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...

Ames and Jo in the Ro: Lake Balea

We left Sibiu in a bit of a daze and ready to get back to Bucharest but we needed to make one last stop. I took the ladies up the Transfagaras Highway.  With blue sky stretching over both sides of the mountain I ignored my whiny stomach that protested every curve of the road by rolling the windows down in the refreshing 45 degree air. I mean really, who gets car sick when they drive themselves? It's just ridiculous.

Below Lake Balea: Transfagaras Highway.

At any rate, we parked at Lake Balea and my wimpy, lethargic self wanted no part in this thing called "exercise" especially at a mind blowing 6,670 feet. However following Jo's initiative, she singlehandedly whipped my attitude into shape. Before I knew it, all three of us were hauling ass up the trail and we didn't even need a stinkin' key-chain flashlight to do it.

Above Lake Balea from the top-ish part of our hike,
right after a marmot screeched at our intrusion.

Baures bringing it ON.
Forget bear watching...

Spunem cascaval! 

True to random Romanian fashion, there was a blue bendy-bus from Germany creeping along the two lane mountain road on the way home. We got stuck behind it for several looooong painful miles before I felt ballsy enough to pass. Where did this thing come from?! 

We cracked ourselves up pretending to be the driver of that bus, making multiple 90 degree turns all along Lake Vidraru with his three foot steering wheel and air suspension chair. Ok maybe you had to be there, but Google Map that freakin' lake and see what we went through...

It maxed out at 10mph had to make complete stops around the curves. 

Ames and Jo in the Ro: Sibiu

Continuing our Romanian tour the girls and I loaded up the car after a gut stuffing breakfast at the Zarnesti pensuine and said our goodbyes to the bunica who told us all about her four grown children, her bad hip, and the recipe for making high quality clatites (pancakes.) All in Romanian of course but I was thrilled understand her stories and act as interpreter for my friends.

I drove them to visit Bran Castle where we joined the masses touring one of Romania's most popular pieces of history. A local tourist perked up immediately when she heard them speak and insisted we detour to Suceava, only a mere 350km away to see the painted monasteries. In theory I agreed with her, but we would head to  Sibiu, a town known for its Saxon heritage.

Life of Bran began in 1211. Check out their fantastic website
to hear all the details and drama. Seriously.

We would stay with some acquaintances Mark met via embassy business. The husband: a professional photographer, teacher, and local government board member who never sleeps. The wife: an engineer for a clothing company that manufactures high-end work-related wearables, and festival organizer extraordinaire and enthusiastic Rotary club member.  Oh, and two kids. Greeting us like old friends, Amy and Jo were treated to a personal tour of Sibiu. We met a local orthodox priest, stared at beautiful iconography and learned about architectural directional drilling to reinforce miscalculated church walls.

The big one. 

Ironically, directional drilling is a subject of extreme interest for my best friend because of her husband's career in energy procurement. And since our local Sibiu friend is a genius of many random subjects, they lit up the night talking at length about the subject.

After visiting a few churches, the famous fortified city walls and loitering in the piatas, we spent several more hours at the kitchen table engaged in some of the more interesting conversations we've had in a while. On the first night alone we learned about homeopathy, a man named Bill McCallister, the sacredness of milk chocolate versus dark due to restrictions during communism, and sewing machine inventory processes just to name a few.

The next day the husband took us to an 800 year old fortified church that overlooks the beautiful quiet town named Cisnadoara. Back in the villagers defended themselves against intruders by chucking giant rocks over the walls. Those same rocks were like badges of honor for the manly men who manned up and carried them from the river bed and up into the citadel to prove their manliness in order to marry the glorious women of the town. 

Jo Jo thinking
that hard, original wood.

After admiring the scenery and history the four of us hopped back into our vehicles for a tour of Sibiu's Astra Village Museum where we walked through hundreds of years of houses, churches and mills. At one point our loquacious guide mentioned he'd need to slip out for a civil wedding in the afternoon, but our company proved too good and he opted for beers and YouTube videos on the patio instead. 

He hadn't heard about the Asiana Airline's plane crash debacle with the names, so we felt it necessary to inform him. He was laughing so hard he insisted we share it with his wife later on that day. So that was how our evening ended, after an entertaining visit to the Brukenthal Art Museum where the room monitors chased us around the room with their death stares. To me, art is always worth seeing once. I saw their collection twice and certainly had my fill of darkly painted canvases and sad looking faces.

Yet again time passed too quickly and we found ourselves on the road again for one last stop: the famous Lake Balea and the Transfagaras Highway...

Hiking 101: What NOT To Do.

Last week I went on a hiking trip with a couple of girlfriends visiting from the States. Nature lovers and hiking enthusiasts from Buffalo, Wyoming (which sits at the foothills of the Big Horn Mountain Range), we signed up to go bear watching in the Piatra Craiului National Forest. Not having high expectations to see an actual bear, we were mostly excited to leave the Bucharest cityscape and get some much wanted exercise.

 Farmers, sheep herders, mountain guides think nothing
of tackling this terrain. Hard core.

 
The day had been cold and rainy, but bits of sunshine poked through the late afternoon clouds as the company owner arrived to pick us up. She began the conversation with,  "well I didn't bring release forms, so please don't do anything stupid" which was followed by obvious disapproval of our attire and the question, "have you ever even been in the great outdoors before?"

Subtle. I know it sounds like we showed up in flip flops and tank tops but we really did prep for our trip, guided by her emailed recommendations based on light hiking necessities like a bottle of water and comfortable shoes.


Undeterred we met our expert guide and hopped into the 4x4 with plans to return by 8:30pm for dinner. We bounced around the rough road, flew around unguarded curves and enjoyed the scenery. Romanian mountains are visionary: with farms and thick leafy trees plotted along the rising gradients the unending green sprawl inspires all sorts of suppressed emotion. With hearts lifted, our guide led us to the winding trail and took off practically skipping up the mountain.

New York City this way, Shanghai that way.

After a solid hour of uphill pursuit we settled into a field of new tree growth with clear instructions to keep our eyes open and mouths closed. The silence was deafening, broken only by bleating goats, barking deer and the ringing of cowbells. For about 60 seconds of titillating suspense, at one point the guide thought he spotted a bear 200 yards away. Turns out the ass of a bear looks similarly like the ass of a cow.


Peaceful yes, but while scanning the land for further signs of movement I drifted off, feeling my head drop and snap to attention.  Water will freshen me up, I thought. So I reached for my bag which conveniently held the suggested items in addition to extra layers of long underwear for the evening.

Caught nodding off on a tree stump. How zen.

Earlier that day I sent Deets to school with my old backpack so I packed up my messenger bag instead, but with its industrial strength Velcro, I failed to discreetly open it. It was worse than opening a Wurther's Original Caramel wrapper during church vespers. Upon opening the bag, I was almost knocked flat from the waft of spilled red wine on my jacket from earlier on. Bemused, the girls watched on as I tried to air dry the crinkly rain jacket and then getting my head stuck in the extra layers of wool long underwear I tried to pull on.

Then it happened. I was stifling a laugh and started to cough uncontrollably. Likely scaring off any dim hopes of animal sightings I mouthed my apologies to my friends who were also snickering at my idiocracy.  I finally caught my breath and settled down to take a drink of water. I just happened to bring my son's water-bottle that he filled with old carbonated water, a flavor just gross enough to make me spit it all over myself.

Hard at work. Ready for them bears.

Finally accepting that our evening would likely end without a best to grace our presence and shivering from the dropping temps, I requested to start moving. And so, hiking down the mountain in the dimming light, we thought we'd be heading for the car but of course our guide had different plans: make us stumble down highly technical terrain and take a detour for an extra 60 minutes. In the dark. Obviously our guide thought nothing of it, as he mentioned this was his childhood stomping grounds and pranced down the trail only occasionally using a teeny keychain flashlight to make sure bears weren't loitering ahead.

My high tech binoculars.

Yeah, so we blindly followed him back bit not without difficulty. Thank goodness for my girlfriend's cell phone had enough juice to light our way to the car. After insisting our guide to slow down a bit as the trail gave way to God-knows-what, he asked me "why I didn't like hiking in the dark" and it took all my patience to keep me from punching him in the mouth.

As all great things come to an end, we did arrive back to the car two hours late with only mild irritation, muddy shoes, a few bruises and absolute hunger. The good news was we'd have cold beer, and a bunica (Romanian grandmother) waiting to stuff us with sarmale, ciorba de fasole and clatite back at the pensuine.
One "adventure" down and more to come...

Good friends who tolerate all my awkward shenanigans are hard to find.