Another New Kosovo

Last year, my impressions of Kosovo were as follows: war torn country with the UNHCR in the middle of town, KFOR walking around, NATO with their guns, empty streets with a clear view of Mother Teresa and Bill Clinton, optimistic youngsters with new business plans, disco-disco clubbing girls, a multi-ethnic society, the world's best kept legal secret (well, obviously not so secret, but for students, hell yea!).

In some ways, my impressions still hold true, but there are many things I see completely different, having changed, or just a difference nuance that I did not see.

A list (I like lists) of new or different things:

--Prishtina has busy streets, no lie. I was here on the weekend last summer (no one is out on weekends) so I never really saw a busy city.

--NATO is leaving, so not as many guys with guns (though some Portuguese NATO/KFOR guys did try to pick my friend and I up today. As Anastasia, my hard as nails/soft as cotton/funny as hell filmmaker, journalist Canadian Russian buddy, says, Prishtina may not be quite as "badass" without NATO, but it definitely does not feel like a warzone anymore. This is the general consensus of most journalists who are packing up for Gaza, Afghanistan, or Iraq... and Turkey.

--Not every man looks like they are on the Yugoslavian basketball team, despite some people thinking so.

--Muslim Fundamentalism is on the rise.

--Kosovo feels even safer than it did last year. Not only that, it is safer. The economy may be corrupt, but the crime rate in Prishtina is lower than most American cities.... though keep your wallet in check. This rate could just be that the retired NATO officers living here know how to keep their shit together (forget Boca Raton, Prishtina is cheaper and more interesting to retire to).

--Albanians are a minority in a sea of Canadians, Americans, Germans, and international acronyms. Like the Jews and Israel, there may be more Albanians in NYC than there are in Albania or Kosovo.

Naturally, there are many new things I am encountering. Like any new kid to town, my eyes are starry eyed and I look inquisitively at everything. More "enlightened" analysis will come later as I begin my mile high stack of books in my new apartment here. Thought I would give the update though.....

Simply put. Mom, I'm safe.

A Woman of ALL Nations (or no nation)

In the West, we hypothesize about why the conflict in the Balkans happened: the rise of Nationalism, the strive or ethnic independence, ethnic supremacy, da da da (as they say here), but talking to locals who have been displaced by the war gives you a different insight, naturally.

The first was my hostel/homestay host in Mostar, Bosnia. She was a Catholic, married to a Muslim, displaced to Croatia and then Norway (because a Muslim last name just did not work out in Croatia). She was explaining the war to me in terms of sides. She however could not explain to me how or why these sides developed. As she said, "It was confusing. No one knew what was going on. I just knew to leave .

Here in Kotor, Montenegro, I met a Bosnian woman from Banja Luka (she was the hostel manager). We got to talking. When I asked her what nationality she was, she said, "Nationality? I am a woman of the world. I just happened to be in Montenegro, but I'm from Bosnia. If I felt like living in Spain I would. You need to stop thinking of nationality. People who thought of that were stupid. "

I asked her how she got here, she said she was on holiday here then the NATO airstrikes began and should could not get back to Banja Luka, so she opened up shop as a hairdresser and a clothing maker. As she said, "Forget what you know. Nationalism or politics. All that matters, just in case is what you can do with your hands."

I asked her what she thought had happened and why it happened (a broad question I know, but I wanted to keep her talking. She was very bright and enthusiastic to talk about this, unlike others I have met here). As she said, "Yugolavia was a beautiful thing, but then this whole WW2 fright got in the way. The Croatians started wearing symbols that scared others. If they had not been allowed to remind us (the children of a scarred generation) of this suffering, then we would have been okay. But no, the get Milosevic in and they ordered a war. Who? I don't know. Its not Nationalism its MONEY. We did not cause this war. Someone else did. Someone said, "Okay, 60,000 people will die, we will focus on the Bosniaks, go!" and that is what happened. It was money. Why else is Russia invested in Montenegro, or Italy in Croatia, or the US in Kosovo? Others dividied it up. Someone ordered a war. Yugoslavia was strong."

She continued her distaste for nationalism, humanitarianism, etc. "Humanitarian workers were all young, like you, and had money. They all just sat in fancy houses with electricity, when we had none. They could not help except with a bottle of water. That is all."

As she said, "Memory is a scary thing. Nationalism was dangerous, but people are stupid. We were beautiful united. It is not stopping me. I am a woman of this planet."

Whether I agree or not, I do agree with her last statement.

War Tourism: Why Does this Feel Wrong Again?

When I got off the plane at Sarajevo, there is one thing running through my head, "How war torn is it going to be??" This is an unfair sort of thing to think perhaps, but being an American who has not seen the ravages of war first hand (other than in Kosovo perhaps), but has always seen it on TV, this "wanna see the war" mentality is almost like a sickening craving.

I get into a cab, and yes, the war is visible: holes in concrete where mortar shells hit, empty buildings, ruins, mass grave sites with white markers etc. Many things one would expect to see from the horrible 1992-1995 siege of Sarajevo by Serbs. (Only a few years after the Olympics in Sarajevo in 1984). My eyes fixated on those things, maybe instead of realizing the Mango, the Sisley, the Mazda dealer, the restaurants, and the bustling traffic, all very orderly.

When I get to the hostel, I encounter other travelers, begging to see the Tunnel where Bosnians smuggled goods, weapons, and people during the war. All talking about how much a disappointment certain places are because they don't have "real" handicrafts. (What, you don't like that plastic AK-47 souvenir? Let me give you a real one... But by the way, I've seen the same silk scarf in Egypt, Bosnia, China, and Turkey at this point, all claiming to be "hand made") Basically, people are trying to show each other up on who has a more "authentic cultural experience."

It got me to thinking, and writing this piece as a drank Bosnian coffee: now, is "culture" being bought and sold just like pollution credits, cigaretts, cars, and the United Colors of Benetton? So what is a world traveler to do? Suddenly culture is lost in not a "cultural" discovery, but an "economic" one--lets go see war, poverty--things we can't afford (in many ways other than what you are thinking).

Suddenly a journey means seeing that which is war torn, then saving it. If we are beyond the Age of Mechanical Reproduction, I would call this one the Age of Mechanical Reconstruction of culture, where culture is reproduced, reconstructed, bought and sold.

You know when you come to Sarajevo, you want to see and hear of war and bullet holes and mines. There is something more exotic about that than seeing maybe a Hawaiian hula girl or eating real Chinese food. Especially us young folk, we like to feel suspicious of the land we visit, trying to show one another up on who did what more dangerously by embellishing just, "How war torn Sarajevo was" or "how strange it was they have not repaired the bullet holes" when meanwhile, it is not "as bad" as we make it out to be. In fact, its safer than small town America at 10:00 at night.

The American mentality loves to find reasons to be paranoid. There is something foreign about domestic war (and even poverty). After all, we really haven't seen war since the Civil war. So that is ages (even before the real hit of "The Age of Mechanical Reproduction.") Other than pearl Harbor, 9/11 and maybe some domestic terror like Oklahoma City, we really have not seen as much as we like to imagine with our American paranoia. Instead, we have bred maybe a sicker kind of warfare of mind, drug, sex---not to mention the types of meth lab crimes and sick things you hear about that go on in the American west (tying up people in a house and watching them die?)

In our paranoia, we almost crave to see and point out the perversion of the rest of the world. We crave to point out how sad, poor, desperate everyone else is. (Why else do you watch ET or Inside Edition? You want to see some crisis fabricated. Don't get me started on Lifetime).

Should we be ashamed of our obsession with this "war tourism" or "poverty tourism" that goes on so much? Perhaps. Yet maybe before we judge others, we should look what is happening to people in downtown Brackenridge, PA.

Will I stop being cautious, paranoid, or interested in the "warzone?" No. Its almost as American as apple pie. I run into travelers here with no fear, until their purse is stolen. I am cautious, but I have fun too (it did not stop me from befriending some fellow travelers and going to certain "warzone" areas with them.. after all, its better to not be alone and be with a Mexican guy who went to Penn or a Canadian doctor).

Well, ready to take on Montenegro and Croatia. In one day. Holla.

Globalization by Bikram

Yesterday, I happened upon a woman who, as she describes herself, is "a freelance English and Bikram Yoga teacher." She said she had taught Yoga in LA, New York, Marseilles, Nepal, Indonesia, Dubai, and Vienna. Currently, she was helping to open a new studio here in Wien (Vienna, btw).

This morning, I took up her offer of a lesson. Early morning in Vienna and NO one is on the street. This city is very calculated and runs on a clock. Go out at 11:00, leave the streets by 6:00. Etc. So I decided to go, sans the sports bra I left at home, foolishly.

First of all, the studio smells like cardamom, my favorite. The lady is very kind and offers me help in choosing a mat and some towels. Unfortunately, I go into the men's changing room because I cannot read German. Oh well.

We go into the HOT studio, as Bikram is hot. About 15 minutes in, I'm already DRIPPING in sweat, and so is everyone else. The work out is both mental and physical and it is damn good. Everyone from young people to old people do it, and everyone at their own pace. For the most part, everyone was in really good shape, and everyone had to sit down at one time or another to just rest. When the instructor opened the windows on occasion, I relished in the fresh air.

Funny enough, the instructor was not too zen, but speaking in strong German, (with english for me). Imagine that sounds and clapping of a high upper school PE teacher. Everyone is sweating and at this point, everyone is in little undies and bras. You don't give a shit after a while.

Later, when its all said and done, I feel refreshed. I get some tea and apples and sit in the group. surprisingly, I was very relaxed and not in pain. (Currently I just feel a little weak, why I am sitting down before I continue to sight see).

A mother/daughter pair living in Vienna but from California start talking with me, telling me there is Bikram all over the world, even in Sarajevo! The guy, Bikram from LA created the exercises that work your thyroid, pancreas, and not to mention muscles and mind. He trains people and sends them all over the world. The sequence is the same, as is the exercise, so basically you get the same thing (with slight variations) wherever you go. I might have to try it in Sarajevo and Israel. Maybe I'll get one started in Kosovo, haha. For 10 Euros, I got all of that (including my free breakfast), and a free session tomorrow morning at 7:00 AM. I might go...

After my chat with those ladies, I went to the correct dressing room.... Now, you cannot have body issues in a European Gym. Communal showers, nudity, and no "stalls" change that. So I just went at it naked.

Words of wisdom for first time Bikram people: (Mom! Listen up!)

--Bring the littlest pair of shorts and a sports bra. Everyone, even the fat people, will have one on.

--Bring extra clothes, two towels, and shower supplies. You NEED to shower after this.

--Do NOT eat before this. Wake up and go. No coffee.

--Drink a bottle of water before you go. During, you cannot drink water for the first 25 minutes of the 90 minute routine.

--Have no shame.

--Be in half decent shape before you go. Bikram is for everyone, but come on, you should be able to at least sit in a warm room for 90 minutes.

--Don't give up. Have a mentally calm attitude and just don't think about it when you cannot do a perfect pose.

--Have fun.

Namaste.

Wien-ing in exhaustion, but loving every minute.

Have not slept in nearly 28 hours, will be brief.

LOVE Vienna. Mostly because of the people. Major props to Cathrin for picking me up at the McDonalds and taking me to a hostel to drop my pack.

Things done and impressions made:

-St. Petersburg looks like Vienna. Or Vienna looks like St. Petersburg. One of the two.

-Smoking.

-Met another American girl (should say woman), Hillary. Turned out to be from Colorado, but she has been abroad for about 8 years teaching English and Yoga (from France, to Nepal, to Dubai, to Vienna... hoping to settle in France). Guess who is doing Bikram Yoga in the morning... in Vienna. Moi. Score. Hopefully I will sleep.

-There is donor and kebab everywhere. Its like a flirting fascination with their former Ottoman borders never left them. Serbs running in the streets after beating Germany. The wild wild east is at the doorstep here and it is felt with every step.

-Everyone obeys the rules. I felt bad for jaywalking. The subway system is an honors system. No turnstall, you just swipe and walk through a gate with no door. Everything is timed perfectly like a Swiss (or Austrian) watch.

-Mozart tried picking me up on the street. Or rather MozartS. They all wanted to take me to a concert at this grand hall, a la Mozart, period dress and all. Though one did try to invite me to an Irish pub. I didn't think Mozart liked the Irish.

-Met some other girls from vancouver who just graduated college. They had been to Bosnia and told me not to worry. And they are blond and beautiful. (Look mom! I'm alive!)

-I saw the human rights project exhibition put up by Lukas Maximillian Hueller, the same guy I wrote my Paul Bloom 7 Deadly Sins thesis on. I feel like emailing Lukas and telling him I'm in his neighborhood.

My thoughts are about disjointed as my physicality. You try carrying 14 kilos and feeling normal! Good night (or good nap). I'm wide awake now but exhausted. ? Question Mark ?

Woman in Her (?) Nation, of cars, cigarettes, and cellulite

About 15 miles from my own home, there is the border to a different land. A land of car racing, monster trucks, fatty foods, clay dirt, obesity, and "freedom."

Welcome to my evening at Lernerville Speedway. Accompanying are the L's, our family friends from the city (censored name for their privacy). After having a "box" (or just a roof with some metal chairs) at Lernerville for years and never having actually visited, we decided to go with the Lesoons for some country car romping. We have a car (who we only supply tires to), a driver, a sign with our name on it--none of what I knew we ever even had. My dad prefers movies and the Steelers, to cars and dirt.

As we look for our seats, mom is concerned her espadrilles are getting dirty and she clearly is overdressed. I'm getting glaring looks as I walked up the old wooden bleachers to our box seat. Is my purple dress too purple? Older men with their buttoned shirts have sleeves rolled up to look like old time greasers. I see boys with little hair tails and girls who are 12 smoking cigarettes. An incredibly obese woman in nude colored cotton pants blocks the stairway to my "box" filled with metal chairs.

As Mrs. L is an audiologist, she has us outfitted with proper earwear. Having a conversation is futile when you can't hear and don't know sign language. How is that cute little 17 year old on a date here with his girl? They can't talk!

In between races, we actually bring up conversations: Courtney L. with a boy who is the son of our driver. He knows how to replace transmission and he is like 9. Mom has a man offer her some sausage. Mrs. L chats up with the boy in front of us (the son of the guy who does our towing). He is very polite, telling us in his country pittsburgh accent about how last week a guy caught on fire! He says, "Yea!" after every question mom asks.

Courtney and I leave and pass up the beer hut next to the port-a-potties and dodge cans that fall from the bleachers above us (people throw them under their seats). Little kids have big ear protection on as they watch the big kids (9-10 year olds) play football. A man sticks a wad of chew-tobaccky in his mouth. I'm stared at as if I was a dead woman walking, from a time in the distant future who has died and come back. Is it the ugg sandals (like Birkenstocks of yuppies) or my curly hair (which every other girl straightens and dyes blonde in these parts...)

Later, Courtney and I sit on the roof of her Jeep and look out at the clay dirt in the night sky that has been kicked up by the homemade cars that are going in circles.

Sometimes I forget where I live. Sometimes we all forget what our country is composed of. Regardless, we all need to remember that somewhere in farm town USA, on any given friday in June, there are car races that are keeping these communities from boredom and keeping America a family affair.