Is Not Worrying a Worrisome Sign?

This is a picture looking down the Latin Bridge, away from the city center. The Arch Duke Ferdinan was killed by a Bosnian-Serb Nationalist, setting in motion the militarization of allied nations that escalated quickly into WWI.

September 30 – Dubrovnik, Croatia

The last day in Sarajevo passed slowly. My activities included ticket purchasing and a little bit of wandering photography. I have reached a point where I cannot seem to get enough sleep, especially in the mornings. I don’t like the feeling of sleeping in much and missing out on the day but I am unable to summon the determination to make myself rise. I have no schedule and my body seems to know that no one will chide me for staying in bed. In the past, when I have felt like this I have attributed it to trying to learn a new language and the strain of working out logistics somewhere where you have never been. It is true that the mind constantly seems to be mulling over endless scenarios of “what will I do if…” I am not sure if stress is all there is to it. I think that a more general weariness must be overcome when facing the day independently.

Turkish Nescafe hurts so good.

Little projects can take on a great deal of time and effort. After buying a bottle of wine, I realized I had no cork screw. I spent the better part of an hour and a half walking around the Turkish Quarter of Sarajevo stopping by every kiosk and mini-mart asking if they sold cork screws. By asking I mean motioning, mumbling pigeon Russian and looking perplexed. Eventually one cashier had her own. So I fetched the bottle and stood by helplessly while she struggled for minutes to get the cork out. She would abide no assistance.

My train to the Croatian coast left at 6:30 the next morning. The plan was to keep a full bladder and thus ensure an early start (I do not own an alarm). The plan failed and I just stayed half awake.

I got up at 5am, donned my wet laundry. I had washed my laundry at dusk the night before in the bathroom sink. Wearing it dried it quickly and I was happy that I had chosen to pack fancy quick dry fabrics. The train ride passed like the night, neither fully awake or asleep.

Croatia feels like California. This makes sense because they are both Mediterranean climates. The coastal hills are green and lush. The shoreline starts and stops with a series of islands and peninsulas interrupted by open Mediterranean. It’s enough to make one want nothing more than a sail boat and a lot time. The country is changing quickly. Corrugated metal shacks sit just down the tracks of a tourism-oriented train station. Many of the people seem miffed that the travelers don’t bother to learn Croatian. To me, this indicates that they have not traveled much themselves. Most every traveler learns key words like ‘hello,’ ‘please,’ and ‘thank you.’ It is hard to grasp much more than that when you spend no more than a week in a country language area (All the languages of former Yugoslavia are mutually intelligible. Pronunciation and minor vocabulary variations define whether you are speaking Bosnian, Croatian or Serbian. I am not sure where Slovenian fits into the mix but I suspect the differences are slightly greater but not imposing.

The little sleep the previous night and on the train would prove to be contributing factors to a “rough day at the office for Mr. Conway.” To make a long story shorter, my credit card was maxed, internet cafes are not plentiful so paying it off was a project, I had no local currency, it was a weekend in a work-week oriented locale, and I left my things on a bus which pulled away before I could get back on after a break. At one point, I had about four dollars of local currency, my credit card was stopped and I lost my bags. I have always been adverse to worrying. My philosophy is that the stress of worrying neither contributes to solving the problem nor improves my overall frame of mind, so why get dragged into it. It can become quite a vicious cycle of remorse, stress, and frustration with no constructive outlet. Better just to make a note of my stupid mistakes and move on. It is embarrassing to mess up.

By the time I went to bed in Dubrovnik, this situation had been largely remedied. I am now just waiting for Visa to get word that I paid the bill.

The hostel in Dubrovnik is out of dorm rooms. I have my own room again, a mixed blessing. Cats and kittens are all over the patio here. They also will come into your room or follow you into the kitchen if given an opportunity. On the upside, it is nice to pet the cats. But they beg mercilessly, encouraged by past guests well-intended charity. As a result the owner is rather hilariously involved in a struggle to capture the cats to send them to a sort of Humane Society. I have never felt so care-free as during these cat-capturing sessions. He talks to them sweetly just after chasing them all over the place. They always want food so they keep within range to get something to eat but always elude his grasps. Unfortunately for the cats hunger gets the better of their judgment when he produces meat. Why he does not just invest the couple of bucks for a can of tuna, I have no idea. He likes the cats abstractly, but doesn’t appreciate their behavior when the guests are trying to eat and claims they eat “everything,” notably, his grapes. “Sadly, they must go,” he apologetically explains.

At night, after a hard day of cat herding and fixing up his new property, he talked with me about Dubrovnik. The city was shelled by Serbs from the nearby hills and the Ocean, largely out of spite. The city has no strategic value and is wholly Croatian. It does boast fantastic medieval fortifications and a spectacular walled old town. My host is a very friendly man. He is working as a delivery man temporarily until he can find better pay as a grape-agro expert or start his own business. The guest rooms nicely supplement his 9-5. He believes that there can be peace as long as people have “normal jobs,” so they can “build normal lives.” Still, he holds no love for Serbs, “I can see why young people, who do not know about all of the death would want to visit there. It’s not for me. I cannot go there.”

Spending most all of time focusing on my plans, writing about my experiences and so forth has revealed a consistent strain in living. It is a balancing act trying to both embrace and spread happiness. Hopefully my time in Kyrgyzstan will be better suited for this balance.