me: "Lzane". (He's lying.)I was mostly clueless to what they said to each other in Serbian.  I asked Ana, who spoke the best English, what some of the songs were about.  She usually replied: "unhappy love".  The song I understood best had a chorus that said: "veseli se s ludmi" (have fun with people).The group played English songs, including "Wicked Game", with poorly pronounced lyrics.  The energetic girl - apparently, Bora's girlfriend - kept swaying with her warm, friendly energy.  I sometimes took the hand of black-haired Ana, who was calmly beautiful and confident, to dance.  This impressed Bora.  He said, "Whoa, Justin!"He nervously drank a lot, and called me to him."Justin.  Box!" he said.  And he started hitting me.  I boxed him back.  But, he was a much bigger and better boxer than I, so he slapped my face with big hands a few times.  I figured it'd be to my advantage if we changed the sport to wrestling; I'd be less likely to get a black eye, I guessed.  Twice, big Bora got me in a headache I couldn't escape from.  Both times, he pushed me to the plaza's concrete and got all of his weight on me.  He did it rather gently, though.He told me, "Justin.  Normally, we Serbian don't like Americans."  Oh?  That explained the wrestling.He said they disliked the recent history between the countries.  They didn't have anything against American people like me.Bora sat on the plaza's concrete and called, "Justin, so mnoi!" (Justin, with me!)  I joined him.  He told me the aforementioned little guy was a very important friend to him.  They liked to go to the Drina River, which ran through canyons on the Serbian-Herzegovinian and Serbian-Montenegronian borders.  They spent whole months canoeing on the river, and they enjoyed fishing for their food.  It was, he said, "Nature."I failed to tell Bora about my favorite fishing partner, my grandpa - who was now limping with a new back problem that kept him from doing the things he loved.But, I said I was debating between traveling to Iran or going home to Michigan.  Bora said, "Justin, I think your path is to America."I returned to the singing group, while Bora lay on his back, tired from beer.Ana's kind-hearted voice began wavering.  With each note she sang, her tone changed directions several times.  Enjoying the night, I patted her knee and said, "Good job."  She smiled and said they were singing traditional and gypsy songs now.  These were her specialty.  She and the girls were students in the University of Belgrade's music department.At one a.m., Ana was one of the first to leave.  In the darkness, she told me that not only the love in Serbia was unhappy.When she'd been five, her dad went to fight in the 1993 Balkan War.  When he came back a few months later, she didn't even recognize him.  Physically, he was uninjured.  But, "Who is this man?" she asked her mom.In 1999, he went to war again, against the Albanians in Kosovo who wanted independence.  This land, apparently, had always belonged to Orthodox Serbs.  But, Bill Clinton and NATO bombed Serbian bridges and airports for nearly three months straight.And now, Ana said, "Not even Montenegro likes us."  Montenegro, which had the same religion as the Serbs, recently declared independence and joined NATO.  "Now, we're going to have to join," said Ana, unsurely.Luckily, she said at least she had happy love story nowadays.  She went to sleep, in preparation for tomorrow's studies.Bora and the rest of us bought more beers, but our energy was low.  Bora suggested I had to try "rakiya" (a local hard liquor), and he went to buy it.A girl and I went to try to stop him.  The girl said I was lucky; normally, Bora didn't like people so quickly."He doesn't?  What does he do?" I asked, concerned.  "Have you ever seen him fight someone!?""Yeah.  He only fights people he really likes."Oh?  Ha ha!  So, when he'd boxed me, that had been a sign of friendship.The girl went on to tell me a friend had "broken" Bora's leg two weeks ago.  But, that was okay, because Bora had broken the friend's leg a year earlier.  Also, I'd noticed, Bora called his good friends his "sons".When we found him, Bora was asleep on a park bench.  I was happy to see the rakiya hadn't been bought.  I was also happy to see Bora's girlfriend sat beside him with her arm affectionately resting on his chest.peace, happy love, and friendship with the tough guys!Modern OddyseusThanks to Erika & Timeu; Tibor; Karoi & Benze; Polgar Nora & Irin; Goran; and Ivan for rides!
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/modernoddyseus/15/1242049800/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/modernoddyseus/15/1242049800/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/modernoddyseus/15/1242049800/tpod.html Tue, 12 May 2009 09:52:09 -0400 A journey to IRAN??? to study people, life, and happiness.

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Abony, Hungary

I was not, by any means, an expert on Austria.  But, I was the one and only Modern Oddyseus.  So, if I wasn't going to write a MODERN ODDYSEUS' TOP 5!!! about Austria, who was?  Arnold Schwarzenegger!?  Certainly not.  Even with limited knowledge, I was the man for the job.And so it began.  The Top 5 Best Things About Austria!:1. KANGAROOS-- Ha, ha!  Just kidding.  I knew enough about Austria to know Austria WASN'T Australia.the real 1. GRAZ -Even my parents, in a visit to me and Europe in March 2009, said they liked this town of a quarter-million people.  Its long buildings wore playfully carved facades and tasty colors.2. ARNOLD-- Oh, no!  Schwarzenegger was trying to intercept this list and make it ARNOLD'S TOP 5!!!  "Get out of here, Arnold!"the real 2. BIKE TRAIL AROUND LAKE NEUSIEDLER -I borrowed Franz's bike once, on a springtime weekday when the natural trail wasn't crowded.  When I paused, I was overcome by the sounds of the area.  Wind daggered through fields of tall grass.  Crows flapped strong wings overhead, and sweet birds hurrayed in bumpy marsh-land.  Silently, hawks hunted.  And grapevines hung in rows on farmers' lines.3. MOZART4. ARNOLD'S MUSCLES-- No, no, no, no, no!now, the real 4. HOUSES IN VILLAGES SOUTH OF VIENNA -Square, thick-walled houses occupied mighty spaces.  Rich with good years, they sat behind small yards like xenophobic people.  Two stories tall, their many eyes were long, thin windows with high ceilings.  They wore pink, yellow, or light-blue paint, quiet like their villages.5. FRIENDLY AND CARING PEOPLE(LIKE ARNOLD) -- I didn't write that!  "Hey, Arnold, go home!"Ha, ha.  It was fun to make fun of musculy people, as long as they weren't within hitting distance.  HONORABLE MENTION included tall PINES IN THE ALPS, weighed down with winter snow.OK.  The Top 5 Worst Things About Austria! came next.1. LOVE FOR THEIR CARS2. AUSTRIANS DIDN'T TRAVEL MUCH3. TOO MUCH MONEY4. EXPENSIVE PUBLIC TRANSPORT -Even though my friends in Neusiedler am See had money, and even though Vienna was only forty kilometers away, they couldn't go there often without a car because the public transport was amazingly costly.5. ROMANZA ICE CREAM -Pretty affordable, a liter of this ice cream cost 1.69 Euro's in any Zielpunkt supermarket.  Its chocolate, choco-marzipan, banana-cheesecake, apple-vanilla, and cherry flavors were addictively pleasing.  Actually, this ice cream belonged in The Top 5 Best Things About Austria!, but there was no room for it - because Arnold kept butting in.  I couldn't control my consumption of it.  I ate it when I didn't know what to do.  I ate it to become full of fat and immobile.  I felt like an alcoholic going to the same sales-clerk to buy beer with his change; but, I was an ice creamoholic in a homeless sweatshirt with unwashed hair paying one-Euro-sixty-nine for ice cream.  I was also aware that my shopping at a corporate supermarket was pretty hypocritical, after I said recently I disliked corporate bookstores.To make my hypocrasy seem small and forgiveable, I wanted to inform that the "bad" HONORABLE MENTION was Austrian-born ADOLF HITLER.  So what, if I bought a little corporate ice cream?  Huh!?On the south side of Lake Neusiedler was the land of Hungary, formerly a part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire.  By golly, had Austria and Hungary gone different ways since World War II.  On the day I left Austria, I stepped off a major European expressway and went to visit rural Hungary.I traveled to visit a family I'd met in 2007.  My powerless road got bullied by fresh, green forest.  Old farming equipment worked on generations-old farms near worn-down homes.  A heavy, metal bicycle creaked as it went.  A heavy, metal, motorized bike looked like it'd been in use since the 1950's.  My white- or brown-skinned drivers didn't speak English, nor I Hungarian.It had been a bit of a risk for me to leave a ride that could've taken me into Serbia, in order to visit a family I wasn't positive was expecting me.But, the Donko family accepted me happily.  The father, behind a bushy beard and glasses, was busy in an apron making ceramic plates.  The bright mother took a break and led me into her big, traditionally-decorated home.  She gave me red soup with pasta squares and paprika and lots of black pepper in it.  She gave me a pie made with rice, meat, cheese, and sour cream.The funny son, Donko Benedek, took a break from his woodworking shop next door.  He was my age but wore a well-groomed beard, glasses, overalls, and a straw hat.A patriot, he told me the Hungarian language wasn't related to any other language, at least not in Europe.  The myth that Hungarian and Finnish were related had been created in the 19th century to confuse Hungarians about their history and therefore strip them of their identity.  He showed me a poster of past Hungarian kings, a poster that included the Austrian Hapsburgs.  The poster dated back to the 11th century, but their last king who'd actually been a Hungarian had died in the mid-1700's.  And Benedek, like many poeple, I believed, had a map of the "bigger" Hungary.  The country used to extend in all directions into what were now neighboring countries, and many Hungarians still lived in Transylvania, northern Serbia, and Slovakia.Actually, all of this was told to me by eighteen-year-old Donko Emese, the family daughter.  She was the only English-speaking Donko, or donkey, so she was put to work translating.  She and I and Benedek rode clunky bikes over pot-holed streets through the town of Abony, pop. 15,000?  Emese had tiny glasses and a long, brown ponytail and a small pink face, and she looked pretty in light jeans, as she signalled with her arm to indicate future turns for cars.Benedek in his straw hat told me, "It's good when a man finds a home."  We stood now amidst the lively green of his garden.  He was showing me the home he'd finished building in the last two years.  He had a lot to show: a new baby boy; "wall covers" (quilts that hung in the bedroom), hand-knit by his wife, with farm animals on them; a room for his two young daughters, with shelves full of Hungarian fairy-tales; and a lot of land that would yield him tomatoes, green vegetables, peaches, apples, cherries, nuts, etc.  He planned to build a house for the fifty hens he hoped to have, and he said the walls of the chickens' house would spiral together to form the room.  "Like an igloo," I said.  Earlier, he'd listed the "Eskite" people as being relatives of the Huns, and I figured he must've meant "Eskimos".We sat with Benedek's wife at the table in their big dining-room/living-room.  We ate home-made spicy salami, home-made cheese with garlic inside, and bread which had been home-baked by a neighbor.  We drank Hungarian soda water.Emese and Benedek seemed to think the world was worsening, but it could get better if people valued family and traditions more.  Emese expressed a lot of worry over the introduction of unnatural plants and crops to Hungarian land.Benedek sipped wine.  I knew he was a big fan of the Hungarian philosopher, Hamvas Bela.  I asked, what would Hamvas Bela tell us we should do?  Benedek calmly replied.  Emese translated.  Hamvas Bela would say that, at the end of the day, there'd be only two things: the "good" and the "wine".Hamvas Bela's greatest philosophical work apparently had "bor" (wine) in the title.  I told Benedek I'd try to read it before revisiting them in 2011.I was happy, as the moon was bright, as Emese and I bicycled back over the pot-holes, through Abony.bye, Modern OddyseusThanks to Mile; Listyan; George & Maria; and Viktor for rides!Much thanks to Donko Karoi, Karolina, Emese, Levente, & "Bodza" for the place to visit!
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/modernoddyseus/15/1241962560/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/modernoddyseus/15/1241962560/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/modernoddyseus/15/1241962560/tpod.html Mon, 11 May 2009 09:37:48 -0400 A journey to IRAN??? to study people, life, and happiness.

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Neusiedl am See, Austria

It wasn't as easy to leave Austria as I'd thought it was going to be.One day, I walked through the village of Neusiedl, and then alongside a forested hill full of "garkle!"ing pheasants, and then through fields full of towering fans that collected the wind's energy, and finally through cropland full of long-eared jackrabbits I could chase.  But, when I threw my backpack over a fence, in order to get to a rest area for cars on the expressway, yet another zipper on my backpack broke.  It seemed I could no longer reliably close it.  Hmmm.?  So, instead of hitchhiking to Hungary, I returned to Lake Neusiedler to try to fix it.Other days, I didn't travel because I was lazy, or it was raining, or I was thinking about going home to Michigan.  One day, I didn't travel because my tent stakes broke.Boy, I was having a lot of problems.  And I really missed America.  I actually missed the U.S.A.  Or, maybe I was having a lot of problems BECAUSE I missed the U.S.A.  Maybe I shouldn't have been traveling?Somewhere in Neusiedl am See, I found a copy of Barack Obama's inaugural speech as U.S. president, pinned up for the public.  I recorded a quote from it in my "Book of Philosophy":"we have duties to ourselves, our nation, and the world, duties that we do not grudgingly accept but rather seize gladly, firm in the knowledge that there is nothing so satisfying to the spirit, so defining of our character, than giving our all to a difficult task." - Barack ObamaHmmm.  I wondered what Obama's America was like?Hmmm.  I thought about things.I realized I couldn't allow "going home" to be an option I'd weakly choose just to avoid solving my travel problems.  Using the few hundred dollars I had, or my hands, I had to fix or replace my broken things.  I had to leave Austria - but not on a plane.  I had to become a traveler again; and then, while at full strength, if I decided I WANTED to go home, it'd be all right.  Yep.  That was how it was going to be.  One satisfied spirit for me, please.The only thing all this thinking didn't make clear was: how was I going to spend all these unplanned weeks in Neusiedl am See?I smelled the spring lilac bushes often.  The white lilacs had a soft fragrance, like powdery make-up, a heavy fragrance that embraced and made me sleepy.  The purple lilacs had a sharper scent, like berries, a scent that raced through and made me want to sprint or fly and be free.I continued reading a Persian fable, "Zehaag and the Dervish."  Zehaag's acquaintance turned out to be an apprentice of the devil's.  He told young Zehaag that if he wanted to be king and learn the secrets of the world, he had to kill the current king, Zehaag's father.  Ambitious Zehaag agreed.  Once he became king, he employed a master chef who prepared daily feasts of lamb, gazelle, pheasant, and wine.  The master chef, when asked what reward he'd like to receive in exchange for his extraordinary work, said he'd merely like to kiss Zehaag's shoulders.  This would be an honor for him.  Zehaag agreed to be kissed.  The devilish chef disappeared.  And then, two snakes began growing from Zehaag's shoulders.  Wow!  I couldn't wait to see how Zehaag was going to get out of this mess!And also, in Neusiedl, I mingled.Franz, a twenty-year-old about to graduate from secondary school, taught me an Austrian card game, "Schnapsen."  It was played with a 20-card deck, rather than the U.S.'s 52-card deck.  The four suits were hearts, bells, flowers, and acorns.  Each suit represented one of the four seasons, and on the aces was a woman who looked young in spring but was already an old lady by winter.  Franz and his friends played "Schnapsen" and drank local wine from Burgenland, almost every night in their favorite cafe.  They loved their home town.Otherwise, the Burgenlanders' houses and lifestyle and interests seemed remarkably similar to Americans'.  It felt like home, except the people weren't wearing navy-and-yellow University of Michigan sweatshirts, and they thought the Neusiedler See was a "big" lake.Matthias was the guy I learned the most from.  The pale-skinned, black-nest-haired, twenty-year-old son of a diplomat, he was charismatic because he was passionate about many things.  He picked me up at my tent near the marsh-land, drove me to his well-aired home, and cooked lunch for us and his mom.  Afterwards, he said I could use his internet if I needed to.But, in two hours, I barely wrote two e-mails, because he kept wanting to tell me about the things he loved: music and films.  He liked experimental music.  He was very interesting, because he'd deeply researched all his favorite bands.His favorite band was Tool, from California.  This heavy band featured hard and irregular drum beats, and a lead singer whose voice tore as if he was suffering maximum anger and agony.  Matthias pointed out that the band's lyrics, "He had a lot to say.  He had a lot of nothing to say.  We'll miss him," were about the founder of the religion, scientology.  Matthias said one of Tool's biggest influence was the late comedian, Bill Hicks, and he played me some of Hicks' comedy.Hicks swore confidently and mercilessly mocked fundamentalist Christians.  In one memorably shocking piece, he spoke for two minutes about how anyone working in marketing or advertising should've seriously killed himself now.Matthias' second favorite band, Porcupine Tree from Britain, played fourteen-minute songs that grew soft so it could "set the mood" with bleeping, synthesizer sounds.  The third-favorite band, Dredg from San Francisco, liked to write Eastern-sutra-like stories about spiritual journeys or dream cycles, then write music based on them.My Austrian friend - in-between cigarettes - explained the album, "Pretty Hate Machine", by Nine Inch Nails.  He said it was an album about a relationship that had ended, though the main character still wanted his girlfriend back.  The fourth song, "Sanctified", was the only one about the sex between the main characters.  Set to soothing, futuristic factory music, the singer's yelling voice whined:"If she says come inside,I will come insidefor her."I am justifiedI am sanctified... by her." - Trent Reznor (Nine Inch Nails)Matthias had seen most of these bands at music festivals.  I was a bit surprised that young Austrians from such clean surroundings would want to spend three days in a tent amidst dirty, drunken crowds.  But, the festivals in Burgenland were very big.  And perhaps I ought to go to one some day?Matthias mentioned a quote from the sci-fi Russian movie, "Stalker."  It called music, "the most illogical of the arts," because people couldn't really explain WHY they liked certain sounds.I knew Matthias had just begun taking "Film Studies" at a university.  I asked if he was going to one day make films.  He said he hoped so.  I figured he might one day make something very progressive and insightful.He drove me back to my tent.The next day, possessed, void of thought and ego, I marched to an old boat, so I could hide some things I didn't need beneath it.  It was at least the fourth time I was getting ready to leave Austria ...Modern Oddyseus ...
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/modernoddyseus/15/1240941780/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/modernoddyseus/15/1240941780/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/modernoddyseus/15/1240941780/tpod.html Thu, 30 Apr 2009 14:05:23 -0400 A journey to IRAN??? to study people, life, and happiness.

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Neusiedl am See, Austria

It'd been once I got to Vienna that most of my problems began.Most travelers, I think, undergo crucial moments of uncertainty during the early stages of their expeditions.  "Is all this difficulty worth it? ... Was I right to leave behind comfort, my own kitchen, friends? ... Maybe I should go back?"My plan for Vienna - only 150 miles away from my "comfort" and Klara Sigmundova's home-cooked cheesy onion soup in the Czech Republic - was to arrive, locate and buy a Persian-English dictionary, and get out.But, after four days of looking, I hadn't located the dictionary, and my back was in pain from hauling my heavy bags everywhere.  I was in a village just south of Vienna; and I couldn't even find a place to camp.  I walked a bit.  I put my bags down and sat on them.  I picked them up.  Walked a bit further.  Put my bags down and sat on them.  I was destitute.  Pathetic.  Directionless.Luckily, when I went into a church library to use the bathroom, someone closed and locked the building from the outside.  Ah ha!  I had my own, comfortable building for the night!  I listened to the musically and lyrically fantastic album, "Po-ticho", by the Czech band, Priessnitz."I'm still standing on my feet.I'm not on my knees yet ..."I'm still standing on my feet.I'm not on the ground yet ..."I'm still standing on my feet.I still have strengthto order myself a shotand light a cigarette."I'm still standing on my feet.I'm not under the table yet."- translation, from Priessnitz's "Neboli"I couldn't leave Vienna without getting that English-Persian dictionary.I was optimistically on the road to Iran.  It was going to be a long road; a road through countries I'd been to before and wasn't that excited about.  But, if, using a dictionary, I could write in my journal in Persian every day, it would add a fresh and exotic element to my routine, and the hitchhiking would become more fun as well.Unfortunately, as I was enjoying the church and its "comfort", I tried sleeping on a couch that was too short, and pulled a back muscle.  Ow, ow!I let myself out a window in the morning.And in the evening, I bought a Persian-English dictionary, an English-Persian dictionary, and a Persian book of fables, in Vienna's only Iranian-owned bookstore, which was open 7.5 hours weekly, or approximately 160 hours less than the corporate internet bookstores I was trying to spite, walking all over Austria to give business to the "little guy".  I was going to sleep well that night, even without the tiny couch, knowing my thirteen Euro's would buy political exile Afshin a little more tea for his samovar.  Ha ha; Amazon-dot-who!?... Ohh, my back hurt.  Was all this difficulty really worth it!?  What was I trying to do to myself, hitchhiking 150 miles in only eleven days?  I needed a break from the road and my travel ambitions.  Luckily, there was a "burn-out syndrome" rehab center on a lake not far from Vienna.  I decided I'd go there immediately and camp near it.(I camped near the lake, so-named the Neusiedler See, not near the rehab center.)  This two-meter-deep lake sprawled out, in a large basin surrounded by modest hills.  The lake, itself, was surrounded by watery marsh-land, a quiet bike trail, soccer fields and tennis courts, and schools, a strip of farmland farmed by many different owners, and modern villages.  Camping near the marshland, I saw deer, ducks, snakes, pheasants, and a hedgehog.And I pondered my trip to Iran.  I had problems: heavy bags, an aching back, a wobbly wisdom tooth, torn and faded clothes, and five broken zippers.  I considered all my alternative options, and realized I had none.Well, none had the meaning of a trip to Iran.  And as I pondered, I began using Persian.I'd already studied the grammar, an hour a day for two weeks, using a dusty book called, "Persian Grammar," which, to be honest, wasn't that exciting.But, now, I was writing in Persian.  I wrote from the right to the left, using Arabic symbols.  Some symbols curved.  Some looped.  Some boomeranged, stylishly.  Some sailed like boats.  Some tilted.  Others resembled happy whales.  Some zagged.  Some hooked.  Some connected to the next letter in the flowing calligraphy.  Others needed to be followed by a space.  Many wore cute dots, above or below them.My favorite word was, "chashm" (eye).  Its first two letters, "ch" and "sh", with three dots apiece, were some of the most dotted letters in Persian.  Thus, when I wrote about a German girl in Vienna, "chashmhaa zarad daarad" (She has yellow eyes), I was pretty excited.I also read in Persian.  It took me a few days to figure out that the title of my book was, "Zehaag and the Dervish".  At that point, I'd already read a few paragraphs.  Here's my understanding of the first sentence I ever read in Persian: "Thousands of years before (something indecipherable) our country Iran Land, in a foreign land a kingdom (something) wine made to cailing (big man?), so that from (something) (greyhounds?) was."  It only took me thirty minutes to understand the sentence that well.  Man, was I excited!As I read and wrote, my understanding of the difficult language improved rapidly.  I now knew that Zehaag was either a king, a prince, or a man who wanted to become king, and his acquaintance was about to let him in on "the secrets of the world."  By golly, Persian was thrilling.Recently, though, someone pointed out that I was in Austria.  And, wouldn't it be wiser if I was learning German?My interactions with the German-speaking people had been pretty limited.  But, I did notice that Austria was very expensive; there were tons of convertibles and Mercedes' and BMW's; and, according to many lamenting young people, Austrians were very nationalistic.My relations with the people were warm and friendly.  There were two highlights:1. The Neusiedler See was in a region of Austria called Burgenland.  Supposedly, this region had friendly people, and they liked tradition.  I was at a party, and some boys announced they wanted to sing folkloric songs.  They sang with seriousness, with their hands on each other's shoulders, or on their own hearts; they sang for their wine-harvesting ancestors.The first song, they said, was called "True Friendship."  The second was a love song, called "The Farmer's Daughter."  The third song made no sense, they said, and it began, "Oh, down in Africa, there lived a pepper ..." The last song, apparently, was about a girl, and it described how young and pretty she was, and it told of how a fisherman took her out in his boat to kill her.2. Twenty-four-year-old Andrea from Germany had yellow eyes, a chubby countryside smile, and alcohol in her.  We and some of her friends were walking near block-sized, unfriendly Viennese buildings at four a.m.  She pointed at me and said, "Sing!"  I sang a high-energy song, "De Musica Ligera," by Soda Stereo.  She playfully repeated the Spanish lyrics after me.  When I started to imitate the song's rocking guitar chords, she was pleasantly surprised and giggled adorably.... Seemingly, I'd had enough of a break from the road.  If I could, I was going to try to move on towards Iran.  I was just going to get rid of some of the things from my backpack first, and then, while traveling, stop and smell the spring lilacs often.Modern O.Thanks to Janoust'ak, Klara, & Janoustakova; Vlast'a; Robo; Josef; Rashum Singh; Loca; Linda; and Agosh for rides!Much thanks to Albina, Igor, Katka, & Niki; Jana, Jano, maminka, & Brano; and Marion for places to stay!
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/modernoddyseus/15/1240678200/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/modernoddyseus/15/1240678200/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/modernoddyseus/15/1240678200/tpod.html Sun, 26 Apr 2009 12:52:27 -0400 A journey to IRAN??? to study people, life, and happiness.

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south of Vienna, Austria

A week after leaving the Czech Republic, I was asleep in my tent in a soccer field in a village south of Vienna. And I dreamt.I dreamt that I was supposed to be working as a Czech plumbers' helper. But, Czech plumbers, probably because their country had been communist until recently, don't make much money nor work very hard.  So, instead of working, I was just relaxing somewhere nearby while still getting paid.In fact, I was writing. And near to me was one of my favorite college professors, "Amanda". This professor must've been much older than me, because she'd had a pHd. while I was still nineteen. She had a pettite and curve-less body. She looked young and, with the little voice of a child, cute even. I wouldn't say she was physically attractive. But, she was wise in the ways of healthy living, teacher-student relations, and art, and I really respected her intellect.I repeatedly sought prof. Amanda's help while writing in the dream, because I couldn't think of the words I needed without her guidance.Afterwards, we were sitting together somewhere, and she put her arm around me. I wasn't even aroused, but I simultaneously had an orgasm. (This wasn't a wet dream; the ejaculation was merely dreamt.) The ejaculated substance was in fact an orange, vegetable spread (like the one I'd taste-tested in an Austrian supermarket during the daytime).Later on, my parents, a roll of French bread, and Honza the plumber made appearances, in different settings ...I think this dream was a mockery of the statement that we naturally desire to mate with those people who we think would make good parents.keep dreaming,Modern Oddyseus
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/modernoddyseus/15/1239742440/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/modernoddyseus/15/1239742440/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/modernoddyseus/15/1239742440/tpod.html Fri, 17 Apr 2009 05:55:34 -0400 A journey to IRAN??? to study people, life, and happiness.

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Rymarov, Czech Republic

Although, in and of itself, hitting on girls hadn't been one of the main things that attracted me to spending the winter in the Czech Republic, I found myself doing it a lot.  The soft-faced girls almost always said "ano" (yes), when asked to dance.  Often, they kissed; I especially liked how small, romantic Erika held the back of my head with her fingers, as we kissed on the couch in V Club.I wasn't the only person struggling to stay free while, at the same time, getting the love he/she needed in Rymarov (a small town where couples rarely kissed twice without becoming monogamously committed).  Each of these "small town Casanova's" had his own strengths and weaknesses, as well as different goals and success rates.Among us, there was I.  My goal was celibate love, or just a good dance; the less talking involved, the better.  I clung to the naive belief that the battlefield of love should be a friendly place, a place where people feel safe and have fun and remain friends - not a place where girls seek comfort and a higher social position, and then close themselves off to new love.My STRENGTHS: tall; good ad-lib and salsa dancer; looks good in a suit; bold moves; particularly effective with young, drunk girls; American; renowned adventurer; stays sober.  My WEAKNESSES: unpredictable hair; looks like hell when tired; Verca; worry over a girl expecting sex; can't work on subjects unless inspired; doesn't like talking; anti-sex and anti-monogamy views.My BIGGEST SUCCESS, I'd say, came with a girl I didn't have great success with, but who really inspired me.  Katka's happy, gleaming face consisted of baby cheeks and black eyes and ponytail; her healthy, round butt and two roaming continents for breasts pushed on the short dresses she wore to balls with such opposition you'd think the dresses would burst.  She liked playing with me, but she had a boyfriend, so she couldn't always play.  The first time I saw her, she was dancing in leather pants on the stage in V Club, and I came up to join her.  The next time, we were the first pair dancing on the ballroom floor at a ball.  A third time, I saw her on a slow night in V Club.  I asked good-natured Michal Zet'ak, a champion hip-hop and electric boogie dancer, if he and his girlfriend wouldn't help me entice Katka into dancing.  Katka responded that maybe she'd join us in a bit.  I picked her up from her position, lounging on the couch; she squirmed in my arms, but smiled.  She followed us to the floor.  And ten minutes later, I gave birth to a new move, when Michal's girlfriend hopped on my right arm, I scooped Katka up with my left, and spun us around."That's right, my friend, women really like action, daring, violence ... women were made to be carried away, they want to be carried away by the strong, - good Trivalin, it's the law of nature that women love heroes ... Dear Trivalin, women are weak, that's why they're attracted to heroism.  A woman, my friend, loves blood on a man's hands, and wants to be won." - Brighello to Trivalin, in the "Play of Love's Destiny", by Karel CapekA second "Casanova" was nineteen-year-old Jarda.  He had short, dark hair; light-brown, serious eyes; and a jawline that was developing from "young and soft" into "firm and successful."  His goal in life was to be a rich businessman, and as happy as possible.  When interacting with girls, he wanted to get to know girls intellectually, to gain a better understanding of women, and he also wanted what most guys want.  His cold-hearted approach indicated a more-realistic attitude toward the Rymarov girls, most of whom were opportunistic and unsympathizing.  (One source said his first girlfriend had been unkind.)  He engaged in power struggles with girls, to see if they'd obey him when he asked them to do things; and he rejected girls, so they'd like him more.His STRENGTHS: good jive dancer; well-loved in the community; interacts with the girls on an everyday basis; student of "pick-up" strategies; charming.  His WEAKNESSES: aims too low; tries so hard he doesn't enjoy it; seen kissing too many girls in public.One night in V Club, I was talking to Jarda about how we all reach our "peaks" at some point in life, and after that we go downhill.  A NOTEABLE SUCCESS of Jarda's happened when, some time later, he told a girl, "We might be at our peaks right now, and we don't even know it," to convince her they should have fun together now.I could tell you about other "small town Casanova's", such as blond, twenty-eight-year-old Klara Sigmundova.  Her STRENGTHS: hillarious; pretty; good party stamina; no competition (no single girls over 21); funny photographer.  WEAKNESSES: too strong for most Rymarov men; susceptible to nervous shaking when sober.  But, we have to continue with our story ...After seven weeks of kissing girls on the weekends, I realized that what I needed most were some real friends I could talk to, and whom I could see during the week.  In the next two months, happily, I found some.  Not all of them were present at my "good-bye party" in early April, but Jarda and Klara and some others were.In an alternative-style bar, I read into a microphone one of my travel stories which I'd translated into Czech; it was barely comprehensible, and well-received.  Jarda then suggested we play a drinking game involving dice.  But, since I didn't drink, we decided the players could have the option of doing "ukoly" (tasks) if they lost.Jarda sat the furthest to the right, playing and enforcing the rules.  When he lost, he often chose to drink, but he didn't become drunk.  Among the "ukoly" he performed was to sit on an unsuspecting girl's lap, take a sip from her drink, and say, "Hey, honey, so how do my chances look tonight?"I sat to Jarda's left.  Once, for a task, I had to ask an acquaintance if he didn't have a spare condom he could loan me.  Later, I had to climb to the top of a gate and say into the microphone, "Compared to me, King Kong is a pansy!"The latter "ukol" had been thought up by eightteen-year-old Michal Zet'ak, who sat to my left.  He, like classmate Jarda, had been my students three years ago, but we only became good friends now.  The possibility of teaching again had been the #5 reason I chose to spend the winter in Rymarov.  Unfortunately, for me and for the town of Rymarov, the school principal followed Prague's orders and didn't let me work illegally."Any code of rules is an act of violence. ... Laws are oppressive handcuffs. ... All governments are tyranny." - Adam, in Karel Capek's play, "Adam the Creator"So, I worked instead as a plumber's helper.Michal Zet'ak, meanwhile, for his "ukol" had to jump and hug our bar's stripper pole and twirl around it.  His innocent smile, the smile of a boy who believed we should do what we feel and who loved drinking and befriending people, looked funny on the pole.To Michal's left sat pale Martin.  Martin, in his second year of university in Prague, loved girls, and he came home to Rymarov almost every weekend to attend the balls, though he was often quiet and unsure at them.These balls, of course, had been the #3 reason I'd wanted to winter in Rymarov.  This season's highlights included: any jazzed-up, rock dance with Jana Krecmerova, a tough little girl in a shimmering, gold blouse who shook every part of her body angrily; a ten-minute polka with Jana K., in which we hopped and spun so quickly sweat dripped from my forehead onto the sleeves of my suit-jacket; a racing waltz with Jana K., in which we triangled our way through the crowd and got nauseously dizzy; and slow-dancing with Orange-cheeked Petra, who sang the Czech song to me.For an "ukol", Martin walked on all fours through the bar and yipped and shook his head around like an excited puppy.  Later, he was supposed to lick someone's ear.  He walked slowly through the bar, unsurely looking at girls' ears.  Finally, he ended up at the bar and, giving up on the task, resignedly ordered a shot.The next player, little Klara Sigmundova, would inherit this "ukol".  Though she was totally sober, she walked straight over to a shy boy who had a lot of hair.  She melodramatically pulled back all the hair that was covering his ear, which took a long time.  Then, she gave the ear a big lick like a St. Bernard licking a steak.  The poor boy turned red.Fun Klara was my best and most loyal Czech friend, a girl who lived to cook for and have fun with the people she loved.She'd been the only friend to join me for ice skating, the #6 most enticing thing about Rymarov's winter.  Tragically, she suggested we take some funny photographs while skating.  She wanted to skate at me and jump into my hands.  "Hmm, that seems dangerous," I thought, "but dangerous for her only, so if she wants to do it, who am I to stop her?"  Sure enough, I couldn't hold her weight while on skates.  She fell backwards.  The next morning, she found she couldn't move her neck, and she had to wear a neck brace for the next two weeks.Next to silly Klara sat our game's final player, Andrejka.  Not knowing her that well, I'd say she's typically Czech: thin and strong-willed and beautiful, with dyed red hair; monogamous and reserved and controling.  I couldn't believe Jarda got her to play this game.  For an "ukol", she had to go to the bar's bearded owner and ask if he didn't mind her doing a striptease for the bar; he, as if trying to contain his glee, just shrugged, "Sure ... why not?"The tall, lanky guy to Andrejka's left was her boyfriend - unhappy that she was playing what he'd later call, "A game for pigs" - and one of Klara's and my good friends.  A month before this, he'd said to me, "Tvoje trojka byla rozhodlna." (Your three-pointer was decisive.)  The town basketball tournament was the #2 thing I'd come to Rymarov for.  We won our last game, 61-58, against a mean, bullying team that included Jana Krecmerova's boyfriend.  I surprisingly made a long-distance shot with ninety seconds to go, and we took second place in the tournament.Andrejka's boyfriend looked on as Martin performed a late "ukol".  Martin crawled under the long table, stuck his head out in an unsuspecting girl's lap, and said, "Little cow, little cow, give me some milk."This black-haired, sad-eyed girl was Verca.  Martin pushed himself against her as he struggled to get up from underneath the table, clumsily.The thought of dancing with this girl - alias Vika, a.k.a. Vert'a in my stories - at the Public School's Ball had been the #1 best thing I could imagine about Rymarov.  She wore a long, gray dress and she seemed to have tears in her eyes, when we did indeed dance at the ball.  Our thighs and faces were very close, we moved to the music slightly.  A faster song came on, we held hands and jumped around, we came together, and I dipped her, which was so fun.  As she left, I thanked and kissed her.The #4 reason why I'd come to Rymarov was because I was in love with Verca.  She and her persistent disregard for me made me weak.Unlike with Katka's rejections, I was unable to shake off Verca's rejections of me and approach her the next time with confidence.  She was so cold ... and joyless.  She suffered and was beautiful like a Dostoyevsky novel.  Whenever I was next to her, I felt like there was nowhere else I had to go.  And yet ... deterred by her rejections, I stopped trying to talk to her months before this night.  I wasn't even sure if she'd come to the bar because she wanted to say good-bye to me or not.  As scared as I was of her, I was not Verca's hero.The boys and Klara and I quickly left for V Club.  Katka, who happened to be a good friend of Verca's, was there.  I tried telling her about my ideas for a utopia without sex; she said she liked sex, and went to her boyfriend.  Just then, Jarda gave me the task of talking to and entertaining one of his "girls", so she wouldn't get bored while he went and talked to another.Two days later, I saw Katka in a bar.  She in her full, light-blue jeans wanted me to smoke my first-ever cigarette with her, and I agreed.  Later on, we went to a dark room to dance, but unfortunately the song ended after twenty seconds.Two days after that, Verca and I had a meeting.  I told her I'd been in love with her.  To my surprise, she said she hadn't known.  I mentioned how unfortunate it was that we hadn't spoken together for months; in response, she noted that I'd been a bit of a playboy at the balls.  And that was that.The SMS I'd written to Verca in January, "Mam novy napad.  Ty, Katka, a ja budeme spolu, a budeme zit bezkonecne st'astni," (I've got a new idea.  You, Katka, and I are going to be together, and we'll live happily forever) never got more of a response than, "OK, now, that plan makes no sense to me ..."I hoped my Casanova abilities hadn't reached their peak yet.- Modern OddyseusThanks to Marco; Antonella; Renato; Milo; Piotr; Christian; Marek, Sylven, Paulina, & Kristyna; Filip & Gina; Joze; Petr; Tomas; Honza; Cyril & Ludmila; and Franta for rides to and in the Czech Republic!Much thanks to Jano, maminka, & Brano; Albina, Igor, Katka, & Niki; Pavel & Dasha; Mom & Dad; and Klara for places to stay!
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