bašcaršija and thoughts on my first week in sarajevo

In the short six days that I've been in Sarajevo, I've taken it slow. My body is still adjusting to the time zone difference. I'm exhausted during the day and wired at night. I don't remember being jet lagged for long in Japan. It's another of life's small reminders that 29 isn't at all like 24. I had a three-day weekend for Memorial Day, and a coworker suggested I catch a quick flight to Belgrade - one of his favorite cities in the Balkans. Twenty-four year old me jumped on the idea, sketching out a quick 3-day itinerary and pricing it all out. Twenty-nine year old me then turned to a blank page in my notebook and jotted out ideas and things to see and do for a long weekend right here in Sarajevo.

There's not nearly as much English here as I expected. I told my coworkers how surprised I was at that. Their response: "they're all fooling you. If they're under 40, they speak English." That's a little bit how this city is - vibrant and warm and chock full of character - but also an insider's club. There's a sense of a shared experience - war still so close that the words betrayal and family and friendship mean something different, something profound. That gives Sarajevo a feeling of being on the outside for a visitor. But it seems like an exclusive club that's not closed permanently. It's one that I plan to earn my way into.

Sarajevo's old town, known as Bascarsija, is host to the city's most beloved sights. For my first few visits, I simply wandered and pointed my camera at what caught my eye.

a visit to the abandoned bobsled track in sarajevo

Since being mugged in Ecuador, I find that I'm more wary of strangers and more cautious of where I explore - at home and when I travel, especially when I'm alone. I felt that still fresh and unexpected pang of apprehension walking to and on the abandoned 1984 Olympic bobsled and luge track. It's tucked up on Mount Trebevic, in the hills right above Sarajevo. Within a few minutes of walking, my nerves felt unfounded as I watched a couple hold the hands of their young daughter on the trail just in front of me. Though that hint of caution and fear mostly dissipated, the bobsled track itself left me feeling uneasy and acutely aware of where I was and the history on which I walked.

The winding, curving piece of architecture once united people in a common goal of bringing home medals for Bosnia, a multi-ethnic country with a common identity, even if a tenuous one. Less than a decade after those Winter Olympics, Serb shooters used the same site as a tactical vantage point - a sniper range - holding the people of Sarajevo hostage in their homes and basements for nearly four years during the Siege of Sarajevo. As a tourist, my mind was blown. I couldn't have imagined having the experience of walking up and down an Olympic bobsled track. The cement track - once sparkling in its icy glory - is now dressed in layers of graffiti that range from careless blobs of color to inspired statements. It's a photographer's playground, as well, and I found myself inspired by the stories and sentiments behind those messages on the track walls - even though I couldn't understand most of them. As a human, I felt uncomfortable being there, and I didn't expect that. It felt voyeuristic to tourist a site where sniper rifles aimed and fired at civilians in the city below. To appropriate a cultural symbol of pride and a common identity to propagate a war of nationalistic aggression seems beyond anything just - even when stretched to include warfare. It was an unnerving experience - and the track's history is complicated and unjust.

The abandoned bobsled track is mired in the tragedies of war - but also in the promise of peace and unity. I hope that better legacy is what lives on.

a summer in sarajevo

It has been so long since I posted that my domain expired, and I learned a lesson in owning your own domain: don't let it expire. It's cheap to purchase these things, but if you let them expire, it costs a small fortune to get them back.

I'm living and working in Sarajevo this summer, and it's already going by too fast. It's my first time living abroad since Japan - 5 years! - and I've learned from that experience to find gratitude in every moment because it will end so soon. It's some of the easiest gratitude I've known. My soul feels filled up. It's filled from living on a new street whose name I can't pronounce correctly yet - but I'm working on it. From a washing machine whose instructions are in a foreign language. From a local transportation system that I haven't figured out yet. From the first time I tell a taxi driver how to get to my house - and I actually get there. I'm at home discovering things unknown and a place unknown to me. 

This summer, I'll get to know Sarajevo. 

life right now

It's hard to believe that just two months ago I was enjoying this view and a great novel. (Or that it has already been two months ago?) These past two months have been a whirlwind. Zan and I finally found a tenant for his condo, and within the week, we also found a place of our own. I'm busying myself (in those rare moments I find a chance to do something other than homework) with decorating, a thing that is brand new to me but feels right and like it's time because I'm so happy that this apartment is our home.

Zan and I are heading to Georgia in mid-August to spend time with my family and pick up Sir Theodore from my mom. I can't wait to bring him home. I'm having increasingly elaborate daydreams of us being reunited - slow motion running towards each other and all.

The first season of the Rangel Fellowship is coming to a close, and I'm still wrapping my head around how fast this summer has gone. I'm more excited and ready for my career as a Foreign Service Officer than ever before. Having to wait two more years - and surviving grad school - to get there is a tough pill to swallow, but I'm finding all the reasons in the world to get excited about it. I love learning, and I know as soon as classes start, I'll be happier to be where I am than I can imagine right now.

And in two short (too, too short) weeks, I'll be on a flight heading to Vancouver. Callie and I are meeting there and heading to Victoria for our friends' Tiffany and Alex's wedding. We all taught together in Japan. I've been back from JET for five years, and I love these friends more fiercely than ever. Zan couldn't make this trip - and all the love in the world to him, but I can't wait to travel with Callie again. She and I have traveled to five (six?) countries together, and it's time to add another to the list. It's going to be so much fun and a needed mental break before school starts.

Is anyone else watching Orphan Black? I'm hooked. 

And that's about all my frazzled brain knows right now.

Happy Friday!

rediscovering great falls

We wanted to hike Billy Goat A at Great Falls - accessible only on the Maryland side, but we were so engaged in conversation that I didn't even notice when my phone's map sent us to the Virginia side.

Growing up in Georgia, I was relatively far from other state borders. We had to work to get to somewhere else. My mom would honk the horn when we would cross the border into Alabama or Florida, Tennessee or South Carolina. We'd holler our hoorays. I always felt this bubbling excitement of the unknown. Like crossing that state border would show me something so special I couldn't even imagine it yet. It always filled me with that mix of excitement laced with a tinge of fear of the unknown. To this day, it's the feeling I crave most.

It still isn't ordinary to me that I cross from DC into Maryland or Virginia with such ease and frequency. They're all right there, practically on top of each other. At Great Falls, you can literally wade from one state to another. You can accidentally end up in Virginia when you meant to go to Maryland. And if you want to fix your mistake? It's less than 20 minutes.

Maybe that's a reason why I feel so at home in DC - it's a place that isn't a state, it's neither here nor there, neither Virginia nor Maryland, Yankee nor Southern, but in so many ways, it's the epicenter of America - at least in my nerdy, political, international affairs world. It's a place where there's always something new to discover.

(I'm not sure where that tangent came from, but it felt good to write. Do you ever just feel good writing? It doesn't even matter what comes out, it just feels right to say it all.)

I love Great Falls, and this hike with Jess rejuvenated my soul. That sounds so crunchy, but damn if it isn't true. I haven't been hiking in far too long. Zan and I did some good walking in Costa Rica, but it wasn't the same. I need that nerves on edge, heart pounding, lick my lips and all I taste is sweat, kind of hiking. And I need a view that makes me want to sit and stare and think and be grateful for everything. In the past few years, I've overlooked Great Falls for mountains and bigger peaks and more expansive views. But sometimes the best view is what's in my own backyard that I've left untouched for too long. This was one of those days and one of those hikes.

I'd never seen the Great Falls themselves - in nearly four years of living in this beloved city. Isn't that crazy?

I'm so glad we went to the wrong state. It was the right hike. Standing up there on those rocks, looking over the cliff to the river below, I was excited with just a tinge of fear. The best way to be.

If you're interested, we started near the Falls and made a loop that combines the Patowmack Canal, Matildaville, and River Trails.

costa rica day 6 | the caribbean coast

Today, Zan and I had one of the best experiences yet on this trip. There were caves and coral, reefs and waves, jungle and ocean. And all it cost us was the price of bus ticket.

"All this fun for $2," I joked to Zan while we slid through mud and carefully stepped over tree roots in bare feet. "I feel like I won Costa Rica!"

I have been obsessed with how expensive Costa Rica is so it really did feel like a victory...

We slept until 7:30, the latest of the entire trip. We had a lazy morning reading in bed (ahem, looking at our phones), before an equally lazy buffet breakfast at the hotel. There were homemade banana pancakes that were divine. We decided to take the 9:45am public bus out to Manzanillo, a small fishing village and beach town with a large wildlife refuge about 10 miles from Puerto Viejo. The bus showed up at 10:15 -- everything really does run on Caribbean time!

Zan had been unsure if he wanted to go to Manzanillo, but one of the very friendly hotel convinced him, more so than I could. I had read about an 8km hike along the coast to Punta Mona nad wondered aloud to her if it was safe (I also read about a robbery on the trail), if we could do it alone, and if we needed to hike the entire way. Excitedly, she pointed to a spot on our map of the area, saying it's only a 2-3km hike to reach a stunning lookout point and to see a giant rock that has become the iconic image of Manzanillo and this portion of Costa Rica's Caribbean coast. I had read about caves along the hike and hoped to find a few of those, too.

Finding the trail was easy; the path that ran through town essentially ran into it. A Dutch couple introduced themselves, and the four of us hiked together. It had rained the night before, and the trail was slick with mud. We all had to use our hands - and lend hands to the others - for leverage at the steepest, most slippery parts. The trail ran along the coast, with the sound of the waves on one side and verdant, overgrown jungle on the other.

We reached the lookout quickly, and it was every bit as beautiful - and even more - than we'd hoped. The giant rock emerged from the ocean floor after an earthquake in 1991, and now it stands about 20 feet tall in the ocean, waves lapping at its base and spray shooting several feet in the air. We gingerly stepped on the spiky coral rocks at the lookout point to see the view from every direction.

The trail led us to several more beautiful areas, most of them deserted beach coves. The last one we went to had an enticing alcove of coral and heavy rock, and I climbed up to explore. The Dutch guy joined me and saw a nearly hidden entrance to a cave, only accessible by leaping over a foot gap in the rocks, jagged rocks and ocean below. The cave was wide and high, easy to walk in and around. Looking up, there was a natural skylight, but the beams were so bright I couldn't glance up for long. The view from inside looking out - at the waves bouncing off the geometrical rock formations, was extraordinary.

After exploring a while longer, we hiked back to town and found a simple stretch of beach to enjoy for an hour or so before lunch.

The woman at the hotel had recommended a reggae restaurant named Cool and Calm Cafe. Walking around town to find it, we heard it before we saw it. Andy, the owner, is a Manzanillo native, Caribbean to his core. The outdoors cafe is funky and as cool and calm as the name suggests, with a menu featuring fresh fish caught locally and Caribbean chicken. Zan had fish tacos, and they out with fried fish piled so high he had to eat his way down to the tortillas. The Caribbean chicken was flavorful, and I finally experienced rice cooked in coconut milk, a local favorite. It was our most expensive lunch yet, at $30 for the two meals and some guacamole and chips to start. (The guac and chips were $7, and literally there were 13 chips. Counting chips is a sign of mental instability, I'm sure, but seriously, were we in Costa Rica or San Francisco?!)

Stuffed to the gills, we spent a few more hours on the beach before catching the 4:00pm bus back to town.

That night, the rains we were told would drench our entire trip, came. I don't know how we lucked out with such fantastic weather, but that night the rain came down so hard it was as though the sky had been holding it in all week and couldn't any longer. It was deafening, and I lay in bed listening to it for hours, or for at least as long as I could keep my eyes open.

For dinner, we went to Marco's Pizzeria at the far end of Puerto Viejo. Marco has a wood-burning oven sitting outside and standing right there, amidst a handful of tables and the sound of crashing waves, he rolls the crust and delicately applies toppings. His pizza isn't just good for Puerto Viejo or Costa Rica, it's comparable to - or better than - the best I've ever had. And I'm a certifiable pizza snob. We raved about that pizza all night and for days after.

After dinner, we wandered a few hundred feet up the dark road to The Point, a sports bar Zan has wanted to check out since we were in DC researching this trip. We chatted with expats, including a woman from California who came to Puerto Viejo to teach yoga for four months after being laid off from her job. I'm drawn to people like her - ones that choose the unexpected paths and take the risks and live big. The "ones who are mad to live," as Jack Kerouac so perfectly said.

Puerto Viejo is a lot of things - expensive, surfer's paradise, a party town - but mostly it's a haven for people looking for a new life, a healthier life, a life filled with more reggae music than buzzing phones. There was the expat who told us he and his family moved down here to have more time to put family first. And the one who turned her back on a cushy corporate job to find herself. And the couple who heeded the irresistible call of the jungle and now dedicate themselves to protecting native wildlife.

It's a hippie town, full of vegan, raw, and vegetarian restaurants, yoga studios, and weed. I have complicated feelings on Costa Rica from this trip, but I understand wholly, in my soul, how a traveler planning to pass through Puerto Viejo ends up calling this beautiful place home. 

costa rica day 5 | jungle love, puerto viejo

Well. After being initiated into Puerto Viejo with shots of Guaro, I woke up in the starring role of the unfortunate movie, Guaro's Revenge. I was a little hungover. Okay, that's an understatement.

Zan woke up early to go fishing, and I slept in. Around 10am, I plopped into the hammock on our porch to plan the rest of my day. Next thing I knew, it was two hours later, and I hadn't moved an inch. By noon, Zan wasn't back yet and I knew it was then or never to get myself moving. I tossed on my bathing suit, packed a beach bag, and before I could leave Zan a note, he walked through the door. He was dejected from not catching anything, but "it was a nice boat ride." He always sees the bright side. Speaking of bright side, his arms were lobster red ("he's my lobster!").

We biked into Puerto Viejo for lunch at Soda Mirna, our first taste of Tico food in the south. It was a basic meal of braised chicken, rice, beans, and plantains. It was a hearty, good meal... but even at a restaurant as local as it gets, lunch was $20. I can't get over how expensive this country is!

We biked to a beach in Playa Cocles, a small town before Playa Chiquita, really close to the Jaguar Rescue Center. It wasn't as beautiful as the beaches yesterday, but in paradise, the beaches are all just shades of gorgeous. It's a locals beach, evidenced by the handful of guys we saw wading out to their thighs before throwing fishing line into the surf. A few had buckets of fish they'd already caught.

We left with enough time to check out Alice's Ice Cream Bar, a place we'd passed (and somehow resisted) the day before. An American expat couple owns it. The wife, Alice, makes all of the ice cream with hand run machines, and her husband runs the business side of things. The husband is from DC so we had plenty to talk about over the rich, creamy coffee and dark chocolate ice cream we devoured.

For dinner, we took a taxi ($8) to Jungle Love, a raved about restaurant in the quiet town of Playa Chiquita. We got lucky that a couple had canceled their reservation, and we nabbed one of the 5 tables right away. All of the tables are outside in the open air, a simple roof overhead, and the jungle encroaching from all sides.

The owners are an expat couple. Zamu is a character. He's a big guy - very muscular - from Oakland, California. He has a penchant for pithy, philosophical phrases and an ability to talk to anyone. He told us right away that it was our night, and the entire, beautiful meal made us feel that way. Most of the ingredients are either grown on their property (lemongrass and herbs) or locally sourced.

I had Zamu's sausage pasta ("I know the guy who makes the sausage"), and Zan had sea bass, the fish of the day. Zan had a religious experience with his fish and the basil-ginger sauce on it; I found the ragu a little sweet for my tastes but the dish as a whole hearty, warm, and crave-worthy. Zamu's wife (a charismatic, expert traveler with a contagious laugh) sold us on a cinnamon brownie with homemade coffee ice cream from a local farm. That ice cream was so rich and creamy, and I want more even thinking about it.

With a bottle of wine, two entrees, two apps, and a dessert, our bill came to about $65 with tip. It was probably the most reasonably priced meal out here, and we weren't even charged for incredible conversations with Zamu and his wife.

Zamu is an Army man and trained in hand-to-hand combat. I joked, "Remind me never to make you angry," and he smoothly replied, "It doesn't have to be like that. I just tell people, 'use your words.'" He's teaching his 9-year-old son martial arts and self-defense to carry on the family legacy.

I'd use my words around his son, too.