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Tito Said ‘No’ to Stalin…and We Look Suspicious with No Beards

We’ve been filming new TV shows in Slovenia, Croatia, Montenegro, and Bosnia for nearly three weeks.

 

Tito may have been the father of his country, but he’s dead and the only image I saw of him in the 20 days I spent in the former Yugoslavia was on this T-shirt.
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Talking with locals about their memories of growing up in Yugoslavia (which broke apart in the 1990s), people have generally good memories of the times. Marshal Tito (its strong-arm dictator) is remembered in a single phrase: “He said ‘No’ to Stalin.” People remember the stability. And time and time again people said, “It was a good time…we could travel.”

Yugoslavians were free to travel when other Communist Europeans could not because they were happy to return. Locals here remember when their “Red Passport” was worth more on the black market than an American passport. That’s because Yugoslavia was on good terms with — and its citizens could travel in — both the First World and the Second (Communist) World.

People in these countries speak what used to be called Serbo-Croatian (or Croato-Serbian depending on your ethnicity). Today the languages are all still essentially the same but, as required by each new country’s constitution, they are called Bosnian, Montenegrin, Serbian, and Croatian.

Europeans differ in how their national pride compares with their pragmatic need to connect with the rest of the world. You can read it in the letters they choose to indicate their country on car license plates and road signs. Croatia is proud: “Hr” for Hrvatska. Hellas is pragmatic: “Gr” for “Greece.” Germany is proud: “D” for Deutschland. Östereich is pragmatic: “A” for “Austria.” Magyarország needs to be pragmatic: “H” for “Hungary.” France doesn’t need to show its cards since Franceis French for “France.”

It’s interesting to see how the images lodged in my mind from past trips ripen in my head over the years — or simply change with the country. I write a script calling for a great view, painting, café, or experience — we go there and my cameraman wonders “what were you thinking?” Years ago in Croatia, there were lots of goats roasting on spits. People’s tastes have changed, the cost is up, and a goat slowly spinning over a grill is no longer an icon of the region. (Actually, in three weeks traveling here, we’ve seen less than 100 head of any kind of cattle, sheep, or goats.) It’s like my image of Greece with old guys drinking retsina wine. The Greeks are into better wine now, retsina is considered rotgut, and it has faded away from the tavern scene.

I’ve noticed every region of the Mediterranean is pushing its wine industry. Occasionally, regional pride blinds them to quality. Each region of the former Yugoslavia seems proud of the wine they produce — and none of it is any good compared to what I drank in Spain, France, and Italy. I find wine here on par with Greece. The difference: Here waiters actually admit it’s overpriced. We paid $40 to try a bottle of the best wine in Croatia. In Greece, I asked a wine merchant what local wine he’d buy for $30. He said, “With $30, I’d get three $10 bottles.”

We’ve had some great people moments, especially in remote Montenegro. Dropping in on a mountaintop, Serbian-Orthodox monastery, the monks (their long black beards matching their long black robes) told me, “You look suspicious with no beards.” In prepping them for my interview, I said part of our mission was to help Americans understand rather than fear people who were different. They joked, “We’ll have to prove to them they have reason to fear.”

Later, in the middle of a Montenegrin nowhere, we met an American family traveling with their 91-year-old mother. We shared stories of beautiful times we’ve enjoyed and lessons we’ve learned getting to know the people in this region.

Later, the grandma gave me the most encouraging compliment I’ve heard on this trip. I had to call my film crew over so she could repeat it. “Your TV show inspires me to keep going when I should be staying home.”

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Suicide Notes

For the last two months of travel it’s occurred to me that the tragedy of people committing suicide is universal — it happens in all cultures.

Here in Croatia, we were atop one of the tallest buildings in Zagreb for our TV work. It provided a great, high view of the city but we had to take apart our camera to slip the lens through the prison-like bars that caged in what was a top-floor, view café. My Croatian friend explained, “This spot is very tempting if you’re prone to kill yourself.” The ambience of what could have been the most exciting café in town was completely murdered to stop people from jumping.

In Ljubljana, what was once the tallest building in Slovenia — nicknamed simply “the Skyscraper” — had a trendy café on its top floor, but it’s been closed as too many were jumping to their deaths. Slovenes, so easy-going and friendly, are, statistically one of the more suicide-prone people in Europe.

Earlier, while I was in Spain, it seemed every town had a place known as a departure point for people committing suicide. An average of three people a year travel “from all over Andalusia” to jump off the famous bridge into Ronda’s gorge.

Standing at the Balcony of Europe, a gentle, Old World terrace overlooking the Mediterranean in Nerja, I asked my guide if it is a suicide point. She said, “No, but last year a city official investigated for corruption slit his wrists in his office, didn’t die, dribbled his blood all the way to the balcony, and jumped.”

In the Andalusian hilltown of Arcos, where they brag only they “can see the backs of the birds as they fly,” it’s traditional for suicidal men to jump from one side of the hilltown and women to jump from the other.

And the Swiss, people famous for being successful and content, have a relatively high suicide rate. The bridge in Lausanne was so commonly used as the springboard for those who wanted to end it all that on Christmas and New Year’s, when troubled people are inclined to become distraught, volunteers take turns manning the bridge with hot chocolate and cookies, ready to talk people out of killing themselves.

Is it just me, or does every major city have its spot notorious as a place for people to kill themselves?

When traveling, I strive to see beyond the tourist glitz and find the mundane grind and reality of life. Like the sweetness of being happy, the despair of being hopeless knows no borders.

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Checking Out and Stupid Showers

Cameron Hewitt, who co-authors our Croatia & Slovenia guidebook, is part of our film crew for this 20-day, three-episode shoot in “Ex-Yugoslavia,” as people call it here. We were talking about showers and bathrooms and he told a good “cord” story. Showers in Europe come with an emergency cord to pull if you fall and can’t get up. While working as a tour guide, Cameron was checking into a hotel with one of our tour groups. Everyone on the tour was settling into their rooms. He was at the reception desk watching lights flash on, as tour members throughout the hotel were pulling their emergency cords. The hotel staff just shrugged, ignoring what could be calls for help, knowing it was just clueless tourists. I wondered what happens when someone actually does fall and can’t get up.

My staff knows I think design is a key to being successful in our business. Even in top-end hotels, I find some showers horribly designed. I just used a particularly narrow shower stall in which the hot/cold lever stuck directly into the center, making the already limited standing space even tighter. If I nudged it accidently while washing, it would either scald or freeze me. And to make a tough shower stall even worst, they didn’t give it a soap dish. There was no place to put shampoo or soap but on the floor or to balance it precariously atop the sliding door.

Hoteliers don’t appreciate an activist guidebook researcher. One of the rare suggestions I give to hotel owners is to actually take a shower in the rooms they rent and then show some compassion to people who do so every night…and invest in soap dishes.

An almost daily part of travel — packing up to check out of a room — is a kind of ritual for me. It takes time and is tinged with the risk of leaving something behind. My toiletries kit is so small that if I’m missing something there’s a big gap in it. My alarm clock is the final piece of that puzzle. Putting on my socks, I wonder if I really need to wear them again, considering my laundry level like checking a battery or a gas tank. I spread out the cover of my bed so nothing gets lost in a big wrinkle. I corral stuff scattered around the room onto the bed before tucking everything into my bag. For a one- or two-night stop, I rarely use the closet or drawers, so they don’t need to be checked. I carefully survey the electrical outlets to be sure I didn’t leave some recharging cord behind. I physically feel my security pouch to confirm that my passport — the only item easy to feel without opening it — is in there. As nearly every hotel has me leave it for awhile at the check-in desk, it is conceivable that I could forget to pick it up.

One advantage of packing light — you rarely leave something behind. I can’t remember forgetting anything in a hotel for years.

By the way, I was interviewed by Michael Duffy, assistant managing editor and Washington bureau chief of Time Magazine, recently. They sent a hotshot photographer to shoot me in Florence a couple weeks ago. And this week his article about me, my work, and the new Travel as a Political Act book is appearing worldwide in Time. Apparently I came one newsy, Supreme Court nominee story away from making it on the cover. It was a quiet news week…but not quite quiet enough. That would have been quite a break. Check it out.

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Risk Having the Door Slammed in Your Face — To Risk Being Invited In

We just finished filming a new show on Slovenia and it occurred to me that a tiny, typically overlooked nation of two million people is diverse and fascinating enough to pack a fine, 30-minute program. Discussing this with my camera crew, I dreamed up a new measure for shows: locals per script.

I wondered out loud if this ratio was the lowest population per episode of the hundred and some shows we’ve done so far: one show for two million people. Then we remembered Ireland — four shows for four million people. Poland — one show for 40 million — is about our worst by that measure. Thirteen shows on Italy is a lot but still some five million Italians per episode.

Relating back to our recent discussion of noisy American travelers: Travelers needing to avoid the noise can go to smoking sections — where they still exist. I was once settling into the scenic “Norway in a Nutshell” train ride from Oslo to Bergen. My car was a noisy commotion of American tourists. You know I love Americans — even noisy ones (a group to which, on occasion, I belong). But I was in a quiet mood…just wanted to be me, the rhythm of the rails, and Norway’s best mountain scenery. I simply moved to the smoking car — not a tourist in sight, just quiet Norwegians.

The same trick works in restaurants. If you don’t like the tourist noise…move to the smoking section (or dine after nine when the tables are filled with discrete Europeans rather than Americans who dine earlier).

Here are some thought-provoking comments I’ve heard in the last few days: Rome is no Legoland. I’m very much against gastronomic fundamentalism (go ahead, drink red wine with fish). The last games with the Olympic spirit were Sapporo in 1972 (then came Munich). Slovenian women have the strongest handshakes in Europe. Croats seem self-assured in their ineptitude. Seeing the decrepit and massive old factories here makes me nostalgic for my stamp collection.

Walking across an almost desolate square in the almost desolate Istrian Peninsula hilltown of Motovun a couple nights ago, I was marveling at how dead the town was. Then I heard a men’s a cappella group practicing. I snooped around to find out where they were. Around the corner, I went up a short flight of stairs and stared at a closed door separating me from their heavenly singing. I gently pushed the door open just a crack to see the group. It was a dozen men sitting in a half-circle with their backs to me, led by a woman director with springy hair who looked like a mad, young, female Beethoven standing before them and her electric keyboard. She saw me, abandoned her group, and literally ran to the door I opened. She opened the door further and invited me in with enthusiasm in keeping with her directing style. I pulled out a chair and savored the chorus — a traditional klapagroup typical of the Dalmatian Coast.

Bringing in my film crew, producer Simon agreed it was a magic moment…and we captured it, kicking off our Croatia episode with a wonderful bit of what we call “positive serendipity.” The lesson (which I intend to work into the script): when out wandering, poke around and risk having a door slammed on you — in order to risk being invited in.

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I’m in Slovenia…and Travel as a Political Act Is in the Bookstores

I’m in Slovenia filming. Tina Hiti, a Slovenian guide who leads our tours in this part of Europe, joined us to help out. Having lunch in the Julian Alps with Tina and my film crew, we all just cut off chunks of our dishes and shared the local specialties.

Normally laid-back Tina got visibly anxious. She said that the most stressful thing in her first year leading our tours was being surrounded by Americans who shared their dishes in restaurants. The plates would arrive and immediately…it’s a tasting festival. She wanted to build a shield around her plate with a sign saying, “Keep away. I ordered this dish and it’s not to share. That’s how we Slovenians eat.” Just for fun, once with her own Slovene friends, she tried the American-style sampling…and her friends became similarly uptight about their food.

Tina and Saso have a second child on the way. They live in what was the attic of her childhood home. Filming their place, I told her that in the US there was a stigma about 30-somethings living with their parents — especially if raising their own family. She said this arrangement is common, and considered good for everyone in places like Slovenia…it’s wonderfully economic, encourages great family values, and it’s equipped with built-in babysitters. But, there’s one unwritten rule: separate entrances. An old Slovenian saying teaches that in-laws may be welcome to drop in…but wearing shoes, not slippers.

We sat down to dinner with her parents. Tina’s dad, Gorazd, is famous throughout Slovenia as a three-time Olympic hockey star. It’s handy for Tina because whenever she gets pulled over by the police, she says her last name and ends up talking hockey with the cops.

I was getting Gorazd’s take on Tito and Yugoslavia. I asked if there was a nostalgia for the old days in Slovenia. He said that, for him, the problem with Yugoslavia was that socialism is good for bad workers and bad for good workers. And, he said, capitalism is good for good workers and bad for bad workers. As Slovenia had the best workers, Tito’s socialism favored other Yugoslavian republics — like Serbia. Slovenes are happy with their independence, and life here seems very good.

My Travel as a Political Actbook just hit the bookstores in the last week or so. While working in Europe, I have a strict ethic of not allowing fun marketing opportunities and work requests from my home office to interrupt me. My stride, focus, and rhythm here are a joy, and important to maintain.

But I’m so excited about this political book that I have made time for several newspaper and magazine interviews. (I even had a photographer from Timemagazine tracking me for a day in Florence. Stay tuned.)

With any interview, I try to come up with vivid anecdotes to make points. For each of these political book interviews, I find that whatever I’m currently experiencing, even in the last hour (like Gorazd’s memories of the frustrations of being a hard worker in Yugoslavia), provides a vivid example to illustrate the book’s message: that travel as a political act really makes your travels more fun and meaningful. (Sure, you can get the book in bookstores — or at a special price right here on our website.)

Last week, while traveling from Italy to Slovenia, I shared a train ride with a man from about the proudest corner of the USA. I was trying to work on my laptop, and he was talking — as many Americans are inclined to do — so loudly that everyone on the train had no choice but to hear his conversation.

He rattled on for the entire ride in a way that made it clear he had learned nothing, challenged none of his ethnocentric truths, and made no friends in his travels. His trip started with a sour note on the plane ride, where “the only difference between first class and economy was the curtain.” He didn’t bother with the Uffizi in Florence because “why wait in that long line.” He explained to all on board that the Middle East is a mess because “we should have never let Khomeini return to Iran.”

He treated his wife like he treated cultures he didn’t understand, saying, “She has to put up with me because all the available good-looking men were gay.”

He told me he was being met at the Venice train station by a water taxi, and someone would be on the track with his name on a signboard. I told him I write guidebooks, and with a guidebook he could get to his San Marco hotel on a public boat just about as fast, for $10 rather than $150.

That comment didn’t go over very well. (He used air quotes when referring to my “work.”) And, rather than get in a discussion about my other book (Travel as a Political Act), I went to another car so I could get me and my keyboard some peace and quiet.