Dobro Jutro!

The red bag is full of dragon beans...

The market near my dorm.

Saturday morning in my neighboorhood is absolutly lovely. The student dorms are in a neighboorhood called tresnjekva, a neighboorhood close to the center of the city but still residential. They have their own green market and large Konzum (the chain of grocery stores) and lots of little cafes. Walking to the internet cafe from my dorms takes me though the green market where tables and tables of covered in vegetables of various shades, carrots ranging from bright orange to a pale yellow, cabbage-raw, pickeled, and chunked, dragon beans spotted pink, bundles of carrots and root vegetables for making vegetable stock, the stench of fresh fish from the edges of the market. The venders ask you what you want as you walk by, as I eye the brussel sprouts and pickeled beets, yearning for a kitchen, i always shake my head no, maybe uttering a "ne hvala" (no thanks). Today I am just passing through for the free smells and smiles. The market on a saturday morning is bustling. Some of the venders are older women, their heads covered with printed scarves, their bodies round and stout and hardy, often wearing large framed glasses, and their skin wrinkled like wet laundry. Other venders are young men and women, with pony tales or buzz cuts, jeans and tennis shoes. I pass on through, following a man with a giant sack full of dragon beans over his sholder, his lady-friend carrying a bag full of chestnuts, heading towards the cafe we always frequent where the young server smiles when I walk in because I'm sure he's curious why I'm here every other day, sitting in the back checking my email.

other interesting sightings:

A family of secret cat feeders in the early afternoon feeding the strays who hang out around the market, spooning cat food out of cans to the colorful bunch of kitten-looking cats.

A middle-aged man wearing the exact same yellow fanny pack I own.

A women with a new tattoo on the top of her left foot, wearing strappy highheels even though her tattoo is so new its still wrapped in clear plastic wrap.

On wednesday we had in-country orientation, so the people who are teaching english in other cities were in town, it was a nice excuse to do some sightseeing, including going to the ultra-new contemporary musuem in Novi Zagreb, where one can take a three story slide down to the ground floor... (see photos above!)

"First it's a hobby, then it becomes a passion, and finally it's an addiction"

I survived my in-country orientation and my first event with state diplomats, people in nice suits and modest ties. It was a welcome party at the home of someone who works for the state department. The lovely apartment was painted in the TLC fashion, each room having one bright-wall and the rest white. The living room was accented with a bright blue, the hallway a welcoming orange, and the kitchen was a cheery yellow reminiscent of my bedroom in St. Louis. Mixing and mingling is always a skill to be honed, one I haven't quite perfected, but the wine served on fake silver trays and the tiny precise pastries filled with creamy cheeses, smoked salmon, or egg, made the conversations flow relatively easily. Perhaps it was the intricate etchings hung on the wall, or the presence of other people equally nerdy in their interests in the Balkans, but it felt strangely homely. Then off to a bar for drinks and chatting and absorbing. This is what I came back for, the smoky under-ground bars, young people dressed in funky outfits and hipster glasses, women with 80s hair, or short spikey-dos, and yet the conversations are of serious depth, oscillating between how to best do qualitative research and the pros-and-cons of ice ludges and parties that involve plastic swords. I don't know why but feels like an ideal that only comes to fruitation in my dreams.

One of the fulbrighters from last year is still lingering here, finishing up her research, preparing for a big move to switzerland with just a brief stay across the pond. She was kind enough to interduce us to local friends and researchers. At the bar I met her friend who is working on his Phd dissertation in the Balkans with a focus on how civil society and NGOS engage in post-conflict truth and reconciliation/transitional justice issues. We began speaking about Belgrade, and regional youth comissions, and common friends or names we knew. He asked many questions about my research and I fumbled with my words while trying to force some cohesive themes out into the thick-smoke-filled air... I felt inexperienced and young! There is an exclaimation point because rarely do I feel awfully 'young', but I have practically no experience doing this kind of research, it's like I'm playing house, but playing researcher instead. He responded positively to my project, "it's interesting" he said sure enough, but he also provided some really constructive feedback. To connect with another young person doing research and to hear about their own path and work helps me construct a framework to place myself in and understand my own goals and limitations. And so the web of connections and friends grows and hopefully multiples. I went home, to my dorm, feeling full and finally feeling like my feet were on some sort of ground, even if its still a bit wobbly or swampy at times.

Like katie, reading, finally, "If on a winters' night", oh the lovely words.

a window full of green trees, and a big wooden desk

Another rainy morning, this time as i type the keys are clicking in that kind of highschool way, the sound of a full key board of plastic squares sinking a bit with the pressure of my fingertips. Can you guess where I am, typing away carefully on a desktop computer? Well, my office of course. I have a desk in the office of my adviser, who is very kind and tall, his glasses resting carefully on his nose which seems always to be wrinkled because he is often furrowing his eyebrows with his thoughts. I suppose its been a week now, hard to believe it went by so fast, but it feels good to be sitting at this desk, it feels like work, smells like productivity. We walked through the hallways together, young adults chattering in the narrow hallway, "it hasnt changed from when i went to school here," he brings his hands up to his nose and inhales deeply, "smells like socialism."

So far my research here has consisted of a collecting a long list of names and emails. People to be contacted, to keep track of, to write down in my calendar. For each contact and meeting is a cup a coffee, more names, more emails, its similar to traveling down the rabbit hole as more and more doors begin to open.

Ive also been looking at apartments, some re-done with minimalist furniture, others damp from the rain with blankets draped over sofas and only a pot for making turkish coffee sitting on an old yugoslav stove. I always go with someone is fluent and i try to follow the conversation, but its hard and more then ever I wish I would have stuck my nose in a Croatian language book in the last year, so I could at least pretend better. Hopefully it will come soon. My two soon-to-be roomates are also on fulbrights here but were both born somewhere in the former yugoslavia, meaning, theyre both relatively fluent. I start croatian classes on Oct. 4th, November 4th were instating a no-english rule...a, lets talk to emily like she is 5 rule. Well see.

Last night i went to the best of showing for the experimental film festival. It was great and filled me with excitement about the creative things happening here and also reminded me of all of my fabulous friends at home, making, and thinking, and brainstorming...so i dunno where this thought is going...

anyway, i must be off to enroll in croatian classes... dun dun dun,

cujemo se,

emily

Sa Nogom

The sun is shining in Zagreb and the cafe's outdoor seating fills the wide sidewalks in the city center. I went with another fulbrighter yesterday to look at an apartment. A friend of a friend picked us up in a car and we drove, into the center, out of the center, across the river, the end of the trams... we both knew already the apartment was too far away. Helena was sweet though, making conversation with Amela in croatian, me straining my ears to pick up familiar words. The landlord was running late so Helena treated us to coffee (cup #2 for the day). There were two cafes in the neighborhood we were in, the first we peaked our heads into, only older men sitting and smoking and chatting, their eyes peering in our direction. Helena says, "come on, lets go to the other one." I haven't quite figured out this particular cafe rule yet. Sometimes outside of the center the cafe's will be predominantly men. Helena didn't make any comment about just shrugged her eyebrows. We drank coffee "sa nogom" (i might be spelling that wrong) which means "on your feet,"meaning... really fast. Sit, drink, pay, leave. The typical coffee date is longer, meant for sipping and chatting. We looked at the apartment--at this point without any legitimate interest, but there was enough to be curios about, such as the lanky man showing u the apartment in worn coveralls and a bike racing hat. he reminded me of an illustration of a service man. We headed into the center, opting for slodoled (ice cream) over another cup of coffee, heading to millennium, where behind glass cases stand mountains of ice cream, including 100% pistachio. I only ate one scoop because I had dinner plans with Orli, my beloved prof from my SIT program.

After delicious gnocchi, long conversation, and a third cup of coffee I headed back to the dorms with a full stomach and more confidence in why and what I am doing in this city. "Don't apologize for who you are, or your research, or your identity," Orli told me as we sat drinking coffee... "you are going to have to learn how not to be apologetic, have confidence."

a collection of thoughts.

September 20th, flight from Munich to Zagreb

September 20th, My desk in the dorm...

I spy bananagrams, american snacks, a recent photobooth picture and some adorable letters...

The dorm room my bed is on the left, I am rooming with a fellow fulbrighter named Jess.

Its my third day in Zagreb. The jet lag is pulling on the skin under my eyes and the sense of uncertainty is in many ways pressing in from all sides. It’s been strange coming back, it was the same sense of vertigo I have when returning to any place that is all at once the same and yet different. I thought I would feel a sense of relief upon arriving—a lifting og the anxiety built up from waiting all summer—because is what I was waiting for would be here. Except that’s never the case, it takes time to get things rolling, to set up connections, get in a grove of production. I was never one to hit the ground running, I always dipped my toes in before jumping off the diving board.

The nicest part of returning to Zagreb is the familiarity—like finding a sweater I lost over a year ago, a warm and cozy sweater that I had just began to really love. Then came the hugs. Someone once told me you need at least ten hugs a day to survive. I’ve always been a hugger, I don’t even need a good reason to hug you, a goodbye or a hello are always good excuses though, and there have been many “hello-again” hugs. To show up half-way around the world and walk into a café and have someone say, “oh hi, Emily, how are you?” is astonishing, I thought those connections disappeared as space and time converged into an unimaginable distance.

I’m at Booksa by the way, If you read my blog last year or know anything about my time here before, you know I adore Booksa, it reminds me of how surrounding ourselves with things of importance to us can make one feel safe, or like we have found a place to belong. Even though none of my favorite baristas are here anymore there are familiar tunes playing—quietly edging a smile onto my anxious face, and books lining the walls, all with titles I can’t read, but with familiar authors. I walked in to Booksa, renewed my card, ordered some kava and turned around to face a gentlemen wearing glasses almost exactly like mine, “Hej Hej!” he said thrusting his hand into mine, I giggle because I thought I had already given myself away as American and he was just trying to be a jolly friend, when he said, “how are you?!” I KNOW YOU, I say back, my mind kind of warped by the weirdness of having “acquaintances” in far-away lands. I’m sorry I forgot your name, “Nikola” he said, He jokingly explained to the barista—“American.” Turning to me he says “I heard you were back in town!, what are you doing here?” “I got a grant” “I heard, a good deal.” I felt a surge of excitement that somehow everyone I had once known in Zagreb knew I was back in town, or even that my arrival demanded any sort of gossip. Maybe everything will be okay here, I'm not starting from scratch, there are places to have coffee and read, what more do i need?

***

It's almost September, Does that mean there's a countdown?

August is winding down and I officially feel as if summer has ended. Friends have come and gone, co-workers have left for college, kids are coming into the toy store in their red-white and blue school uniforms, gabbing and gossiping about their classmates. Summer of 2010 sent my head through a loop, from graduating, to sleeping on the beach in florida and day dreaming of a wanderlust lifestyle, to a phone call about croatia, only to drive east the next day, to mile-high pie and New York City, complete with romantic interludes and lots of gazing at art I couldn't decide if I cared for or not, to home--to kansas city, which was chuck full of days at the toy store, old but familiar faces, coffees and gin and tonics, book club, little cousins, and many trips to lawrence KS in order to dabble and drool as I contorted my lips to pronounce the little tidbits of croatian I know.

And where does that leave me now?

traveling companions

thoughts: jumbled and recorded on the train home from Jefferson City to Kansas City, monday evening.

Maybe I should feel bad about not wanting to speak to the women next to me. I do feel bad. I thought carefully about which seat to sit in on the train. I picked this one because the old women across the aisle looked content to sit there quietly. I suppose I misjudged. I’m usually the kind of person who chooses to sit next to children on airplanes or seeks out the person who is looking for a conversation. On my last flight back from D.C. I sat next to a man who was an auditor for the government. He told me I needed to set aside 30% of my monthly pay-check for my retirement. He explained why working for the government was far better than a private firm and that he worked near strawberry hill and has never eaten Croatian bread. I told him about Croatia, and he told me about taxes and I walked away feeling much more educated. On the way to DC I didn’t start the conversation with the man next to me, he struck it up full force, and about 20 minutes later I wasn’t sure I wanted it to continue, mostly because I felt trapped between the large Texan man on my left and the airplane window on the right. I first I thought he was flirting with me, I think my immediate response to what I am going to be researching, gender, ended any sort of flirtation but instead introduced an immense amount of curiosity. I believe his name was Mark. Mark had just moved to D.C. four weeks prior to our meeting. He worked for a government-contracted corporation, something along the lines of building and outfitting airplanes. They also re-did airplanes for billionaires, you know the kind of thing, turning a 747 into a suite straight out of New York’s Plaza hotel. Mark wasn’t a billionaire, in fact we commiserated over the concept of how one actually makes so much money, and then, how do you spend it? Multiple houses? Pimped out airplanes? I suspect my tax advisor on my flight home would of piped in, reminding both mark and I that upon death billionaires lose almost 50% of their wealth to death taxes. The auditor claimed this wasn’t fair because that money is essentially taxed twice, once upon earning, again upon death. I think my belief in the redistribution of wealth trumps any individual rights tendencies I do maintain, I sensed, however, that the auditor felt differently. The auditor, however, said that if you are a rich rich person, 2010 is the year to die in. If you die, right now, there are no (or maybe just significantly less) death taxes. Why is that? The health care reform debates pushed back discussion on the death taxes until congress was out of session and the bill expired. Maybe this makes sense, all the rich people who don’t want universal health care can pass away now, with their own private doctors, and keep every dime. Anyway I’m getting sidetrack, this blog entry is turning into a travel version of Arabian Nights without the elegant and revolting frame story of murder and sex. Lets return to Mark. Mark lived and worked in D.C. and refused to walk. He drove 10 minutes to work even though he confessed the walk was shorter, “but I have FX radio!” He said. I wonder if the women next to me on the train, now on the way back to Kansas City has FX radio. I doubt it. She is small, and wearing a long sleeve turtle-neck shirt in the dead of summer. Step outside even as the sun is sweating and I guarantee you will feel your body evaporate through every pore. It is oppressive to say the least and as I was stuck in Jeff city all afternoon I even contemplated wading in the fountains. The heat is most of the reason I didn’t want to speak to this woman. I feel awful, tired, and full of ice cream and white wine; but this is why you ride the train, to meet all the other strange and wondrous people who still, despite Amtrak’s blatant inefficiency, ride the rails. Maybe later. Maybe after I write. And blog.

Speaking of the blog: Croatia. Orientation. Background checks, (oh she is back with coffee and a glass with ice. Oh, I feel so bad, she looks at me through her black frames. She is at that age where people are constantly bobbling their heads. What causes that? I think I am nervous about speaking to older people because it makes me sad. A bit depressed. I have an immense fear of not being able to care for myself, of losing my mind. Why is the train moving backwards?)

Oh my the most amazing and magical thing just happened. Another old women just walked on and was going to sit in front of me, but as the Amtrak worker put her bag up up above on the rake she walked over to the women who I had been riddling my conscious about talking with and placed her hand on the other women’s shoulder-long lost friends? “Are you one who likes to talk?” She says the new rider. The women in the turtle neck and black-rimmed glasses looks a bit startled but starts to say something, she moves her bag out of the way and the women who just walked in took a seat, starting in with “ride the train often”. They’ll make better conversation for each other anyway. The new women, has brighter white hair, less gray. She isn’t wearing a turtle-neck but is equally bundled up for the summer months, a white loose-knit sweater, long jeans, and some outdoorsy sandals. They make a wonderful pair, the conversation is moving much more fluidly then the one where she asked me about my job, and I told her about Croatia (which evoked a look of puzzlement, at which point I said, the former Yugoslavia, Eastern Europe-I’m not sure it helped), now they are contemplating nursing homes, and exercise regiments, and home-ownerships, things my knowledge of are limited and skewed. They know the stops of the train by number. “I get off in two stops” “Oh, Warrensburg.” I wonder if these women would have been friends in their twenties, if they listened to the same music or lived in the same parts of town. I suppose they are like me and my auditor friend; or mark, the man who works for a government contractor. Momentary friends, passing faces, act like windows into the lives we couldn’t have lived or chose not to. They are introductions into the question we never thought to ask ourselves, such as how does one make a billionaire a plane, or set up a decent retirement home, or what it means to live in Alton Illinois and take the train to Kansas City to wrap “loose ends”, she hesitated—giving me no details on her trip. I hope she has a place to stay. “I never was little, never was skinny- but I lost weight though, supposed to eat double protein” “my folks had money for a while, while I was young, and then they didn’t have” “Were you raised in town?” “That’s why I moved to Missouri” “I never learned to make strawberry jams, my mother did that, one time I had to make pickles” It’s like time traveling. It’s like time traveling but only with the tip of your tongue, the tiniest taste. “I didn’t cook to make it taste good, I cooked to make it healthy” “I always tried to have two main dishes, and two vegetables, he (her husband) ate peas and potatoes and corn…pies are too much work”. “It was years ago I tried to follow recipes.” “I married before I was out of high school…and we moved to Mississippi and he shipped out of Baltimore, I was scared little girl, scared to death, I didn’t know how I got anywhere, never been in a big city” “If you brought a family you had a bring a house with you” (I think she was talking about moving up Washington State). “We were traveling 15 miles an hour” “I worked 9 hours a day and 6 days a week and brought home 33 dollars a week, and we were happy!”

I suppose I shouldn’t ease drop too much. It is most likely unethical, although I have a feeling these women wouldn’t mind.

I intended to sit down and write about getting ready for Croatia. About my trip to D.C., my day in Jeff city, my Croatian lessons, but I’ve been side-tracked by the corn fields, and hay bales, and the golden setting sun striking brilliantly on grain mills, and the two snow frosted, miniature women conversing on my left. It is impossible to recreate the excitement I felt my first day in D.C.

I met a woman at the toy store. We started talking, which is why people shop in little stores like the toy store, and I told her about going to Croatia, about research, about adventuring. “I’m so happy for you,” She said. She had a daughter who was maybe 6 or 7. I recognized them from my earlier toy store days but it had been a few years. She told me how she was a mathematician and in college she was always discriminated against for being a woman, and a beautiful woman at that. Even as a middle-age women she is gorgeous with radiant blonde hair and pale blue eyes, so I believe her when she references this. She told me how no one thought someone who looked like her could do so well in a man’s field. Now remember, she is still young, maybe late thirties. She told me though that when she was younger she traveled all the time and worked, pouring her everything into her work, getting published, etc. “I feel full, you know? I think that’s why so many people’s marriages don’t last anymore, because they don’t live their own lives first, but I am happy to stay in one place and be with my kid because I’m full of all those experiences.” She gestured with her hands, scooping the air up them as if inhaling it and brows furrowed, she was genuine in her sentiment, it wasn’t just one neighbor shooting the breeze with another neighbor. She introduced me to her daughter and told me she wanted so many things for her. And I smiled. Its funny how those little interactions can mean the world to you, to have that kind of support, those moments when you realized the world is full of people who truly want you to find it or something that makes you feel full.

“and now cell-phones do what computers do” “I don’t even know what they are doing on there”

Now I’ve completely lost my train of thought. It’s dark now and we are 30 minutes out of Kansas city. I looked over after the ladies spoke of my computer and I let my guard down and was drawn into their conversation, an hour or so later we grew quiet and I never figured out why Julie was riding the train to Kansas City. Annette left us in Warrensburg, reminding me the future is bright because we are all in god's hands, but we might have to suffer first.

her last piece of advice?

"You can't live in the past. You have to think about the future, and since that hasn't happened yet, well then all you have is the present."