Fishy-Viewy-Transporty-Sausagey Scenes from Vienna

Sarajevo: The Phoenix

Cozy and romantic. And SMOKE FREE!

When Mark wasn't literally running the consular section at the embassy in Sarajevo, he spent time de-stressing with his newly made friend Armin at his bar called The Phoenix. The Phoenix got its name after the house burned 3 times yet it rose again from the ashes. This was the very place that Mark took over while he ran to pick up his children.

4 KM Nektar draft, about 2.75 USD

Built in the basement of a historic house fronted by a carpet of headstones on the western hills of Sarajevo, it was a popular bar where people would gather to play their guitars and sing songs.

People would pass around song books and microphones taking turns to belt out Irish lyrics, Dylan poetry, or rock ballads. Usually four or five guitar players and a percussionist would hook up the amps and Armin would join in with his banjo.

Yay Armin!

Before Armin became a family man, he once spent a summer traveling knocking about the U.S. During his visa application the consular officer asked why he wanted to go to the States.  He replied, "I want to meet hillbillies!" So he did. That summer, he traveled all over the south and eastern side of the States playing his banjo in blue grass festivals, local bars, even on the streets. He loved every minute of it, especially meeting the small town locals who'd all but take him into their family.

He is an incredibly talented string player, and an equally talented host and story teller. I could see why Mark enjoyed his company so much. 

So enraptured I didn't notice a thing...

My 1,556.94 RON Blog Post

Breaking out into random dance.

Lest I commit a heinous crime while cooped up in our apartment in Sarajevo, I made it a personal mission to get the kids out for fresh air. Ignoring the rain, I wheeled my kids around the hidden streets of Old Town in search of an indoor play area that promised energy burning fun. What should have taken 20 minutes I found in a mere 75 only to find they didn't open for several more hours. Try explaining that to a toddler who was continuously coaxed with half hearted promises of  "just a little bit longer." 

Defeated for the late morning, I chucked the kids back to the apartment in the rain for a hopeful nap time before trying again in the afternoon. While they slept I scoured parenting blogs for other potential areas and found one a few miles away so when they woke up, I gave them no time to think as I shoved the three of us into a cab. Seemingly, the cabbie understood my request: "Interex Coco Loco, dopasti se (please)," and off we went. 

Dropping us off in a maze of warehouses and modular strip malls, I took a a guess at where this Coco Loco place might be. I can tell you it wasn't in the first two buildings we looked in and I could see Deets getting increasingly frustrated, feeling duped about empty promises of playground fun. Finally, someone understood what I was asking for and directed me two warehouses down, four doors to the right. Drenched but relieved, I opened the door, paid my 3.50 KM (about 2.50 US) and didn't see Deets for about three hours.  

With Margo happily watching the madness of children running around, I took the opportunity to upload some pictures to the blog. Feeling successful at my multitasking during "Operation-Time-Waste" and waiting for Mark to get off work, I began to write on my teeny iPhone screen when I got a phone call from Vodafone. 

When you turn on 3G-roaming when out of country, extra charges occur to use email/SMS/Internet services. Duh, you say. Well I would agree. It doesn't take a genius to realize this and I knew I'd be spending extra money but I didn't really think it would be too much.

But THIS genius here didn't read the fine print about data-roaming in Bosnia Herzegovina: if you upload data in this country you get charged 9.92 EURO/MB and so in a matter of minutes I managed to spend 1,556.94 RON for uploading pictures. That's 350.00 EURO or 478.00 USD. Vodafone was giving me a courtesy call to give me a heads up.

**Face Blanch**

 I looked back at my automatic  "Welcome to Bosnia" SMS from Vodafone. Indeed, the fees were right on the screen. Smooth move, Ex Lax: an expensive lesson to learn, and I learned it good.  As a curiosity, I went through my old texts to compare prices: Austria and Great Britain charge 0.558 EUR/MB. Spain, Hungary, Greece and Bulgaria charge 0.868 EUR/MB. I'd say better luck next time, but I doubt there will be one. And now, the prized (and random) pictures for my most expensive post ever...

Deets stuff his face with cevapi, a minced sausage.
Note Mark's approval.

Margo diving in too. You'd have thought
I never fed the kids all day.

Mark at his favorite bar in Sarajevo
ordering a Nektar of the gods.

Vienna Airport Shenanigans

You know The Simpson's episode "The City of New York Versus Homer" where he begrudgingly goes to Manhattan to retrieve his abandoned station wagon despite an intense hatred for the city? Vienna is my New York. While it's a city with a spectacular reputation for unmatched architecture, culture and käsekrainer, I just can't seem to get into the spirit. I resist its charm and opulence preferring the likes of Bratislava and Budapest over Vienna.

Of course my connecting flight to Sarajevo went through Vienna and I decided to embrace our 4.5 hour layover with uncharacteristic enthusiasm. I planned ahead with extra undies for my potty training three year old along with copious amounts of candy and toys for bribery; I gate-checked the stroller (which is a be-otch to disassemble) and mentally prepped for a 50 Euro lunch. Though we destroyed our seats on the plane with exploding croissants and a barfing baby I still felt positive as we got off and waited for the stroller on the walkway.

"Uh ma'am, your stroller got checked all the way through to Sarajevo," was followed by "and could you please put a sweater on your baby? She's cold." Looking at my sweating, tomato faced Margo, I said nothing and started toward the terminal. Making our way to the next gate I saw we went through security who demanded to see our boarding passes. Luckily mine weren't printed out so I handed over my itinerary instead which they had to make a phone call to inquire about its appropriateness.  I proceeded to unpack my hastily packed bags for screening: unopened bottle of water I purchased to mix with formula, phone, belt, passports...

The Beast with no nap.
So long security blanket, that plunged into
the ice cream abyss of an airport.

 Security piled my stuff in with the guy's tray ahead of me and proceeded through, sounding off the alarms right on schedule. Now, Margo has been going through a separation anxiety stage (for well... 11 months) so during the frisking I had to put her on the ground, hysterically crying while Deets gleefully climbed onto the metal tables completely disregarding my pleads to sit on the bench. While one guard lectured me that my bottled water didn't count as an exception for infant needs, another guard suggested I consider bring a stroller when travelling with two young children.

Huh. Imagine that. All the while someone was feeling up my chesties. So great.

Somehow we continued into the terminal. I was desperate to find a bathroom not just for myself but for Deets who shockingly told me we needed to pee. All the family/handicapped bathrooms were out of order so I bit the bullet and squashed us into teeny, rancid stall. Ignoring Margo's protests and my general sense of hygiene in a public bathroom, I set her down with the bags and perched Deets on top of the Ebola tainted toilet seat. He shocked the hell out of me when he successfully peed. It was cause for celebration: his first public urination. 

By request we began searching for ice cream but were told by a server they weren't allowed to serve ice cream due to airport rules and regulations. Though I am pretty sure he made that up, I convinced Deets pancakes would be just as good and I gratefully set our stuff down and Margo into the only existing high chair in the whole terminal. Deets refused to eat the pancakes because they didn't taste like Daddy's so instead I placated him with movies and watched Margo throw the pancakes covered in apricot jam and powdered sugar onto the ground while I chugged my teeny beer. It was a moment of calm amidst the pit sweat filled vigor of the morning. 

Deets very concerned about the swirly letters and
unconcerned about his surly mom.

Then along came Ms. Vuitton-McGucci and her baby toting husband with their covetous stroller filled with shopping bags. Requesting a high chair she was denied and her glowering eyes settled on my smeared (but non-crying) daughter. Man, if looks could kill. Freakin' Vienna.

Eventually we got our boarding passes and meandered to the gate where we found the chairs filled with folks from Canada and Hong Kong, joining forces for a pilgrimage in Bosnia. They sported matching t-shirts with the Virgin Mary screen printed and giant color coded name tags indicating which assigned group they belonged to. Minutes before the boarding announcement, one particular lady sidled up to us with a bag full of chocolates shoving them into Deets' hands without asking. 

Glued to the window as if the plane would leave without him.

He was already jacked on sugar from the ice cream bar I finally found at the far end of the terminal, and napless so I wasn't thrilled with his gift. Turns out neither was the crew member who offered to open his candy for him, only to find his sweaty and grimy palms melted the chocolate. It smeared all over her, and she started yelling at me to help her. 

I stood there with my bags and a volatile baby who also had chocolate oozing off her. Again, I set her down to grab the wipes and again she started screaming. As if the hilarity needed to continue, the old lady walked past oblivious to what she had done, and told me my children needed some nap time. Uh huh, sure thing lady. 

Fiiiiiiiinalllly, we made it onto the bus and eventually onto the plane. The Austrian Airlines crew immediately offered more candy to my children and perhaps I was a bit short in my reply of "no thank you" because suddenly was I persona non-grata for the remainder of the flight into Sarajevo. Alas, as the plane descended into gorgeous rolling mountains, I was but minutes away from a much anticipated reunion with Mark. Without caring, I retrieved our stroller that suffered a broken wheel part and rolled into the waiting area where the kids only had eyes for dad; nothing else mattered. We were home. 

Onward to another adventure in a new city...