Sudden realizations in Belgrade
You know what this poster at the National Theater in Belgrade made me realize? We don’t have squirrels in downtown Belgrade. I don’t think I’ve seen one since I’ve been here.
That’s pretty strange to an urban American, especially one with roots in New York and DC. I almost miss the annoying little rodents. Kidding! Seriously, people, they’re just rats who climb trees. Don’t think they’re cute. Even when they wear tiny hats.
The poster also made me think that this was possibly the funniest and most ridiculous name for a dance performance. I might just have to see it.
Mr. Cab Driver/Won’t stop [chess] to let me in
Taxi drivers in Belgrade are an interesting lot. They often speak good English, but even when they don’t they still like to test an Amerikanka’s Serbian skills. We talk about life in Belgrade, where they’re from, and occasionally, politics. I wish I knew more chess terminology though because I am dying to know more about the games that erupt along the taxi line on Makedonska.
Are there some serious experts here? How competitive is it? Do they ignore rides to finish a game? Do they play for glory or dinars? Is chess a big sport in Serbia?
It’s moments like this that make me realize I’ll go back home with more questions than I came here with.
Like how you can push taxis down the lane without disrupting the chessboard...
The blog post title is from Mr. Cab Driver by Lenny Kravitz
Vidovdan: an epic day in Serbian history
- The Kosovo Maiden
Today is an important day for ethnic Serbians. It’s Vidovan, or Day of Light, which is both an old Pagan holiday and the day that Prince Lazar of Serbia and other soldiers lost their lives at the Battle of Kosovo against the Ottoman Army.
It’s hard to overemphasize the importance of this battle in Serbian history. An epic poem was written about the war and subsequently memorized and recited for generations. In it, Prince Lazar is visited by a prophet in the form of a falcon and offered a choice between an earthly or a heavenly kingdom at the Battle of Kosovo. He chose a permanent kingdom in heaven, and the battle was lost.
The poem, and event, was one that that Serbians held dear through Ottoman and Hapsburg occupation–and beyond. This is not a comment about Kosovo, especially since Kosovo was predominantly ethnically and religiously Serbian at the time of the battle, but a bit of history important for anyone reading about Serbia.
A rare work-suitable image of a Rusalka
Though it is considered an important day it’s not a national holiday, so the banks will remain open and business continues as usual. However, I imagine that churches will be especially full, and tales of Rusalke will be told at children’s bedtime. According to Wikipedia, Rusalke are fairies who were once the women of Serbian soldiers slain at war. They appear in the woods on Vidovdan, mourning the death of Lazar and his men. The next night, they gather around fires and dance in the nude. (The nude part strikes me as so Serbian–of course they would bring pretty naked ladies into the picture.) If a Serbian man encounters the Rusalke, he will be offered red wine and will turn into a dragon to avenge Lazar’s death.
I’m not so sure about this tale. If you believe the poem, Lazar chose to die, so you can’t really avenge his death. But maybe that’s just me ruining the story. Furthermore, a search about Rusalke yield more information about mermaid-like spirits who drowned in water than Serbian sprits on Vidovdan. Readers, can you shed any light on this fairy tale? Though I’m skeptical about the role of Rusalke on Vidovdan, I’ll still keep Milos out of the woods. He’s a handful already; I don’t need him to turn into a dragon.
Belgrade Bounty
Hello, my name is RHOB, and I am a fruit-aholic.
This is my loot from my last pijaca (farmer’s market) trip: zucchini, eggs, cherries, currants, raspberries, nectarines, and whatever these tiny pear-things are. Even better, I bought all of this for about what the flowers alone would cost in the U.S.
Serbia is an amazing place for fruit lovers. Cherry and apricot trees grow all over the place-even in a nearby parking lot-and markets are bursting with colorful fruits and veggies. The grocery stores can’t catch up with the farmers, so I’ve been making regular trips to the pijaca and buying fruits I can’t identify. For instance, I’ve discovered the amazingly tart taste of fresh currants, but it took the wonders of Twitter (and @Cneable and @Erasfa) to figure out what I was eating. Though we travel around the region quite a bit, wandering around the pijaca is a great adventure in itself.
Romanian (Well) Fortified Churches on Sunday
Image source here.
When we read about fortified churches in Romania, I knew some were destined to be a “Church on Sunday.” So on our last day in Transylvania we decided to visit two of the uniquely military churches.
The first city we visited, Biertan, was a Transylvania Saxon stronghold founded in the 13th century. Saxons were essentially Germans who settled in/colonized the area and tried to defend it from Ottoman invasion. To protect the land and its people, larger towns built defensive walls around their cities and smaller villages built fortified churches to help people withstand military sieges.
The drive from Sigisoara to Biertan revealed small villages and dirt roads. I was still fresh off the path of Dracula and intrigued by the crosses designed into most houses. Pure aesthetic, or defense against the dark arts? You decide.
We rolled into the village of Biertan, which is bustling enough to have a large pension and an information kiosk. Yet everything was quiet–too quiet.
We met an English speaker who informed us that we were there on one of the few days that the church was closed. CLOSED. Apparently it was a holy day-but what kind of church is closed on a holy day? We walked around the walls and tried the front door in vain, but we were denied entry. I thought about trying to scale the wall for a photo, but 500 years after the church was built, I still couldn’t get in. I got a photo of the wall, but it wasn’t exactly what we drove there for.
We decided that we would try our luck at another fortified church in the town of Viscri, a village of about 400 people. The drive was beautiful-lots of rolling green hills and sheep herders. We got the “you ain’t from around here, ain’t you vibe,” but people seemed more curious than anything else. Except for this lady. Talk about the evil eye. No wonder people have crosses on their homes.
We found Viscri’s church pretty easily and parked across from a Dacia (the Yugo of Romania) guarded by turkeys. If there was ever a symbol of rural Romania, this is probably it.
We then walked up a narrow stone path to reach the church. I was wondering if we’d be able to get past the front gate when we were rewarded with this welcoming sight.
However, when we reached the church’s front door, we saw a sign saying that a service was being conducted. It asked visitors to stay outside until the conclusion of the service. FOILED AGAIN. At least we could walk behind the thick walls of the church.
The origins of the church date from 1100 AD, but it wasn’t fortified until 1525, after the previous church was razed by invading Tartars. Despite its historic (read: aging) status, people are encouraged to climb up the wall fortifications and peer out of the lookouts built into the surrounding wall.
We waited for the service to end, but it was clear that the Saxons meant business. There was a lot of hymning and hawing, if you know what I mean. We realized that the fortified churches were, well, barring us from entry. While it didn’t make for a great church on Sunday, hats off to the Saxons, who built churches to withstand the force of Ottoman invaders–and RHOB. Until next time, that is…
When getting there is half the trip: Road signs in Budapest
“They have worries, they’re counting the miles, they’re thinking about where to sleep tonight, how much money for gas, the weather, how they’ll get there–and all the time they’ll get there anyway, you see.”
– Jack Kerouac, On the Road
We spend a lot of time on the road. Lately, much of that road has been the route between Belgrade to Budapest. The drive is fairly easy, but summer lines at the border and construction have made the trip a bit longer. And now, just before we enter Budapest, UGH: merging lanes and traffic cones of construction work appear. Fortunately, Hungarian officials have tried to combat driver frustration with helpful signs. I like to call them “The Four Stages of Summer Driving”
Step 1: Anger.
“Traffic?!?” This stinks! Why can’t they repair the roads when I’m not on them? Why can’t these other cars get off the road? Don’t they know I have an important date with the Gerbeaux gelatto stand?”
Step 2: Bargaining.
“Maybe this will clear up pretty quickly. Also, ‘tereles’ is a funny word. I am still upset, though.
Step 3: Acceptance.
“I guess this is just a part of summer road trips. Hopefully there’s a rest stop ahead. I’m in the mood for a raspberry Fanta. And a clean bathroom.”
Step 4: Happiness.
“Finally! Now we can speed all the way to Budapest. Wait, is that a cop car? UGH…”
At least the signs are a good reminder that ol’ Kerouac was right. We get there anyway.
Dogging Dracula: A Transylvanian journey
For some, the word Transylvania triggers Rocky Horror Picture Show flashbacks.
For RHOB, it means Dracula.
I read Bram Stoker’s Dracula while we were traveling through Romania. Though the story is largely set in England, it ends and begins in Transylvania, “in the midst of the Carpathian mountains; one of the wildest and least known portions of Europe.” As Dracula himself says, “We are in Transylvania, and Transylvania is not England. Our ways are not your ways, and there shall be to you many strange things.”
Indeed.
They say truth is stranger than fiction, and I have to agree. Dracula is presumed to be based on Vlad Tepes III. Vlad (we’re on a first-name basis) was born into a high-ranking family. He was the son of a member of the Order of the Dragon, Dracul, and signed documents as Dracula, meaning son of a Dracul.
What Vlad lacked in good looks (see right) he made up for with military prowess, a flair for hats, and a vicious sense of revenge. He was a military commander and leader of the Wallachia region. He defended his territory from the Ottoman empire, implemented economic trade reform, and instituted a zero-tolerance capital punishment system for criminal offenses large and small. His “signature punishment” was impaling people on large spears very slowly. There are legends of Vlad “the Impaler” leaving thousands of skewered Ottoman corpses on the Danube. German and Hungarian pamphlets testified to Vlad’s atrocities, but these may have been printed for political reasons. In any case, the legend of “Dracula” spread far and wide. The 16th Century German woodcut above shows Vlad feasting in a forest of impaled victims. Looks like Vlad needed a better PR manager.
We decided to track down the legend while we were in Romania. Our first stop was Bran Castle, often called “Dracula’s Castle.” That’s a bit of a stretch, since there is little evidence that he did anything more than stay here temporarily, but we were undeterred. I’m not a fan of castles but I figured this one was too good to pass up.
Bran didn’t do much to dispel my attitude toward castles, but the damp and largely unfurnished structure offered a suitably chilling ambiance. And the screaming children on school trips added an unexpected touch of horror. The castle is a bit “Disneyfied”-they even have a room dedicated to films about Dracula-but it was all in good humor and a worthwhile morning spent driving around Transylvania.
Our next stop was Sighişoara, Vlad’s birthplace and one of the more fun cities to pronounce: Siggy-SWAR-a. After driving Muz insane with my DJ rendition of the name (Siggy-siggy-siggy SWAR-a, accompanied by phantom record scratching) we pulled into the historic part of town.
How could such a cold-hearted person live in such an adorable place? We wandered around the car-free Old Town and stopped by Vlad’s childhood home. The original building is long gone, but it’s been replaced with a…wait for it…Dracula-themed restaurant. Of course.
Sighişoara wouldn’t be complete without a statue of Vlad. Milos led us to the man himself on his afternoon walk. They both tried to look as tough as possible.
Our time in Romania was coming to an end, and we hadn’t seen a single vampire. It was a bit of a disappointment. Sure, Dracula was a work of fiction, but vampire stories existed for decades, even centuries before the book was written. In fact, the word “vampire” originated in Serbia in the 1700s, and Serb Arnold Paole unleashed vampire fever in Europe. So it couldn’t be completely fake, right? RIGHT? Milos and I were bummed. Muz was just hungry. So we called off our vampire search and went to dinner.
The next day (our last in Romania), Milos met a stray dog who was popular in the main square. I’m not sure what was said, but apparently he decided to let us in on a secret. As we drew closer to our new furry friend, he rolled over and showed us his pointy, sharp teeth.
I know what you’re thinking–RHOB, those are canines, not vampire fangs–but I know better. Vlad, Arnold and Nosferatu, your secret is safe with RHOB.
RHOB and the Bright Lights of… Brașov
While we were staying in Sinaia, we drove to Brașov for the afternoon. Brasov is a larger tourist town in Transylvania and a popular base for people touring the region. The city is also noted for several things:
1. its tourist-eating bear population (no hikes for us, thanks)
2. a quaint medieval district (see left)
3. beautiful countryside (the setting for the movie Cold Mountain)
4. And this sign:
Here’s the close-up:
One of these things is not like the other, dontcha think?
The Scourge of the Carpathians
This is Milos doing his best Vigo von Homburg Deutschendorf* impression against the Carpathian mountains in Sinaia, Transylvania. Transylvania is rightfully the setting for Dracula. The dark green mountains, numerous castles, caves, and misty weather are the perfect backdrop for the mysterious tale. Not to mention that the stray dogs and crowing roosters in town make for eerie background noise. We found Sinaia to be a quiet but pretty base for Transylvanian adventures…despite the nasty “mosquito bites” we found on our necks….
*Why yes, that is a character from Ghostbusters II. Naturally.
Just a spoonful of sugar/makes the medicine: A Belgrade apoteka experience
When Americans are sick, they tend to accept it quickly, drop an A-bomb of medicine, and get back to work ASAP. In Serbia, things are a little different. Serbians take illnesses seriously. They’re in bed for days. They might go to the doctor, but they also rely on rakija, tea, and rest. When sick Serbians re-emerge into society, people debate the cause of the illness, which is usually the weather. Abrupt changes in temperature, air conditioning, and a cross-breeze (aka promaja) are blamed for anything from infertility to cancer to a common cold.
I always thought I leaned more toward the Serbian model. I don’t tend to take illnesses seriously (denial is my preferred method), but I do lean toward herbal remedies and simple rest. But last week, when my “allergies” were taking a turn toward bronchitis street, I knew had to do something about it. Enter the apoteka.
An apoteka is a pharmacy. Unlike the U.S., where a pharmacy sells everything from band-aids to books and beach balls, an apoteka sells only medicine. They’re usually small and have a glass wall dividing the customer from the pharmacist and his loot. Unless you have a specific medicine in mind, the apoteka is also a confessional booth. The customer tells the pharmacist what’s wrong, answers embarrassing questions (what color is your vomit?), and receives a consultation before receiving medicine. It’s a double-edged sword; though there’s excellent customer interaction, the pharmacist sometimes refuses to prescribe the desired medicine. For instance, I once asked for anti-nausea medicine (bad food + long car trip ahead) and received a yogurt supplement. Um, thanks? On the positive side, you can get almost any drug without a prescription, as long as the pharmacist thinks your reason is valid.
When I finally admitted that I needed something stronger than honeyed tea for my “allergies,” I walked into my neighborhood apoteka. I confessed my sins (it’s been six months since my last illness…I’ve coughed 15 times this morning) and received a glass bottle of cough syrup in return. Jackpot, I thought.
I took the surprisingly tasty medicine, eagerly anticipating the end of a runny nose and wheezy voice. Nothing. I resorted to rakija, which made me feel much better but sound the same. Finally, I looked at the label of my cough medicine. ACTIVE INGREDIENTS: water, sugar, glycerin, honey, etc. At first I laughed. But then my American instinct kicked in. I…wanted…drugs! I wanted ingredients that I couldn’t pronounce. I wanted chemicals that weren’t suitable for children. I promote natural remedies whenever possible–until I admit that I am sick. Then I want my a-bomb. You can take the girl out of America, but you can’t take America out of the girl.
Fortunately, I had a friend with the hook-up: liquid Dayquil. Ah, sweet, sweet, Acetaminophen. Phenylephrine, how I missed you so. I gulped a tablespoon and shuddered at the taste. Now that’s medicine, I thought. But I kept the bottle of my Serbian stuff. You never know when I’ll need to ward off the promaja.
The Devil is in the Details at Osogovo Monastery, Macedonia
[Note: We were in Macedonia several weeks ago, but I waited to write about this Church on Sunday until I could research the place a bit.]
Our last stop in Macedonia was one of the most unique sights we’ve seen to date. After swooning over gorgeous lakes, visiting monasteries with peacocks and eyeing beautiful rural landscapes, we stopped just outside the town of Kriva Palanka for a date with the devil-at Osogovo Monastery.
Most people go to church to avoid meeting Satan, but that’s not possible at Osogovo, where the Dark Prince peers out from the frescoes adorning the outside of the church.
He looks so pleased with himself, doesn't he?
It’s unusual to see frescoes on the outside walls of churches and monasteries, but even more unusual to see a Judgement Day theme. People were burning in hell, disfigured animals were torturing townfolk and the village was on fire. Is it just me, or is someone saying there are a lot of sinners in Kriva Palanka? Maybe we should have spent more time there…
Even the cherubim looked serious. I’d be angry too, if only my head made it to heaven.
I don’t know why Osogovo has such an unusual theme. According to Macedonian Wikipedia and Google translate, the frescoes were the work of painter Dimitar Pogradiškog Antonova, who worked on them from 1884 – 1945. (Though that might be his life span rather than the length of time he worked on the frescoes.) The icons may be painted in a Bulgarian style, but my “Iconographic schools of Eastern Europe” book seems to be missing. AGAIN.
Osogovo dates back to the 12th Century, but the original church was destroyed. The one pictured here is from the 19th Century. There is also a smaller, older church on site that features traditional frescos, similar to the interior of Osogovo. While pretty, it’s a bit boring to walk inside and see frescoes and paintings that speak to the history of the church. The interior is also quite dark, foiling icon lovers and church bloggers trying to take photos on the sly.
It is no longer a functioning monastery (the last monk died in 1967), but Osogovo has a simple, 80-room hotel for pilgrims and morbidly curious housewives. Despite the hellish rain (sorry, I couldn’t resist), the mountain setting was serene. A monastery is an odd place for a date with the devil, but a perfect place for Church on Sunday.
Flashback Friday: Bucharest’s old-school graffiti
I was pleased (and jealous) to see that Bucharest had a subway system, so I walked to the nearest stop to explore the city. As the train pulled into the station, I saw this:
Now, I know that I should be disappointed that the train was covered in graffiti, but regular readers will know I wasn’t. In fact, I was thrilled. I haven’t seen graffiti like this since I was a kid. And on a subway, no less! It reminded me of my childhood. I practiced those bubble letters for hours, people.
Other trains on the same line (yellow) had similar “artwork.”
The other train lines had newer subway cars without a speck of graffiti. This was nice, but a little boring. I was always eager to catch the next yellow line train to see how the cars were going to be painted. As I waited on the platforms I tried recalling scenes from Breakin‘. Wasn’t Kelly ridiculous? How did Ozone manage to keep that hat on while breakdancing? He was like the black Indiana Jones. Amazing.
Didn’t the graffiti kid die running from the cops and stepping on the third rail? Or was that the movie Beat Street? Maybe this excitement over spray- painted trains is why people say it’s difficult to raise a kid in NYC. But the yellow line made my day. Happy Friday, everyone!
Transitions in Bucharest, Romania
Many people seem to think that Balkan cities have been stagnant since times of war or strife. Nothing could be further from the truth. To travel through Balkan cities is to see and feel transition. Fractured infrastructure leads to new highways. Hapsburg-era apartment buildings crumble next to shiny, high-rise offices. It’s not always pretty, but it is always interesting.
Romania is a perfect example of this transition. The country joined the EU in 2007 but it remains among the poorest countries in Europe. Sooty baroque buildings sit by communist-era monstrosities. Upon exiting the clean and reliable metro station by Buchaest’s “Champs Elysees,” the sidewalk was broken into large, uneven chunks.
Yet Romanian transitions aren’t always black-and-white, as this photo will attest. I spotted this combination of new and old just off the show-stopping beauty of Calea Victoriei. I’m not sure if the builder couldn’t afford to build a contiguous pop-up or if the whole building was designed as a testament to Romania’s past and future. In a town full of transitions, this one stood out more than most. As I said, it’s not always pretty, but it is interesting.
Just the facts, Ha’mam: Navigating a Turkish Bath
While planning this second trip to Istanbul, there was one activity I knew I’d repeat: a brutal punishment beauty treatment at a hamam, or Turkish bath. Though I wrote about my hamam experience in November, I didn’t include much information about what to expect. Here are the ins and outs of getting tubbed and scrubbed.
Discern: Where should I experience a Turkish bath? Answer: I dunno. (Look how helpful this post is already!) I’ve only been to one, so I can’t offer much of an educated opinion. However, our tour guide noted that Cemberlitas, my hamam of choice, is the place a newbie might feel most comfortable. It’s also pretty pricey, but there are ways around that. See below.
- coed hamams seem…voyeuristic
Dudes: Are men in there? Answer: it depends on the hamam. There are some mixed-gender baths, but that’s not traditional. Bathing suits are required for mixed baths. In a traditional hammam, the attendants and visitors are the same gender, and no bathing suit is required.
Divestment: No bathing suit…do I have to be naked? What if I’m a nevernude? Answer: No worries, I don’t know if you can be naked. Cemberlitas visitors (who sign up for the kese, at least) are given new underwear to wear in the chamber, a fresh kese (scrubber), and a peştemal, a thin cloth that is used as a wrap. How much women want to cover up with the wrap is up to them. You can also wear a bikini bottom or entire bathing suit. Keep in mind that few people wear suits, and the keseci/torturer will stretch it out as she works her magic. Denim shorts are probably discouraged, though.
Details: What’ the deal? Answer: Sit in the main chamber and steam. A keseci will then motion you over to her “station” on the pedastal. She’ll direct your movements while scrubbing you with a kese, a slightly softer Brillo pad. It won’t hurt but it will feel like you’re getting rubbed with an extremely cheap towel by an angry person. Afterward, the keseci will rinse you off and wash you with a foamy soap bag. Then the keseci should drape you in towels and lead you to a place to sit. This doesn’t happen at the women’s chamber in Cemberlitas, but it does in the men’s area. It’s like Nordstrom: the guys are treated like kings. Unfair.
Dollars: How can I save money? Answer: If the hamam is empty, bargain for a lower price. That probably won’t work at Cemberlitas, so bring your own beauty products and kese to scrub yourself. Keses are sold at the hammam or stores for $5-20, depending on the material. Soak and start scrubbing. If it’s your first visit, I recommend a keseci. Only then will you learn how hard you can scrub your skin without crying.
The Dirty: How can I look like a local/disguise a germ phobia at the hammam? Answer: Bring your own flip flops, kese, pestemal, bikini bottom and beauty products. In fact, if you have any skin allergies, bring your own liquid soap and shampoo. Pack a hairbrush and personal hairdryer if you’re going at peak hours. The two hairdryers provided are not enough for the Saturday night crowd. While non-RHOB readers wander out with wet hair, you’ll look like a member of a Turkish harem. In a good way.
Despite the Turkish influences in Belgrade, no baths exist in the White City today. Since there are no future trips to Turkey on the horizon, I’ll have to recreate this experience with a strong loofah and a masochistic spirit. So if you see a half-peeling housewife wandering around Belgrade, be sure to say hello!
Who’s down with OMV? R-H-O-B!
Muz and I drive to almost all of our travel destinations. It’s brought back a lot of road trip memories I made as a child and in college. (Easy-cheese on Ritz crackers, anyone?) Of course, there are some changes to my road trippin’ ways: paper maps are nearly obsolete thanks to GPS, Twizzlers aren’t available at most roadside stores, and fuzzy radio stations are less frustrating thanks to podcasts and playlists.
Despite all the changes, one road trip problem remains: the inevitable need for to the bathroom. After a couple of hours in a car and an un-Serbian love for drinking water, a Housewife needs a pit stop. And when the need arises, there is no more welcome sign than OMV.
OMV is a chain of gas stations/rest stops we’ve seen in Serbia, Croatia, Hungary, and Romania. RHOB, big freakin’ deal. Why are you writing about a rest stop? Because, dear readers, OMV is no ordinary rest stop. The bathrooms are always clean, the food is decent, and the coffee is pretty good. They even sell wine, should you need a quick nip before resuming a 10 hour drive with a puppy and a cranky Muz…not that I speak from experience.
When we drove to Slovenia with Kuma, she also admired OMV’s immaculate rest rooms and well-stocked stores. I’m not sure why U.S. rest stops are often so filthy, but they should call OMV and pick up a tip or two. Of course, the tip is pretty simple–keep things clean, serve decent coffee–but the N.J. Turnpike needs all the help it can get.
Unfortunately, I can’t gush about the other rest stops. Lack of TP, unworthy demands for entrance fees, and pit toilets don’t make RHOB very happy. But the blue and green sign is always a welcome sight. RHOB is down with OMV.
Accept no substitutes!
You're not fooling me, OVD
If you are puzzled about the blog title, unfurrow your brow and click here. (Not suitable for Grandmas or in-laws)
(Mini) Church on Sunday: The Museum of the Romanian Peasant, Bucharest
RHOB has been on the move, readers. After our trip to Istanbul we headed to Romania for a couple of days. I only had time to see one museum in Bucharest, so I chose to visit the Museum of the Romanian Peasant. The Museum is large. It holds complete Romanian homes, extensive pottery and textile collections, and a dollhouse-sized replica of a Romanian Orthodox Church.
The photos are not great due to the annoying Romanian photo “tax” system. There is a charge for taking photos in many Romanian buildings, and yet little information about how to pay the tax. So I took these photos on the sly. Scandalous!
As was the case through much of the museum, there was some general information in English but little detail about individual exhibits. It’s a shame, because I was eager to know more about this model. Is it a miniature icon, dedicated to the church? Is it an architect’s whimsy? Was it meant for the luckiest Romanian girl in the world? Whatever the case may be, it was fun to see the lovingly crafted details, even if I had no idea about their purpose or origin.
Since it’s Church on Sunday, I’ll also confess: I don’t feel any guilt about not paying the photo tax. Hopefully, posting about churches will absolve me of my sneaky ways…
The culinary delights of Karaköy, Istanbul
Karaköy sits across the river from Istanbul’s most famous sites. It’s south of the Galata tower and dotted with markets selling everything from fish to toilet seats. While it’s not the most popular place for tourists, it might be one of the best places to enjoy a cheap and tasty meal in Istanbul. Thanks to our trusty tour guide, we checked out the following treats.
Muz believes that dessert should be the first course of any meal, so we first stopped by the famous Güllüoglu for some baklava. If you believe the hype, the founding owner of this establishment introduced the dessert to Turkey in 1871. Dentists and diets have flourished since. Muz didn’t want to miss out on any combination of phyllo and honey, and wound up getting a little taste of each kind.
I thought we were being excessive, until I looked at the table next to us. Two Turkish men were sharing a plate larger than ours. Kuma, Muz and I dug in, not stopping for air or conversation. It was all delicious, except for the chocolate. (WHY would you ruin this delicacy with chocolate?!) What wasn’t delicious was the raging headache that followed my sugar high. We needed protein, quick, so we walked to the fish market for a sandwich.
Across the river in Old Town, floating boats are famous for their giant fish sandwiches. Online message boards show heated conversations about the best fish boat. But most of the fish sold there, we were told, isn’t local. So we went straight to the source: the fish market on the opposite side of the river.
Fish boats in Old Town
Fish heads in Karakoy (Image source here)
It was definitely not the tourist scene. Slush water from the fish cooling system spilled on to the path. Vendors scowled at us, knowing we were only there to look. Fish scales were everywhere. Between the little fish graveyards, we saw an entryway and a few tables packed with people. We ignored the extensive menu and asked for three fish sandwiches and drinks.
Once again, the portions were massive. But in the name of bloggerism, dear readers, I managed to finish off my yummy sandwich. It wasn’t a gourmet meal, but it was definitely a cheap one. The bill for all three of us was about $13 USD.
There was more to explore on this slightly sketchy side of the Bosphorous, like fresh squeezed juice pressers and fruit and roasted nut vendors, but alas, we were full. On our way back to our hotel, we discovered the additional benefit of eating in Karaköy: enjoying a much-needed walk home on the Galata Bridge during sunset. It may not have been the fanciest meal in Istanbul, but it was one of the most memorable.
Turkish tea time
Though Turkish-style coffee is ubiquitous throughout the Balkans, tea reigns supreme in Istanbul. The tea is delivered to shopkeepers and passerby throughout the city in distinctive tulip-shaped glasses on special trays.
Tea and clean underwear...what more does one need?
It took a long time to get a decent photo of a tea carrier in action. These men speed walk through the city and dodge through crowds to deliver tea at the proper “freshly boiled” temperature.
In the Kadikoy district, life-and tea-goes at a slightly slower pace. I found this gentlemen taking a rare break after delivering his tray. That, or he was cleaning up after the alligator.
No sugar, please. It's bad for my teeth.
I always feel like/Somebody’s watching me…in Istanbul
You can’t walk through Istanbul without getting the evil eye. Or so one might think, given all the evil eye protection charms in the city. These charms are known as nazar in Turkey (mati in Greece).
They aren’t intended to bring luck. Rather, the charm is meant to prevent bad things from happening to the bearer. It’s all the same to RHOB: if something bad doesn’t happen, I consider that a pretty good day.
You might be tempted to think that nazars are simply sold as tourist trinkets, but the charm hangs from rearview mirrors, random keychains, and even around the neck of beloved pets.
Evil eye cat says shooing her away is bad luck
My favorite nazar location is where I first spotted one: on the wall of the Turkish Air plane we took from Belgrade to Istanbul. I’m hoping the company is relying on more than glass beads for a successful trip, but I’m not complaining about the extra insurance. Even if it IS a little creepy to feel “the eye” watching my every move.
If the title of this post didn’t make the tune stick in your head, here’s the video to officially drive you crazy:
A reminder that I’m never too far away from home
…and that public officials sometimes do really, really stupid things. At a Romanian rest stop last night, I glanced at the magazine rack to find this:
Romanian OK! Magazine is on top of the political pulse, people. I fear that all of Eastern Europe only knows three U.S. politicians: Anthony Weiner, Arnold Schwarzenegger, and Barack Obama. Hopefully, they don’t think they’re all on a reality show together.
A krempita by any other name…
“When you go to Bled, you must eat krempita. There is another word for it, but it’s simply very good krempita.” This was our homework when we told our language teacher we were going to Bled. Being good students (aside from skipping class last Wednesday-sorry!), we decided to try the famed pastry while we were in Slovenia.
No fork? No problem. Image source here.
Krempita is actually a Serbian pastry that features an eggy custard sometimes layered under soft meringue and sandwiched between pieces of buttery pastry. To say it’s good is a serious understatement. It’s also seriously dangerous. It’s not too sweet, so you can convince yourself that it’s not that bad for you. Downright healthy, even. Until you eat your second piece, fall into a diabetic coma and sense people stepping over your listless body to finish off your plate.
Why am I talking about Serbian desserts in a Slovenian post? Because the famous “Bled” pastry is the genius of Serbian chef Ištvan Kovačevič, who worked at Bled’s Hotel Park in the 1950s. Former ex-Yugoslav countries are constantly saying that another country is using their song/idea/recipe, but in this case it appears to be true. (Cue the comments from Macedonians or Bosnians who claim it as their national pastry.) Kovačevič may have called it krempita, but in Bled it’s known as kremna rezina or kremšnita.
There are several places that serve kremšnita, but we stopped at Slaščičarna Šmon for a taste. Or three.
We had three forks. Otherwise this would be a post about arm-wrestling.
The verdict? Amazing. I normally do not like meringue in my kremšnita/krempita. But the meringue topping here is very soft and light and not sugary at all. Muz was a fan, though he preferred the chocolate rum concoction. (Shocking, I know.) I was also a fan of the fruit pie we got, but Kuma and Muz thought it seemed “too healthy.” Muz is getting more Serbian by the minute, isn’t he?
We waddled out of Šmon with confectioner’s sugar sticking to our suddenly tight t-shirts. It was a bit sad to leave Bled and its kremšnita, but we knew that we could find a worthy substitute in Belgrade. After all, a kremšnita by any other name tastes just as sweet.
Slovenian Church on Sunday: Lake Bled’s Church of the Assumption
Though I may not be a fan of most castles and fairy tales, there’s always an exception to the rule. Mine is Lake Bled.
Lake Bled looks just like this in real life: completely, ridiculously beautiful. It’s clear glacial lake surrounded by a castle, a wooded path with horse-drawn carriages, and alpine mountains. In the middle of the lake, the Church of the Assumption rises from a tiny green island. The church can only be reached by a special rowboat called a pletna.
Lake Bled is so pretty and surreal, I was half-expecting to see leprechauns offering rides to the church on unicorns. When that didn’t happen, we hopped on a pletna for 12 euros per person roundtrip. We were thinking of being cheap and renting our own rowboat, but we were glad we didn’t. The island is surprisingly far from the dock area.
Once we arrived on the island, we walked up 99 steps to the church. It’s said that grooms carry brides up the stairs to prove their “fitness” for marriage. I decided Muz had already proved his worthiness by giving me a year-long sabbatical, so we all walked up and entered the church for a small fee. The church was pretty, but nothing special compared to the other churches I’ve written about. Its most distinctive feature is the bell that sits in the center of the church. Guests are allowed to ring the bell and make a wish.
There are oddly specific instructions on how to make a wish:
What happens if I ring it 4x?
We rang the bell, perused the gift shop, and made our way back down to our pletna for the return trip home. If I get my wish, this won’t be the last time I see Lake Bled.
A Slovenian Tragedy
Mel Brooks once said, “Tragedy is when I cut my finger. Comedy is when you fall into an open sewer and die.” It’s not a bleeding digit, but this fallen scoop of ice cream seemed awfully sad. I took this photo on the path around Lake Bled, Slovenia.
I call it Meltdown.
Slovenian castle life is no fairy tale
I was never a big fan of princesses and castles. While some of my friends dreamed of being Snow White or Cinderella, I poured over my gruesomely illustrated Grimm Brothers. Why? Well, aside from being a weird child, castle life didn’t seem so hot. Women were always locked up (Rapunzel) or forced to perform boring chores (i.e., Cinderella and Snow White). In the end, they “won” a lifetime of being stuck in another old -though nicer-stone house, married to a stranger (Sleeping Beauty). Compared to them, Hansel and Gretel were much cooler.
So although our Slovenian guidebook featured Predjama Castle on its cover, I wasn’t overly enthusiastic when Muz suggested we stop there on our drive from Ljubljana to Bled. I figured it would be an old, weird building that looked nothing like the cover of our guidebook. I kept this opinion to myself as we drove through the green countryside and unpaved roads. Thirty five minutes after leaving Ljubljana, we came across this:
I was completely wrong. The castle is even more striking in person. It was built into a stone cave in 1274. Later, the castle was expanded to include secret passageways through the cave. Secret passageways? Caves? I was intrigued. We paid the 9 euros per visitor (yikes!) and walked in.
Once we were inside, I realized that the best past of the castle was the exterior. We walked through mostly barren rooms, armed with a guide that helpfully marked rooms as “vestibule” or “room with cistern.” There was no sense of how people lived in the castle…until we saw the mannequins.
Creepy, waxen, life-size dolls sat in silence, miming chores like yarn spinning and child care. The baby doll had an oddly wizened face. Castle information notes that Predjama life wasn’t easy, and the dolls seem to confirm this. Despite their creepy appearance, they weren’t terribly realistic since they were clean and seemed to be passive about the whole affair. Plus, the air was fresh, and you know that no one smelled good in an isolated castle.
Especially this guy demonstrating “life” in the torture chamber.
I couldn’t help but wonder if this was suitable for children. Sure, I read about Bluebeard’s homicidal tendencies when I was a child, but seeing a mannequin being shackled and tortured seems a bit much. While visitors are encouraged to envision their own stories about the castle, Predjama has a good story to tell.
At one point in the 15th century, the castle was the home of robber baron Erazem Lueger. Erazem got into a bit of trouble with he killed someone connected to the Roman Empire. He fled to this castle and began a new life as an anti-Hapsburg politico. He killed another connected guy and became a target of Austrian emperor Fredrick III, aka “Fred.” (He wasn’t actually named this, but it’s easier to write.)
Fred looks like a Disney character, no?
Fred wanted to kill Erazem and tried to storm the castle. It was impenetrable, so he decided to starve Erazem out. This didn’t work because food was being delivered through secret tunnels in the caves. Things went on like this for over a year. Erazem grew cocky. It’s said he even threw fresh food at Fred’s henchmen to prove his invulnerability. But every castle has a weak spot-or weak people. Fred’s men bribed a servant into divulging when Erazem would be in the most vulnerable place in the castle: the bathroom. While Erazem was relieving himself, he was relieved of his earthly duties. Fred launched a cannon ball right to the “throne.”
It’s not exactly a feel good story. But it does confirm my childhood impressions that castle life is no fairy tale.
Real Housewife of Belgrade 