In Transit

It was time for my friend to leave Poland. After buying some mint-apple juice from a nearby convenience store she mentioned that she had to use the facilities. My friend returned three minutes before her train left. I was exasperated, but didn’t want to ruin our goodbyes by ranting. It’d been amazing to tour the major sites of Poland with a friend of many years. Yet, I was ready for a brake. For the past week, I’d been Travel agent, Translator and Tour guide in-one. This is travel. But, not the way I’d grown up understanding it.    

About a month ago I embarked on the most recent family trip.  I was looking forward to the three week experience. After January in Wroclaw it would be heaven. The trip was planed mostly by my parents. The money would be their problem. The biggest thing I had to worry about was what to order for lunch!

I’ve traveled on my own before too. The experience is enlightening. You really get a feel for how people treat foreigners. Alone with your own thoughts, you develop an understanding of a peoples’ history -- Their way of thinking and living.

But, it’s anything but relaxing. You’re free to do as you please. Yet, there’s no one to share the experience with. The burden is all yours. I remember days in Albania when I thought I’d be kidnapped. Making a Belgrade train reservation is only possible with helpful locals. Avoiding drunks in Lwow is practically impossible.

Avoiding the drunks in Wroclaw was impossible with my Asian-American friend. It was as if we had a sign on our backs that said ‘give us crap’ at every street corner and tramwaj stop.  We had fun laughing at in-jokes and trying to ascend centuries old battlements. Still, when she lost her cell phone I was the one who had to deal with the national railways’ unhelpful blue-collar workers.

My mother voiced a similar complaint in Tunisia. There, she was the itinerary planner and translator for the entire family. “When will I be on vacation?” she vented one day. I felt relived of all concerns. My father just seemed proud that he was responsible for getting us on the plane to the country in the first place.  

When we arrived in Sicily, my mother began to relax. My father shouldered the driving. I handled the navigation. Mom provided the itinerary.

I felt life’s weight returning in Malta. After visiting Rhodes, I’d expected the country to be the knights’ crowning achievement. Even during Carnival, it turned out to be a Disneyland for old British people. For most of the trip, no expectations had been placed on me. Now, I realized that the trip would end. Reality is inescapable.

We got lost on our way back from Amalfi. My father, known for being needlessly cautious about travel plans, complained strenuously. It was a mere inconvenience for me and my mother.   

 Back in Poland, I’d misread the train schedules. The express my friend and I were planning to take wasn’t running. Only one other train departed to Wroclaw that day.  After a quick dinner, I informed her that we needed to head to the platform: now.  It was strange how much I sounded like my father as I sternly told her why she could not use the lieu at this critical juncture.     

Travel comes in many forms. With family, you defend against onslaught of reality. With friends, you hide from it as best you can. With solo travel, you immerse yourself with no life lines. Each holds a new type of knowledge; its own type of stress.

  As Ayn Rand opined in the Fountainhead: travel “is not for going places, but for getting away from them.” It’s an attempted escape from reality. A futile flight from that which is. No matter where one goes.    

A new perspective on Serbia

With a stomach full of French toast, a traditional Slovak dish, and home-made brandy, I bid farewell to my friend’s family, and set out for Serbia uncertain of what I would find. All my life I had heard stories of two different Serbias. I had heard stories of a beautiful country that was worth seeing, as well as of a country full of embittered, amoral and dishonest people. Both versions were wrong. I arrived in Belgrade late at night and checked into the hotel. The next morning I set out to see the city. I was excited to see the city which is famous for its ambiance. In short, Belgrade is the least continental city I have been to in Europe thus far. At many points if it were not for the Cyrillic signage I would have felt as if I were somewhere in the Inland Empire east of Los Angeles. The nicest parts of the city reminded me of old town Pasadena. That said, while I was only there for a short time I found the city to be very liveable.
It was intresting to see how the decade-old Kosovo conflict affected Belgrade. There are still a few buildings that lie in ruins from the NATO bombings. However there does not seem to be much municipal remorse regarding the ethnic cleansing in that province. In fact the only mention of that time period which I came across was a memorial to the children killed during the NATO bombings.
The only sight worth going out of your way for is Tito’s grave and museum. While the grave itself is unremarkable, the museum itself is fascinating. One really gets a feel for how Tito kept the various ethnic groups of Yugoslavia together.
While I was somewhat underwhelmed by the sights, the unexpected bright spot of Serbia turned out to be the people. Everyone I met in Serbia was polite and helpful. When I was confused regarding the train reservation system, one lady stepped in, told me how much a reservation was, and helped explain my situation to the conductor. After speaking to him in Serbian, she told me to follow him, and that he would find me a private sleeping compartment.
Sometimes the things we hear are not always accurate. My experience in Serbia would appear to illustrate this point. It is best not to judge based only on what you hear. In order to truly understand a situation you must see for yourself.