Part 1/2: Prologue

Part 1: New York LaGuardia (LGA) to Washington National on US Airways

Part 2: Washington Dulles (IAD) to Frankfurt (FRA) on United

Part 3: FRA – Vienna (VIE) – Skopje (SKP) on Austrian

Part 4: Arrival in Skopje, and Day 1 in Skopje

Part 5: Day 2 in Skopje

Part 6: A bit more Skopje

Part 7: Daytrip to Pristina, Kosovo

Part 8: SKP – Zagreb (ZAG) – VIE on Croatian Airlines

Part 9: VIE – Erbil, Iraq (EBL) on Austrian

Part 10: Erbil, Iraq

Part 11: EBL – VIE on Austrian

Part 12: Hilton Vienna Stadtpark

Part 13: VIE – Zurich (ZRH) – JFK on Swiss

*     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *

Part 4: Arrival in Skopje, and Day 1 in Skopje

N.B.: This section of the report isn’t so picture heavy – mostly, as a result, as you will see, of the harried and frenetic nature of my arrival. Not to worry – I took many, many pictures on Day Two, which I will feature in the next section.

This image was one of my first views of Skopje, on the airport tarmac, from the airplane window. Yes, they were using tractors to pull the baggage carts, something, perhaps a bit ignorantly and ethnocentrically, I took as a measure of the condition of the country. Perhaps, too, it elicited a bit of surprise on my part because I was arriving in a city of which I knew absolutely nothing, besides a cursory reading on Wikitravel. I also had a name of prospective hotel, but not reservation, no map, and no idea how I would get there. And, maybe, I had just a touch of travel hubris, having traveled to several Eastern European countries some years back, and thought that I could simply throw things together once I hit the ground.

I descended the steps of the airplane into the steaming afternoon, and made my way to customs. After a quick stamp of the passport, it was a quick walk through baggage claim, and then, just like that, onto the curb, into more blazing son, and hordes of people. The airport, I noticed immediately, was tiny – with one room for arriving, and one larger room for departures. The activity outside the airport was immense, and just as I expected, began to be hassled immediately by sketchy looking guys asking if I needed a taxi. Not wanting to jump into an unlicensed taxi with three wheels, no back seat, and a Red Vine for a seatbelt with a total fare of 900 Euros demanded by a grizzled man with a Kalashnikov, I pushed my way through the throngs and entered the departure building, hoping to stop and think for a bit, and make a plan. I realized there existed only one taxi rank, and, well, I would have to have some sort of money. The guy at the currency exchange window didn’t take cards, but I soon spotted a row of ATMs and pulled 1,500 Macedonian Denar, about 40 bucks. From my quick reading of Wikitravel, I knew that a taxi into the city should only cost 13 dollars or so.

I walked outside, into the heat again, to the taxi rank, and was soon accosted, like flies on rotting meat, by a horde of taxi drivers.  I asked a man with wispy, greasy, graying hair, and a face weathered by decades of cigarettes and too many pulls on a bottle of grain liquor, the cost to the city. “25 Euros,” he responded. “How much is that in Denar?” I responded, knowing very well that 25 Euros was logarithmically more than the 13 I expected to pay.

“1,500 Denar.” All I a had. Fuck.

“I read that it should be 13 dollars, or so,” I tried, but my protests only fueled their numbers. A large man soon descended on me with a laminated price listing – “it’s because of the tax,” he said. “It’s 25 Euros” – “the City is 30 kilometers away!” another added.

I felt I was a high school kid being peer pressured into taking a sip of a vodka cranberry the popular kids had made from their someone’s never-home-lawyer-father’s top shelf liquor. I didn’t, however, see any other way of getting to the city, knew that Skopje had no public transport to the airport. Unless I would want to spend my three days at the airport, I would have to ride with this scumbag. Commenting again on the price, I reluctantly accepted to pay the 40 bucks, and opened the back of the old, dented Mercedes stationwagon. “No, sit up here with me,” the very cheerful sleazebag said. Figuring I could pretty easily overpower the bastard if I tried to pull a weapon on me, I plonked down in the front seat of the hot car, incensed over paying 40 dollars, and not wanting to talk. I just wanted to head to my hotel, and leave this degrading experience behind me. I want to add that as we drove out of the airport, at one point, one side of the road was on fire. I took that as some sort of omen.

But, sadly, he bit into me with the rabidness of a strip club promoter. First he warmed up with asking where I was from, and what I was doing in Skopje, he began his sales pitch. He began with attempting to justify the 25 Euro fare from the airport, claiming that the city levied tax on airport travel (uh huh), and they were required to charge that much. But, of course, as a panacea, were I in need of a taxi in the city, I wouldn’t have to pay any taxes, and well, whaddy know – he would be happy to provide taxi services for me for my entire time in Skopje. He then handed me a map, and asked what I was interested in seeing. I tried to respond in as vague, monosyllabic, clipped answers as possible, but the man was relentless. He truly missed his calling as a cable TV salesman. Our conversation:

“Where would you like to go?”

“Truthfully, I’m not really sure. I just plan on touring the city.”

“Oh, well I can take you around the city. I was born in Macedonia, and know it very well.”

“Yeah, I just arrived and . . . “

“We can even tour other cities. ” He began to point out a route on the map. “We could tour all these cities in one day. Very beautiful. We can rent a rowboat [at this point, it was beginning to sound like a bizarre sexual advance normally found only in Craigslist ads] and tour the caves. I have lived in Macedonia all my life and know it very well.”

“I bet.”

“And here, in this city,” he stabbed a nicotine-stained finger at the map, “is where, uh, I think Alexander the Great’s parents were born.” Wow, buddy. Now, I’m not businessman, and my business sense only extends as far as being able to ascertain the risk/reward ratio of dollar mai-tai nigh, but it seems to me, that if you’re pitching tours of Macedonia, and how well you know the country, you should probably know some information about, oh, I don’t know – the country’s most famous citizen? That omission didn’t seem to deter him though.

“It definitely sounds very good,” I said meekly.

“Yes, I was a translator for the UN. I took tours around there all the time. We even had John F. Kennedy’s sister. I led her on a tour of that mountain,” he mused, pointing in the distance. Uh huh, I thought.

He wouldn’t stop. At this point, I was trying to remember my two disastrous semesters of physics, and try to calculate my angular momentum were I to jump from the moving vehicle. Perhaps I might only crack my skull.

“I was interested in going to Kosovo,” I said, hoping to veer the conversation away from his illustrious country tours. My mistake. I shouldn’t have told him I had any interest – but, truthfully I was somewhat interested in the price.

“Oh, I would have to charge you a special price for that.”

“How much?” I asked.

“.60 cents a kilometer,” he said. “Pristina is 100 kilometers away.” Fantastic. It would cost me 60 euros to check out a city for which I knew I could pay 10 dollars round trip to take a bus. Surrrrre, buddy.

I think he could tell, at this point, I wasn’t buying it. But, like any good jerk in sales, it only intensified his fervor. We were nearing the city at this point (the city was definitely only 15 kilometers away from the airport – not 30, as I had been previously advised. You know how I know? I saw a fucking sign), and he began waving at random features in the distance, and saying he could take me there. The man had me trapped in his care – supplying the scummiest of tactics – the false nicety and care about my well being, in hopes of scraping a buck – well, in this case a very large sum of money from me. I began to wonder just how much I had erred, why I had come to Skopje, and whether the whole country would be replete with people simply trying to take my money. Sadly, it soured the first impression, and then, he managed to make it even worse.

“Where are you staying,” he asked.

“Uh, the Hotel Ani,” I replied, referring to the spot I had researched on teh internet, and would simply hope they had rooms.

“That’s not a good place. I know a better place. My friend runs it. Let me take you there.”

I could see pyrotechnics explode behind my eyes, and as if each of my synapse had been wired with a circuit breaker that had just summarily blown. The scumbag had been trying to coerce me into exorbitantly high priced trips, and now was trying to force me to stay at his friends hotel. Classless – moreover, how dumb did he think I was?

“I got a great rate at the Hotel Ani,” I replied coldly.

“How much?” He asked, cheerfully, oblivious to his own idiocy. “This place is only 50 Euros a night. Free breakfast and internet.”

“The Hotel Ani is 35 Euros a night, and also has breakfast.”

“I don’t think they do.”

“It says on the website.”

“Hmmm, I just toured some Portuguese people who stayed there, and they said they were not satisfied with the service. Plus, the location is bad. Why don’t I take you by the other hotel?”

“I’ll go with the Hotel Ani.” I felt drained – almost violated by his sales tactics. Normally, in a foreign country, when accosted by such lower life forms, trying to effect such sales pitches, one is in an area where they can simply move away. I was trapped.

The ride was ending soon, though. He made sure to drive my by his friend’s hotel for good measure, but soon dropped me at the Hotel Ani. He reminded me to call him, and then, he gladly took my 1500 Denar.

Finally free from his grasp, weary, angered, and feeling cheated, I made my way to the hotel, whose lobby was essentially a bar. I wasn’t sure I was in the right place, until a chubby twenty-something behind the bar with a goatee asked me if I would like to check in. I told him I didn’t have a reservation, which cause a momentary look of panic in his eyes. Oh no, I thought, my own laziness and failure to book a reservation is going to put me onto the Skopje streets, alone, without a map, and force me to find another hotel. I would probably have to trudge back to my taxi drivers’ friends’ place, and pay the 50 Euros a night, and watch the two split the profits over cigars and derrisive guffaws.

The man behind the counter, though, soon lifted my mood. It was not only his jollity, but he worked with a passion, and a fervor – that, even without my reservation, he was going to get me into a hotel room at their hotel. At first, he didn’t seem to have any rooms, and didn’t have any, for sure, on my third night, but then, he shook his head, and said, “I will give you the apartment, at the same rate for the first two nights. Then, the third night, we will see if another room has opened up, or someone has canceled.” Apartment? Same rate? I’m wont to admit it, but, I do enjoy when I am rewarded for my own stupidity. I had, stupidly, failed to book in advance, and now, was being upgraded to a much larger room. It would come in handy for all the, uh, Macedonian women I found in nightclubs.

I took my bags up to my room, which was, as I expected, simple, and typical of all the places I have stayed in Eastern Europe. Apartment, I found out, meant there was a bed upstairs – that I would access by ascending a non-OSHA approved staircase. The room, thankfully, had an air conditioner. The heat the afternoon had been stultifying, and would, as good heat does, linger in the room, unless I had the air conditioner running at full blast. I headed back downstairs to obtain directions to an ATM. Hotel policy dictated that they would not return my passport unless I paid for the room in advance, and they did not take cards. He gave me directions to an ATM, and I took my first steps out on the Skopje streets.

Contrary to what my jerknut taxi driver said, the hotel seemed to be in a wonderful little neighborhood, filled with small shops, meandering streets, with a quick walk to main drag from where I could walk into downtown. Of course, with all of my luck that day, I quickly found the ATM, but it would not take my American card. I turned and walked the other way, in the shimmering heat, hoping to find another ATM, but instead, the other direction only yielded off-track betting parlors, for some reason.

I eventually did find an ATM, a little further in the other direction. I also happened across a cafe that had free wireless. I returned to the hotel, paid my bill, and then walked back to the cafe, enjoyed a Coke Light, and used the wireless. The staff certainly got a kick out of the American using the wireless for an hour and a half.

At that point, I felt much, much better about Skopje. It felt less rough, less unforgiving. Everyone I had met since the taxi driver – well, everyone being the hotel employee and the server at the cafe, was extremely nice.

Back at the hotel, I decided to fight the rapidly pinching jetlag, by heading on a run. The man at the hotel gave me vague directions to a park (he kept advising me to cross the street at the zebras, and though I look stupid here, I actually thought that it must be some sort of Macedonian tradition to have large Zebras erected at various intervals [yes, sometimes my mind works in astonishingly illogical ways]. It took me a while to realize that zebra meant ‘crosswalk’). I left the hotel, clad in running gear (had to rep the UC Berkeley shirt in Skopje), looking extremely stupid, I’m sure, in my sweatband. I crossed the main street, and headed a few blocks down a very tony looking boulevard, filled with street side restaurants and open-air cafes. I decided I would return tomorrow for a few beers, and people watching. I continued down the boulevard, into a residential area, and soon stumbled on a large park, filled with couples on an evening walks, or simply enjoying the warm evening on the benches. After crossing the park, I came across the River Vardar, a rather dubious-green river that bisects the city. An amazing find – perfect for a run. It seemed that all of Skopje was out on the path by the river, riding bikes, walking their dogs, or running. At various mall-like patches of grass on the walk, fitness classes assembled. With the fortress to my left, high on the hill, and the skyline of the city ahead, I ran on the river, heading towards a cotton-candy colored full moon. I ran into the fading light, stopping after a mile and a half, or so, at a basketball court, where I watched some kids play, hoping they would ask me to join. Realizing I play basketball with all the physical prowess of a Greyhound bus, I turned, and ran back, enjoying the uneven surface of the pathway, even with the knowledge that I could easily turn an ankle, relishing at how I needed to duck my head as I crossed under the old stone bridges. I was a Macedonian, at that point, easily assembled into their ranks (well, except for my stupid headband), but I was a member of the city, no longer a tourist, simply another Skopjian on their evening run. I blended, I fit in – I was doing what the locals did – and it filled me with a giddy joy, to have been so easily able to slide into the evening plans of so many Macedonians. The stress of the  25 Euros, the cab driver, the interminable sales pitch – disappeared with the daylight.

After a shower, I headed around the corner, literally 30 seconds away, to a traditional Macedonian restaurant. I wasn’t sure quite what to do – there was no waiter outside, and once I stepped inside, a woman looked at me, and I tried to motion that I wanted to sit, she stood up, went into the kitchen, and never returned. Defeated, but still hungry, I stood outside, grabbed a menu off a table and stood awkwardly in the doorway, hoping that someone would see me and see that I was there to eat, not sell Girl Scout cookies. Eventually, the hip-teenaged waiter spied me, and I asked him if I could sit down. The hipster did not speak a word of English (perhaps, he thought it was ironic not to speak English), and eventually had to motion to another table of a father and son, who graciously acted as my translator, and told me to sit wherever I wanted. Thankfully, they had a non-Cyrillic menu, and when the hipster took my order, I had to literally count the position of the words on the English menu, and match them with the same-numbered line on the Cyrillic menu, taking a while, at times, to match the text, while the hip waiter and I shared a chuckle. I ended up ordering the traditional Macedonian canollini beans baked in a clay pot, a tomato salad, and enthusiastically accepted his offer for bread, but declined his offer for beer, knowing that I planned to pop an Ambien later, and Ambien and alcohol is an absolute no-no.

I read my book while I awaited my order, and soon, the hipster placed a large pot of beans, a salad the size of a small hill, and a basket of toasted bread in front of me. It was truly an excellent, simply meal – really enjoyable, of traditional food. Even better, the bread was spread, I’m guessing, with bacon fat, and yes, while a bit heathenish and artery clogging, when dipped in the beans, it was simply fantastic. The atmosphere of the restaurant was perfect for a late dinner – just a few diners, open-air tables, and lazy, slow service that went wonderfully with a leisurely dinner on a warm night. I didn’t mind – I had a book to read, and my day had markedly improved.

I returned to the hotel, fat, satisfied, and with an excellent impression of Skopje. I watched a Simpsons episode, a movie, Adventureland (brilliant), and went to sleep. I had managed to fight off both jetlag, and a zealous cab driver.

I couldn’t wait to begin exploring for real tomorrow.