Our 10 Most Popular Posts

Here's the travel blogging catch-22.  Most people are looking for information about places they plan to visit.  So, millions of people search for things about Tuscany, Paris or Amsterdam's canals.  The most amazing place on earth won't receive much traffic if nobody knows about it.  The problem is, the more popular a place is, the more bloggers there are writing about it.  The chance that someone reads your post about the Acropolis? Slim.

Predicting which of our 700 (plus) posts would get read was almost impossible.  Some of the best things we wrote didn't even get read by our own parents.  Some of our silliest or worst-written bits have became enormously (and embarrassingly) popular.

Our 10 most popular posts (based on Google analytics data and Blogger.com traffic reports) are a mixed bag.  Some are good (number one, thankfully), some began their online life as throwaways (see number nine), some are just weird (number five).  Only one of these posts was specifically designed to attract traffic (number two).

10. Cihangir

Sometimes we just hit upon something. Cihangir is a hip, young Istanbul neighborhood.  It reminded us of a Turkish Williamsburg and confirmed our belief that renting an apartment is the best way to see a city.  The best neighborhoods are often the best because they don't have any hotels.  Don't get us wrong, the center of Istanbul is as gobsmacking is you'd expect and we never tired of tooling around in search of balik ekmek or The Mussel Man (who we wind up finding in Cihangir anyway).  But the best cities are great because of their ever-changing qualities, their momentum and the neighborhoods defined by the young people there at a given time. 

9. Not Taking Pictures of The Sistine Chapel

As bloggers, we found ourselves in a jam.  Here we were in Vatican City, two whole weeks of posting about a very, very small microstate and the pièce de résistance was off limits.  No photos in the Sistine Chapel.  Seriously?  If this were a rule decreed by the pope, the security guards would probably have worked a little harder - or at all - to enforce it.  As it turns out, a Japanese TV company owns the exclusive rights to some of the art world's most famous images because they funded its restoration. (This is after NBC turned down the deal.  Probably because they were too busy fine-tuning  Joey, the Friends spin-off).  Anyway, the whole thing was ridiculous, made only more so by the fact that everyone. was. taking. pictures.  So, we decided to half break the rules and snap some shots, too.  Just not of the ceiling.  We're sure this gets traffic because people are searching to see if photos are allowed in the Sistine Chapel.  Not that finding out is going to stop them.  

8. Georgian Food
We can vouch for the fact that it is very difficult to search for anything about Georgia, in English, without being directed to the state instead of the country.  Using the word "Georgian" helps matters a lot.  This one makes us happy because Georgian food really did feel like a revelation.  The textures and flavors were consistently surprising and delicious.  Pomegranate seeds, crushed walnuts, cilantro,  the best bread of our lives.  And then there were khinkali, the soup dumpling like concoctions pictured above.  In the tiny town of Mestia, at the time the most remote place we'd been, the only restaurant in town basically only served khinkali   We discovered, quickly, that they are so delicious you don't need anything more.

7. The Bright Spots

Amazingly, this is only our second most-popular Albanian post (see below!)  

Sometimes we know exactly why people are reading a specific post.  After a TED Blog writer used our photos of Tirana's painted buildings we got a sudden surge of visitors.

The story of Edi Rama (painter turned Minister of Culture turned mayor) and his brilliant idea to transform ugly communist-era cement blocks into bold, bright works of art is a great one.  It's no wonder it's garnered some attention.  We're just happy that our own piece focuses more on the story of the city today and of Malvin, a young man who served us dinner one night and was showing us around the next.  Maybe he'll stumble upon the post himself and shoot us an email.  We wonder if he ever made it to that bioengineering school in Canada.

6. Castle Hunting: Trakai Castle
Island castles are a little bit of a trend (see number 4).
We remember this castle most for the speeding ticket we got nearby.  Lithuanian police take road safety very seriously.  For the record, if you should ever find yourself stopped by an officer in Lithuania, be prepared to pay your fine in cash on the spot.  If you don't have the money, he/she will drive you to the nearest bank to withdraw the amount.  Don't be scared.  This is absolutely normal.  Well, you can still be scared.  As we were.

5. Sleeping In Soviet Style
This little Belarusian piece has always baffled us.  For almost a year it was our number two most-viewed post, second only to this, about Belarusian tractors (which now ranks about 12th).  It would make sense if people were only landing here while looking for lodging in Belarus - which is hard to find - but that didn't seem to be the case.  Inexplicably, thousands of people showed up after searching for "armenian elevator buttons."  The internet is a weird, weird place.
(Thanks to one visitor, we learned that what we thought was a very cool smoke detector was actually an even cooler single-channel radio from the Soviet age).

4. Castle Hunting: Kizkalesi Castles

We were never even supposed to be there in Kizkalesi, but we were finding it a little difficult to catch a boat to northern Cyprus, and we needed a place to stay.  For a Turkish seaside town, it's a little drab.  People visit for the "floating" castle (and visit our blog for pictures of it).  We stayed in an empty hotel, run by a very nice Kurdish man who took us to the nearby Caves of Heaven and Hell and invited us to watch a televised NBA game with him in the evening. 

3. Lithuanian Food
For a long time, Lithuanian Food was the most viewed post on the blog.  It features grainy, unappealing photos of cepelinai, blyneliai and various other cheesy, gloppy dishes.  This is a poorly-lit shot of kiaulės audis, which is smoked pig's ear.  We had no idea - as we crunched cartilage on that dark night in the Žemaitija National Park - that so many people would find this stuff interesting.  Then, again, we may not have ordered the smoked pig's ear if we didn't at least hope they would.

2. Montenegro's Best Beaches
Some day soon, this will be the most read merlinandrebecca.com post.  It's been popular since day one, and it does really well around every vacation time.  Montenegro is newly independent and popular, so there isn't as much written about it as, say, Croatia.  We think that's why readers end up on our site.  This one feels a little bittersweet, though, because we created it while thinking "this will get so much traffic!"  But, hey, the hope is that then you stumble upon something like this.  The other hope is that more people will look beyond the big resorts that are threatening to destroy the coastline and find those little places that remain untouched… for now.

1. Albanian Food

While it's not too surprising that 3 of our 10 most popular posts are about food, Albania sneaking in for the win is a bit of a shock.  Here's our theory:  there's simply not much information available online about Albanian food.  So, unlike a search for "Italian food," you're more likely to stumble upon us.  In fact, googling those two words right now, we're right there behind wikipedia, food.com, ask.com and pinterest (which may or may not have even existed when we published this post).  If the title had been "Frogs Legs and Lamb's Head" - as I'm sure at least one of us wanted it to be - there's no way this would be our number one.  But… hey… we learned a few traffic tips along the way.  Now, add the fact that Albania was named Lonely Planet's Top Destination for 2011 and you've got yourself a winner!

Rooms With a View (and a Hotplate)

This was our living room for four nights.  That yellow block in the top left hand corner of the bookshelf is a collection of National Geographic magazines from the 70s and 80s.  "My grandfather ordered English versions in the mail!" Djeordj told us when we pointed them out.  "We cannot throw them away.  They are like memories!"  Djeordj (pronounced George) had an endearing way of sounding excited about everything.  Once he left, we fingered through the rest of the library: old VHS tapes, paperback romances in Serbian, a totally inspiring cookbook from which a recipe handwritten on a piece of paper fell when opened.  I was half-expecting there to be a yellowed wedding album tucked in somewhere.  Private accommodations are plentiful in Montenegro - we didn't stay in a single hotel in our entire two weeks.  Why would we with options like this? 

This rental, technically named Reževići Apartments, was found on booking.com.  The description said "One Bedroom w/ Balcony and Sea View" and photos of the interior won us over.  A "kitchen" had been listed, but photos only showed a white mini fridge anachronistically sitting in the living room.  Walking in, we saw it there.  No sink or stove to be found.  "Oh that!" Djeordj laughed.  "My mother says that we need two fridges.  I do not think so, but it is what my mother says, so."  With that, he brought us out to the balcony (our balcony) to solve the Mystery of the Missing Kitchen.  A sink, dual burner hotplate and second fridge were right there outside, coupled with our better-even-than-advertised sea view.  We fried fish in the sunset, made lime-basil potato salad and Njeguski fruit salad with salty skin and wet hair.

When we made the booking, we thought "Rijeka Reževići" was the name of a street in nearby (and much bigger) Petrovac.  It's actually a pretty little village - a clump of stone houses and lush oleanders high up above a beautiful, secluded rock cove.  A long staircase takes you down to the pocket of beach which - amazingly, has a great little restaurant tucked right into it.  Being on 'our cove,' as its been lovingly dubbed, it really hit us how important rentals in family homes are for Montenegro's future.  It's a way of utilizing the buildings that already exist to fit the 1 million tourists who flock here every summer (more than double the country's resident population).   It's tourism without development. Especially on the coast, this feels so important.  On each side of Rijeka Reževići,  to the left, right and across the road behind, there are big half finished complexes.  The coast no longer looks the way it may have in one of Djeordj's grandpa's National Geographics. 

Choosing rentals is also a way of putting money right into the pockets of Montenegrin families, who earn about 40% of the EU average, instead of the foreign investors that have built all the resorts.  Renting out rooms has become an industry of its own in Montenegro.  Anyone with a child off at college becomes an entrepreneur.  A lot of those children, like Djeordj, are the ones you post links on booking sites, get business cards made, speak English and handle communication with renters via cell phone and email.  Mostly, though, its an on-point sale. Woman wait at bus stations with photo albums filled with pictures of their offerings.  Signs are posted on doorways.  In Budva, along the main coastal road, a young man in short red swimming trunks and sunglasses sat in a lounge chair.  He was there every time we drove through with his "SOBE - APARTMANI" sign resting up against his steadily tanning ankle.  He looked like a strange cross between a lifeguard and a hitchhiker. 

Rentals are so numerous and actively promoted that when our host mother in Kolašin came out to wave us into her property, I was worried it was just someone else trying to get our business.  Turns out, we were in the right place.  And what a beautiful one.  Their high season is winter, its a ski town, but people like us also come to hike in nearby Biogradska Gora National Park.  To have a few days inland as respite from the coast.  "How much are they charging for an apartment in Budva?" asked the English-speaking niece of our host family.  She was just visiting for the weekend, fleeing the concrete heat of Podgorica for some crisp mountain air.  She was translating the question for her aunt.  We hadn't stayed in Budva, but reported that our little piece of cove heaven had cost nearly double her place.  Not all one bedroom with kitchens are created equal. 

This was just a simple bedroom with an adjacent kitchenette, all we needed for two nights in the mountains. And why would we complain about the less-than-inspiring kitchen after a warm welcome of rakija, strawberry cake and stove-top-popped popcorn.  And a goodbye made of berries, picked in the backyard by the visiting niece's two young children.  Renting private accommodations isn't just a budget option or responsible tourism, it can also feel like a homestay... with a little distance.  We love homestays.  Some of the best moments of this entire trip have been in places like dung-heated Xinaliq and the Arbajter's deer farm.  But sometimes, it's also nice just to have a little more privacy.  To be less doted upon.  To have a simpler breakfast.  Since every place we stayed had a minifridge and a hotplate, cereal and a can of instant coffee become Montenegrin additions to our backpacks.  Carrying them around reminded us of the good ole camping days of 2011.

Since rental rooms and apartments are available absolutely everywhere in Montenegro, you can drive around until you find somewhere that pulls at your heartstrings and then decide to spend a night or a week.  That's just what happened to us in Rose.  All by itself on the northwestern corner of the Lustica Peninsula, it sat simply and prettily.  We wanted nothing more than to stay the night and a "SOBE" sign posted on the door of Aragosta tavern gave us a glimmer of hope that it could be possible.  Sasha was called to help us when we inquired with the waiter and, sure enough, they had a room for one night.

Even in a room situated above a restaurant, we had a hotplate, fridge and sink.  We didn't use any of them.  We simply walked downstairs and sat at an outdoor table alongside the poor fools who actually had to go sleep somewhere else that night.  Shrimp buzarra with risotto, char-grilled octopus with blitva, a bottle of rosé, because it only seemed appropriate. It was a feast.   After our dinner, we changed back into swimsuits and dove in for a night swim.  Jellyfish, used to having the sea all to themselves under the moonlight, zapped at our legs.  We were too full and happy to care, the only people in the water - maybe even in the whole Mediterranean Sea at that very moment.  Probably not, but it's wonderful to think.

Rose is a special place.  So is Rijeka Reževići.  Both feel like discoveries and give you the sense that you have them all to yourself.  Being in a rental only adds to that feeling.  Coming home, unlocking your door, grabbing a cool beverage out of your own fridge.  Heck, being able to start a sentence with 'coming home' at all. After our late night swim, once we were all dried off and tucked in, we realized that for the first time in all our days on the coast, we could actually hear the water lapping up against the shore.  Rose may be the only place in Montenegro where this is possible - where you can sleep right on the edge of the water and it is quiet enough to hear the movement of the sea. And to think of how many people visit and just figure there is nowhere to sleep, not noticing the simple sign that reads "SOBE" or not knowing that that means "rooms." Exploring Montenegro just wouldn't be the same without them.

A Night in a Kulla: A Castle of Our Own

I pushed aside the pretty, little, white curtain that flapped in the evening wind and shouted out to Merlin about what I'd found.  A steel bar stretched across the small peaked window and a hornets net sat right at the top.  We'd rented this kulla in Dranoc for the night - a unique opportunity to stay in one of these historic family fortresses built in the Albanian tradition.  Seeing that hornets nest made me realize that the phrase "king of your castle" gives a false impression of life in these sort of defensive structures.  It's the same castle-over, no matter how magnificent they may be, the people living inside were still there out of a necessity to protect themselves from attack.  The scenario is dramatic, but far from glamorous.  Them against the outside world.

Kulla means tower in Albanian and is derived from kule, the Turkish word for tower, citadel, fort and fortress.  These structures are not always towers, but they are always designed for defensive purposes.  Strongholds.  Above, you can see our kulla.  That staircase was the women's entrance, leading to the kitchen and living quarters. All other entrants could bypass all that to get to the top floor for men and guests.  More comfortable homes were built alongside and the kulla was only lived in during violent times, when security was key.  For Albanians, the protection a family sought was mostly from a blood feud, any attack that would entrench their family in generations of retribution.  A lot of the kullas were built in Western Kosovo for this purpose, but a great number also sprang up during the instability of the 18th century, when revolts against the Ottoman Empire were staged often and quashed violently. 

In the Deçan Municipality, of which Dranoc is part, 263 kullas stood until 1999, when 233 of them were destroyed or badly damaged.  These buildings were specifically targeted by the Serbian army during the war, because they represented Albanian culture and tradition.  Just like many castle ruins we've visited, the centuries-old historic buildings were destroyed as a statement.  On a walk through town, we met a women named Merita. She led along a wisp of a daughter, waist-high and stained purple from picking black mulberries all afternoon.  Merita's family's kulla still stands, renovated and open to visitors with the help of Cultural Heritage Without Borders.  She told us about it proudly and we weren't quite sure if it was the one we were staying in.  Anyway, hers was one of few that survived the conflict of  '99.  Her four brothers, she added, had not been so lucky. 

Dranoc's historic quarter feels Medieval even though its building were built nearly 500 years later.  There's a certain vibe that's similar, of life amidst death.  One look at the side wall of our kulla and you can sense the battle cry .  Windows were sized for shooting rather than sunlight.   Preservation was the overwhelming factor, not comfort or aesthetics. Still, a curtain could hang from a wall, a black mulberry tree could grow tall in the yard.  Unlike other fortifications, there was no worry about remaining hidden or out of sight.  Every family had one, towns were made up of them -  and everyone hoped for a good, long stretch of time before they'd have to move back in.

What these kullas lack in aesthetics and comfort, they make up for with unparalleled insulation.  The walls' stones are all locally acquired and beautiful, as are the tree trunks used for the ceilings.  The meter thick walls keep the interior cool in the summer, warm in the winter and hold a steady temperature between from day into night.  Honestly, it wouldn't hurt a few modern houses to be built in this way.  We slept like babies, during a heatwave, without an air conditioner, fan or open window (because of that darn hornets nest).   We recognized a lot of this design from our time in Albania, specifically in Gjirokaster.  It felt more amazing to have it all to ourselves, to spend the night in a house/fort, a sort of comfortable prison in some regards. 

The bottom floor was traditionally used as a barn.  In our kulla, remnants of a big tourist conference lay around.  Brochures about cultural programs and diagrams illustrating kulla restoration were piled up. These initiatives are keeping the kullas of Kosovo from falling into complete disrepair, preserving a few examples of something unique and special.  Still, it's hard to detach the structures' war mentality, so to speak, from its identity.  While I have no problem just accepting it all as a part of the Albanian-Kosovar complicated, fascinating cultural identity, it must be a strange thing to deal with as an organization.  Blood feuds still go on today in Albania and, to a lesser extent, Kosovo.  It's an odd dilemma to recognize the significance and celebrate the beauty of something like a kulla without romanticizing its purpose.

On the top floor, in the Men's Room, we had dinner.  A number of low, round tables were piled against the wall and we rolled one over to the fireplace.  On the high, wall-spanning shelf were a few empty wine bottles, all from vineyards in Rahovec,  We added our own, thinking it was an odd thing in such a Muslim-inspired setting, plus a few full bottles we've been carrying around.  Accumulated gifts.  I thought about sneaking into the Men's Room as I was - about how separation of genders rubs me the wrong way.  But then I remembered the scenario most of the men sitting here were in.  This room welcomed a fraternity of kings, all saddened or resigned to the burden of their castle.

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!

A Soggy Holiday

Three days of rain.  We traveled to Sokobanja from Nis, a choice that was applauded by the couple who ran our hostel.  The wife sucked on her cigarette with a contemplative pull and exhaled the name with pleasure.  Sokobanja.  "It is nice, Sokobanja, very nice," the husband nodded as he rolled his own smoke.  "I will drive you to the bus.  It is raining."  A large, dust-covered framed portrait of Tito was removed from the trunk of their car so that our backpacks could fit.  Little did we know - though the clouds were desperately trying to tell us - that our time in the resort town would mostly be spent in this hotel.

Rain leaked into the lobby and ricocheted off the already full plastic tubs meant to catch it.  A tv buzzed overhead.  The place felt immediately familiar.  These are the sort of hotels that I like to dub a CommuNest.  As functional and inviting as a mall parking garage, they are sprawling, grid-like structures.  With their enormous spaces, high ceiling, dim lighting and little-to-no soft notes, they remind me of high school after school hours.  This institutional feel is only emphasized by the enormous, uniformed staff and the many pieces of rubber-stamped paperwork they produce.  Even our breakfast card was certified.   It harkened back to our time in Belarus, Ukraine, Moldova.  Tito's portrait all of a sudden felt like a premonition.  Then, things took an unexpected turn.  We were not alone.

At least 400 children occupied the hotel - some sort of rained out Summer Camp, I assume.  Everything looked even more enormous and faded as the backdrop to its tiny, energetic clientele.  It was like a Roald Dahl novel about a hotel just for children.   At breakfast, we were offered a choice between hot milk and hot chocolate.  The cleaning lady unlocked our door each morning at 8:30am.  Above the age of 12, it was like we were invisible.  By the second day, my clothes were beginning to smell less like smoke and more like hot dog.  The hair salon spent their days braiding fine, blonde hair into cornrows.  These "vacation hairstyles," that are usually meant to signify a trip to an island somewhere, only made the lack of natural light in the hotel more noticeable.

There were 540 beds, two pools, therapeutic and cosmetic spas, gym facilities, a bowling alley, a nightly magician show, a bar area that strongly resembled those smoker's cubes in airports, a 200+ person conference room, etc etc etc.   The pools are the main draw, filled with thermal water.  The springs are what have brought people to Sokobanja for centuries.  It began with the Romans, who bathed in the warm waters here and breathed in the fresh, mountain air.  By 1837 these things were officially seen as restorative, therapeutic and Prince Miloš Obrenović turned the site into a destination. The Turkish slant on it was, of course, to build hamams, which the Serbians transformed afterwards into wellness centers. 

The hotel swimming pool and complex surrounding it are just the newest incarnation of 'spa town.'  This also means carnival rides and pizza places, a pedestrian boulevard that was lively even as the tiny dug-out canoe on display in the public park filled up with rain water.  It's always amazing to see carnival games when they're not in use.  With no crowds and music and lights, you notice that there are half naked women painted on the side of the "Shut Gun" trailer.  You notice just how rickety that ferris wheel looks.  But you also can't help imagine it turning on, lighting up and spinning itself dry.

The bumper cars got a little use while we were in town, on account of their having a roof.  Whenever the rain stopped, everyone hurried outside.  We scrambled up to the ruins of Sokograd, breathing in fresh air and getting our muscles moving.  It was glorious.  The rain began again shortly after and we trailed mud back into the hotel.  The poor kids had been cooped up all day and now had to exhaust all of their pent up energy at a pajama dance party.  A sea of tiny people, in tiny clothing, dancing around to Shakira - I thought of something I'd read earlier that day.  “Sokobanja, Soko Grad, come here old and leave young."  Maybe they've all just been here too long...?  A Roald Dahl book indeed.

A veritable cityscape of luggage filled reception on our last morning in Sokobanja.  Children ran around the roller-bag skyscrapers.  The elevator door opened and behind it was not the usual bather in white robe, but a cartful of suitcases about to topple.  As we sat with coffee, more bags came from every direction.  It was like that final moment of Tetris, when the blocks just start descending too quickly. Game Over.  Finally, it dawned on us that this wasn't just the baggage of the kids leaving, there were new ones arriving!  Like the thermal pool water the day before, a drain and refill was occurring.

 

The new children were destined to be less cooped up and less stir crazy.  The weather was changing.  The girls smacked around a volleyball and the boys pushed each other on skateboards as they waited for their turn to check-in.  They'd undoubtedly take full advantage of everything this pretty resort town has to offer.  They'll kick soccer balls over tennis nets and miss foul shots on the basketball court.  They'll drink limunada at the cafe tables and buy their moms porcelain teddy bears that say "I <3 Sokobanja"  They'll stow a few pieces of bread and cheese away in a napkin during breakfast and eat it for lunch at a picnic table set up along the hiking trail to Sokograd. At least, I would if I were them.

Where Can I Park My Camel?

Caravanserais are the original motels. They were designed specifically for groups of travelers who needed a place to stay en route. Caravanserais began to pop up in great numbers along the Royal Road, a merchant trail that led into the Silk Road, all the way back around 600 BC. Open to the sky, the traditionally square courtyards were the "parking lots," as goods, people and animals were all settled into their appropriate places for the night. Some of these unique complexes still exist and a visit to one conjures up all sorts of images and scenes straight out of Arabian Nights.
Crafts and valuables were stored in cellar rooms, travelers stayed on the second floor and the courtyard level rooms were used for trading and selling. In Baku, a few caravanserai have been turned into restaurants. We dined at one called, simply, "Karavansara," which dates back to the 14th century. Ducking and squeezing into a slit of a doorway, we were shown our private dining room. A gas powered ring of fire was lit in the stone fireplace and we were left to imagine what kind of business deals went down centuries ago. Outside, a fez wearing quartet played traditional mugam music.
In Sheki, we were able to have an even more authentic caravanserai experience. The city, in Northwestern Azerbaijan, is famous for its silk factory. So, naturally, it was a major stop for merchants on the Silk Road. By the 17th century, four large caravanerais were built in the city - two of which remain. One of these historic travel lodges is restored and back to doing what it does best- giving weary travelers a place to rest their heads.
The 18th century Yukari Karavanerie Hotel is a huge square structure. Around the perimeter, facing out toward the sidewalk, small shops occupy the nooks and crannies. Simple tea spots, minimarkets, halva shops, copperworks, musical instruments restringing. The hotel's domed entry hall is incredible, spanning upwards in impressive narrow brickwork. Below the wooden balcony, a sign reads "WIFI."
Our room was not heated in the traditional way - carpets hung up on the walls - but, rather, with a radiator. It being wintertime, whose complaining? Even with the touches of modernity, it felt historic. A completely unique experience. We slept in one of at least a hundred identical rooms that wrapped around the moonlit arcade. The palm trees and courtyard benches were covered in snow.
The morning after our stay, we left before the sun rose. The front door was unlocked by a sleepy young man and we maneuvered our backpacks through and out of the door. The town was asleep, and popping out as we did, I felt like a cuckoo clock announcing the morning. Like the caravanserai's first visitors, we had a long route ahead of us. Onward west we went, over the border to Georgia and through to the capital of Armenia.

The Living Skansen

There is a peculiar type of museum, which we call "skansen." It's a Swedish name, but we use it because it's easier than the bulky "ethnographic museum" and more elegant than "open-air history museum." We've been to skansens in Poland, in the Czech Republic and in Georgia. The effect is generally the same: in the collections of old, tiny buildings, one feels the simpleness and smallness of life in the peasant classes of the past.

But it's also the present. In Xinaliq, it's a way of life. We stayed with a family in their house and felt the closeness of a timeless home.

In this room, three generations - some nine people - cook, eat, sleep, pray and watch TV. There is a low table, we sat on the floor. There is a stove, covered in pots. A stack of mattresses gets put away in one corner, the dishes are kept on a small shelf. When the electricity is on, there's a light overhead and the television blares Turkish music videos. When the electricity doesn't work, the only light is from a small hole in the ceiling - once the chimney for an open fire. The family's sheep are kept underneath in a low, dark barrow.

It is, in so many ways, exactly like the skansens. But it isn't a museum, and the people whose lives are contained in this room weren't eager to play the part of living history.
All of us curious travelers are attracted to Xinaliq because of its "unspoiled" culture. It is a place not yet fully modern, somehow. The people speak their own language, full of clicks and hard vowels. They dress in traditional clothes, have their own customs, live almost completely off their sheep. There is a sense that one is making first contact with an undiscovered culture - a perverse anthropological excitement. Hasn't this sort of thing disappeared?

Before we went, in a guesthouse room in Quba, our Xinaliq contact - a man named Xeyrradin -apologetically explained the situation to us. "There's no water, no hot water. The family only heats one room and it's very cold there. They don't have wood, so they burn dung. They will only eat soup, maybe, or some kind of potato, it's very simple." He paused and spread his hands out to us. "Most people go in the summer," he said, shrugging.
There is one other "finished" room, mostly disused, as well as a small entryway, plus a storage space - but these aren't heated, and aren't used much. We slept in the guest room, which was only a degree or so above freezing. The winter closes in the life of this family. They spend as much time as possible inside, watching the television or using their cellphones. At night, the piles of mattresses are spread out over the carpets.

Falling asleep in our cold, separate space, the sound of sheep below the floor mixed with the sound of the television in the next room.
We spent hours sitting on cushions around the table. There was a lot of simple food, and many cups of tea in between.

Maybe the biggest cultural oddity about the home wasn't something we expected - this family seemed almost doggedly resistant to making a connection. There were no introductions. No-one said goodbye when we left. There were very few attempts at crossing the language divide. Food was served to us, one of the men would bark at his wife to refill our tea cups. Rebecca and I would have our own conversation and the family would have theirs, even as we all sat around the same table. We felt lucky that there were two toddlers - at least someone looked at us. We spent two nights with this family and have no name to attach to them.

There are no hotels in Xinaliq, and no restaurants, and that somehow explained our loneliness. The family was providing a service to us - a place to stay, with meals served. In other words, they were providing access to Xinaliq, the town. It probably never occurred to them that we were interested in them more than the buildings.

When we walked between the old stones, the people who approached us wanted to suggest hiking routes, or tell us to visit the caves. They were friendly people. But there are mountains everywhere, and shallow caves too. What makes Xinaliq stand out isn't its location - rocky, hilltop towns are special, but not extraordinary. They exist. Most of them, though, exist only as places - not as a theater for life.

There was a man named Misha in Tbilisi, Georgia, who we met at our hostel. He was Polish, but he'd lived in the Caucasus for years - he'd traveled all the back roads, been to all the remote spots. When we told him that we were heading down to Azerbaijan, he told us about Xinaliq. "It's my dream to go there," he said.

Xinaliq is the dream that there are still untouched places on earth. Perhaps with better Azeri (or Russian), or with more time, or with more persistence we could have found some spark of recognition between us and the family. Instead, we found ourselves more and more settling into the role of watcher, as though we really were visitors to a museum.

But what an amazing museum! Accept the divide, and the display is magical. We saw wolf tracks in the snow, a bloody sheep's stomach in the mud and herds of goats in the narrow lanes. We watched groups of kerchiefed women fetching water for their tea and washing clothes outside in the snow. There were boys playing dominos beside us and homemade cheese on the table - and fresh lamb, pickles, and bread rising wrapped in blankets. We sat in a tableau of the ancient present and saw things that could only be re-enacted elsewhere. Waking in the morning, the sun rose over a wall of rocky peaks around us, the hilltop was as silent and static as it has been for thousands of years.

Maybe not making a connection is the difference. Maybe that's why Xinaliq is still so untouched.