Ode to Lost Dreamers Like Me

On this trip I have had many fans (made up primarily of people who have to love me like my family and friends). One of these awesome individuals took such an active interest in my travels that he wrote a list of questions which I truly enjoyed thinking about. It has taken me awhile to give them the time they deserve, and I still ended up a little short on a few. However, for whomever is curious, here are some thoughts. Thank you to Michael Gratta for getting some rusty cogs grinding.


Was Josep affected by the dairy strike in Europe?


I meant to ask him about it, but he seemed to be a man with a real love for his life and one who was just clinging on to that sort of existence. His dream was to be able to sell artisenal cheese so that he was not forced into a situation where he would have to switch to more modern methods like hay and corn fed cows. Even now Josep has to sell his milk at a low price to be thrown into a mixed vat and homogenized and superheat treated. Considering the Spanish expertise on meat I would expect better than just the UHT (Ultra Heat Treated = tasteless) milk that I had everywhere outside the farm.



Is everyone freaking out about a recession over there too?

Everyone abroad vacillates between talking about how wealthy we are and how we are undergoing a huge recession and our money is worthless. It's all over the place and seems to affect no one worse than traveling Americans who get hounded for being wealthy and dominant or get ripped off for the dollar. But that's just the self involved perspective. Surprisingly, no one seems to have any desire to travel to the USA (the only ones who do have no capability because of our horribly strict VISA policy).



What are the thoughts about the future of american politics?

American politics are another confusion. People in India seem to be on the Obama train in some places and all about Bush (and therefore I assume McCain) in others. The strangest place was Macedonia where everyone knows perfectly well that they don't like what Bush does, but because he supports Macedonia in front of Greece they are on board with the Republicans. Overall most people know about our economy sinking faster than the Titanic, but they all still claim that we are the superpower of the world. I don't know what to think about it really, but I think the future, hopefully under Obama, will show that we are ready to step back and listen to how the rest of the world thinks we should handle ourselves. By the same token, I do see a need to maintain some influence in the Middle East; there are a lot of ideas out there I would like to keep far away from my hemisphere after having even befriended some of the Muslim world's most amazing people.

What does tumeric come from?

Turmeric is actually native to South Asia and is pervasive in Indian, especially South, cuisine. The yellow powder is widely traded in the south of India along with saffron (a more flavorful and expensive but similarly hued spice). It actually comes from a green leafy plant that reminds me of some houseplants back home; and, like the one I accidentally killed before I left, they require quite a bit of water. The spice is part of the root system and is baked in an oven and ground to a powder to create its household form. In addition, turmeric is often used in Indian ceremonies and worship because of its bright color and has a special place in Hindu tradition.


Did you go to Sintra in Portugal?

Sintra in Portugal was a beautiful place to drive around. Genna and I met some lovely people and gaped out the car window at the hillsides covered in vineyards. I love the steep narrow roads that force everyone to drive reasonably sized vehicles and the small community feel of it all. As we drove up to the northern border with Spain, people and scenery just kept getting friendlier and more beautiful. When we reached the absolutely adorable northernmost wine region of Melgaco, well known for their espumantes or Portuguese champagne, it almost felt like we had reached Zion.


Did you go to Granada?

Sadly, we did not make it to the south of Spain. Would you like to take a trip with me and show me around?


What was working on the farm like?

Working on the farm was one of the most phenomenal experiences of my life. Actually, since I am a rather blessed individual, I should pick a more descriptive adjective.

Working on the farm was not only educational in an agricultural aspect, but was perhaps the luckiest Genna and I have been on this entire trip. Here's why: the WOOFing organization is a little bit of a crap shoot as far as I have heard. While some "farmers" who have paid the fees to be a part of the organization truly are aiming themselves towards complete sustainability, many are said to be more like expatriates who have bought some comparatively cheap land and are looking for a place to hang out and be little hippies until the end of their days. I have no problem with this. Josep, on the other hand, I would imagine had a farm completely unlike most on the WOOFing list.

First of all, he ran one of the last traditional type dairy farms in probably all of Spain. The cows ate fresh grass every day, were talked to like children (albeit unruly ones) and cared for exclusively by Josep for the last 11 years. Genna and I worked our butts off and combined we could still never accomplish half of what this man could in one day. It's only after peeling the last callous off my palms in Macedonia that I truly was able to understand the fortune that Genna and I had to find such a quirky and traditional Catalunyan family to show us what the north of Spain was really about. I'm certain I will never experience anything like it again.


Are you homesick?

You know, there are things I miss about home, like my family and friends, but I love meeting new people and seeing how others get along. I would say my love for home ties with my love for the entire globe, so I'd like to divide my time between the two. Of course the other part about that is that I really have not had a long-term living quarter since I moved from Dirty Jersey (my first love) at age 16. So I guess that makes it all the easier for me to think of the world as my home, which, as corny as it sounds, I truly believe.

Are you going back to colorado?

As it turns out, I am going back to Colorado. I love the state and people of Colorado; it's a place that has a lot to offer when you don't know where you are going or what you are doing. It's a place where there is a laid back peace that I need when I'm not invested in a project. It's also a place where people, beyond all reason, seem to love me. Still, I had hoped to go to New York this September for graduate school and psyched myself up to see the leaves change for the first time in years. I hope to stay out here long enough to figure some things out, but not forever. I do think it's time to move on with my life and start something new somewhere new...anywhere.

What should I do with my life?

Learn. I can't figure any of it out so in the meantime I just think if I can open my eyes and ears and take time to think before I talk and act perhaps things will fall into place by my facilitation not overactive engagement. I guess it's sort of a laissez faire approach to life, but if it's done with the right heart I am hoping it has great potential. We'll see. (Too sappy? Get a tattoo to balance it out.)

Timeout for the Juvenile Delinquent

I wake up with a large metal pot beside me and overly chipper rays streaming in from the open sun room. Outside I hear Genna arguing with Pavle about the Greeks and Macedonia's right to their name. It's 5 o'clock in the morning.

When I get up to use the bathroom the memory of last night's party rises from my quivering vacant stomach and spreads violently throughout the trashed apartment. I barely make it back to bed before my legs give out. Five hours later I emerge once more to find a dozing Genna in pristine flat. Could it all have been just a dream?

No, my Macedonian friends managed to out "hospitalitate" me in my own space right down to mopping the floor while Genna and I dripped punch-flavored dribble down our dozing chins. Now this is an embarrassment.

It all started when our attempt to introduce the drinking game Quarters (which I am good at) degenerated into a perfidious game of low card (which, if it had any skill involved, I would suck at). Not only do I draw the initial two low cards, but also discover that this means I am to drink double - oh, and I can't leave the table until drinking at least 3. In other words I'm screwed.

It takes little more than an hour for us to run out of beer and vodka and for me to be focusing on people's pupils in a lame attempt to appear sober. This is what I get when I try to combine American and Macedonian party tradition: drunk by midnight with a party that intends to be bumping until 4. By 1 AM I am perched on a pitch black landing 2 floors above and hung over a flower pot and wishing for swift death.

Finally I hear Genna sneak out of the apartment in search of me. I let out a weak murmur, relieved and grateful that she is alone and I can admit my plight. The girl is an angel. After failing in her attempt to teach me how to make myself throw up she navigates me down the stairs, through the bustle of hopefully happy party-goers and into bed. As I try to slow down the merry-go-round that has become Pance's air mattress, a trickle of Macedonians come to sympathize. Despite my mortification, one after another offers a empathetic memories of similar moments of inebriation. For my part, I had made it to 25 without betraying myself so egregiously and figured I was in the clear. Wrong.

And so it seems that all hopes to prove to these people that I could be as nice, as giving, as totally hospitable as seems to be their nature have failed. Instead I find myself ever more grateful for their patience with my flailing American ways. Yet I wonder, was it a good party?

Wind up to NASA's 4th finest

At 3:30 in the afternoon I call Genna from our favorite cafe where I have been cutting and pasting away my afternoon. "She'll be here in 20 minutes if you can make it." I pause for a minute, wondering if there is some feasible way that I can not make it. But the ease of using Skopje's Partizanska buses makes for a timely arrival, leaving me with little legitimate excuse to ditch out.

It's a combination of factors that urges my naughty shoulder devil to forsake Genna for this journey to see a pile of rocks on top of a hill in the farmlands outside of Skopje. At the top of the list is UNESCO and hospitality. That's right. We are in a situation in which UNESCO and hospitality have the potential to ruin our lives. First of all, UNESCO, I don't know if you foresaw this when you set about to indulge the great and lesser nations of this world by throwing your clement little labels willy nilly across the globe, but I beg you: STOP!

We have dropped jaws at Agra and Varanasi; we have creeped the rickety tracks of the toy train in Darjeeling; we have been sexually harassed outside the crumbling Red Fort in Delhi and in the Medina of Marrakech. We have intoxicated ourselves in the Alto Douro Wine Region; we have circumnavigated the Monastary of Batalha; we have stalled the car lost in the hilly cultural landscapes of Sintra and we have blistered our heels in the old cities of Salamanca, Cáceres and Merida. And yes, we have also been lectured about missing the great rock-art sites in the Coa Valley, the historic city of Meknes, Santiago de Compostela and Goa. No, we did NOT make it to Granada or Evora or Fez. And damnit, before we make it home there is a damn good chance that Genna and I will not have been to the one and only Macedonian UNESCO heritage site: Ohrid. So, UNESCO, I beg you, end this plague of pride that you, like some depraved ecumenical Santa, have dispersed helter skelter upon this earth. You are killing me.

Secondly, hospitality, is it possible to have too much of it? Since we would be nowhere without our extensive Macedonian network, that's a big round NO. However, it is possible to have too much of it in too short of time: I call it hospitality saturation. They are amazing. Macedonians are so adept at hosting that a 22 year old (featured in Macedonia's newspaper with a subtitle reading They may look small in number, but these hooligans cause a big mess), is able to arise from an all night bender, stumble down the street, take us two bus rides away to his uncle's bakery where we learn to make burek, and manage to hold off chain smoking in front of his father the whole while. Oh yeah, and at any level of intoxication or sleep deprivation the kid can beat me at backgammon while ensuring that I have a Nescafe in one hand and a lemonade in the other.

Their capability to over-indulge me with host offerings is as epic as their ability to commune. On the day of our trip to the largest waterfall in Macedonia our incredible guests manage to get a borrowed car from Skopje to come pick us up from the bus station, serve us a breakfast of yogurt, fresh apricot juice, water, Turkish coffee and fresh homemade pastry before driving us to the border with Bulgaria. Here, while we overcome the difficulties of a lost and stalled vehicle, we purchase a watermelon, a round of beers, and a delicious fruit I've never seen or tasted before in my life. Our return rewards us with 5 kebaps, a Shopska salad and another round of beers. Then, on the way back towards the city we pause for a look at Stip's oldest church and a hike up to the town's viewing point where the pervasively popular cross at the summit signifies our triumph. Anetta then buys us coffee while she waits for our bus to come pick us up and take us back to the waiting arms of Pance's parents who have dinner prepared to be followed by ice cream and coffee. Saturated I say.

So, after a full week or of these types of interactions (pause for more passive Peace Corps Jerry who just gets me drunk and lets me pass out on his couch), I realize that my base saturation level is far askew from my Eastern European counterparts. This, I tell myself, will be my final endured UNESCO moment and from here on out I will make these kindly Macedonians mete out their hospitality in more reasonable doses, like once a day. And so, let the Kokino adventure begin...