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 International Air Lines

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Part 7:

I awoke that morning at about 9am, feeling, well, exactly as I thought I would feel, like garbage. Retiring at 4.30am that morning on a school vacation during which I had been mostly sleeping without compunction did not make for a particular pleasant feeling of existence when my alarm blared (or rather, barked, as is my current alarm setting). Nonetheless, pushing aside all humane desires of either whining or simply going back to bed for a bit, I raised myself, and got ready to go, my mind in an absolute haze, feeling as if I was engulfed in molasses.

I actually had to pack the whole room, even though I had one more night in Skopje before I departed the next morning for Iraq. As some readers may remember in the Skopje arrival segment of this trip report, posted eons ago, the very helpful staff at the front desk had taken pity on my own idiocy not to book a reservation at the Hotel Ani in advance, and had very kindly placed me in one of their apartments at the same price as a single room, with a major caveat – the hotel only had availability for two nights. After two nights, I would have to check in with the front desk staff to see if a room had become available because of a cancellation.

I plodded downstairs, and inquired again at the possibility of any free rooms, this time, with a new staff member, whom I had never seen before. He was equally as kind and jolly as the previous guy who had offered me the apartment. Unfortunately, after making sure I didn’t want any breakfast, he reported that no rooms had become available. He even placed a phone call to the other branch of the hotel, explaining (I assume) the situation to the person on the other end of the line, most likely using the Macedonian translation for “woebegone American traveler” in describing my plight. He even talked to the owner himself, Ani, a casual and rollicking old guy, who was sitting having coffee at the bar. They offered a solution: the other branch of their hotel the Hotel Vila Ani, a bit further from the cool area in which I was staying, had rooms available. “I can take you right now!” Ani offered. “Do you want to go?” I told them I had planned to had to Pristina that day, and wanted to get an early start, and would rather wait until I returned to head over to the other hotel. That idea worked for both Ani and the front desk/bar worker, who also offered me another option of seeing if any rooms had opened up at my current hotel, upon returning, and insisted I store my luggage until I returned. This hotel staff was simply wonderful.

The front desk/bar worked then called me a cab for the bus station. While we waited, he lit a cigarette, and like every other person to whom I told I wanted to head to Kosovo, he shook his head in an utterly perplexed manner, and asked why on earth I would want to visit such a place. “Eh, just interested,” was my rather lame reply. But – I was simply intrigued. I really know nothing of the country, except, I remember, in eighth grade, listening on the radio to the live reports of the bombings beginning under Bill Clinton’s watch, or on New Year’s in Bratislava a few years ago, meeting a very drunk group of people, asking where they were from, and one man said, “Serbia! Kosovo! Duh-duh-duh-duh-duh-duh-duh-duh,” making the sound of bullets as he pantomimed strafing a room with an assault rifle.  Of course, like every other person, he then proceeded to tell me just what deleterious things would befall me if I went – “You could be robbed. Do not go into any alleys. Do not tell anyone you are American. They will rob you.” He then launched into another tirade about how much the Macedonians hate the Kosovars. On my count of dangerous happenings in Kosovo, I had been told my car would be stolen, I would be killed, and I would be robbed. Looks like I was in for one helluva an afternoon.

I cabbed it to the bus station for about four bucks, and entered the rather desolate and slightly dingy terminal, though, apparently, the bus station was just a few years old (think George Washington Bus Terminal in New York City, without the off-track betting parlors, and people from New Jersey). I was pleased to find that a bus was departing for Pristina in just about 15 minutes, the the ticket agent spoke wonderful English, and the ticket was only about five bucks, as I had read (none of the “all of a sudden, it’s 25 Euros” crap I had experienced when trying to find a taxi from the airport). I walked for a bit around the station, trying to scrounge a bit of breakfast, but the only option seemed some sad looking sandwiches served by an even sadder looking man at a counter. I forewent breakfast, and headed outside, found the bus line nicely marked with a digital sign indicating “Pristina” (would’ve been tremendously awkward if I had boarded the wrong bus), climed aboard, and sat down.

Despite feeling so tired, I was really excited to travel via bus to another country. I had never crossed a border in a wheeled-vehicle before, and even felt quasi-akin to a local as the other passengers boarded, who use the bus to commute, see family, or to head into Skopje for shopping (as was evidenced by the pax with shopping bags). There’s something about bus travel that feels less exclusive, and like less of a travel ordeal than flying or taking a train, almost a great equalizer among passengers. There exists none of the class system imposed by airlines or trains, no priority boarding, no assigned seats, no lounges, no security checks, no pushback, and no waiting for the jetbridge to be rolled to the airplane door, and no PA announcements. With trains and airplanes, the traveler is constantly reminded he’s traveling. Here, everyone casually boards, takes a seat, and nonchalantly awaits their stop. I felt as if I was joining Kosovars and Macedonians on their daily activities and tried to act as quotidian as they did – as if I took the bus to Kosovo all the time. No big deal.

The bus quickly found its way out of Skopje, taking the same street out to the freeway I had walked yesterday, in the kitchenware district, past the impoverished area where I had been accosted by the two kids, and onto a winding, mountainous highway, growling up verdant hills, and winding around curves, and speeding past grassy plains.

It was at that point where I realized, like many points in this trip, I had absolutely no idea what I was doing. I had no idea how long the trip would take (gee, you would think I might have possessed the common sense to ask the ticket agent), if there would be other stops, and how often buses returned to Skopje. Moreover, I had no map or really any idea of the layout of Pristina, Kosovo’s major city. I wasn’t going to let worry slow me that morning, though. I was on a bus with locals, traveling to a new country, and about to experience my first border crossing in a bus. The experiences would be new, exciting, informative, and frankly, though I had no idea of time, city layouts, and return buses, I knew that was my favorite way to travel – blind, capriciously, gathering information as I went along, making quick decisions and judgments without having full evidence.

About 45 minutes later, we arrived at the border, marked by a somewhat austere brick guardhouse that, well, looked like most other border crossings I had seen in newspapers or movies. I felt my throat clench and adrenaline surge as the border guard, heavily armed, both with a sidearm and a grave scowl, wordlessly collected everyone’s passports. I was in the midst of my first border crossing, and as I outstretched my arm with my passport, wasn’t sure if I should look at the guard, or if making eye contact warranted an immediate arrest and detainment. The guard took everyone’s passport to the guardhouse, while another inspected the bus for contraband. I’m always a bit uncomfortable when a borderpatrolman takes my passport from the particular vehicle in which I am traveling – I had it taken once before on a night train from Romania to Bulgaria, and remember wondering if I would ever see it again. Here, I was afraid the grave-looking guard would re-board the bus, extend his arm, point at me, and say “that one,” as two other burly boarderpatrolmen wrestled me off the bus and threw me in a cell. Despite, however, the cloudy demeanor of the border guards, the crossing was completely drama free, and the bus company representative distributed everyone’s passport as we left the border. As we sped away from the checkpoint, I happily admired my new blue “Republic of Kosovo” stamp.

The bus continued down the road, and I plunged into more and more mystery of where exactly I was on the earth. After about another half hour, the bus began to make stops, and people began to filter out. I began to wonder if one of these stops was Pristina, or if we were on the outskirts of town. Truthfully, many of the stops were simply on the side of the road, next to gas stations, small shops, or ramshackle auto repair shops. At one point, the bus pulled into what looked like a moderately-sized town, a hardscrabble looking hodgepodge of stores, cheap clothing shops, kebab places, and internet cafes seemingly smashed into blocks of drab apartment buildings, with overgrown fields of weeds and gravel. Here, the bus actually made a stop at what appeared to be a bus station, for about fifteen minutes. Hmmm, I thought. Should I get off here? This appears to be the largest city we’ve seen since leaving Skopje, I reasoned. Perhaps this was Pristina. And, golly gee, there didn’t appear to be that much to do – besides head to an internet cafe, browse a cheap clothing store, or perhaps build a rock sculpture in one of the fields. Then, amazingly, my addled brain was hit with a burst of uncharacteristic logic. This couldn’t be Pristina. The bus was supposed to terminate in Pristina. It would be sheer idiocy to get off the bus. But wait, I thought. What if this is the terminus, and now the bus is turning around, and heading back to Skopje? The uncharacteristic logic hit again – then, all of the other passengers would’ve left the bus. I was almost 100% sure a local wouldn’t be into simply taking a bus to Pristina and back, just for some weekend fun.

Thank goodness I didn’t leave the bus at that small town. It would be another 30 minutes until we finally arrived in Pristina. I spent those 30 minutes puzzled as to when we would arrive, but truly enjoyed being bombarded with the roadside scenes, austere and crumbling towns, junkyards, and gas stations. As someone left the bus, I wondered where they lived, why they were in Skopje, and what was bringing them back to Kosovo – the bus really feels like a connector with the everyday lives of other passengers.

We arrived in Pristina at the main bus terminal, to a fiercely whipping wind. As I left the bus, the guy from the bus company, who must’ve remembered my American passport, pointed off in the distance, and said, “City.” I thanked him, and then headed for the terminal building, first to find out when the bus returned to Skopje. The language issues became apparent immediately – the man behind the ticket window managed to tell me “three o’clock” was the next bus (about an hour and a half), but made it seem as if that was the only bus that would run back to Skopje on this particular day. Oh, good. If I didn’t make that bus, I was spending the night in Skopje, and missing my flight the next morning. I decided it I better hump it to the main part of the city, and fast.

The bus station in Pristina is flanked by a set of freeways off ramps, where the Yugos and Skodas, after departing the freeway, are still pushing their little four cylinder to the maximum their Eastern Bloc engineering would allow. It appeared really dangerous to cross, but crossing the off ramp seemed to be the only way to get into the main part of the city. I managed to scamper across both, with my skeleton intact.

The wind continued to blow fiercely as I wandered down a street that seemed to be headed for the city center. Soon, I was standing in the shadow of a square of gigantic Eastern European apartment blocks. The temperature, I noticed, was remarkably colder than the blazing heat of Skopje. With the whipping wind, the imposing apartment blocks, and the passageway to a main drag, which seemed, just to my luck, of course, via an alley. The people passing looked none-too-pleased with existence, either, and seemed to radiate a sort of bellicose anger. Wow – I decided. Pristina simply felt rough, and as if the city sucked all of the happiness out of everyone. I was almost overcome with a tremendous sadness as I began to walk, which was soon replaced with the very real possibility that I could be jumped as I walked past the apartment blocks. The city seemed rough, cold, prickly – and most of all, unwelcoming, and unforgiving. Wow, I thought. I have to get the hell out of here and fast. So far, there was nothing charming, quirky, or fun seeming about the city as I walked past the apartments, which struck me as an odd comment. Normally, I love visiting any town – of any type, reputation, size, fame, or glamor – just because of the sheer anthropological and sociological lessons and experiences. For me, it’s simply fun to be in a different environment, of almost any type – but, with Pristina, I could wait to get out of there. The city had a massive depressive effect.

I finally found what seemed to be the main drag, clustered by high-rise apartment blocks, that seemed, in recent years, to have stores, hotels, and franchises kind of just shoved into their lower floors. Development and globalization has not been aesthetically kind to Pristina. It seems is if nothing has been rebuilt, but modernization has been kind of pushed, as if by the hand of a giant, into the old, utilitarian, communist structures. There were several banks I recognized from my travels, that, I was surprised to see dispensed American dollars, and even a Fornetti, one of my favorite bakery chains (yes, I admit, sheepishly – I do love bakery chains in Eastern Europe and Germany – I love the pretzels at Kamps), that sells the most delicious apricot pastries by the gram (kind of like a drug dealership for pastries). I pressed onto the main drag, which was more of the same eclectic hodgepodge of apartments, with stores and shops emblazoning their first floor exteriors. I got a good chuckle out of the main street – which, is named after local hero Bill Clinton. His picture is everywhere – which, puzzled me. Yes, my history and paying attention to politics is poor (I admit – I was always terrible – and still am – with keeping up with current political events). Based on my limited knowledge, how could the Kosovars hate Americans? Bill Clinton is their god, essentially. The main street is named Bill Clinton Boulevard, for god’s sakes. Why on earth, then, where there so many warnings about how I would be shot and killed in Pristina? Perhaps the manifestation and projection of the Macedonians’ own dislike of the Kosovars?

Not really seeing much on the main street, I turned onto a side road, and after walking for a bit, was pleased to find a wonderfully quiet, leafy, and frankly charming boulevard, filled with small restaurants and bakeries. I even found the United Colors of Benneton, as detailed by Wikitravel, as Pristina’s only chain clothing store. Now, when that’s on the siteseeing list, you know it’s a happening place! I walked the street for a bit, grateful for a bit of respite from the noise and depressing feeling induced by the main streets.

After walking for a bit, I spent some time at a cafe, having a pastry, and, I confess, using the free wireless. With time growing short for the 3pm bus, I briskly began walking back to the bus station with the intention of looking for some lunch. I decided on a small pizza place that fired the pizzas in a pretty decent looking oven, just because I needed food with mobility. Time was growing even shorter, as I waited for the pizza to bake, and I realized I would probably not have time to walk back to the bus station, and would have to take a cab. I had strategically counted out enough money for the pizza, and my bus ticket, and had about the equivalent of two dollars that I figured I could use for a really short taxi ride back to the bus station. I began to grow a bit anxious, waiting for the pizza to make, not wanting to have to catch the next bus back to Skopje – remember, which, I wasn’t sure even existed. I quickly paid for the pizza, and ran outside to find a cab. Luckily, there was a line parked right outside the restaurant, and the driver, smiling a smile of both gums and teeth, was quite happy to take me the bus station for about two bucks. Furthermore, he didn’t stab me when he asked, in his extremely limited English, “American?” but seemed rather pleased I was visiting his country. We hit a bit of traffic coming off the freeways, which gave him a chance to practice a few more English phrases. When we finally arrived at the bus station I hightailed it to the ticket counter, where my friend, the guy who had grown somewhat annoyed with my questions before about return buses, was working the counter. Knowing I had but a few minutes to catch the bus, I hurriedly dug in my pockets for the currency I thought I had so well partitioned, but found that I had lost one of the coins. I frantically searched my pockets, knowing the bus was about to pull out, coming up with absolutely nothing. Finally, the guy behind the counter noticed I had a bit of Macedonian left, and indicated I could use it to pay. I threw it out of my wallet, grabbed the hastily scrawled ticket, and sprinted, pizza and all, to the bus, whose engine was idling, and was ready to depart.

I fell asleep for most of the journey home. I disembarked near the marketplace area in Skopje where I had walked the day before, and made the 25 minute walk back to the hotel, where I would have to soon figure out if I had a place to sleep for the night.

The final evening in Skopje, plus the following morning flights on Croatian Airlines, will appear tomorrow!