sola en sarajevo

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my travel guide described sarajevo as "coming to new life." i think this perhaps the humanitarian impulse of an overly optimistic travel writer who would like to send as many people as possible to this city that dearly needs the traffic.

sarajevo is a city constantly resculpted by tradgedy and war. and the couple of young bosnians i spoke to expressed very little hope for a future that promises anything different. and the longer i stayed the more i felt like i'd never again have anyone sing me happy birthday or kiss me on the cheek. the life falls right out of you. and then someone steps on it.

(sidenote- the owner of the hostel also told me he'd rather live in bosnia with the danger of war around any corner than in a place with "blacks and south americans." translation: i don't think i'm really in europe anymore. he also told me that my tattoos are scary and that i'm almost too old to date. then he tried to proposition me.)

sarajevo is also a city where teenage girls laugh loudly and cruelly at young american girls tripping in a crater in the sidewalk left by a hand grenade. we all know that i possess nothing of grace. and now bosnia knows too.

my days here have been spent wandering from coffeeshop to coffeeshop, reading a nonfiction account of a bosnian muslim family history. when i'm not marvelling at the horror of history, i'm walking around and observing the physical scars it left on the city and it's people. good times.

the city was probably once very beautiful. it still is in some ways. but i find it difficult to decide which is more unnerving; the thousands of bulletholes in every wall, or looking at the ones that have been covered over and freshly painted and knowing that the wounds are still there, yet hidden. many of the buildings have been painted cheerful colors of primary hue, but it only serves as a garish contrast with the missing windows and pocked stone. also the fact that one can scarcely walk two city blocks without tripping over a graveyard leaves something to ponder.

the national museum lifted my spirits a bit this morning, by providing me with a new standard for the worst museum of all time. rooms full of large objects covered in black trash bags, posters with blurry pictures tacked at awkward angles to the wall, and broken insects tacked to yellowed posterboard. the stuffed animals were my favorite, especially the ones where the sparrow or possum had fallen off the plastic tree branch on which he had been glued and was upside-down against the glass on the side of his tiny glass world. there were also plenty of representations of wolves tearing the entrails out of small forest friends and large pink drawings of what appeared to be quite average ponies.

there was also one of those automatic coffee machines which always bring me joy. and this one was only about 30 american cents.

i have also observed this strange relation between ice cream and places of death and war. i haven't seen this many people ingesting strawberry cones since the last concentration camp i visited. it might be a kind of oral lobotomy. cream + sugar = peace. something to consider.

en fin, i'm glad that i went. and i'm actually glad that i made the trip alone. a journey like this sometimes requires a lot of silence.

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Photos

typical.
a regular old wall. full of bullets.

the only good bird is a stuffed one.
no friends of mine.

museum gold
nothing to cheer you up like a plastic mold of a dismemberment.

travelling alone.
leads to making a lot of stupid faces in the camera.

i feel the same way.
it just seems inappropriate, doesn't it?

Comments

[Jake]

entropy
I'm envious of your experiences

[the eye talion]

i'm proud of you

[Shawn]

Hey,it's aunty shawn, I'm glad you're safe. b-day card on the way. Miss you!!

[Anti-Jennie]

Laughing Girls from Bosnia are really Crying on the Inside

[Salah]

The reason there is ice cream at places of sadness, is because bowls of Captain Crunch would be to unweildy, what with the milk and bowls and tears and whatnot. And I agree, you are almost too old to date. Which is a good a reason as any for accepting my hand in marriage.