Switzerland

Lois and I are nearly current in our cyber-journalism.  So we can now provide some updates about more recent goings-on.  We’ve been loving our stay in the Lake Como region of Italy.  Lake Como is in northern Italy, so far north that the crest of the mountain we see rising just across the lake from our apartment is in Switzerland.  We decided to take a day-trip north of Lake Como to the St. Moritz area of Switzerland – about a two-and-a-half-hour drive, well beyond the border.  The weather had turned very warm and muggy after we’d been at Lake Como for a week, and we were looking for a bit of relief in the high Alps.

The reader is asked kindly to forgive one more roadway diatribe.  There are no roads I’ve seen in Europe that are as absurdly narrow as the Irish byways, but the roads in the lakes area of northern Italy come close.  The drive up along Lake Como from the town of Como to our current hometown of Lezzeno is a harrowing one.  There is an institutional reluctance in Italy to make any changes whatsoever to old buildings – even when they press so closely upon a roadway (once designed for horses and carts) that two cars cannot squeeze by.  So when the road passes through an old town (and almost all towns in this area are old), it becomes not much more than an alleyway between buildings made of unforgiving stone.  On one preposterously narrow road, we spotted a reassuring highway sign that read “C’e spazio per tutti,” (There is room for all), and we laughed hysterically until the next camper van nearly drove us off the cliff.  After our experiences in England and Ireland, we’d become more used to narrow roadways, but with Italian drivers thrown into the mix (one recent author described driving in Italy as a “blood sport”) it became a new and even more terrifying experience.  I’ve learned to retract the external side-view mirrors of the car in order to avoid having them permanently retracted for me.  Lois has once again wisely offered to take over driving responsibilities for our next car rental in southern Italy.

Driving in Switzerland was actually a relief to me because the Swiss are masters at building roads, railways, tunnels and trams through the most impassable geography.  A Swiss hairpin curve is a stroll in the park compared to a straight road along most of the towns on Lake Como, which we discovered as we drove higher into the Alps.

A civilized Swiss roadway

The Bernina Pass in Switzerland is said by some folks to be the most spectacular pass in the Alps, although most other alpine countries in Europe would certainly be happy to offer up their own “most spectacular pass in the Alps.”   Bernina is nonetheless glorious — far above the treeline.

Crest of the Bernina Pass

On the drive up the Bernina Pass, even though we were well into Switzerland, it was clear that we were in an Italian-speaking region.  Towns had Italian names – Vicosoprano, Soglio, Castasegna – as did hotels and restaurants.  Even as we crossed the pass and began the descent toward St. Moritz, there was still a sprinkling of Italian names – including Diavolezza (an Italian word that means “devilness” as best I can figure).  Diavolezza is a mountain that overlooks a glacier not far north of the crest of the Bernina Pass.  It may seem odd to name an icy mountain after the lord of hellfire and brimstone, but in Dante’s Inferno the diavolo was a gigantic, three-faced winged beast (trinitarianism apparently applies even to the underworld) at the very center of Hell in an icy lake that was frozen by the bitter winds created from the beating of the diavolo’s bat-like wings.  The three mouths on the three faces of the beast are snacking on the traitors Judas, Brutus and Cassius respectively for all eternity.  So to give the name Diavolezza to an icy, wind-whipped mountain that devours mountain climbers, hikers and skiers seems about right.  We decided to adopt a Swiss approach to hiking.  We took the Diavolezza tram, which whisked us from near the roadway up to a mountain ridge at 9000 feet while we listened to the sound of cowbells underneath us….. reminding us that we were indeed in Switzerland.

From the base of the tram (note the cows to the left of the trail)

As we approached the top of the tram we saw a long expanse of white material covering a snowfield that was roughly the size of a football field.  This is a new strategy designed to mitigate the retreat of glaciers that results from global warming.

After looking at the vast expanse of glaciers surrounding us, it was clear that the attempt to protect all of these glaciers in this manner would be a task tantamount to the one that confronted Aristophanes’ “birds” in his comedy of the same name.  The winged creatures were attempting to blockade the skies in order to prevent smoke from sacrificial offerings from reaching the heavens, thereby starving the gods out.  After we ascended into the heavens of il Diavolo, we exited and marveled at peaks like Palu and Bernina (which rise to over 12,000 feet) and the massive Pers and Morteratsch glaciers that still glisten and grind down the valleys between them in mid-August.  We took far too many photos, a few of which appear below.

Piz Palu

Glacier Babe — Beneath Piz Bernina

Then we began our “hike.”  The mountain we trod upon was a gigantic pile of rocks without a discernible trail.  As we scrambled over a chaos of talus, the only signs of a trail were what appeared to be a random assortment of red or blue markers painted on stones.

We scaled a rocky ridge that afforded a beautiful view of the mountains to the south as well as Lago Bianco, a lake that, true to its name, has a whitish hue due to the presence of an immense amount of glacial silt.

You can just see the white/green Lago Bianco at the very bottom of the photo.

We decided to make our return hike into a loop and eventually regretted it, as the experience of hiking devolved into an experience of clattering down a cascade of loose granite on all fours to the bottom of the rock pile.

We returned to the cafeteria at the top of the tram for a snack, hungry enough to dine on Judas or Brutus, our vegetarianism notwithstanding.  If you have never been to Switzerland, however, you may not be aware that snacks (and everything else) in Switzerland require what Italians would call a “sacco di soldi” (sack full of money).  We had only a modest amount of soldi in our sacco by the time we’d paid for the tram-ride; so we took our nourishment in the form of scenery.  At the base of the tram we returned to the car and continued our descent from the summit down to the delightfully scenic town of Pontresina, hemmed in so closely by mountains that the steep slopes that rise straight above are traversed by rows of avalanche fencing, providing what could only be a false sense of winter security to the utterly vulnerable residents below.

Pontresina is a German-speaking town.  We managed to find a café, and, in switching from Italian to German, I deeply confused the two languages (as well as the waitress).  We ordered a couple of pretzels and some coffee for the price of what in Italy would have been a full lunch.  Afterward we returned to the car and meandered along the Ova da Bernina, a blue-white torrent that has it source in the vast glaciers we had just seen, until we reached St. Moritz, the town that hosted the Olympic winter games in 1928 and 1948.

St. Moritz is a jarring juxtaposition of elegant old-world buildings (in the part of town called St. Moritz Dorf) and Soviet-inspired architecture from the 1960’s (located primarily in a part of town appropriately called St. Moritz Bad).  I’ve heard Europeans refer to the style as neo-brutalism.

Notice the “neo-brutalist” cubistic building in front of the old-world castle/hotel.

By the way, this is the same cubist style that characterizes most of the universities in the California State University system – including the one in Sonoma County – which should perhaps be renamed Sonoma State Bad.  St. Moritz’s greatest asset, in my opinion, is St. Moritzer See, a glittering, rich blue lake at the base of the town surrounded by peaks that rise 4000 feet above the lake.  The ‘See’ is encircled by a walkway where Lois and I strolled as the sun was just dipping below the pinnacle of Piz Nair.

St. Moritzer See with St. Moritz Dorf on the far shore

St. Moritzer See looking toward the mountains that loom above Pontresina

After circling the lake, we climbed a flight of stairs leading from St. Moritz Bad to St. Moritz Dorf and entered a much more uptown, brick-paved pedestrian area lined with old churches, hotels and attractive, upscale shops overlooking St. Moritzer See.  It was grand…..

as were the prices in stores and restaurants.  By this point, we had long since worked off the pretzels we’d eaten in Pontresina, and starvation was beginning to set in.  After perusing the menus of even some of the more ‘modest’ St. Moritz restaurants, we realized that we would have to head back into Italy in order to be able to afford survival.  We drove along the valley leading southwest out of St. Moritz and came upon lake after gorgeous lake.

It was too much for us.  We forgot about being famished and had to stop to gawk…again and again, culminating in a long pause at Lake Silvaplana, where we watched the winds whipping kiteboarders across the water, framed by mountains and the setting sun.  There were dozens of them skimming across the lake, apparently celebrating the recent decision to add their sport to the next Olympics.

Dusk was coming on, and we resumed our drive back, immediately reminded of our desperate quest for the border…and affordable food.  Still far short of the Italian border we came upon a pizzeria in a small Swiss town…with these sorts of views.

As Swiss mountain valleys are gouged by glaciers, so were we by the Swiss restaurant.  Sara Teasdale said “Spend all you have for loveliness,” and so we did.

Request for Music

This is related to my post on fitness. I really need new music for running. Thanks to my friend, Glenn, I’ve had several months of great stuff, but now I’m hankering for something new.

Anything with a good beat will work for me, although I do find that a positive message helps as well. For example, I’ve really enjoyed the songs “You’re a Wonderful One” by Art Garfunkel and “Stuck Like Glue” by Sugarland. “I Can’t Get No Satisfaction” wasn’t as inspiring as “She’s a Rainbow”, both by the Rolling Stones.

I have a dropbox account where you can post songs for me. Just leave a comment here, or send me an email, and I will send a link to the dropbox account. (I would just post it here, but I have to invite each person individually.) You can also just make recommendations here and I will purchase the songs from the iTunes store.

Fitness Update

Have I mentioned lately that George is my hero? In many ways, but especially lately as an inspiration to get in better shape. Since early July, George has been running almost every day. Some of you may remember that I hurt my foot back in February and had to stop running, but now after 6 months, my foot seems to be pretty much healed and I’m back to running, too.

George runs further, faster, and more often than I do – about 30 minutes a day, almost every day. For awhile there I was running about 20 minutes every other day, but I’ve since gotten with the program and I’m now running daily, too. At the end of our run we’re super hot and sweaty, so we go for a swim to cool off. Again, George swims farther and for a longer time period than I do. Then we lie in the sweet, Italian sunshine to dry off. If we had bikes we could start training for a mini-triathalon. As much as I like the idea of biking, it seems like you’d have to have a death wish to ride bikes on the roads around the lake, especially with Italian drivers on the roads.

We’re really starting to see the results of our exercise, too. Our clothes are fitting better and we feel pretty great, too. George has lost more than half his tummy, and mine is slowly becoming a bit flatter as well. We drink outrageous quantities of water, which is a good thing, and we’re eating a lot more fresh fruits and veggies – easy to do in Italy during the summer.

Lucky for us, this is going to be a 6-month-long summer, so hopefully by the time you all see us again, we will be trimmed, toned, tanned and well rested.

Can we all get along?

Warning:  Graphic depictions of violence and history are contained in this post!

Although I’ve blogged about the beauty of the Adriatic coast, there is much more worth saying about our experiences in Croatia, Montenegro, Bosnia, and Slovenia.   Our travels through these countries that once comprised the nation of Yugoslavia would have been impossible ten years ago.  The break-up of Yugoslavia from 1991 through much of the first decade of the 21st century had been bloody and, at times, genocidal.  There is a certain strangeness to the enjoyment of tourist activities in a region of the world that had, until very recently, been experiencing so much suffering.

Our home for the first few weeks of July was only a few miles from Dubrovnik, a beautiful old city of red-roofed buildings surrounded by a high, continuous wall, which in turn is almost completely surrounded by the blue Adriatic.

The city wall, (and its attached forts) were built in the 15th Century to repel attackers.  It wasn’t used for this purpose until late in the 20th Century.

I still recall the news reports of the tragic bombardment of Dubrovnik in 1991.  This city is a historic treasure on the southern tip of Croatia.  When Croatia declared its independence from Yugoslavia in 1991, the war centered in northern Croatia.  It was a tremendous surprise when the Serb-led forces of Yugoslavia then attacked Dubrovnik, especially because this threatened a world-heritage site that seemed to have no strategic value.   The siege of Dubrovnik is one of several horrific events that turned world opinion against the Serbian-dominated Yugoslav government.  Although the Croatian army was occupied with battles to the north, a few dozen soldiers were able to dig in on Mt. Srd (prounounced Surge), which rises immediately above the walled city, to prevent the Yugoslav army from using it to lob artillery shells straight down on the city.

Still the Yugoslavs attacked the historic section of the city from other points, shelling the ancient buildings and walls.  Rather than leaving the city, many residents took cover inside their homes and in the forts at the corners of the city walls.  Some defended the city with whatever weaponry they could muster (in some cases hunting rifles) and held out for eight months until the Croatian army was able to make its way down from the north and drive off the Yugoslav attackers.   There were over a thousand Croat casualties in Dubrovnik, and two-thirds of the buildings in the historic old-town were damaged.  Dubrovnik, for reasons of national pride as well as economic recovery from war, has worked incredibly hard over just two decades to make the damage invisible, but in the walk that we took atop the walls of the old city with our friends Shaun and John,

repaired damage was not hard to spot …in the lighter colored, newly mortared patterns of stone and in the brighter patches of red tile in the roofs of buildings throughout the city.

Note the repaired, bright red roofs next to the older, darker roofs.

The four of us also attended the opening of a yearly summer arts festival, which featured fireworks over the city.  The fireworks were preceded by three or four loud blasts of what sounded like cannon fire – which rattled our insides.  Then fireworks filled the air over Dubrovnik, and it was impossible for me to imagine how anyone who had survived the siege of Dubrovnik would be able to endure the evening.

On the city walls of old-town Dubrovnik

A week later the four of us travelled to northern Croatia… to one of the world’s most beautiful national parks – Plitvice Jazera.  I described the beauty of this place in my last post, but here are a few more photos to serve as a reminder:

Plitvice Jezera is where the war between Croatia and Serb-led Yugoslavia had begun.  When Croatia declared its independence, there were over a half million people of Serbian ancestry in Croatia, many of them living in the area around Pitvice.  The new, extreme right-wing Croatian leader, Franjo Tudman (pronounced Tujman), began reintroducing some of the politics and symbols of the Croatian Ustase (a WW II-era puppet Nazi government of Croatian nationalists that had conducted a campaign of genocide against Serbs, resulting in hundreds of thousands of executions in concentration camps).  People of Serbian ancestry in Croatia were terrified and declared their own independence from the rest of Croatia, and aided by the Serbian-led Yugoslav army, established their own independent nation of Serbian Krajina in the northeastern region surrounding Plitvice.   This was one of the places made infamous by Serbian forces who conducted their own genocidal campaign of “ethnic cleansing ” against the Croats,  another event that turned world opinion against the Yugoslav army, and eventually resulted in the trial of (Serbian) Yugoslav leader Slobadan Milosevic for war crimes.  Many thousands simply disappeared; mass graves are still being found.   The Croatian army retaliated three years later after acquiring more sophisticated weaponry, and brought an end to Serbian Krajina, killing thousands of Serbian Croats and demolishing the homes of many others in the process.   So many were killed or driven out of Croatia that very few of the half-million Croats of Serbian ancestry remain in Croatia presently.  U.S. media vilified the Serbs, and not without reason, but there seems to have been plenty of villainy to go around.  This seems to be one of the consequences of war.  Neither the Serbs nor the Croats can claim to have clean hands or hearts.  The thought that this much ugliness and bloodshed had its origins in Plitvice National Park, which has such an abundance of life and beauty, is impossible for me to fathom.

It was in Bosnia-Herzegovena that we saw the most striking effects of the war in our travels.  The Dubrovnik area is within a half-hour’s drive of Bosnia-Herzogovena.  In her recent blog, Lois discussed a trip we took to the Bosnian town of Mostar.   We could see bombed-out buildings in small villages on the road leading to Mostar.  Bosnia-Herzogovena combines two regions, most of which is the largely Muslim Bosnia in the northern and central parts, but a smaller part of which is the largely Serbian (and thus Orthodox Christian) Herzegovena in the most southerly regions.  Croats (who are Roman Catholics) are sprinkled throughout the country.  Overall, the whole of Bosnia-Herzegovena is more Muslim than anything else, although its Serbs and Croats form a substantial minority.  Boznia-Herzegovena is one of the most diverse Balkan nations.  When Bosnia-Herzegovena declared its independence from Yugoslavia in 1991, the Bosnian Serb minority wanted to remain part of a Serb-controlled Yugoslavia.  They responded by….of course….creating their own Serbian state within Bosnia-Herzegovena, led by Radovan Karadzic and supported by the Serb-led Yugoslav forces.  Aided by those forces, they began a campaign of “ethnic cleansing,” this time against the largely Muslim Bosnians, and they conducted it with a viciousness born of generations of hatred and ethnic and religious prejudice – employing concentration camps and indiscriminate killings of families (including women and children), as well as mass rapes, which were the subject of many news reports during the 1990’s.  Croats in Bosnia also demanded their own state, creating a large-scale “The Good, the Bad and the Ugly” scenario with the Bosniaks in the middle.  The Bosnian town of Mostar was actually bombarded by Croats, not Serbs.  This is an exquisite town on the banks of the beautiful Neretva  River.

The town is filled with elegant Muslim minarets as well as Catholic bell towers;

and a lovely walkway flanked by stands offering artisan products for sale,

including beautiful jewelry, clothing, rugs, ceramics, and, more disturbingly, a conglomeration of items that had been fashioned from the bits of battle paraphernalia that have been so easy to find in Mostar since the time of the war.  The array of ballpoint pens made from bullet-shell casings was especially chilling and left me wondering how people who have experienced such indescribable suffering at the hands of war can use the trappings of that same war to support themselves afterwards.

In the middle of this walkway was a historic bridge – called “Stari Most” (Old Bridge).  It was built in the 16th Century on the orders of Ottoman Sultan Suleyman the Magnificent, a name that our friend John announced, to our surprise, that he intended to adopt for himself.  We now address him as “Your Magnificence” for short.  This led to a naming frenzy in which Shaun took on the name Dushan the Mighty, after a 14th Century Serbian emperor who kept the peace in the towns of the Montenegrin Bay of Kotor by hacking off the limbs of criminals.  I know this curtailed any shoplifting impulses I might have otherwise had on our trips together (well, that and the fact that they named me St. George – probably due to my irritating tendency to wander into old churches).  Lois was dubbed Queen Teuta, after 3rd Century BC Illyrian queen who controlled the narrow Verige Strait of the Bay of Kotor by ordering the placement of a shipwrecking device in the strait that would serve as incentive for ships to pay taxes to her – a strategy that, as a professional finance manager, Lois expressed admiration for.  Still something about the name didn’t sound quite right for Lois; so we appended it, and she became Queen Teuta Matata.

My apologies for the frivolous interlude above.  It is inexcusable, and it won’t happen again.  I now return to the topic of the original Suleyman the Magnificent’s Old Bridge in Mostar.

The bridge was the longest single-arch stone bridge in the world in the 16th Century.  Mostar residents were so fond of the bridge that they often referred to it as “Old Friend.”

This photo is not of the original bridge; it is a reconstruction using rock from the same quarry as the original and rebuilt according to the original design.  Despite their campaigns of brutality against each other, Croatian and Serbian leaders had agreed to carve up Bosnia-Herzegovena between them, and Mostar was to be part of the new Croatia, to the great surprise of the Bosniaks.  As they had in Dubrovnik, Croat forces had secured the high ground of a mountain overlooking the bridge,

however, in this case they were not the victims but rather the perpetrators of the destruction of a cherished historic monument, raining down artillery fire on the bridge until the Old Friend collapsed into the Neretva, the disintegrating pink mortar in the bridge turning the Neretva’s blue-green waters red as it fell.  What happened to the bridge is representative of what happened to the entire city of Mostar.  It was essentially destroyed, and the rebuilding of Mostar, although well underway, lags well behind the rebuilding of Dubrovnik, as can be seen in this photo.

Note the hole in the white building on the right caused by artillery.

The eventual political compromise for Bosnia-Herzegovena resulted in a nation divided into three virtually autonomous entities, one of which is the Serb-dominated Republika Srpska.  On our return from Mostar, we drove through Srpska.  Although there is no border crossing, it is clear when you are there: the churches are Orthodox; the highway signs are written only in Cyrillic; and a Serbian-style flag replaces the Boznia-Herzegovenan flag.

Lois’ blog mentions the difficulties we had with currency in Trebinje, a beautiful city in the Sprska region.  Rather than conduct a $2.50 transaction using kuna (a currency used 20 minutes across the border in Croatia) the coffee shop proprietor spent 25 minutes tracking down a less offensive currency (the euro) in which to conduct business.

The question that hangs in the Balkan air is whether the current peace will last.   Although I’m quite sure that most residents of what was once Yugoslavia dearly wish the answer to that question were “yes,” it is not an answer that they are prone to give.  We spoke to a woman who said that she remained in her home country of Montenegro only because she loved the land.

Montenegro’s Bay of Kotor

The people of the Balkans (and, to some extent, Europeans in general) she seemed to regard with disgust, saying that they are incapable of shedding their narrow and hateful attitudes toward their neighbors.  She had spent 20 years living in America, and admired Americans for what she considered their more open attitudes.  I was surprised to hear a Montenegrin woman say this…for several reasons.  Montenegro, having had close ties with Serbia, was not subject to hostilities with the Serb-led Yugoslavian government; so it escaped damage during the wars surrounding the dissolution of Yugoslavia.  But it had sustained tremendous suffering at the hands of the Americans during World War II.  The taxi driver who took us to the airport in Montenegro’s capital of Podgerice for our flight to Slovenia mentioned to us that more bombs were dropped on the city of Podgerice than on any other city in World War II with the exception of Dresden, Germany.  The Nazis had occupied much of Montenegro after Italy had essentially surrendered to the Allies in 1943, and toward the end of the war as the Nazis were retreating from Greece and Albania, the Americans conducted at least three major bombing attacks on Podgerice in order to root out the Germans.  Of course, the casualties from the bombing were largely Montenegrins, and Montenegrins to this day question both the legitimacy and the need for the bombings.  It is something that Americans are largely unaware of, but most Montenegrins have not forgotten.

We were surprised to hear a rather pessimistic message a few weeks later from a Slovenian museum historian.  We had arrived less than a half-hour before closing, but she very generously kept the museum open for us long afterward.  She lingered with us for the better part of an hour, eager to share with two Americans her insights about the history of Yugoslavia, Italy, Germany and Austria from World War I to the present.  I mentioned my own reaction to news reports about Yugoslavia in the late 1980’s in which the Yugoslavs being interviewed by reporters discussed the upcoming war as though it were inevitable.  My reaction at the time had been that they clearly do not know whereof they speak.  If they only realized that they were accepting the inevitability of their friends having their throats slit, their daughters being raped, their sons being blown to bits and their homes being destroyed, surely they would not accept war as inevitable.  When I said this to the museum historian, she replied that it was these very sorts of things that had caused hatred to fester within people through the generations, making them even more inclined to resort to war in the future.  It is a cycle she found reprehensible but could see no escape from.  Even though Slovenia was able to secede from Yugoslavia with relative ease in 1991 (their independence was gained after only ten days of fighting with Yugoslavia), she regarded the current period of peace in the Balkans as a mere pause in a war that was not over.

The conflict that had torn Slovenia apart occurred over a century ago — World War I, a war that many historians to this day consider avoidable.  The event that is generally regarded as having started the “War to End All Wars” was the assassination of the heir to the Hapsburg throne by a Serbian nationalist.  As Italy entered the war, it quickly attacked Austrian-controlled towns in the mountains of Slovenia, just across the border in the valley of the Soce River, the beautiful turquoise river that cuts through the Slovenian Alps, which I described in my last post.

Soce River

 

There followed a brutal alpine war of attrition that resulted in tens of thousands of deaths by everything from artillery, to gunfire, to poison gas, to hypothermia.  Conditions in the trenches were horrific.  The Soce River Valley is now called the valley of the cemeteries as a result.  On the hiking trail that led to this waterfall

we dipped down into foxholes that were used by WWI  soldiers.  Bunkers and forts are dotted throughout the Slovenian Alps.  When traveling through the Soce River Valley, it is hard to imagine that it could ever be anything less than lovely,

but the photos of the valley during the First World War show how warfare can make even the most stunning environments look hideous.

Mountain camp above the Soce River – WWI 

The two-and-a-half-year stalemate between the Italians and Austrians in WWI was finally broken in 1917 when Germany sent its forces to help the Austrians, and, using a tactic that would come to be called “Blitzkrieg” in the next world war, drove the Italians out of Slovenia and back to the western side of the Adriatic.  Out of all of this violence the nation of Yugoslavia was born, a very tenuous marriage of convenience between Slovenes, Croats and Serbs (Bosnians were essentially left out of the deal) that was marred by assassinations of political leaders by Serbian and Croat nationalists.  The country was on the brink of collapse when the Nazis took control in 1941, leaving in their wake a legacy of genocide and a quagmire of mutual hatred and resentment between Serbs and Croats, Slovenians, Yugoslav partisans (ultimately led by Tito), Bosnians, Albanians, Italians, Germans and Austrians.  Lois and I took a rafting trip on the Soce River

A young Austrian man was one of the paddlers in our raft.  When I mentioned to him how much Slovenia reminded me of Austria, he responded that, by all rights, Slovenia should still be a part of Austria as it had been before WWI.

Earlier in the spring Lois and I had visited Brijuni, a beautiful island off the Istrian coast of Croatia that has been made into a national park.

Brijune Island

It also serves as a monument to Marshal Tito, the person who, against all odds, was able to unify the factionalized Yugoslavia in the post World War II era through the Cold War period.  Tito had a large vacation home on Brijune where he often hosted international leaders.

Belonging to a family of Croatians, Slovenians and Serbs, Tito was an extraordinarily charismatic person who was in a unique position to lead a unified Yugoslavia.   Although communist, he was no Soviet puppet and in fact became a leader of the non-aligned nations during the Cold War.   The exhibits on the island virtually deified Tito, and to this day many from ex-Yugoslav nations, especially Slovenia and Croatia, consider him a hero.  Yet nothing is simple in the Balkans.  Others, even some Slovenians, consider him a monster who had conducted a campaign of torture and execution to silence his opponents and solidify his power.

Of all of the former Yugoslavian peoples the Slovenians seemed to me to be the most open and outgoing.  Residents of most other ex-Yugoslavian nations seemed, to varying degrees, more wary….of foreigners….of people they didn’t know.  Still, even among these friendly Slovenians in this most economically successful of all the ex-Yugoslavian nations, even in this region that had avoided most of the bloodshed surrounding the disintegration of Yugoslavia, there is pessimism…rooted in wounds that are over a century old.

But the pessimism is not universal.  Over glasses of wine on our terrace overlooking Lake Como, Lois and I discussed these issues with our neighbors, a young couple named Benjamin and Lucy.  Benjamin believed that the animosities and prejudices that had plagued Europe were largely afflictions of the older generations that the new generations simply did not share.  Although I know that many others, particularly in the ex-Yugoslavian nations, would be skeptical of the ability of youth to shed their parents’ prejudices, there are also expressions of hope to be found in other quarters, specifically in the words of Slovenia’s national poet, France Preseren in his poem, Zdravljica (“A Toast”). Here is a verse from that poem:

God’s blessing on all nations

Who long and work for that bright day,

When o’er earth’s habitation

No war, no strife shall hold its sway;

Who long to see

That all men free

No more shall foes, but neighbors be.

 

These have become the words of Slovenia’s national anthem.  May it be so.

The Sky Over the Soce River

Bosnian Birthday

As George mentioned in his last post, our friends John and Shaun came to visit us in Dubrovnik. They arrived on July 5th, and since it was so close to George’s birthday, they brought his backpacking guitar along, so we now have music again. (YAY!)

After getting them settled in, Shaun immediately began learning Croatian.

On their first morning in the house at Zaton Bay, they got up earlier than we did and we heard this deep, sonorous voice speaking in Croatian. We popped out of bed to see if some local had stumbled in to the house looking for the people from Huck Finn Travel. It was Shaun, sounding every bit like a local.

On July 7th, George’s birthday, we decided to go to the politically complex and awkwardly named country of Bosnia and Herzegovina. If you had told any of us in 2011 that we would be visiting Bosnia one year later, “we would have been very surprised” (to quote our dear friend, John.)

We set out from Dubrovnik, headed for the town of Mostar, in the Bosnian region of the country. Carmen, our GPS unit, once again took us the scenic way. We passed through tiny Croatian villages up in the mountains that had obviously been damaged in the war during the 90s. As we came to the Bosnian border crossing, Shaun was anxiously awaiting the conversation with the crossing guard, hoping it would go something like this:

Border guy: “Where are you folks headed?”

Us: “Mostar”

Border guy: “Yeah, most are.”

(Get it? Mostar? Most are?)

Of course, it didn’t go that way. He told us that we couldn’t cross there. It was a place only for locals. We had to go around to the tourist crossing. This took us back to the Croatian coast, very near the 6 mile stretch of Bosnian coastline that separates the country of Croatia into 2 parts.

See that teeny, tiny strip of Bosnian coastline just north of Dubrovnik? Very odd. Back in the day, the rulers of Dubrovnik gave this strip of land to the Ottomans as a buffer between themselves and the Venetians to the north. The Venetians would never invade Ottoman territory. When the boundaries for Bosnia were being drawn up, they retained this part of their Ottoman heritage.

Our crossing was uneventful. We were especially bummed that we didn’t get a stamp in our passports proving that we had been to Bosnia. After several more crossings (back into Croatia, then back into Bosnia again) and then driving up through an agricultural valley, we arrived in the town of Mostar. We had a nice lunch in a shaded outdoor café and then set out to explore the town.

Mostar was the site of some heavy fighting in the 90s and its famous bridge was destroyed. The tiny museum in town has heart-rending footage of the bridge being bombed and falling into the river. It has since been rebuilt. Today it hosts visitors from all over the world. From the bridge, you can count 7 spires from mosques and churches scattered about the town. Our guidebook said that the road leading up to the bridge offers “the flavor of a Turkish bazaar, with some of the most colorful shopping this side of Istanbul.” It lived up to this description. We perused the shops and the goods lining the street, bought some ice cream, and ogled the beautiful emerald-green Neretva River below.

Bombed out building in Mostar

Checking out a map of the area in the street market.

Lois in the market.

View from the Old Bridge in Mostar

Two hot guys on the bridge. It must have been 95° out there.

We also stopped in to a local mosque. It was the first time I had ever been inside a mosque, and this one wasn’t grand. It had the feel of a well-loved, well-attended place of worship that had served a small community through good times and bad for many, many years.

Interior of one of the mosques in Mostar.

We decided to take a different route back home, one that would take us through the Herzegovina region of the country. While Bosnia is predominantly Muslim, Herzegovina is mostly Serbian Orthodox, and both areas have some Croatian Catholic mixed in as well. Our drive through the mountains of Herzegovina led us to a Serbian Orthodox church.

Serbian Orthodox Church.

Interior of orthodox church

The fields surrounding this town were growing a large-leafed plant that would have been familiar to American southerners, though it took us awhile to work out that it was tobacco.

Tobacco fields in Herzegovina

Toward the end of the day, we were getting tired and we decided we needed a coffee break. We stopped in to the very small town of Trebinje (Treh-BEAN-ya), and found a little street-side coffee bar. Armed with a smattering of several languages (English, Italian, German and a tiny bit of Croatian), we felt confident in our ability to communicate. It was simple gesturing, smiles and goodwill, though that brought 4 cups of espresso to our table. This was not a tourist town, and the locals only spoke Serbian (at least we’re pretty sure it was Serbian.)

After a leisurely break, our waitress brought the bill to our table. And this is where the currency adventure began…

You’ll recall that back in Mostar we were able to buy lunch and shop at the local market. This wasn’t because we had stopped at an ATM machine and gotten some of the local currency, which in Bosnia-Herzegovina is the mark (it used to be tied to the old Deutsch mark before Germany converted to the euro.) It was because Mostar is a tourist town and, in addition to the local currency, they also accepted euros and Croatian kuna. In fact, they posted prices on little hand-written signs in all 3 currencies. Being the savvy shopper that I am, I learned right away that

8 kuna = 4 marka = 1 euro   (marka is the plural of mark)

I glanced at the bill. 2 marka each x 4 cups of coffee = 8 marka. 2 euro total, which is about $2.50. At 50 euro cents per cup, this was the cheapest espresso we had encountered in all our travels. (It was also delicious, by the way.) Armed with plenty of kuna, we were about to leave 20 kuna on the table and go (16 kuna for the coffee, plus a tip.) The waitress came over and somehow communicated, “No kuna.”

George looked in his wallet and found a €50 note, about the equivalent of $63.

“Euro?” he asked.

“Ok, euro.”

George handed the €50 note to her, and she indicated that she didn’t have euro change.

We weren’t sure what to do. This was the end of our one day in Bosnia-Herzegovina and we didn’t want to go to the ATM and take out whatever the minimum amount of marka would be.

Trying to be as friendly as possible, she indicated that we should wait where we were. She’d be back. She left with the €50 note and walked down the street and turned the corner. We watched our money walk away and began to wonder if the cheapest coffee in Europe was about to turn into the most expensive coffee in Europe.

After about 10 minutes, she returned shaking her head. No luck. A man sitting in the café, indicated that he would try, and again our €50 disappeared down the street. We couldn’t help but sit there and laugh, drawing the attention of all passersby.

Several minutes later, he returned triumphant. He had managed to get change for our €50! To our dismay, the change was in marka. About $60 worth of marka.

Example of Bosnian money. Doesn’t this guy look a little like Mark Twain?

There was only one thing to do – stay for dinner.

It was only about 4:30 in the afternoon, so we set off to find a restaurant. After wandering around the town and waiting for things to open, we finally located a pizzeria. We ordered pizza, salad, wine, and water for 4 people. After eating our fill, we ordered dessert. It was George’s birthday after all, so we had to have cake. When we got the bill and calculated a hefty tip for our fabulous waiter, we still had money left over, so we did what anyone would do. We ordered some drinks and toasted our favorite birthday boy.

Our bellies full, our heads light, and our newfound currency expended, we headed home. It didn’t escape John and Shaun’s notice that George had managed to pay for his own birthday dinner. Being the generous souls that they are, they found this completely unacceptable and set about overpaying at every turn for the rest of the trip. That coffee turned out to be not only the cheapest in Europe, but it paid dividends in the end.

Loveliness

Lois and I are sitting in our second story flat in Lezzeno, Italy, watching and listening to Lake Como, one of Italy’s most gorgeous and famous bodies of water.  From where we sit, it feels as though water is lapping around and under the house.  We are so close to the lake that we could dive in from our living room window.

Lake Como is in northern Italy at the base of the Alps.  It was gouged out by ice-age glaciers and is the deepest lake in all of Europe.

A small part of the southwestern leg of Lake Como

Villages cluster here and there along the shores of the lake.  On the opposite shore from us lies Colonno, not far north of the villa of George Clooney, Lake Como’s most famous celebrity.

The town we are staying in is Lezzeno:

Lois already posted this, but it’s worth a second look

Lezzeno

Ten kilometers to the north is Bellagio, considered by some to be the most beautiful town in all of Italy.

View of Bellagio from Lezzeno

We dine on an outdoor terrace overlooking the lake, and we can see the lights of lakeside villages like Varenna and Bellano through the bedroom window before we doze off at night listening to the waves of the lake.

Sometimes it just seems unfair that I get to do this.  In the past I’ve felt roughly deserving of the sorts of vacations in which one spends three or four weeks in paradise in order to recharge before coming down to earth.  This is different.  This is nonstop paradise.

Between the present moment and the time of my final post on Ireland, a month has passed during which we’ve lived in some of the most stunning places along the eastern Adriatic, all in what had until recently been Yugoslavia.  So I need to backtrack a bit.

Within a few hours of our departure from Ireland on the first of July, we found ourselves living 10 kilometers north of Dubrovnik in a tiny Croatian bayside village named Zaton Mali.

Although we couldn’t quite dive into the turquoise Adriatic from our house, the sea was as close to our front door as the pitcher’s mound is from home plate.

We swam in it every day;

We discovered (and nearly rendered ourselves senseless on) a rope swing in a hidden cove.

we snorkeled; we kayaked;

we discovered hidden beaches and lay about on the shore.

I also love her spiritual and intellectual qualities….honest!

With our friends, John and Shaun we ferried to lovely nearby islands, like Miljet.

Veliko Jazero on the island of Mjlet

Malo Jazero on Mljet

In Mljet we also learned about naturism.

 

Accompanied by John and Shaun we travelled north and spent two days hiking in a Croatian national park that seems so impossibly breathtaking that many have called it the most beautiful place on earth – Plitvice Jazera.

We learned all about what caused these sixteen lakes to spill into each other in such spectacular falls and why the water in the lakes was so turquoise.  It’s because of magic.

In Plitvice the water is simply irrepressible.

And before our trip to Plitvicke the four of us had taken a drive across Croatia’s southern border to Montenegro, a country so newly hatched from what was once Yugoslavia that I hadn’t realized it was an independent nation.  One half hour south of Croatia along the coast of Montenegro we’d rounded a bend in the road and had to stop the car because the driver was no longer capable of keeping his eyes on the road.  He was distracted by this:

Bay of Kotor

And this

And also by this

Montenegro is generally regarded to be a Second World country.  We ate lunch at Catovica Mlina in Morinj.  ….

Catovica Mlini

American Tourist Ponders Bill of Fare

Vegetarian Risotto

Maybe we should all strive to be second world countries.

From Morinj we drove farther around the bay to the tiny World Heritage town of Perast.

Perast

We swam in the Bay of Kotor;

we had drinks at the beachside “Pirate Bar”;

we strolled through the charming town;

and we had a very difficult time finding the motivation to leave the place. Perast is located near an extremely narrow strait at the entrance to the Bay of Kotor.  For a good part of its history Perast was part of the Venetian empire due to its strategic location as a town whose cannons could easily pick off any ship entering the bay.  As a result, this town of no more than a few hundred people is packed with historic Venetian palaces, each with a glorious view of the Bay of Kotor.

One of the advantages of being footloose is flexibility.   We shifted our plans, and within less than a week Lois and I were living in one of those palaces in Perast.  Naturally it was but a stone’s throw from the mountain-rimmed Bay of Kotor.

View from our “palace” in Perast

Sometimes the view got obstructed, though.

Since it’s the second world, they make you eat outside….in places like this:

The night before dropping Shaun and John off at the Dubrovnik airport, Lois and I had stayed in a small hotel that looked down on the nearby town of Cavtat and its lovely bay.

View from our hotel window – Cavtat

We had a parting dinner at the edge of the harbor in Cavtat with Shaun and John.  Between courses I tried to get a photo of the bay, but something went wrong with this one; I think the sun must have been going down.

I must confess that by this point I’d begun to wonder whether such constant megadoses of beauty might be harmful.  Maybe one more stunning vista would render me blithering and catatonic, forcing Lois to take me for a spin through Fresno for an aesthetic detox.  So I wasn’t at all sure whether I’d be able to handle things a week later, when it was time for us to depart for our next gorgeous ex-Yugoslavian destination – Slovenia.  Readers who have a better memory than I may recall my description of a conversation in an Irish pub with two German photojournalists who considered the Slovenian Alps to be the most beautiful place they’d ever seen.   By this point in our travels I was fairly sure that I’d seen the most beautiful place on earth in at least half a dozen different locations and that one more might send me off of the proverbial (aesthetic) deep end……. but I’m retired.  After 46 years of work I’ve earned the right to an episode or two of insanity in my dotage.   We decided to spend a full week in Slovenia.  We flew from Montenegro to Ljubliana and then drove northeast toward the corner of Slovenia that borders Austria and Italy.  This is where we stayed:

Garni Hotel Rute in Gozd Martuljk

Warning:  The mountains in the photo are actually much closer than they appear.

And this is what the neighborhood looks like.

We took a drive into the high country.

We had a picnic here:

We drove through the Soce River Valley.  Lois and I went rafting just downstream from this spot:

Soce River

Apparently someone had dumped a truckload of turquoise crayons into the river.

Can anyone recommend a reputable aesthetic sanitorium?  Slovenia has one for the suicidal only 10 minutes down the road from our hotel – the longest ski jump in the world.  One raving lunatic flew 750 freaking feet through the air off of this one, a world record.

Note:  most of what you see here is just the landing area of the ski jump.

Among my favorite Sara Teasdale poems is one called ‘Barter’.  In it she says, “Spend all you have for loveliness.”  I’ve suspected that readers may be getting the wrong idea about how much Lois and I have been spending for all of this loveliness.  Keep in mind, however, that the person who arranges virtually all of our travel and all of our stays in apartments, B&B’s, palaces and castles is Lois.  She shops at Cascine Market in Florence; she is able to purchase an entire summer wardrobe for the price of a tank of gas.  What we have been paying for living in paradise is less than what we pay for housing in Sonoma County.  When this became clear to us a couple of months ago, it dawned on me that it would (theoretically) be possible for us to do this in perpetuity.  We could spend our entire lives seeing one ‘most beautiful place in the world’ after another…..and never come close to experiencing all of the beauty this world offers.

Sara Teasdale actually has quite a bit more to say about loveliness than I’ve described;  here’s her poem in its entirety:

Life has loveliness to sell,

All beautiful and splendid things,

Blue waves whitened on a cliff,

Soaring fire that sways and sings,

And children’s faces looking up

Holding wonder like a cup.

Life has loveliness to sell,

Music like a curve of gold,

Scent of pine trees in the rain,

Eyes that love you, arms that hold,

And for your spirit’s still delight,

Holy thoughts that star the night.

Spend all you have for loveliness,

Buy it and never count the cost;

For one white singing hour of peace

Count many a year of strife well lost,

And for a breath of ecstasy

Give all you have been, or could be.

The Beginning of the Long Summer

Do you remember exactly when winter began? I don’t. Autumn weather seemed to cross an invisible boundary sometime in November. The rains turned colder, the days shorter, but I can’t remember thinking, “Today, right this minute, is the beginning of winter.” I do remember that it was relatively sunny during December in Sonoma County, and I remember that it was raining on the morning of January 18th when we boarded our plane and headed for Italy. It was cold when we arrived and got even colder over the next few months. In April, the cold eased, though not the rain. All the way through May and June we experienced cool, rainy weather.

Even though I can’t remember the exact moment that the long winter began, I can remember the precise moment that summer began.  It was at 11:45 a.m. on June 29th. That’s when our flight from Dublin arrived in Dubrovnik. (For those of you who are a little sketchy on your geography, Dubrovnik is a city in very southern Croatia, just across the Adriatic Sea from Italy.)

Although it was raining and about 58°F in Dublin when we left, I dressed for summer, much to the amusement of those around me at the airport. When we landed, it was 82°F and clear skies. I thought it might be oppressively humid, but it wasn’t. After more than 6 months of winter/spring weather including lots of cold and rain, I was so ready for sunshine!

And Dubrovnik didn’t disappoint. Not only was it sunny and warm, we were greeted by magnificent views and crystalline, turquoise waters. Summer had arrived in a big way.

View of Dubrovnik from the hillside above

A lovely old ship parked in front of our new house

We arrived at our home-exchange apartment in the small community of Zaton Mali, just north of Dubrovnik. Although the house was a little on the funky side, it was 10 steps from the bay with lovely views from the bedrooms and sweet outdoor lounging areas.

Beautiful turquoise waters in front and greenery all around. A gorgeous place to spend a few weeks.

The front garden where we will sip many a drink and have many a conversation.

Our lovely little breakfast spot in the back.

On our first evening in the area we were invited out to dinner on a nearby island. Our home exchange host, Zeljko, sent one of his employees to collect us in a boat and bring us over to meet him on his catamaran. We had a welcome glass of wine and then went to a tiny, family-run restaurant that we would never have found on our own.

Enjoying the sunset from the little boat on the way to the island.

For us, the summer promises to be as long as the winter was – a little over six months. Our travel plans will keep us in warm climes until we return to Sonoma County next January. Even though we have now experienced six weeks of summer weather, that first day was memorable and sweet, and clearly a portent of more wonderful summer weather to come.

Dangerously Happy

Ok. I just can’t stand it anymore. I’ve been avoiding writing because I want to capture every story and post every photo and I’m just too far behind. I have a post half written entitled “The First Day of Summer” and summer is well into full fruit. I do intend to go back and capture what I can of the last six weeks, but right now I just have to post something that conveys how amazingly happy I am in this moment.

We just checked in to our new “home” on Lake Como. This wasn’t on our itinerary at all, but through a strange series of events, we have landed on these magical shores and I feel thoroughly elated – like I’m standing on the edge of a cliff. Happiness of this kind always feels tempered by the knowledge of how far you can fall. But I’m happy all the same. And the crazy thing is that this feeling keeps popping up over and over again. Not every day, mind you, but frequently.

We found a one-bedroom apartment right on the shores of the lake, in the middle of the summer. I thought this was completely impossible, yet here we are. We’ve visited Lake Como several times before, so we already knew how gorgeous it was, but to be looking out the window at this view just sets my heart all aflutter.

The sound of the waves gently lapping at the shore calms my nerves and assures me that I am in the right place.

We arrived in a thunder-storm, which is elating in its own way, and now the clouds have parted to reveal a magnificent rainbow whose colors reach right down into the depths of the lake.

There is a gentle breeze and the last rays of the setting sun are twinkling on the water’s surface. We’ve just unpacked our bags and we are thrilled to realize that we get to stay here for an entire MONTH. Thirty whole days in one place! I see lots of reading, swimming, hiking, eating, and staring off into space in my future.

And, if I’m an especially good girl, I will do a good deal of writing as well, so that you can see all the other places we’ve been. We have had some amazing adventures in the last six weeks with friends new and old. I do want to share them with you, but right now, I think I’ll just let the happiness wash over me. Everyone deserves moments like these. May you be experiencing them too, wherever you are.