New Years Whirlwind: Italy, Croatia, Bosnia

Planes, trains, and automobiles -in the rain- could be the title of this post. That, and a multicultural whirlwind of language, food, and environment, is the story of our New Years travels. Long-envisioned, planned and scrapped and re-planned, our big trip to Italy and Bosnia finally came to pass. First, though, we shared a small warm Christmas in a packed apartment in Motril, Spain during the rainiest week of the year. ‘Twas a far cry from the white Christmas enjoyed stateside, but full of holiday spirit nonetheless. Being away from familiar settings for important occasions has the positive effect of refocusing that time on the people around you, and we made the most of the company with good food, small gifts, and indoor laughter to warm everything that the heater under the coffee table couldn’t cover. On a related note, warm feet are consistently undervalued as a prerequisite for winter happiness.

In an unfortunate and freakily unusual weather phenomenon, rain practically covered southern Europe during the 3 weeks of our Christmas vacation. So, after hiding from the cold and wet in Spain, we had no choice but to face it during our exploration of Italy, Croatia, and Bosnia. The journey began with a delayed flight, missed train, and language barriers. Before long, however, Jasmina and Jordan (a visiting friend from Raleigh, N.C.) and I were hopping night trains across Italy, passing Milan, Verona, and Venice by in the dark. We passed the night on the cold marble floor of the Trieste, Italy, train station after brushing our teeth in a plaza fountain. Needless to say, it was an exercise in maintaining our positive travelling attitude in the midst of less-than-ideal circumstances.

A series of buses through the gray and beautiful evergreen landscape of Croatia landed us in the capital city of Zagreb. Left with a full day until the next available bus departure, we explored the parks, plazas, and alleys of this quietly regal city. We toasted Jordan’s 23rd birthday with midnight red wine our of paper cups, shortly before our bus crossed into Bosnia. By the time of our arrival in Sarajevo, we had endured more than 20 hours of public transportation in a variety of forms. The power of new places, youthful positivity, and good company prevailed in our hearts though, and we were able to reflect fondly on our journey thus far.

In Sarajevo, we re-united with another travelling pod of ex-pat friends in the apartment of Jasmina’s gracious and hospitable aunt. We got lucky with a break in the rain for New Year’s Eve, joining the masses in the city center for a raucous gathering that included live music, street drinking, and ear-splitting fireworks from every side at once. We explored the boisterous nightlife, finally settling on a pub with a live band doing rock covers of American songs, where we danced into the first morning of 2010.

Although somewhat daunted by a steady cold rain in a city that is normally a winter wonderland in January, we set out to get to know the mysterious and haunting beauty of Sarajevo. As the epicenter of civil conflict in the former Yugoslavia, Sarajevo bears many scars of war. Faces of people, as well as buildings, showed the effect of a long siege and a difficult recovery. Juxtaposed with this painful history, however, was the quiet impressiveness of a city that has been an important cultural capital in Byzantine, Ottoman, and Austrian Empires. “Balkans” in Slavic means “war”, and a history of conflict has endowed Sarajevo with architecture, culture, and collective memory that is as diverse as any in Europe. In one street, I stood on the spot where World War I started with the shooting of Austrian Archduke Franz Ferdinand. The streets of the old town feature Turkish markets alongside Austrian government buildings, all overseen by the multitude of minarets reaching skyward from Sarajevo’s countless mosques.

The view from a high lookout, of mosques and churches and graveyards and a winding river and houses lining the slopes of the long valley like a quilt, cemented the physical beauty and emotional pull of Sarajevo in my mind. During our time in Sarajevo, we also drove out to the mountainous site of the 1984 Winter Olympics, visited the city’s Sarajevsko brewery, and enjoyed a plethora of home-cooked Bosnian food and Turkish coffee. After a short 4 day visit, we left Sarajevo on a bus through the dramatic landscapes of Herzegovina and Croatia’s Dalmatian Coast. Before catching an overnight ferry to Italy, we spent some time wandering the old town of Split, which includes the well-preserved ruins of Diocletian’s Palace.

Once in Italy, on our train from Ancona to Florence, we observed the rare and unusual view of a snow-covered Tuscany. By the time we arrived in Florence, however, and for the duration of our trip, cold constant rain was back as the norm. We were lucky to find an apartment of young Italian hosts through the travel networking site CouchSurfing. Staying with locals, rather than in a hostel or hotel, is a sure way to introduce some excitement and unpredictability into your stay in a place, and our friendly Italian hosts were true to this maxim. We cooked dinner for a big group of Italians one night, shared stories and trivia questions over red wine, and tagged along on some nightlife adventures around Florence during our 3 nights in the apartment.

Florence, renowned for its artistic history and cultural vibrancy, had plenty of charms even in the rain. With cheap umbrellas and wet shoes, we braved the rain to walk and walk and walk, seeing as much of the city as we could on foot and on a budget. We also visited the nearby city of Siena, Florence’s historical political and social rival, where the feeling of old Europe filled every street and doorway. Our last stop was Bologna, where we enjoyed the free museums and exhibitions that so nicely distinguish a well-established university town. There, as elsewhere in Italy, the amazing pizza and diverse aperitivi (drinks and finger-food buffet) made food a highlight of the trip.

Upon our return to Spain, I reflected on the whirlwind of language, food, culture, and environments that we encountered in our travel. It was a challenge to sort through the chaos of impressions left by such an intense experience, containing as it did 4 countries, 3 languages, and over 45 hours of transportation in its different forms (plane, train, taxi, bus, car, tram, ferry) in the space of 2 weeks. Ultimately, as ever, I am left full of gratitude to be able to pursue such transient experience and to appreciate the people, food, surroundings, and thoughts that I encounter along the way. And again, the excitement of being surrounded by a new language and working to expand my mastery of a few basic phrases only deepens my desire for new languages. After 11 days of this intensity, the familiarity and rhythms of my relatively settled life here in Spain seem almost surreal in their normalcy. But, as always, there is a job to do and a life to live upon any return, and so I do my best to turn my mind back to that world even as this experience remains large in my thoughts.

Ramble in Morocco (Travel blog vol. 2)

My most recent vagabond travel undertaking was an independent and somewhat haphazard voyage across the strait to Africa. A group of 2 boys and 3 girls, none speaking the national languages of French and Arabic, we nonetheless set off for Morocco with no hotel reservations, guides, maps, or concrete plans. We had a 5 day weekend, 4 cities in mind, and a lot of faith in the mantra that fate favors those who trust it. From the port city of Algeciras, we ferried over the Mediterranean to our first destination, the morning sun-washed city of Tangier. A cultural, artistic, and geographical crossroads, Tangier greeted us with the bustle and clamor of its port and the resident hangers-on. Once deeper into the city, however, we discovered the quiet beauty of the city with the help of an unofficial guide named Mustafa. He led us through the ancient winding streets of the hilltop medina and Casbah, or castle complex, where such mystical historical figures as Marlon Brando, Jimi Hendrix, and Bon Jovi have lived. Already pleasantly surprised by our relative good fortune thus far, we began the next stage of our journey in the company of new friends.

Thanks to the travel networking site CouchSurfing, we met up with 2 Moroccans who hosted us in their small coastal town of Assilah. In addition to a free place to stay, they also offered us a local’s view of the city, complete with conversations about Islamic culture and Arab youth as well as a tour of the seaside medina. Later, we had the unforgettable experience of riding on a flat 2-wheeled horse-drawn cart along busy highways and across rolling fields to a beautiful secluded beach (Paradise beach, in fact) set among high coastal bluffs. That night, we had the unique and incredible opportunity to go to a traditional Arab bath house located behind an unmarked dour at the end of a dark alley in the medina. The baths consisted of a dressing room, warm buffer room, and a completely tiled steam room where we washed ourselves with buckets of hot water from a continuously refilling reservoir. Morocco was surprisingly cold, especially at night, and the deep warmth of 2 ½ hours in a steam room was a welcome change.

Most excitingly, we had the chance to receive a traditional Hamman massage from the best masseuse in town. The wiry middle-aged Moroccan joined us in the steam room and proceeded to blow our minds with his strength and endurance as he conducted intense full body massages for 7 people in a row. The massage itself was much more than a backrub, and involved yoga-like stretch positions, synchronized inversions, and insane twists and lifts. The masseuse used his body as a tool for opening up our joints and muscles, and the heat, echoing noise, and rhythmic breathing made me lose all sense of relative time or space or position during the intense 15 minutes that I was under his control. The refreshing clean and physical vitality that I felt afterwards stayed with me for days.

From Assilah, we took a train to the bigger city of Fez, overcoming language barriers and transportation setback along the way. With less than 24 hours in the most important city in Morocco (culturally and historically speaking), we made the most of our time. We stayed in a hostel in the heart of the medina, and got a tour from a couple of American Fulbright scholars staying in Fez. They showed us the crowded main streets, winding alleys, markets and mosques of the medina, as well as the un-touristed residential neighborhoods that they had explored. Fez’s medina is the largest intact medieval Arab city, as well as the epicenter of Islamic philosophy and religion for much of its history. The hum of life there, of people and commerce and spirituality, was intoxicating and overwhelming, packed as it was into Fez’s warren of narrow streets and covered alleys.

Our last destination was the small mountain town of Chefchaouen, where we had barely 18 hours to enjoy one of the most beautiful towns I have ever seen. Built against the side of a mountain and on the edge of a wilderness preserve, Chaouen’s steep streets led to wall after wall of every shade of blue, with blue doors set in them. Known as the “blue city,” Chaouen’s mosaic of whitewashed and painted streets, alleys, and doorsteps made for a mystical ambiance, somewhere between a traditional pueblo blanco of Andalucia and the extraterrestrial feel of rounded buildings and streets that seemed carved out of the mountain. While our haphazard itinerary actually worked out, and we visited all the towns we aimed for and even made (barely) our ferry on time, I seriously regret that we had so little time in this town.

So, 4 nights and 5 days of vagabond travel in Morocco came to an end with a strange blend of satisfaction with the wonders of the experience, gratitude for our good fortune, physical fatigue from the intensity of the trip, and an aching wish that the amazing trip did not have to end. The beauty of the landscape and cities of Morocco amazed me, as it did when I went there with a tour group in the past. The deepest impression, however, was left by the Moroccan people. Their generosity, positivity, and openness, contrary to their common reputation in Europe, repeatedly moved me. Their devotion, to God and Islam and family and health and traditions, was readily apparent. Their patience, too, with poverty and hardship and each other, was a marked contrast to American attitudes. Finally, the single quality that I admired the most and wish was not so alien to Western culture: humility, before people and life and God. It is often preached, and rarely practiced, but I saw it in the faces and actions and words of the Moroccans I encountered, and it refreshed and inspired me. I consider myself incredibly lucky to be able to have such an experience, to be blessed with such luck and good times, but the return to normal life only makes such journeys seem even more surreal.

The Travel Blog (vol. 1)

My blog promises, in addition to my rambling opinion writing, some accounts of the travel I undertake while I am here. So, I present the following...

One of the perks of my job is the time commitment. Not only is the program a manageable 8 months, but the hours are light and all contained in a four day work week. So, I go to school Monday through Thursday, teaching until 2 each day and tutoring later in the afternoon to fill time and make money for travel. Coincidentally, free Fridays make every weekend a long one, a potential foundation for a trip of some moderate variety. Many of these weekend trips are regional jaunts to some Andalucían city or other. If you were to pinpoint my location on a map (Motril, Spain), you would notice several things about its geographical situation, including: 1. It is on the Mediterranean Sea (which I can see from my balcony and bedroom window) and 2. It is situated at the base of the Sierra Nevada range, which contains continental Spain’s highest mountain (in the course of an afternoon jog, I can look down on the sunny Mediterranean and a few strides later look up at snow-capped peaks).

In addition to its interesting physical geography, Motril is also well-situated relative to other cities. The closest, and the capital of the province, is Granada. I’ve visited Granada a handful of times, for single days as well as whole weekends, and have really enjoyed the contrast of its international cosmopolitan feel with Motril’s small-town ambiance. Granada has one of Spain’s biggest and oldest universities, with a huge student presence and youthful energy to match. The city’s cultural significance, as the last Moorish stronghold in Spain and the home of the famed Alhambra, combines with its physical beauty to make it a highly-touristed place as well as a haven for Spain’s counterculture. Simultaneously Bohemian, hippy, and traditional, Granada is a melting pot of historical and contemporary cultures, and a fascinating place to have only an hour to the north. My other frequented destination is the port city of Malaga, the southern coast’s biggest. My girlfriend Jasmina lives there, teaching, which is reason enough to visit, but the city also has some appeal in and of itself. Thoroughly modern, Malaga is one of the tourism and fashion capitals of Spain. The hometown of Picasso, Malaga now boasts its own Picasso museum, the centerpiece of a robust arts and cultural scene. Other destinations in Andalucia have included a school field trip to the Sierra Nevada and a day trip to the British enclave and rock of Gibraltar (full of monkeys, see pictures for a thousand words).

There have also been more ambitious travels. The first, in early October, was a 5 day jaunt to Portugal. Taking advantage of an especially long weekend, I rented a car and drove across the Peninsula with some friends, enjoying the Iberian countryside and the nice roads as we zipped along. Our first stop was the beach town of Lagos, on Portugal’s southern coast, home to the cliff-backed beaches, grottoes, and bluffs that characterize the Algarve region. We even made it to the town of Sagres, perched on the Southwestern-most tip of the European continent, and once thought to be the end of the world. Continuing our four-wheeled adventure, I drove up the coast to Lisbon, where we navigated through what was easily the most challenging traffic and streets I have ever encountered (imagine New York City drivers in European streets). But we were able to enjoy the magic of the Portuguese capital, the most underrated in Europe. Colored stone buildings and cobble-stoned streets, combined with trolley cars climbing hills that look out over the broad Tajo River, made Lisbon feel like a cross between San Francisco and Madrid. Getting by on a mix of our Spanish and the limited Portuguese of our Africa-bound visitor Andrew Magill, we were able to deeply and fully enjoy the charming beauty and excitement of Spain’s closest neighbor.

Coming very soon... Morocco

Youth and Apathy in these modern times

Every generation changes the face of its society. Even so, the worldwide youth of today seem to be breaking with their respective traditions. This is as true in Spain as anywhere else. The two socio-political worldviews I laid out in the last post, socially conscious romanticism versus traditional conservatism, are both under siege from arguably the most potent mindset of them all: apathy. I say potent because apathy has the power of prevention, the power to preclude other mindsets or opinions by preemptively rendering them uncool, pointless, unworthy of attention.

Apathy, of course, is generally a reaction and not a state of equilibrium. Nothing exists in a vacuum, and a vacuum would be necessary for apathy to exist of its own volition. Rather, apathy comes about through a combination of disillusionment and overstimulation. The disillusionment, almost always, is with politics, the economic status quo, the established social and cultural traditions, or some other vestige of the “system.” Unfortunately, however, those who choose to show their dissatisfaction with any status quo by pretending to ignore it are merely feeding back into the cycle that they vainly distance themselves from. I can think of no historical example of a situation where widespread apathy was a primary cause of improvement.

Yet this is, in many ways, our generation’s defining struggle. We exist in something of a dichotomy, where our overexposure to politics either motivates us to form and advocate opinions or makes us shrug our shoulders in disgust. Simultaneously, the rampant overstimulation of today’s Western youth camouflages a choice between access (to information, to other people and ideas, to causes and organizations and cultures) and mere entertainment. And, once again, it is all too easy to choose entertainment, to slip smoothly into a cycle of stimuli that never produce a substantial or original reaction. So, I would argue, apathy is not self-sustaining phenomenon, but rather a product of individual and group reactions to an existing system.

In this sense, Spanish youth have caught on fast. Only 30 years into democratic politics, they are already tired of politicians. The parties are the basically the same, all the good parties are outlawed, none of it affects us anyways… the responses are the same in Spain as in the U.S. And those are from the people who even feel the need to explain why politics doesn’t interest them. The real “silent majority” are the people who absorb political news and world events the same way they absorb music, never really processing it or incorporating it into their lifestyle, opinions, or actions.

Despite this negative social commentary, there is something to be said for what the youth –apathetic or otherwise- does best: having fun. And, in the pursuit of fun (in the general sense), young people have a knack for breaking existing social barriers. So it is that everyday humor, whether crude or enlightened, can mask insightful social commentary or reveal actual cultural transformation. In the United States, humor belittling oneself, one’s country, or anything in between has long been the mainstream. In Spain, young people have a similarly iconoclastic irreverence for traditional aspects of Spanish identity or culture. Part of this is the result of the cosmopolitan cultural modernism that pervades Europe today, but part is simple self-deprecating humor on the part of young Spaniards.

Machismo, a very real part of Spain’s (and the rest of the Latin world’s) traditional character, is the target of humor as well as social policy initiatives (to be discussed in another post). The phrase “Macho Iberico,” is traditionally reserved for the toughest and manliest of Spanish men: the bullfighters, the futbolistas, the power brokers. Now, it is jokingly used to compliment a well-executed pour out of a wineskin (proffered by a friendly bartender), held at arm’s length to allow the trajectory of sweet and strong vino fino to arc through the crowded tapas bar and fill the pourer’s mouth without spilling a drop, to shouts of approval. If you guessed that this description is autobiographical and that I am a natural with a wineskin, you were correct (they asked me if I learned it from reading Hemingway). The ironic label of “macho iberico” also comes up in discussions of chest hair amongst twenty-somethings and comparisons of sandwich size between school children, among other situations.

As with any country’s generation of young people, Spanish youth have a façade of coolness, complete with loud music, motos and fast cars, name brand clothing, drugs and alcohol. And, as is true anywhere else, the combination of coolness and apathy can be downright toxic if it becomes the dominant norm for a country’s young people. Also prevalent among my Spanish peers, however, along with the humor, the fun, and the coolness façade, is a strong movement towards higher education, multilingualism, personalized careers, and internationalism. This highly motivated side of this generation here, inevitably, competes and contrasts with the apathy discussed above. It remains to be seen, therefore, what the outcome and impact of today’s Spanish youth will be. In the meantime, they are busy just living.