Things Icelandic People Like

Saying "No, Thanks!" to European Union Membership.  Within an hour of arriving in Iceland, we spotted a billboard that said "ESB - NEI TAKK!"  Our quick airplane study session had taught us that "nei takk" means "no, thank you" and the European Union flag keyed us into the meaning of "ESB."  We saw hay bails wrapped in branded plastic with the same message throughout the countryside.  Even though membership talks successfully began between Iceland and the EU in 2010, 56% of Icelanders polled this February were against them moving forward.  The main causes for concern have to do with agriculture and fisheries.  Basically, the enormous subsidies currently provided to sheep farmers would be cut drastically, the import tax currently on imported meat and produce would be lifted and the local farmers would get competition that they simply couldn't win. As for the fisheries, once EU member states get access to Icelandic waters, there's no telling what would happen.  Both of these things would, undoubtedly, affect the island's environment (on top of its ability to be self-sufficient, a vital skill for an island nation).

Coca-Cola Products.  Icelanders consume more Coca-Cola product per capita than any country in the world.  It's true.  The upside to such a depressing statistic is that they are the only European country to sell my very favorite soda, Fresca, a product of the Coca-Cola Company.  Aside from Iceland, it is distributed only to North and South America.  So, thank you, Iceland.  (Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola Light, Sprite and Sprite Zero were the other products regularly on hand).
When buying a soda like a true Icelander, one needn't have any available cash.  Because, another thing that Icelandic people like is...

Using a Credit Card for Everything.  Absolutely everything.  Even the vending machines have card swipers.

Cairns.  Some marked trails, some stood lonely and tall in the middle of fields - ancient leftovers from a trail long since disappeared.  At Skálabrekka, on the drive toward Þingvellir National Park, we saw dozens of tourists buildings cairns in a field just chock full of them.  A different sort of marking, just saying that they were there.  This cairn was spotted on the way up the Strandir Coast of the Westfjords.

Saga Museums.  The Sagas of Icelanders are the best known and most loved pieces in Icelandic literature.  Written in the 13th and 14th century by unknown authors, they tell the stories of the 10th and 11th, when the descendents of the original settlers began to navigate their way through life in this new world.  This involved lots of murder, as far as I can tell, as almost every saga details one killing after another.  Of course, this makes for great entertainment.  So, museums telling the stories have popped up around Iceland.  Most are in the location of the actual saga.  Let's just say, we saw a lot of violence reenacted by wooden statues and grotesque dummies.  Above, at the Saga Museum in Borgarnes, a tavern full of men listen to the very first poem recited by young Egil of Egil's Saga.  Spoiler alert: Egil grew up to become quite the murderer.

Self-Service Soup Stations.  In tourist information centers, gas stations, bakeries, museum gift shops and restaurants, there was always a big cauldron of soup sitting in the corner.  The soup of the day was always self-serve, inexpensive and offered up with slices of complimentary bread.  Cauliflower soup popped up twice, but usually mushroom soup and kjötsúpa, Icelandic lamb soup, were the ones on hand. 
Usually, a self-serve water station was also stationed somewhere in any room.  Icelandic tap water is excellent and having big pitchers on counters and bars across the country was excellent.  No waiting to ask your waiter for a refill, here!

Sod Roofs.  This architectural feature dates all the way back to the Vikings.  Covering log cabins with birch bark was the roofing method of choices throughout Icelandic history - and since birch bark so easily curls or blows away, the pieces were weighed down with think pieces of sod.  The process was labor intensive, but basically free, so it continued on in rural areas for centuries.  Recently, people have begun using sod roofs again.  The birch is waterproof, the sod is a great insulator and the weight of it all compresses the logs beneath to make the walls more draught-proof.  The sod roof above seems to be mostly chosen for look.

The Djúpavík Herring Meal Factory

Eva Sigurbjörnsdóttir and her husband, Ási, first started to get interested in Djúpavík when they heard a report on the radio.  It was the early 1980's, and the news was that Djúpavík was about to be deserted.  The last residents of the hamlet were moving south, to more comfortable places.  Left behind was a small clutch of houses at the head of a bay - and one gigantic, decaying, abandoned herring factory. Not long after, when Eva and Ási moved in, the factory was full of garbage.  The windows were broken, the machinery was rusted.  A dead seal had somehow been deposited in one hallway. Today, after decades of work, the Djúpavík herring factory is mostly free of trash, lighter, more ordered.  The decay has been halted, but the industrial core of the place remains.  We took a meandering tour through the building with Eva, marveling at how beautiful a ruin can be.

The road to Djúpavík is a long one, the scenery is desolate.  On the last hour of our drive - meandering along a string of lonely fjords, kicking up dust on the dirt road - we saw nothing but wind-touseled sheep.  There are no houses or people.  It feels like a road to the end of the earth.
When Eva, Ási and their three young children arrived here, the place felt even more bleak.  It had seemed like a foolish move at the time.  Ási sold his business, Eva quit her job as the Reykjavik kindergarten headmistress, they sold their apartment, they went into debt.  In their new home, groceries were delivered infrequently, neighboring kids broke their new windows, the northern winters were very dark.  A few farmers remained in the hills around, but the roads were almost impassable.  The trip to school was by boat in autumn, snowmobile in winter.  There was industrial trash scattered everywhere.
Still, they loved the simplicity and rawness of the place.  "It was a once in a lifetime chance," they say.   Some other people moved into town, a little community grew. Eva taught her children to ice skate in one of the huge factory tanks, where standing drip-water froze solid.  "The only problem," Eva said, "was that we only had one pair, and we all had to share." Since then, the north has opened up, the Westfjords aren't as isolated.

A project from the start, the factory has consumed much of their last three decades.  There are roofs to patch and walls to shore up, windows to replace, metal to move, machines to fix up, bulbs to keep burning.
The question, of course, is why?  There's no real answer - or none that makes sense.  The factory won't be used again, the space isn't good for much, it will always be cluttered and rough-edged.  People come to see it, but not in great numbers.  At the same time, it's striking and engaging - almost like a dreamworld of mechanical time, where nothing has a purpose but everything's connected.  The building  seems infinite.  Doors and stairways lead to darkness, pools of light, vast spaces or clusters of wire.  Every sound echoes, pipes run in awkward patterns, holes open in the floor, monstrous machines stand in the gloom.

The Djúpavík factory was, at the time it was built, one of the largest concrete buildings in Europe - and it was a questionable venture from the beginning.  In 1917, during the height of fish speculation in the North Atlantic, a separate herring packing facility had been set up at the head of the bay.  Like many other Icelandic salting enterprises, this original gamble failed in 1919.  A global drop in demand for herring wrecked havoc on the industry.

In 1934, renewed interest in the northern fish stock and new technology brought Djúpavík Ltd. to town. They built their enormous plant in a little over a year, using tiny cement mixers and timber offloaded at sea and floated ashore. In 1939, the company advertised at the World's Fair in New York - herring was booming again and the plant thrived.  

The Djúpavík factory processed herring into two separate products.  First, and most importantly, they separated oil from the fish and stored it in gigantic, concrete tanks.  These tanks were heated, so that the oil could remain liquid, and had a combined capacity of almost six thousand tons.  Secondly, the factory produced herring meal - ground and dried fish meat stored in 200 pound sacks, intended for human or animal consumption.
This immense boiler was scrapped from a wrecked ship and floated to the bay.  Because there is a large spigot-head at the top, the workmen had a hard time rolling the salvaged piece into place - ultimately, the foreman measured the circumference of the thing, then dug holes every sixty feet so that the huge cylinder could be moved without damaging it.
During WWII, Djúpavík enjoyed its best years, with high fish-oil prices and plenty of stock.  After, the plant began a slow decline.  By 1954, it was defunct.  It was truly abandoned soon after, and left to fall to pieces.

The factory is still rough.  It's too big to be completely cleaned or made neat.  And, as they've come to understand, nobody wants Eva and Ási to sanitize the place completely.
In fact, the roughness of Djúpavík is exactly its charm.  It feels fossilized, a relic of a forgotten civilization, closed up and left behind.  There is so much twisted rust and mildewed cement, so many shapes and shadows and interesting corners.   It's ugly in some ways, but haunting and pleasing in others.  The thickness of the cement muffles the noises of the outside world (waves, a nearby waterfall, car engines - all left behind), but causes voices and footsteps to boom against the walls.  It's hard to imagine the racket of the grinders, the heat of the fires, the vibration of the pumps - it's all very intimate in the closed-in present.  There are stories of men competing to see how many hundred-kilo sacks they could carry, women running the machinery and dances held in the dormitories.

The factory has become a collection place for ideas and things; Eva and Ási have convinced the people in the lands around to store their old cars inside, to keep them from rusting into the landscape.  There are ancient tractors, too, plus dusty Volvo trucks and a few unseaworthy boats.

Since 1985, the couple have run a guesthouse in the old women's dormitory, a few steps away from the factory - the building is also their home, and is one of the cozier places we've ever stayed.  The Westfjords are a lonely place, and the people that go there are generally adventurous, end-of-the-earth types.  The "hotel" offers welcome rest, with good food and great company - the kind of gathering place where everyone at dinner has some kind of story.  Some guests have stayed months or come back, putting their own stamp on the factory. 

Artists have installed works in some of the lighter, more open spaces.  There are photographs hung in the upper breezeway and tiny sculptures of horses.  Eva calls this work - made of fishing line and metal weights - her "sunbeams."  She couldn't bear to take it down after it was put up; she loves the way it catches and reflects light.  The factory has hosted an international chess tournament and the band Sigur Rós.  The people who come here remember it.

After about an hour and a half, we stepped out a low door and unexpectedly found ourselves outside.  The smell of the sea was the first thing I noticed, then the sun on my face.  It was a strange, wonderland moment - as though I had emerged from my imagination and found myself awake in the real world.  Somehow, the Djúpavík factory feels even older than it really is, and it's hard to think of it actually being used for anything.  Some kind of disconnect happened, where the place became a concept more than a remnant.
But there are still people alive who not only remember the factory in its glory days, but actually worked in it.  We were shown pictures of young men and women, told which ones were still around.  In the wooden walls of one gallery, signatures and small graffitis were carved.  Eva pointed out names of people she had met, told us stories about some of the others.  It made the place feel even more magical.

Montenegro's Churches in July

We've fallen into a lazy rhythm here in Montenegro, of soaking in the sun and expelling the heat back into the starry evenings.  This is a place to swim and walk slowly, and to look at things with the uncritical eye of a tourist.  What can we do in such a beautiful place but enjoy ourselves?  It's hard to react to this place with anything but stupor.  It's too hot and pleasant for anything else.
So, making our circuits around and above the shore, moving inland into the mountains and greener land, we've talked about little and noticed mostly colors and smells.  One of the things that stands out has been the meshing of architecture and rock, and the way the colorful light washes over it all.  The Cathedral of St. Tryphon is Kotor town's most picturesque church.  Built in 1166, it was damaged by an earthquake in the seventeenth century - it got its cockeyed look from the rebuilding process.  The towers don't quite match, the facade is handsomely asymmetrical, the setting is remarkable.  It's one of only two Catholic churches in Montenegro.

In the rocks and yellow grass above Kotor, one of Montenegro's most evocative buildings stands sentinel.  Looking out over the bay, built almost flush with the cliffs around it, the Church of Our Lady of Remedy isn't very big, but it's steeple punctuates the view perfectly.  This is the stuff of postcards and guidebook covers, the kind of chapel built less for worship than inspiration.

Around the bay to the northwest, past patches of hollyhock and flowering orange trees, is one of the largest religious buildings in the Adriatic, the not-really-that-big Birth of Our Lady church in Prčanj.  It's a pretty, blue-bordered church in a small cluster of roof tiles and bathing platforms. It's not nearly as large as one might think it would be, though it did take over 120 years to build. This side of the bay is less built up and has many beautiful, old stone houses on the waterfront. The calm waters there are never roused into more than a quiet lapping, the shallow spots are full of families swimming and playing together.

Up close, the church is almost overpowered by the lascivious blossoms of dozens of oleanders. Old couples stood on their porches in the close environs, fanning themselves and watching us carefully.  The tourists that come to Prčanj are almost all looking for a sunbed or a grilled fish - on the steps of the church, a few surprised men sipped beer and waved to us guiltily.  The place has the air of a forgotten, tropical mission, faded by the sun and just a few years from succumbing to the weeds and salt-air.

In a high, craggy valley, where the sunlight seemed collected as though in a bowl, we came to this grass-roofed, abandoned chapel.  Not far from the water, yet still at an extreme remove, the place had the emptiness of a dessert.  In the rocks around, a few horses and mules stood in what shade they could find, too hot to graze, their necks bent under the strain of July.  A crude wire hook held closed a gate across the church's doorway.

Inside we found a wooden ladder and wheelbarrow.  Also, a much-crumbled stone altar and the remnants of once-blue frescoes on the ceiling.  It was shady and cool, a tiny crossed knave. There were a few cigarette buts on the floor, but no beer cans.  The place was more cave than church, a tiny refuge beside the "ladder of cattaro," an ancient trading route now reduced to an outline in the scrub.

Montenegro's capital, Podgorica, is a spread-out place on a high plateau, far inland.  We talked to one woman from there who said that everyone leaves in the summer - it's too hot, too dusty, too dry.  The city streets were fully blanketed by a mid-summer quiet when we passed through.  This man and a robed priest were forking hay nearby the Cathedral of the Resurrection of Christ. Around them were battered dumpsters and parked cars, a kind of meshing of agriculture and urban blight.  The church, built in 1993, looked more like a municipal building than anything - like a police station set down on the edge of town and given a dome.

Looking like something found at low tide on a barnacled rock, Holy Sunday Church is a tiny speck off the coast near Petrovac.  It was built, some say, by a Greek fisherman who was shipwrecked there and believed that his survival was a miracle.  From beneath a beach umbrella on the shore, the church blends in the with the rock below it.  From the coastal road, it's a little red-roofed speck. Seagulls and sailboats whorled around it, the Adriatic was impossibly blue.

Lifestyles of the Rich & (in)Famous

It's not every day that you get to sleep were Mikhail Gorbachev once laid his famously birth-marked head. And don't you just dream of such a day? We booked a triple room at Arbanashki Han, the only one available online in our price range. When we arrived and they noticed we were a couple, they apologized that the triple had three individual beds, all narrower than a twin. "For 10 euros more, we can give you the apartment." We declined. These things happen, no problem at all, we'll get through. "Can I just show you the apartment?" the eager, nice gentleman asked. "It is very special." Pride was as much of a motivating factor as those 10 extra Bulgarian levs. The big, wooden door was opened to revel a massive, two floor suite. "Mikhail Gorbachev stayed in this apartment in 2002," he told us. We'll take it!

The Arbanassi Inn (Han = Inn) is also known as the Hadjihristov House. Built in 1646 by a wealthy merchant family of that name, it was one of many affluent homes in Arbanassi. The 17th and 18th century were wildly successful years for the village. Traders and craftsman did business with Russia, Poland, Greece, India, Persia, everywhere, using the mighty river Danube and benefiting from a tax exemption that covered all residents. At the end of the 16th century, Sultain Suleiman the Magnificent had actually gifted the entire town to his son in law, making it 'royal property' and therefore free from any taxation. Arbanassi has been VIP real estate from the beginning of its written history.

During Communism, the house, like most property, became state owned. Chairman of the Fatherland Front, Pencho Kubandinski, took a liking to the Hadjihristov House, renamed it "Arbanashki Han" and began to summer here. This is his original desk and library, right there in our (and Gorby's) suite. The 'notorious Arbanassi dames' of yesteryear were no longer prancing down the streets in silk and fur, servants following with jewel boxes in hand. There were no longer Wallachian princes building their second homes in the bucolic area overlooking Veliko Tarnovo. But the new upper crust - i.e. Kubandinski and his friends in high offices - kept Arbanassi's status as an elite retreat in tact.

"Real estate here is more expensive than in the states!" a Bulgarian man from Memphis, Tennessee told us. He'd visited the Arbanashki Han over a decade ago and looked a little sad at the construction being done on the leafy property. An in-ground swimming pool and conference center. "Rich digs" means something different nowadays. "Foreigners like to come and see old things, but Bulgarians like everything new!" he lamented further. Case and point: Kaloyanove Fortress. Its lobby is pictured above.  Welcome to Cribs, everybody.

We booked a night here on a lark, reading that it was a "Medieval Castle." We can't be sure exactly when it was built, but it was nominated for the 2008 Building of the Year Award from a Bulgarian hotel association.  According to the lobby pamphlet, the Fortress is a "great challenge to history."  Lost in translation.  A statue of King Kaloyan, or Kaloyan the Romanslayer as the kids call him, stands out front near the moat and drawbridge.  The tsar's monument is "one of the newest in the history of Bulgaria," the management boasts.  New, new, new. 

I doubt that living like a king was quite like this in Medieval Times. So... odor-free.  There were towel doves on our bed and a shower/jacuzzi thing smack in the middle of our room. The bathing contraption was so big and shiny that I fully expected Merlin to go in and emerge dressed as Batman. The hotel has a DJ at night, folk dancing on occasion and, by request, can give you a helicopter ride. The interior is the work of an Italian firm and the sound system is American.  Their slogan is "Enjoy a Royal Party!" It all reminded us of another thing our Bulgarian-Tennesseean neighbor had told us. "Now, all the buildings here are built by the mafia. Short lives, but rich ones!"

And then there is the truly named Arbanassi Palace, home of Todor Zhivkov who ruled Bulgaria as the head of the Communist Party for 35 years - one of the longest non-royal reigns in history.  He had this residence built in 1975, about halfway through his time as leader.  I'm sure he would have bristled at the word 'palace,' but that's sure what it is.  The location is magnificent, looking out over Veliko Tarnovo and the mountains.  Seeing it from afar, it couldn't have looked more perfectly like a Communist Palace - grand, but without ornamentation, big, blocky, but with subtly rounded towers that evoke hilltop castles.

After Zhivkov's forced resignation in 1989 and the subsequent fall of Communism in Bulgaria, the building was turned into a hotel.  Once you get up close, it looks more like a hotel than someone's home anyway.  So, a no-brainer.  If you're wondering why Mr. Gorbachev didn't stay here instead, it's probably because during his 2002 visit they were tearing down some walls. They were renovating. I'm not sure if the solarium, Turkish bath, tennis courts and swimming pool were part of Todor Zhivkov's original floor plan.

We didn't stay at the Arbanassi Palace, but we did stop by for an evening cocktail.  It felt a little like trick-or-treating at a certain house just to catch a glimpse of what it looks like inside. There was a chandelier and leather-chair filled lobby bar, but the outdoor terrace beckoned. The views were vast and gorgeous, the sunset sublime.  A white circle with an H in the center marked a helipad on the field below.  There was no wonder at all why, in all of this large country, Zhivkov chose this spot for a residence.  We clinked our glasses and Robin Leach's voice popped into my head.  To shampansko wishes and caviar dreams!

The Wooden Churches of Maramures

Romania's Maramureş county is a land of horses and haystacks, bucolic hills and traditional dress – it’s one of the most untouched corners of Europe.  The region is famed for its wooden churches; old, towering, unique and beautiful, they occupied us for days.
This is the controversial church at Săpânţa Peri monastery, still very much under construction.  Why is it controversial?  Well, it starts with a boast: this is supposedly the tallest wooden structure in Europe, and the townspeople want you to know it.  Standing at over 250 feet (!), it’s certainly a giant.  But the tallest?  In Maramureş, that’s a touchy subject

We arrived at Săpânţa Peri to find picnicking families and a deserted worksite.  Nearby to the church was the shell of a massive, wooden monastic building, shingled roof still unweathered, walls not completely fleshed out, cascades of dormers and rooflines spilling down from a high cupola.  It was a huge structure, but it was still dwarfed by the church, which stuck up above the treeline like a skyscraper.  We wandered through the lower levels of the church, which was open and unfinished, with untidy piles of lumber and beams scattered around.
The church was designed in the traditional style of the region with megalomaniacal plans to be the tallest wooden structure in Europe, which seems like it should make the people of Maramureş proud.  It doesn’t.  The thing is, they already had the tallest wooden building, and it’s not remotely new.

In the tiny town of Şurdeşti, another giant stands much more demurely, hemmed in by leaves and pastoral fields.  Built in 1766, it represents one of the pinnacles of Romanian wooden architecture.  Looking up from the old grave markers and daisies around the base, it doesn’t actually look that tall – but, incredibly, Şurdeşti is only about fifteen feet shorter than Săpânţa’s new church.  Soaring 236 feet (!!), the steeple was, for 250 years, the highest wooden thing on the continent.
And, according to one way of thinking, it still is.

There is a little bell button by the arched gateway to the cemetery for calling the priest – he will sometimes come with the key to let travelers inside.  We pressed the button three or four times, but nobody materialized, which was fine.
What’s endearing about Şurdeşti’s church is how tiny it actually is.  The chapel is not much bigger than the base of the steeple, just a small room and porch designed for a few families to worship in.  Flower boxes and sprigs of pussywillows decorated the exterior, the carvings were simple and unpretentious. This is a church without pomp.  We found ourselves feeling sorry for it, now overtaken by a modern building just miles away.

Not everyone considers the battle of steeples finished, though.  Most people in Maramureş will quickly point out that Săpânţa Peri has an unusual and VERY untraditional (their words) stone base that rises at least enough to disqualify the church from contention.  We sort of agree, though it doesn’t seem as though the Săpânţa Peri base is actually tall enough to be the difference between the two.  Either way, there’s really no comparison.  Şurdeşti is by far our favorite, an old underdog that has charm, character and history on its side.
Maramureş churches aren’t only impressive for their height, though – there’s a wealth of other quirks and beauties among them.

In Budeşti, the old church is nowhere near as tall as some, but it has some of the most amazing paintings.  Many Maramureş chapels are decorated on the inside with icons and murals (unfortunately, most don’t allow photographs inside), but there are few that can match those found at Budeşti.  Painted in two periods – the 1400’s and 1762 - the artwork inside is the reason to visit.
When a village woman - who was probably the priest’s wife, we think she said he was eating lunch -  unlocked the door we were astounded.  Dusky, darkened, biblical scenes literally covered the rough boards of the walls and ceiling, the beams and altar.  The paintings were done in a simple way that suggested a dedicated but untrained hand.  Luckily, we were allowed to photograph the door, which should give you some idea of what was inside.

Budeşti, like many of the wooden churches, was painted as a kind of teaching tool.  The scenes were supposed to help villagers – most of whom were illiterate – learn the stories and lessons of the bible.  This chapel’s most notable paintings were designed, also, to frighten; a whole wall near the door was dedicated to scenes of hell.  Many of the tiny images involved naked sinners being sodomized by devils using nails, pitchforks and bellows to terrifying effect.  It was startling, but also a little humorous (very imaginative).

In Ieud, where we stayed with a welcoming family in a house that overlooked meadows and forest, the oldest of all the Maramureş wooden churches sits on a hill by the river.  Dating from 1364 (and reshingled every several decades since) the church is one of the older all-wood buildings still in use in the world.  Sitting among ancient graves on the site of an even earlier, ruined castle, the fir wood building has survived six and a half centuries of rough winters, invasions, and weekly use.  Intriguingly, the oldest printed volume in the Romanian language was found in the attic some time ago, though it’s now housed in a museum.

Iued’s other, more central church was “only” built in 1717, but was similarly given UNESCO world heritage status for its huge collection of icons painted on glass.  We couldn’t track down the priest, so we never made it inside – but we could see the steeple from our bedroom window.

Serbian Painted Churches

In the Church of Saint Nicholas in Sremski Karlovci, we finally admitted it.  We were having fun looking at religious architecture.  Painted in dizzying patterns of yellow and blue, adorned with countless icons, lit by intricate stained glass windows, the interior was vibrant and spirited.
There are some types of cultural experiences that are inescapable in Europe – pork schnitzel, curtainless showers, restaurant touts and churches, to name a few.  We go into loads of cathedrals, temples and synagogues and usually they're pretty boring.  Or, they don't allow photos or we don't go in at all because the doors are locked.  We treat churches as an obligation usually, something to check off our daily list.  But in Serbia, we've actually become a little excited about them, and have been visiting many more than we usually do in a country.

The reason: Serbian churches are usually painted and beautiful.  

We stopped at Krušedol Monastery, outside of Igir, on a whim, thinking that the bright red gatehouse was the church itself.  Instead, there was only a pathway leading into a parklike space - silent except for songbirds and the trickle of a nearby stream.  There was no one around, the grounds were completely enclosed by a high wall.  Nestled into a lush, inconspicuous valley, just off a (mostly dirt) lane, the monastery seemed like a secret.  

The church itself was attended to by a few monks in robes and beards.  The door was open, nobody stopped us from going in.

The Krušedol monks were silent and welcoming, but we still felt nervous about approaching the iconostasis (which was breathtaking).  The walls here are enough to look at, though.  Built in the early 16th century, the monastery was painted in two stages - once in 1543-6 (when the main frescoes were done) and later in 1750-6, when some fire damage was repaired and a few new additions were made.

The paintings cover every inch of the interior, and the hues run from dusky to smokey blue.  Sunlight dripped in through a few high windows.  I shouldn't have worried about the photographs; just before we left, a young monk turned the lights on so that I could get a better picture.

In Serbia, painted walls aren't only the preserve of Orthodox churches. Walking into the Catholic cathedral of St. Gerard, in Vršac, is like entering a bizarre forest of color.  The pillars are vined with green and the canopy is an autumnal riot.  The light plays in interesting ways on the patterns, turning a narrow palette of green, yellow and ochre into rich and dark shades.  It must have taken someone years to complete.

It's rare to find a church in Europe that feels alive, other than on Sundays or saints days.  But in Vršac, the cathedral felt open and ready for visitors.  Townspeople wandered in and out, talking to one another.  We were treated to an organ performance by an older man who was playing for a group of schoolchildren - nobody minded us taking pictures, nobody cared that we were wandering around.  It was a wonderful, welcoming experience.

At St. George's cathedral, in Novi Sad, the atmosphere was more hushed, but still enjoyable.  On a hot, muggy day, the cool darkness of the cathedral was welcoming, the iconostasis was almost luridly decorated and the whole place was the epitome of high baroque grandeur - except that it was built at the end of the nineteenth century.  It's a style.  The Serbs obviously like their churches ornate and colorful.

The Oldest Place You've Never Heard Of

Lake Ohrid is one of the oldest lakes in the world, right up there with Lake Titicaca.  Most lakes come and go in the span of about 100,000 years, filling up with sediments or drying out from some other cause.  Its depth and the plethora of natural springs that feed into it have kept Ohrid from such a fate.  Plenty of water for a long life, that's what they always say, right?.  Lake Ohrid's birth is estimated to have taken place around 5 million years ago and it has never once dried up. It is beautiful and vast with water that is incredibly clear.

Basically an enormous drinking well and seafood buffet, Lake Ohrid attracted seaside residents pretty early on.  Prehistoric times.  With at least 7,000 years of continuous human habitation, the town of Ohrid is considered one of the oldest ongoing settlements on earth.  Exploring the town feels like finding a memory box in an attic, a collection of heirlooms and evidence of the past that were deemed special and important enough to be saved.  Rifling through such a collection, you can't help but feel like what you're really doing is getting to know the person who owned the box and marveling at how long and full their life seems.

The residents of Ohrid didn't really want to save the Ancient Theatre of Ohrid at first.  Built in the Hellenistic period as a dramatic theater, it was utilized during the Roman era as a gladiator ring.  Once that empire fell, Ohridians (I've made that up) wanted to get rid of this massacre ring in which Christians had been executed.  So, they buried it.  This wound up being fortuitous, as it preserved the bottom level of the theater incredibly well.  Dug up in the 1980s, it was put to use once more - though, seasons ticket holders no longer get their names carved into the seats like the ancient theatergoer whose signature you can kind of make out above.

Legend has it that, as recently as the 15th century, there were 365 churches in Ohrid.  Supposedly, it was one for each day of the year, which probably made it extremely difficult to nab a seat for mass.  They have not all remained, although you see small white crosses lit up amongst the stars and street lights when night falls.  Above, Sv Jovan Kaneo sits in one the prettiest look-out points on the lake.  Built in the 13th century, it's just a baby compared with the ancient body of water it looks down over. Many of the churches were turned into mosques during the Ottoman era and then destroyed after that empire's fall. 

Such was the case with Sv Kliment at Plaošnik, near the castle.  This monastery had so much historic significance, though, that it was completely rebuilt in the 21st century.  The building only dates back to 2002, but the excavated foundations in its front lawn are from a 5th century Basilica.  It is also the site of what could very possibly have been the first university in the Western world.  St. Clement started the school himself, in 893AD, and it rivals only the University of Salerno in Italy for the crown. 

During those same Ottoman years, a Turkish neighborhood was built in the lower part of Ohrid, below the fortified walls in which the Christians were kept.  Their community, in Mesokastro, grew up around this plane tree, which is now 900 years old.  The trunk must have split ages ago.  People say that a barber shop was once housed in the crevice, which is possibly the most Turkish thing I've ever heard.  (See: Things Turkish People Like).  Later, it became a cafe.  Now, it simply sits at the center of the town square, bolstered by support slabs which give it a monumental look.

The old Robevi family mansion, they were one of the richest families in all Macedonia, is now the Archeology Museum.  Findings from Plaošnik and the Ancient Theatre are housed here and the house itself is a lovely site.  We visited with the hope of seeing one of the Golden Masks.  Near Ohrid, in Trebenište, five golden masks from the 1st millenium BC were found in 1918.  They are said to be worth around 20million euros each and are housed in Belgrade, Serbia and Sofia, Bulgaria.  A 6th was found in Ohrid in 2002, by a man named Pasko Kuzman who simply put the relic in a cigar box on his mantle and called it a day.  We read in an outdated guidebook that it was to become the first mask to be exhibited in Macedonia in 2008 - in this museum - but this doesn't seem to have happened.  Maybe he's moved onto using it as an ashtray?

At the center of it all is still the lake, sitting pretty and watching the views around it change hands, change faces, change centuries.  Beneath its surface are sunken jewels, a treasure chest for a history buff.  There are the remains of a Bronze Age stilt village, still sticking up from the sand.  The lake has grown up and over it in the 3,500 or so years since it was built.  There are sunken World War I tugboats and a coastguard boat and airplane from World War II.  Of course, there are also living species rare in this world covering the deep, lake floor. 

But for Albanians,  Lake Ohrid is simply the seaside.  Families come here to swim, tan, dine and stroll.  Through the old cobbled streets they walk in colorful summer clothing, even in the late Spring.  Some things haven't really changed since prehistoric times.  The shores of Lake Ohrid are still prime real estate.  Unfortunately, some of the oldest residents of the lake are being fished out of existence - but more on that later.  After all these years, the deep, clear water of Lake Ohrid is still providing humans with life-giving sustenance - beauty and relaxation.