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| Train Zagreb-Belgrade |
I travel fast, very fast, too fast maybe, crossing Europe in an instant, in a waft of air that brought me here and takes me across the Balkans, this undiscovered frontier now unraveled bit by bit, even if swiftly, even if the soft breeze that takes me rushes my way in these lands. Only three days after leaving home I reached Ljubljana, a city which I encountered frozen, hidden bellow a thick white mantle that envelops the city in a dense winter and transforms it in a fairytale, a Christmas tale which I wander while leaving behind faint footprints, engraved in the snow at the pace I walk up and down these streets, cross the river back and forth through its bridges, climb up to its castle to contemplate the vast whiteness that covers this country, before climbing back down to snuggle the night in a plate of goulash and a glass of wine. Despite all this beauty, I end up departing as fast as I arrived, moving only a bit further to Novo Mesto, still in Slovenia, where I meet an old friend and let myself embrace in the immense hospitality offered by his family. But not even this coziness makes me linger, I’m taken again by the urgency to depart, being driven by the same friend to a new country, Croatia, to its capital Zagreb, also embraced by the cold and which streets I also wander, but not before meeting another old friend who too makes sure to make me rapidly welcome in this strange land. Zagreb is also the place where I start making new friends, amongst travel companions who cross my way. Of the varied chats I engage in, the one that marks me the most is that with a Serbian emigrant, who is desperately trying to go back to Belgium, where he worked, from where he was expelled, and to where he wants to return so he can rejoin his family and continue making his living. He wants me to help him, asking if I have a car and can drive him across the border or near enough so he can jump across. Enveloped in sincere sadness I tell him I don’t have one, being unable to help him despite my willingness. The only thing I can do is watch him grow miserable at the pace hope caves in and he is again taken by suffering. I’m no foreigner to the pains of living away from home, it is after all a very Portuguese feeling, a reality of the past and again one of the present, which I experienced in the flesh, mine and that of both my grandfathers and other family members, but which I never felt this way, in the coldness in which the clandestine nature of your work separates you from your family on a far away land. Despite it all we follow opposite directions, as I also do not linger in Croatia, continuing my way east, to Serbia this time, taking the train to Belgrade. Somewhere along the way I start to unconsciously look around for traces of destruction, sings of that recent war that made so many headlines during my youth and which massacred thousands, maybe along this train line, certainly along this border I’m now crossing. I’m aware it’s been almost 20 years since the war ended, making the visible signs of destruction largely unnoticeable, at least through where I travel, even so the few ones that creep every now and then remind me that what I’m doing right now was impossible not too long ago. While observing the silent passengers of this train I can’t help to think about the pains they must carry inside, silent images of when they saw their house become a bloody battlefield. Despite my curiosity about the how’s and when’s I don’t break the silence, least so to discuss this subject, letting instead my body rock by the gentle bounce of the train along the lines, while letting my mind be taken away by the dark yellow afternoon that slowly downs over the Serbian plains. Despite all the sad memories, I find this country beautiful, joyful, especially its capital Belgrade, a vibrant city, captivating, mysterious, intense, made of new flavors, of pulsating rhythms. Silently the city cries for me to stay longer, but the urgency of my trip presses on, taking me unwillingly away from Belgrade, to where I nevertheless promise to return whenever possible. Continuously heading east, I advance in a fast pace, too fast, arriving to Bulgaria in a cold morning of its capital Sofia, in which I feel like traveling back to communist times when I enter the train station, a place where I cannot understand a word. After struggling to leave this place, I reach the city center, also filled with many reminiscences of the communist eastern bloc, which persist despite the obvious fast pace change brought by democracy. It is here that for the first time in this trip I’m obliged to stop, taken over by fatigue, certain that I moved too fast and that I can no longer travel this way. Even so I take only a short couple of days to rest, in Sofia and further afield in Plovdiv, old Bulgarian relic of the Roman empire where I’m also acquainted with some of the best food made in this country. But soon after I depart, yet again, proceeding further, heading farther away, infinitely towards east, traveling fast once more, maybe too fast, more than I wanted for sure, but taken by the need to reach India by a set date, a need which does not let me enjoy as much as I wanted the wonders of this so far undiscovered land. Europe silently has been telling me goodbye, languidly, first in the language I ceased to understand, then in the writing that became enigmatic, in the churches that became Orthodox, in the coffee that became Turkish, all in a crescendo of small changes that followed the speed at which I got farther away from home and approached the east of my world. Hallway of what awaits me, the east of Europe slowly unraveled the mysteries of the orient in a slow drawing of veils that aroused my curiosity and stimulated the excitement about the days to come, to start shortly, in Istambul, last port of the old Europe and gateway to Asia, which avidly awaits my arrival. I traveled fast, too fast, so it is no surprise that I feel happy when I reach Turkey, where for the first time in this journey I will linger, willingly, enjoying the moment with no haste to depart, simply savoring the sweet laziness of slowly becoming part of the places that I visit.
Somewhere along the Balkans, January 2013
