It’s early morning in a party hostel, the prime time for solitary reflection, some sleepy reading and tea. I flop from my bunk to the couch and squint at The History of Salt, one of the few English books on offer at Reveller’s hostel in Belgrade.
I spot Andi, the excitable German who’s followed me from Theth, peeped his head out in Ohrid and boarded the same bus in Skopje. We finally swap travel plans which are identical, if you can believe it, and plan a thrift shopping extravaganza the following morning.
I text the slumbering dragon that it’s time to awaken; the day is young and so are we! Off we pop for a coffee, hit some thrift shops, make a pastry stop and cop a face full of fur coats. I learn that “knacken” is the sound made when nuts are cracked open—one of the more useful terms I’ve picked up. I soundtrack our walk with a very average rendition of Rimsky-Korsakov’s Flight of the Bumblebee.
He talks me out of buying the ridiculous knitted hat and we both fight over the dark-washed wide leg jeans with bejewelled pockets. It’s a no on the glittery knitted underwear and some truly heinous souvenirs of arguably the worst period of fashion history, the mid-2000s. I settle on a rust coloured singlet for a fair price of 50 dinar (70c) and stretch my wallet for one navy tshirt ($1.90).
I explicate complex Australian terms such as ‘drongo’ and ‘dickhead’ which he finds hilarious and we make penis unicorn horns on our foreheads. At the hostel, we compare our op shop finds with other travellers (see photo of BJ who’s clearly not packing light). At dinner I have lots of fun facts to share about salt, for example, did you know that salt ships were so infested with rats that for centuries they believed the rat species could reproduce without contact? Inconceivable!
In bed, I grapple with the benefits of top versus bottom bunks. Here are my findings.
- Shielded from light
- Easier to climb into when drunk or hungover
- Rights to floor space for belongings
- Can piss off the top person by kicking if they snore
- Quicker escape route in case of alien invasion
- Protection from the lava floor.
This next day, the 8th of October, someone very dear to my heart turns 22 (it’s me). Scarlett and I treat ourself to a lovely breakfast of roasted hazelnut milk porridge and avocado toast and explore more thrift shops. I buy a festive princess bandana and participate in some fur coat fabulosity.
We have a LaVazza americano at an underwhelming Yugoslavia museum. There’s a bug in my hair and the buses are on strike but we make it back in time for a rosemary craft beer (eat me) followed by a honey-undertoned Pablo, the best brew in the entire world!
Since it’s my special day, I eat my dessert before my dinner. There are shots of rakija waiting for us when we return but I’m ready to collapse into a weighty slumber and also I hate rakija, get it away from me. A Lithuanian guy with wide eyes interrupts me as I’m closing my door.
Enthusiastically and very loudly he asks, “Excuse me do you know where I can go to party? I want to party. I am a very easy going guy.” I wish that was an exaggeration but those are the exact words that exit his fast-moving mouth.
“Why are you asking me?” I snap, and continue my voyage to my bed. I’m 22 now so it’s no bullshit and survival tactics only.
In the morning, my hungover eyes blink goodbye to The History of Salt and opt for something more sour, a raw account of the Vietnam war that I’d be destined to leave behind hours later on my Flixbus to Budapest. Upsetting, but as I am now a grown-up, I purchase a sweet treat to make it all better.
фраза дана: Wanna hear a fun fact about salt?
песма места: Ready to Go - Republica
If I had a super power it would undoubtedly be shapeshifting. Not only is it ridiculously easy to deceive people, escape social situations and go to the bathroom without paying for entry, but it would give you access to such a wealth of talents and customs. Kevin, the American I met in Ohrid, would fulfil his childhood dreams with the ability to fly. Speaking of dreams, we’re now in Macedonia’s capital and you really have to blink twice or three times to believe it’s real.
Skopje is recovering from an earthquake in 2008, and instead of revitalizing the city, the government chose to install hundreds of statues in an effort to boost tourism and the economy. In a sense, it worked, because people come here to see the statues, but the city is missing vital infrastructure and is resultantly the weirdest place I’ve visited. Hence I will ladle out my multicolored brain casserole with respect to the kitchen it was cooked in.
The city is strangely bleak, very quiet and creepy as hell. We decide we may as well engage in some typical tourist behaviour and give the lonely statues some attention. There are just so many of them that none seem to stick out. I’m reminded of Syndrome, the grossly misunderstood villain of The Incredibles, who says with a snicker, “When everyone’s super…no one is.”
The buildings are cheaply renovated with unstable foundations, cheap finishes, wires sticking out and surveillance cameras at every corner. Mother Theresa was born here, and if you walk past her house there’s a mosque at the rear. The long-standing feud with Greece means everyone wants a wedge of fame and the rights to the name. Bit of a circular blame game if you’re asking me—rarely worthwhile as I’m grossly uneducated in Macedonian politics. Just here for a good time, folks! says the ignorant tourist.
I spot a Snapchat flavoured ice cream which I’m sure tastes like dry-roasted youth and saucy unsolicited self-portraits. I try to avoid the kebab stand with flies that buzz buzz buzz in circles around a greasy meat cylinder. A pair of grimy hands carves off a piece to taste and I cast a worrying glance and shimmy away from my bold counterpart who ingests the indeterminate animal. Lunch is bread and oily baked beans that make my stomach scream. I approve the purchase of an antique match case for a girl Kevin’s seeing and I say he can light the fire of their love with it and serenade her with The Doors.
The city‘s pride and joy is a monument of Alexander the Great in the very centre, whose face appears on tourist mugs and magnets and tees. We take tips off Zoran, a friendly local guide whose loose dentures I try not to stare at. We had planned to do a walking tour but there were only two attendees and I was one of them. A furious ticket officer reprimands us for dodging the bus fare and we don’t repeat our mistake on the cable car to the top of the mountain. There’s a damp, grey view and an Australian in a pink t-shirt who offers me a taste of mint-flavoured Sprite (spoiler alert: it’s minty).
Both our left ankles ache in the same place after the hike in Ohrid which means it’s beer o’clock. We’re both quiet people so there are long periods of silence between topics. I splash out on a delicious $4 strawberry daiquiri, and we crack table peanuts like monkeys and avoid the rain.
In the morning we venture into the local markets near the Old Bazaar and try a creamy, rich Turkish coffee. I buy a shirt for the heck of it and haven’t worn it once. After Kevin leaves, I take a prime opportunity to do nothing in the place where there’s nothing to do except look at statues. I play Jenga with the guy that works at the hostel since there are no other guests. His dessert is digestive biscuit and milk soup and what an ingenious meal it is!
By far the most interesting city I’ve been to, it’s a very confused and confusing place bogged by political turmoil and halted in disbelief. The streets, although sparsely populated by people, are haunted by statues. Maybe this is a Medusa situation, and if so, I am offfffffff, preferably in eagle form.
Фраза на денот: Honestly what is going on
Музика на местото: Quiche Lorraine - The B-52’s
Fun bit of trivia: when the founders of Ohrid spotted a lake they said Oh, Rid! (Which translates directly to Oh, Lake). In authentic Mia humour, I’m prone to taking the joke too far and preceding every new discovery with “Oh!”
At the Macedonian border, the bus parks with the wheels straddling a narrow passageway, so the guards can check if any immigrants have strapped themselves to the underside of the vehicle. The other passengers are far too calm considering the loud and forceful ushering and lack of instruction.
The policeman plunges an arm into my hiking pack and rummages around, retrieving my bottle of women’s multivitamins.
“Droogs?” He asks, twisting open the child-proof seal and sniffing the contents.
“Yes. Droogs,” I explain, “Vitamins.”
I’m using my best poker face. Lady Gaga’s is probably better but these are dangerous times! The policeman is now shaking my rolls of camera film and extracting a half-eaten jar of peanut butter from beneath a mound of clothes.
“OK,” he decides, pointing me back in the direction of the bus. I scramble legs and eggs and other limbs to reorganize my backpack and heave it back into the luggage compartment. Should’ve set some cooked spaghetti loose in there for him.
I arrive in Ohrid in the pitch dark to a hostel owner who insists I chill out immediately. I enjoy a nutritious meal of adzuki beans, frozen peas and peanut butter and half participate in a conversation with a condescending American who calls me “babe” and immediately regrets it. There’s a British guy who’s far too excited for his illegal rave in Montenegro and that’s my cue to leave.
I jump in on hiking plans with instant hostel friends before we introduce ourselves. As it turns out, all of us have names ending in “-ia”. Except you, Kevin. The next morning we climb dragon ridge mountains that overlook vast, smooth lakes on either side and knit together Greece, Macedonia and Albania. We power up and stumble down jagged rocky peaks, following the lollipop sticks on each hump.
We take turns falling over on the steep descent and twist an ankle or four. We’re able to refill our bottles at a fresh water spring and speak to a local gentleman and lady, who have no idea what we say but seem to enjoy the encounter. The vegetable patches in the village below the mountains are luscious and fruitful. We feast on overhanging plums of orange, yellow and purple, fresh figs, bulbous juicy tomatoes and blackberries.
We drop the idea of hitchhiking after a telling sniff and settle on a 1€ taxi back to the town. We grab beers and the best falafel pitas for 1.50€, and chat to the a chirpy girl with a piercing between her eyes about Berlin, teaching English in Cambodia and what it’s like to completely run out of money. I listen to the British guy tell the story of his first ecstasy experience and hear about the illegal rave for the third time. Oh, Joy.
Фраза на денот: Do not refer to me as “babe”. Babe is a pig. I am a lady
Музика на местото: Time Out For Fun - DEVO