From the Balkan doorstep of Budapest I have officially entrenched myself into the West Balkans, and can not imagine leaving. After realizing that the political situation in Belgrade was much ado about nothing, i took a sleeper train first thing to spend the weekend in the Serbian capital, and was not dissapointed. The city is not foreign to the effects of war, as half destroyed buildings were the first thing I saw upon exiting the train. The most famous site of the city, the citadel, has been conquered and razed some 40 times, changing hands from the likes of the celts, romans, turks, and finally, the serbs. It is an impressive stone structure that now houses a military museum, ranging from serb tanks and artillery, to weapons captured from the Albanian Kosovar forces, to bits of an American spy plane downed during the Yugoslav conflict.
The city itself is not aesthetically pleasing as most European capitals can be. It is strangely mixed between the communist blocks and large concrete squares of Tito to the quaint Art Nouveau structures so common during the Habsburg dominance of East Europe. Surprisingly enough, the Habsburg buildings are still in great shape, while the much more recent soviet blocks look as if they are on their last breath. I stayed in such a place, on the top floor of a sagging building whose insides stunk of smoke and sweat. If the place hadnt been so decrepit, I would have stayed longer. So, I took a bus to Sarajevo.
Interestingly enough, the bus from Belgrade, the serbian capital, only goes to the serbian part of sarajevo, which, unfortunately, was a three mile walk from the city center, not easy with an overstuffed backpack on your shoulders. And the route of the bus ride itself only went through the Republica Srpska of Bosnia and Hercegovina, adding several hours to the trip. But that is the way it is here now. Sarajevo has its serb part, its bosniak, or muslim part, and its croat part. Even its cemeteries are segregated as such. But I am getting ahead of myself. Sarajevo is, well, a surprise, an anomaly, almost a figment of ones imagination. The brutal seige that took thousands of lives is not forgotten, oh no, but has been embraced in a soulful and optimistic way that is characteristic of sarajevans and sarajevans only. Old bullet casings and mortar shells that
destroyed so much of this city have been molded into pens, ashtrays, and the like, and the frequent holes from the mortar blasts which rained on this city for more than three years have been filled in with red paint, which the locals call their sarajevo roses. But the most enchanting part of this city is its old town, Baščaršija, and its turkish shopping district. The locals here are more than willing to share a conversation over a game of chess, a cup of bosnian coffee, or a slice of cake, and the stoned streets of this area and the numerous shops remind you that hey, this isnt capitalism, and thats whats so special.
Dont get me wrong, a simple stroll through the city will reveal all kinds of potholed sidewalks and pockmarked buildings, many of which were at one time missing huge chunks, even entire stories. They were simply patched up, not in any particular style nor care. But the people have not been so fortunate. While many have seemingly come to terms with recent events, its not uncommon to come across beggars on the sidewalks with missing limbs, living casualties of a passionate but pointless war. But the city moves forward at its own pace, strengthening its visible resolve and its soul.
The city itself is not aesthetically pleasing as most European capitals can be. It is strangely mixed between the communist blocks and large concrete squares of Tito to the quaint Art Nouveau structures so common during the Habsburg dominance of East Europe. Surprisingly enough, the Habsburg buildings are still in great shape, while the much more recent soviet blocks look as if they are on their last breath. I stayed in such a place, on the top floor of a sagging building whose insides stunk of smoke and sweat. If the place hadnt been so decrepit, I would have stayed longer. So, I took a bus to Sarajevo.
Interestingly enough, the bus from Belgrade, the serbian capital, only goes to the serbian part of sarajevo, which, unfortunately, was a three mile walk from the city center, not easy with an overstuffed backpack on your shoulders. And the route of the bus ride itself only went through the Republica Srpska of Bosnia and Hercegovina, adding several hours to the trip. But that is the way it is here now. Sarajevo has its serb part, its bosniak, or muslim part, and its croat part. Even its cemeteries are segregated as such. But I am getting ahead of myself. Sarajevo is, well, a surprise, an anomaly, almost a figment of ones imagination. The brutal seige that took thousands of lives is not forgotten, oh no, but has been embraced in a soulful and optimistic way that is characteristic of sarajevans and sarajevans only. Old bullet casings and mortar shells that
destroyed so much of this city have been molded into pens, ashtrays, and the like, and the frequent holes from the mortar blasts which rained on this city for more than three years have been filled in with red paint, which the locals call their sarajevo roses. But the most enchanting part of this city is its old town, Baščaršija, and its turkish shopping district. The locals here are more than willing to share a conversation over a game of chess, a cup of bosnian coffee, or a slice of cake, and the stoned streets of this area and the numerous shops remind you that hey, this isnt capitalism, and thats whats so special.Dont get me wrong, a simple stroll through the city will reveal all kinds of potholed sidewalks and pockmarked buildings, many of which were at one time missing huge chunks, even entire stories. They were simply patched up, not in any particular style nor care. But the people have not been so fortunate. While many have seemingly come to terms with recent events, its not uncommon to come across beggars on the sidewalks with missing limbs, living casualties of a passionate but pointless war. But the city moves forward at its own pace, strengthening its visible resolve and its soul.
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