Una, The One and Only

Like everything else in the Balkans, the Una river's name has a legend behind it - this one from Roman Times.  "The one and only," a foot soldier declared when spotting the river. He had never seen anything quite like it.  Even though there are 7 major rivers in Bosnia and Herzegovina and around 28 smaller ones, the Una is widely considered unique, a treasure, almost mythic. They say that it's a place of meditation and enlightenment.  We met it at the very end of the second rainstorm in two days. We'd just been thinking that the sudden, intense showers had made us feel our first real sense of "summer." Standing at the side of the Una, we had a realization, because I guess that's just what happens on this river. What had given us that familiar feeling of summer was all the green. The Northeast corner of Bosnia is a constant landscape of lush fields, and after weeks of Mediterranean climate, it felt familiar. It felt like summers throughout our lives.  And there it was, the Una River showing its powers of enlightenment right off the bat.

For most of its 132 mile length, the Una is surrounded by gorgeous, untouched nature.  It's as if people have known that if an eyesore was built by the Una's side, she'll punish them by reflecting their mistake back clearly and brightly.  The water is remarkably glassy, its reflections are a stunning study in symmetry above and below the horizon line.  It's also so so blue that when a duck glides over its surface, it's as if its tail is pulling down a zipper sewn into blue satin.  Down at the very bottom, the riverbed is smooth limestone.  Shelves of it can be seen raised up above the water in some spots, giving the river a unique and intriguing look.  It feels more like a mountain river than a valley river.  The dense forest rising up on each side, painted in the river's reflection, only adds to that feeling.  It is truly beguiling.

Fish can be seen darting around in such abundance that you feel like you could just throw a net or even a hand in and come up with a shiny, slinky fellow.  If it were only that easy.  This fishing house, set up on stilts, stands behind a roadside restaurant named "Stari Mlini," (Old Mill).  The restaurant's building, much newer, also stands in the river on stilts, between which mill wheels turn.  We'd gotten out of the car to look at it and were then distracted by wildflowers and these amazing blue dragonflies with velvety indigo wings.  Beyond them, we spotted the wooden relic out there alone.  The green river grasses have grown up at the same rate as the structure has broken down.  Even a river can sit still for a moment, this scene communicated to me.  My own little lesson from the Una, from which Bosniaks have been drawing inspiration and wisdom for centuries.

Young couples sit on the banks, staring in to see how good they look together.  Maybe they drop a pebble in to distort the reflection, so the rings of their two faces move in toward one another.  To see what their children would look like.  This young boy came to shore in his skiff, using a thick stick as a paddle.  His two friends stood on a bridge above him, poking fun at his makeshift oar.  This isn't to say that the locals' relationship with the Una is purely serene, contemplative, laid-back.  Rafting is exceedingly popular and big, heavylooking rafts were strung upside-down to the tops of vans that past by.  We saw one red tray carrying a sixpack of yellow helmets cruise by, but were a few days too late for the big spectacle that is the annual Una Regatta. 

Thousands of participants from here and abroad take to the water in rafts, canoes and kayaks, conquering the many waterfalls along the Una's course. It is a non-competitive "race" that takes 3-5 days. It's a celebration of the river, a bowing down to its powers and probably just a really great time. We went to Bihać to inquire about the event, and were welcomed by a sign that read "Bihać: A City in Love with the River."  There would be no point in specifying which one.  The river is the Una, here and throughout Northeast Bosnia and Herzegovina.  She loves this country as much as it loves her - which can only be assumed by the way she keeps bending toward it.  For most of the Una's length, the river runs right along the border of Croatia and Bosnia.  At three different points, though, it deviates from this clear path and curves in to the nation that adores it so much.  Bihać is situated at one of these points, a very pleasant, small city/large town with short, simple bridges arching over the river and picnic tables, parks and cafes edged up to the waterside.

Many say that the people of Bihać are the most ecologically minded Bosniaks in the country.  So, they don't just profess their love of the river, they really let it guide their decisions.  Which is wonderful.  Unlike other beautiful bodies of water we've visited recently, the underwater inhabitants of the Una are not currently at a risk of endangerment.  While fly-fishing is a popular recreational activity and fishing is touted as a unique tourist experience, the licensing system is responsible.  Unska pastrmka (Una river trout) are widely available on riverside menus, but larger species like carp and the prized grayling are left more to the fishermen themselves. Let them eat carp!  I'm happy with pastrmka. The trout of the Una happen to be uniformly plump, pink-fleshed and delicately flavored.  Trout is something that carries a huge dose of terroir and you can taste the purity of the Una.  No muddiness or earthiness, these trout taste like crystal blue water.

In Bosanska Krupa, we came across the young boy pictured earlier while walking across a wood-planked bridge, trying to get a nice photo of the three yellow, red-roofed houses set on stilts above mills.  Their placement is at the end of a mini peninsula, their surrounds are wholly water.  Across the way, a castle sits atop a hill.  Old guns, painted blue, point down directly at the quaint trio, an unfortunate coincidence.  On the other side of the hill is an amazing sight. A mosque, a Catholic church and an Orthodox church stand literally side by side, or at least across the street from one another.  Following the waters for a few days, visiting it at one spot or another, letting it speak to me like the locals told me to, I really felt that the wide expanse of the river right at this point had to do with that successful coexistence.   There's just something very magical about the Una. 

Mostar: The Most Bombed City

From across the Atlantic, the Yugoslavian breakup was a confusing mess of television images and magazine covers.  Stone houses, broken in the mist.  Winter landscapes, tanks and bulletholes, grim politicians, tired soldiers of undefined nationality - whole countries of undefined nationality.

Mostar became a symbol of the Bosnian War.  It was, by many accounts, the hardest hit and most bombarded city in Bosnia.  Mirroring the larger breakup, neighborhood fought neighborhood, snipers fired from building to building, Mostar became a jumble of ruined houses on two sides of a divisive river.  We in America were left with the enduring and emblematic image of an ancient bridge, connecting two cultures, being bombed and left in rubble.

Mostar is a city of tourists now.  Really.  Right here in Bosnia, at the epicenter of the fighting.  We've heard more American, German, Italian and French accents than one could believe.  And not even the typical 3rd world backpackers - young people trying to reach the edge of something - but couples in sun hats, pulling rollerbags.  There are families with preteens, retired couples, tour groups of people with cameras and safari vests.  These are tourist tourists, the type one expects to find in Nice or Berlin, people on summer vacation.
In 2004, before international TV crews and with much symbolism, the Old Bridge (called Stari Most) was officially re-opened after a lengthy rebuilding project.  The old town has been beautified again.  Restaurants are open along the streams. It's a perfect day trip from the overpacked Croatian coast, and Mostar deserves the visits because it's beautiful, safe and historic - at least, in the pretty part of town.

Coming into the old town, Rebecca said, was like finding the color insert in a guidebook.  Walking from the bus station through the heavily shelled outskirts feels like the gritty, black and white pages: history, culture, a brief detailing of current politics, hotels, local cafes.  There are children digging through dumpsters, desperate beggars, rusting cars.  Suddenly, there is color and beauty, traditional costumes, smiling waitresses, old houses and the bridge.
Stari Most (the name literally means "Old Bridge") was built in 1566 by the Ottoman emperor Sulieman the Magnificent.  It's an amazing structure, almost seventy feet high at midspan, but only a hundred feet long.  Climbing its slippery stones, the views are magnificent.  It was considered, once, one of the wonders of the Ottoman empire, a barely believable feat of engineering.  Around the old town, the scene is bleaker.

The bulletholes are still there, pockmarking otherwise normal walls.  There are broken windows too, of course, and broken steps and abandoned buildings, vacant floors strewn with trash.  We've seen this kind of thing before.  Sometimes it's even pointed out in guidebooks -  as in, "if you look closely, there are some signs that there was a war here!"  In Mostar, you don't have to look closely.  Buildings here gape open to the sky, knocked in, reduced to a wall or two.

On this trip, we've been to countless places destroyed by bombing and war - from Vienna to Berlin, Rotterdam to St. Petersburg.  It's a tough concept to grapple with, as an American, without the history that Europe has.  On this continent, if something was shelled sixty years ago, it counts as ancient history.  There are much more recent conflict zones - Georgia, Kosovo, Croatia, Albania, Azerbaijan and, of course, Bosnia.  The thing is, in most of these places, things have been spruced up again.  We've seen it for ourselves.  People will say things like, "it was right over there," or "this whole building was gone."   But the holes have been plastered over, the facades mended, stores rebuilt, new houses have gone up.  Bosnia hasn't been as lucky.

We watched this group of young men fishing for scrap metal in the river.  They used a heavy hook, cable and hand winch, dislodging stubborn bits of what looked like a bed frame from the rocks. Not far from where the tourists ate their meals and licked their ice cream cones, things haven't improved that much.

Even though people visit Mostar these days, a little tourism can only be counted as a small victory.  Bosnia's national economy is still in shambles, the war crimes are still being sorted out.  And, though they come, most of the tourists don't even stay the night.

The most common sign you'll see in Mostar reads "Attention! Dangerous ruin - access to the ruin and parking forbidden!"  There are scores of buildings like this, their doors blocked with wire fence, their windows boarded over, flattened walls fenced off.  Really, there isn't much evidence that anyone disobeys the signs.  There's no good reason to enter, there are more than enough places to live - almost half the population (nearly two million people) were displaced during and after the conflict.  Many of them have never come back.  Lots of buildings weren't bombed, but still sit abandoned and empty.
Near two huge cemeteries, we passed garages full of rusting machinery, fenced away, wires and hoses drooping.

Several times a day, men jump from the top of the Old Bridge for tourist coins.  It's a frightening drop, but the main warning against attempting it is that the water is too cold, which seems laughable.  Tourists line the top with cameras and children, politely clapping.
The rebuilding of Stari Most was supposed to mirror the rebuilding of Bosnia and the relative peace that's settled in.  It makes for a pretty picture and a feel-good story, a vignette about the triumph of better blood in a broken place.  It's difficult to tell, right now, if it represents the truth or a mirage.

Plan B (for Beautiful)

We arrived in Kotor to find that all our Montenegrin plans had been ruined.  We'd dreamed of laying out on the beach all day and going home to our rental apartment with a watermelon tucked under our arm and bags of fresh veggies in our hands.   In five days, we've made a total of one salad and not spent a minute lying out on the small pebble beach.  We've been too busy hiking around, doused in sun block and eating excellent restaurant meals, doused in olive oil.   Kotor isn't your normal Adriatic resort town.  It has neither sand nor swarms of sunbathers.  Its water is just one element of its magnificent setting and dropping yourselves into it like coins in a fountain is far from the only activity available. We feel lucky to have landed here.

As if the castle walls and ancient caravan trail zig-zagging up the mountainside weren't picturesque enough, the seaside fortifications enclose one the best preserved medieval old towns on the Adriatic.  Kotor's Stari Grad ('Old Town') is a maze of marble paved lanes and Venetian architecture. You walk down the narrow streets, which run around and into each other, feeling air conditioner breezes from boutiques and being shot in the stomach by the cupid's arrow that is 'pizza smell.'  Then, out of nowhere, your lane opens up into a piazza.  There, cafes tables are set out.  Fans twirl, fine mist wafts down from cooling systems, you sit for an ice cream or coffee with some beautiful old church or mansion looming above. And never want to leave.

A year ago today, we were in Zadar, reveling in our position outside the real 'hotspots' of the Croatian coast, ouching our way into the water along a pebble beach on the edge of romantically picturesque university city.  We've come a long way since then, but are remarkably close to that very spot now.  It feels a little like returning to old stomping grounds, something we don't get to experience very often.  A big plate of grilled squid surrounding a mound of blitva (garlicky chard and potato) greeted us like a friend last night.  Well, you haven't changed one bit!  Kotor is a lot like Zadar - an incredible spot that has the lucky misfortune of less-than-ideal swimming options.  This keeps the droves of tourists at bay.  Or, I guess in this case, out of the Bay. 

For mid-July, Kotor is remarkably not crowded.  The Old Town is deceptively large, there are enough cafe tables for everybody.  It's something you don't really notice until looking down at the labyrinth from above (from the castle).  The lanes are all swirled around like a big plate of spaghetti with red-sauce roofs.  You simply can't imagine the number of noodles under there until you feel the fullness.  Dumpster after dumpster of garbage and dozens of young women shopping around laminated photos of guest rooms for rent show just how many people can fit into Kotor, all still given the chance to feel like they have it all to themselves.

Outside the Old Town's main entrance, a daily market sells fresh produce and fish, local cheese, olives and cured ham (along with some imports from Croatia and afar). There are more apartments for rent here in Kotor than there are traditional hotel rooms, more of a chance to buy some sheep cheese (and then some cow cheese.... and then some cow/sheep mix if you're anything like us) in larger portions than just one afternoon picnic's worth.  It's one of those rare tourist destinations that invites you to feel what it's like to actual live here.  Though, the locals always have a smile at the edge of their lips that say, "I actually do get to live here.  Jealous?"  Yes, yes I am.

In some ways, we feel a little smug about our place here, too.  Most visitors to Kotor come on a day trip from Budva or for an afternoon off the cruise ship.  As I type this, Celebrity Cruise Line's "Silhouette" is blasting a horn to call all its passengers back on board.  We get to relax, shower and head back out into town with the rest of the over-nighters.  It's a different crowd, mostly families with young children and backpackers staying at some supremely well-located hostels.  We all meet up inside the walls - some of us have never left.  Sure, the clean, turquoise water one associates with 'Mediterranean' isn't really here, but everything else that word connotes sure is.  The emerald shrubs and cypress tree, the sights and sense of history, the food and wine, the casual intimacy and the way time moves.  You may have your first gelato at breakfast and go for your first dip of the day at 7pm.   Toddlers are changed out of swimmies and brought out to dinner at 10pm.  Truly Mediterranean. 

As Merlin said in his previous post, Kotor really is a part of the water, with just a sliver of usable 'inland' space before the mountains.  From every arched entrance, the sea seeps - in blue views, pink tan lines, bikini shaped wet spots on t-shirts and barefoot children.  Many of the people funneling in themselves have been out to sea on yachts and cruise-ships, delivered ashore just like the trading goods and supplies of yore.  Precious cargo, currency, foreign imports.   The tourism industry as it once existed here never really bounced back after the Yugoslav Wars.  Most development attention has been focused elsewhere, which accounts for its status as more of a day trip destination.  They say that the greatest cultural and economic decline in the town's 2,000 year old history has been taking place since the 1990s.  By the looks of it, there may be some resurgence happening.   Financially and artistically.

The Kotor Art festival is going on right now, which includes an International Children's Theatre Festival and Dan Branko's Music Days, amongst other events.  So, in the evening, the high, white buildings with their green shutters and terracotta shingles act as sound barriers, separating one performance from another.  As you wander around, lost as usual, you are left to just happen upon the next surprise.  A cartoonishly over-sized line of laundry is strong across a piazza here,  a classical youth orchestra performs for video-camera wielding parents there.  When the sun sets, never before at least 8:30pm, it all feels too magical to be true.  You turn down a lane that has a line-up of hip bars and hear the thump of a DJ.  Then, out of nowhere, a live saxophonist breaks in and begins to accompany the beat.  The two men stand side by side, woodwind and Mac, creating a breezily unique, amazingly congruous style of music.  

A Hero's Welcome

"You should love your country the way Kosovars love America" - some professor in France.

Our guide at Pristina's Ethnographic Museum relayed this quote to us and laughed at the exuberance with which his fellow countrymen adore the United States.  We just arrived a day earlier and were taken aback by the welcome we'd received.  Every answer to "where are you from?" visibly shook people, roused them to their feet for a handshake.  It was strange, surprising, slightly uncomfortable - like a celebrity we hadn't earned, nor asked for.  This is why we mentioned it to our guide at the museum.  While he joked about it with us, he was also sure to make us realize the root.  "Without America, there would be no Kosovo."  We fell silent at that even more powerful quote, said casually and in earnest.

"Europe turned its back, but America came.  America! To this little country" - guy in Rahovec.

It was one of the many history lessons we were given in casual, two or three minute conversation.  Sometimes people really just put things so perfectly, convey exactly what they mean even with a language barrier.  The idea that America, in all of its late 20th century infallible glory, even knew what was happening in this corner of former Yugoslavia felt magical to Kosovars.  The fact that the USA swooped in to protect it felt miraculous.  At the helm was Commander-in-Chief Bill Clinton.  A national hero so revered people have begun to name their children after him. Not just 'Bill' but 'Bill Clinton.'  Hi, my name is Bill Clinton Bajrami.

We'd laughed when coming across a big, bronze statue of Clinton.  It's just so strange to see a modern figure - especially one that would never be described as "statuesque" -  rendered in bronze, two stories tall.  But there he was on Bill Clinton Boulevard in all of his pre-heart surgery pro-McDonalds glory, classic open-mouthed grin and round nose.   He stood holding a tablet with 24 March 1999 etched into it, the date NATO began its bombing of Serbian posts in Kosovo.   In America, there was some criticism of Clinton for exaggerating the number of Kosovar Albanian casualties when defining the situation as genocide - but, hey, he always bent the truth a little bit, right?  Here, he is an almost mythic figure - and we, as a result, were greeted as heroes.  Saying we were American gave us carte blanche, handshakes and hugs.  Lengthy conversations that were thoughtful, insightful and cherished by both parties. 

During our time in Eastern Europe, a number of countries have shown a particular interest in/infatuation with American culture, music, movies, television, style, personalities.  This was different.  Instead of Lakers jerseys, Yankee caps or t-shirts with Tommy Hilfiger and Abercrombie & Fitch emblazoned across them, red, white and blue patterned hats and our flag covered the clothing of Kosovars wherever we went.  There was no sense that anyone wanted to be American, that our nationality held the allure of a status symbol.  Instead, there was an overwhelming sense of gratitude to America for letting them be themselves.  In those other countries, there's the element of American being a refuge, an oasis.  Move there and everything will be perfect!  Unlike in a number of those other countries, Kosovar citizens have been able to emigrate to the states.

Directly following the war of '99, as many as 20,000 Albanian Kosovars refugees arrived in Fort Dix, NJ.  Over and over, we'd be told that someone's father, husband, brother was in the Bronx, which has the largest ethnic Albanian community in the US.  An exact number of how many of those Albanians are Kosovar hasn't been figured out, but it is sizable.  If our conversations are any barometer, there's a mini Kosovo in the Bronx.  They say that about 15% of Kosovo's GNP comes from its diaspora, most of which live and work in Germany and Switzerland (Kosovars actually take the third place slot as largest immigrant population in Switzerland).  So, America isn't the holy grail here. It's not even the best place you can leave to go work!  But it is their liberator, their hero, the first people to recognize them as their own state, which is vastly more important to the citizens of this young nation.  Throughout the country, our flag flew right there next to the the blue Kosovar and red Albanian.

We were here during 4th of July, which you sort of forget isn't the name of the holiday until you say it to a foreigner and they look at you as if you've just proclaimed it Monday!  People kept telling us that the American Independence Day was celebrated in Kosovo and we were looking forward to seeing what that actually meant.  We wound up being up in Rekë e Allagës on the 4th, where fireworks (and the talk of grilling hamburgers) would have spooked the cows.  Still, this July 4th felt like the most patriotic of my life.   America is only 232 years older than the Republic of Kosovo - which is a blip in the history of other European countries.  (We always joke that our nation is younger than a lot of houses we've been in here in Europe).  I couldn't help but marvel at how our little clump of colonies' declaration of independence went on to affect the world.  It's hard not to feel the whole 'proud to be an American' thing while in Kosovo. 

Euro Cup Runneth Over

We don't often whittle an explanation down to our nationality.  Especially having spent about seven times as much time in Europe than home in the last two years, it has gotten harder and harder to think of things - and people, really - in such certain and separate terms.  However, whenever anyone asks us why we don't watch football, we always respond, "we're American." Sometimes, Merlin can't help himself from working the word "soccer" into his answer.  We both grew up playing soccer, as most Americans do. But watching it? A live televised event with little to no opportunity for commercial breaks? Not our country's style.   So, we actually didn't know Euro 2012 was even happening until we read a news article about violence between Polish and Russian fans.  Once we knew, we made a concerted effort take part in the experience. 

Our viewership began during the last quarter-final match, shown on the ginormous screen at Beer Fest in Pristina.  It was between England and Italy and went into overtime, then double overtime.  Excuse me if these are not the correct terms.  The scheduled 11pm musical performance began to play over the broadcast and we assumed it would end as a draw.  The fact that that can happen is one of the few things I do know about soccer, having been in New York during the 2012 World Cup, when the Post famously printed the headline: "USA Wins 1-1."  As we walked past 91, an English pub just down the street, a television screen alerted us to the much more exciting outcome.  Penalty kicks!  The crowd inside was much less mellow - a group of British expats at the ends of their bar stools (and the ends of their wits).  The mood alternated so extremely between tension and jubilation that beer actually went temporarily untouched.  Eventually, Italy won.

The best thing about watching soccer in Europe, especially in the summer, is that it's an outdoor activity.  Unlike American football, which shuts people into living rooms and neon sportsbars midday no matter how beautiful the weather, soccer brings people out onto the streets.  This is especially true in places like Kosovo, where there aren't too many businesses that can afford a big screen television or ten.  Instead, projection screens are set up where they can be. When all else fails, the side of a building becomes a big screen.  You can walk around all day long and not have any idea where sports theaters will magically pop up after dark. There's usually a bit of finicking with the system.  Getting the picture to line up, synching the sound, a few switches to a blank screen and the words "Lost Feed," "Data Unavailable" or something "Interrupted" and then you're ready to go! 

Then, once it's up and ready, you get to enjoy the summer air while taking in the game.  Sure, there may be competing DJs or call-to-prayers through the broadcast, but it's a little like a drive through movie.  Something special. I can't imagine how well this would work other places.  In Pristina, Rahovec and Prizren, there was never a backlash against waiters or a loss of patience if the sound cut out or a play was missed due to technical difficulties.  The crowds were as far from rowdy as you get. People are laid back here, understanding, mostly sober.  Plus, it's not their own team's pride on the line.   Kosovo cannot take part in the Euro Championship, as they have not been allowed to join the Union of European Football Associations (UEFA). 

I'm sure if Albania or even Turkey had been one of the 16 teams who qualified for Euro 2012, they would have been the clear choice for default favorite.  Without them, it was interesting to wonder who people favored to win.  In the case of the final - it was clearly Italy.  The fact that Spain (like UEFA) doesn't recognize Kosovo as an independent country, may have had something to do with it.  For that Sunday night final in Prizren, cars clamored for parking spaces and high-heeled young women searched for a seat (or just a sliver standing room) at a cafe.  There was definitely an atmosphere of festivity, of a big event, but it just doesn't pack the same punch when you don't have a team in the running.  We were just like everyone else, watching a championship our nation had no stake in - but enjoying the heck out of it.

It also doesn't pack the same punch when the match is a blow out.  By the end of the 4-0 final, the bars were almost completely cleared out.  Places kicked up their stereos a little more, people began to make their way back to their cars.  Spain was victorious once again, for the second time in a row.  It will be another four years before anyone gets to strip them of their crown and we will most likely be back in America with more knowledge about the relatively inconsequential NFL summer off-season than this large-scale competition.  Way before then, though, is the London Olympics and I plan on watching the soccer events a little more closely.  I've got some history under my belt now, I know some names and faces.  Super Mario and such.

The Art of Filigree

Prizren has been a craft center for centuries, since it stood right at the junction of Ottoman trade routes spanning from East to West and North to South.  Filigree, the art of bending and twisting threads of silver or gold into intricate designs, is one of Prizren's most time-honored traditions.  It's sort of like metallic lace-making.  You look at a piece and think, where does it start and end? How does it stay together?  What the heck is actually going on here?  The flower on the right was purchased at a shop down the street from Hotel Tharanda (it says "Filigran" like all the rest, but look out for the magnificent silver traditional house displayed in the window) from a warm, welcoming man named Faik.  He told me that Madeleine Albright once purchased a brooch there and I pinned it on with a bit of swagger.  "Would you like to see the workshop?" he asked.  Of course! The flower on the left was a gift - made right before our eyes.

There's something so coy about jewelry stores.  How their displays disappear from view after closing, how you have to bend your body in half to look at the pieces down far below your nose, the sterility of it all.  But the work that goes into making all of those delicate little pieces involves flames, chemical reactions, soldering, tools.  It's metal work - an art and a science. To Faik, it is something even more.  "For young men, it is like flying!"  After 30 years, he has since touched down, but still gets giddy talking about it.  On the walk over to the workshop from the store, he explained that his own sons are not interested in filigree "but there is no pressure."  Many other young people are, he assured, but lack of work space allows them to have only one apprentice at a time.  "This is a problem."  It's amazing to think that this traditional artform is in danger of dying out not because of a lack of interest, but a lack of financial support.  That just seems like the easier thing to remedy.. but, of course, funding is never easy.

There are shops all around Prizren selling "filigran," as it is called in Albanian - but not all of it is made in town.  "A lot of it is from Malaysia," Faik explained with no trace of bitterness or sign that this appalled him.  There was a bit of face scrunching and shaking of his head when he said that they do not use the 95% percent silver 5% copper mix that should be required, but then he quickly added, "but it is very, very beautiful."  Part of me thinks that he recognized the existence of the other shops (even if they are inauthentic) as a continued presence of filigree in Prizren. Which is important. Also, that these are far from the greatest changes (or indignities) he's seen over the course of his life in filigree, in Prizren, in Kosovo.   

When Faik first began to work here it was a big filigree factory in the former Yugoslavia.  Silver and gold came in from Serbia and was fashioned into jewelry, cigarette boxes, chalices, model ships, etc by over 100 artisans.  They had the whole building, then, a combined workshop and school dedicated to filigree.  Since privatization, they can only afford to rent a few rooms.   Faik pointed around the room and described what a usual day in the workshop is like, 10 workers (men and women) sitting around the table.  "Music, coffee," he pointed at a stereo and some saucers and smiled broadly.  He could clearly picture the scene in his mind as he was describing it, the family of workers immersed in this unique world of meditative toiling, of blowtorches and paintbrushes doused in borax.  Scorching and bending and pounding and sand-papering the preciousness right out of precious metal... only to make it more so.

Bashkim is the head designer and was working after-hours when we arrived.  They have a deadline on Monday, complex and beautiful candle holders for the Orthodox church in town.  The silver cage like pieces will be cupped around marble candle holders.  Even the chains that it will all hang from are being fitted with small filigree balls and crosses - everything with a specific meaning, the number of crosses, the order of patterns and such.  Bashkim flipped through a folder thick with papers on which he'd drawn the designs for every individual piece.  Lined paper, photographs, typed instructions, carbon paper, it all made sense to this creative mad scientist.  Faik, an engineer, works more exclusively with the chemical processes, elemental mixtures, readying of materials. He's also the manager of the shop and the head salesman.  These two had clearly been working together for decades, exhibiting the funny camaraderie of unlikely lifemates.

As I briefly mentioned earlier, and I'm sorry that I'm not going more into specifics here, filigree entails working with threads of silver.  It is absolutely incredible to watch this being done.  Faik assured us that the workers usually wear protective coveralls and gloves, but looking at Bashkim's fingers and the way he ran his shirt under a faucet after a drop of chemical splashed on (he only noticed at all because Faik gasped and pointed), I would assume he's a little more casual about all that.  We watched as he took a coffee stirrer like piece of metal and a pair of tweezers and began to fold it into 11 equal parts.  Somehow, that became an outline of a flower whose petals were then filled with spiraled clusters of even thinner silver thread.  To make it all stick together, fairy dust (made of silver and copper) was sprinkled on and then the whole thing was soldered together with this incredible torch contraption.

Check this out (Faik can be heard explaining the basic idea in the background). Gas was turned on, he clicked a lighter to ignite the end and then used a tube attached to regulate the power and direction of the flame with his breath.  This happened over and over as a new element was added to the design.  After each soldering, before the piece had yet lost its bright red heat, Bashkim would start working away on it again.  His fingers completely heat insensitive (though he may have tried to prove this point a little too confidently, wincing a little at a few touches).  Faik joked that Bashkim's father is a baker - so it's a family of burn calloused hands.

Just a week ago, before we left Prizren, we'd gone over to the great Ethnographic Museum, which was staging a week long Crafts Festival.  We had arrived on silverworking day and this woman was clearly excited to be interviewed by the evening news.  I wonder if Faik had watched the coverage over dinner and thought, "Why aren't we on the news?"  But probably not - that's not his style. He was probably just happy to see filigree on tv.   Plus, he's busyreadying himself for a trip to Ankara, Turkey to participate in a big craft convention, selling pieces in the store and educating visitors with visits to his workshop.  He wants to preserve this tradition and continue to make his art - along with Bashkim and the rest of his tight-knit group.  He told Merlin and I that if we were to come live in Kosovo for two years, we could get pretty good at it.  They'd just need a bigger table to fit us in.  Here's hoping that happens soon. I can only be optimistic, wearing a brooch made out of silver linings.

Pristina

Pristina is often bypassed for Prizren or western Kosovo, places that come better recommended or seem better prepared to welcome weary and wary travelers to this land.  Pristina is hot and messy.  Our first impression, at the bus station, was of dead weeds in dried up planters and taxi drivers lying down in the shade.  It is a place of ideas not yet realized and the late stages of reconstruction.  It was a city of bombed buildings not long ago.
But Pristina is actually a wonderful, friendly, safe, lively city with modern restaurants, lots of fun cafes and bars and smiling people.  Given a chance, it's endearing and deserves many more tourists than it gets.

The first impression made by the city is one of tangled wires and half-paved streets, of traffic snarls and sidewalks crowded by parked cars and cigarette sellers. We stayed near the bazaar, where the streets become especially convoluted.  People seem to get caught here, like leaves swept into an eddie in the stream.  They sit or crouch on the pavement, talking over empty coffee cups and bundles of spring onions.  This is the part of town where the call to prayer is loudest and there are the most minarets poking up through the uneven rooftops.  If this was the whole of Pristina, it would be an intriguing, bracing place - but there were lots more impressions to be made.  For a city of just two hundred thousand, it packs a real punch.

The funny thing about Pristina is that it isn't parceled into sections of more or less energy.  In many cities, there are pockets of bright lights and expanses of quiet and emptiness - or there is energy in the outskirts while the manufactured "center" feels desolate.
Pristina certainly has a more wealthy and showy center strip, where university students parade and wealthy women tap at iPhones.  It also has lots of makeshift barber shops and kebab shops, haphazard tenements and dormant construction sites.  But it all blends together with a universal energy and general contentment.

It's also a place where people have become accustomed to internationals - there is a large community of foreign workers here, people who aren't tourists but are still only settled temporarily.  The first wave of outsiders were peacekeeping forces and UN officials - they brought new cuisines and a thirst for foreign beer and raki.  Now, aid groups and NGOs employ a lot of Brits, Americans and Western Europeans; there has also been rampant privitization of the country's assets, which has brought in foreign businesspeople and curious opportunists.  A man arrived at breakfast in our hotel with heavily greased hair and a thick binder labeled "Investing in Kosovo."

The effect has been interesting - in some ways, Prisitina feels more outward looking than most Balkan cities, even more so than places like Belgrade or Sofia.  In those places, there is a national identity to be upheld and mulled over, an urban self-examination.  Pristina is more open to the gusts and currents of the outer world, shaped as it has been by the whims of other nations and the newness of its independence.  There are bookstores that sell magazines in English and restaurants that serve what might - in another place and time - have been called "new American cuisine."  There are English pubs with actual Englishmen inside and coffee shops with actual Italians sitting outside.  

Amid all the ruckus there are plans for two huge new squares, carved out of old communist blocks and bomb-damaged buildings.  The city says that these public places are to become the focal point of downtown Pristina, and work has already begun.  Unfortunately, there isn't enough funding and some are worried that the construction sites will remain torn-up for years.  Meanwhile, other parts of town need drastic work and rampant development has also threatened the city's charm - building codes are often ignored and real-estate deals tend to get awarded only to well connected people and, it is said, criminals.

A taxi driver told us - half in German, the foreign language older people tend to speak - about a new highway project to link Pristina with Albania and Tirana.  He talked about an American firm and some september deadline as we drove through the outskirts of town.  It's true that the roads in and out of Pristina are excellent and new.  It's easy to see the appeal of more construction projects, a shiny center, but it also seems a little unnecessary.  The heart of the city is already going at full pace, old streets and all.

Fueled not by vodka and redbull, but by macchiatos and cigarette smoke, the "bars" and cafes of the capital are surprisingly lively. There are few cities in the region that can match Pristina's nighttime energy, in fact.  Even on weekday nights, there are sections of town where it is difficult to find a free barstool or table after nine o'clock.
And, in a wonderful twist, this nightlife is propelled by real locals, not by loud tourists.  In places as busy and cheap as Pristina is, it's nice to find that the stag parties and club-enthusiasts haven't yet arrived.  In the warmth of late June, there are greetings shouted from table to table, kisses exchanged, a sense of community.  Mother Theresa boulevard, the main pedestrian street, is a loud, pleasant mix of old couples and excited toddlers, high heels and scuffed sneakers.  The strolling continues until late - later than we were prepared to stay up.

Pristina is a city with purpose.  Our guidebook, published only two years ago, speaks of bomb damage and the lasting effects of war.  Now, in 2012, those scars are hard to find and the city is, more than anything, moving forward.  It's not as if the cobweb electric lines and broken paving stones can be fixed overnight, but it won't take long.  In fact, within a few years, it's easy to think that this little capital could be a prime destination, something like Skopje is today - a place that people are no longer afraid of.  Already, the recent past seems very distant.