Desto3 will be publishing postcards and photographs from archived trips beginning in January 2016 on a weekly basis. Until then we’ll send a few from our latest trips which included two countries on our “much visited” list.

First, France. There’s a reason that this relatively small country plays host annually to more international visitors than any other country in the world, (including the U.S. and China). The country of France is the world’s #l tourist desto by far and the Eiffel Tower is the #1 paid tourist attraction. How come? The answer, as you might imagine, even if you’ve never been there yourself, but you HAVE eaten an éclair, is pretty easy to understand.

France is beguiling.

Each region has a distinctive character and offers varied opportunities for travelers to indulge in all kinds of pleasure. Not the least of these pleasures is the one afforded to the intellectuals among us: the incredible sense of world history that is EVERYWHERE in France. (Only Italy and Spain are home to more UNESCO World Heritage sites.)

In the Dordogne region the spectacularly preserved cave paintings of Lascaux date back to 18,000 B.C. You can’t actually get in the caves anymore (unless you know somebody with “connections”) because the caves are in danger of deterioration due to human exposure. So they built a kind of “faux Lascaux” which simulates the upper Paleolithic era quite impressively. Or so I’m told. The whole story of France, from that point on to the present day, all twenty thousand years of it, is rife with events and characters that  are universally well known as cultural, artistic or political icons. (That Eiffel tower is just one teeny-tiny, albeit popular, snippet of tourism paradise.)

And, yes, historically speaking France has seen more than its fair share of conflict and warfare. And, even though humanity seems immune to insight or learning anything whatsoever from history about the evils of war, apparently we sure do like to visit the scenes of carnage. (What’s that about? Sigh.)

And, so, after avoiding the much, much, much visited (by Americans) Normandy coast, in September, off we went to see what we had missed on our previous visits to all the other parts of France.

You will remember (from WWII movies and TV specials, if not your earnest studies about twentieth century history) that the Normandy Coast in the north of France is the scene of the American led invasion known as “D-day” at Omaha Beach, where on June 6th, 1944 the allies invaded occupied France (military codename: Operation Neptune) and turned the tide of the Nazi occupation of Europe. The Battle of Normandy is the official term for the military operations conducted jointly by the British, French and Canadian armies against Germany in occupied France from June 6 – September l, 1944. Operation Overlord includes the American involvement in liberating France from June 6 – August 25th.  (I’ve already forgotten what happened during that last week when Americans weren’t involved but this is an opportunity for some independent study should you be so inclined.) BTW, if you’re already lost in the proper noun-fest that was this part of WWII, join the club. You’d have to have a degree in military science to understand and retain all the jargon that was WWII.

If you slept through the twentieth century in your World History class and you were born after 1940, the ancient (to you) history of this invasion can best be understood now by watching the Steven Spielberg movie, Saving Private Ryan (starring Tom Hanks) – a kind of cinematic Cliff’s Notes on the Normandy Invasion.

The final scene of that (much lauded and awarded) movie will also give you a glimpse into the current attraction to Normandy for many of the American visitors who’ve been there. The Normandy American Cemetery and Memorial covers 72 acres of prime real estate overlooking the English Channel at the site of Omaha Beach and it features the somber stark white grave markers of over 9,000 Americans buried there. (More than 4,000 Americans were shot down in this single military operation.)

Though the character of Private Ryan is a fictitious one, the final scene depicting his return in his dotage to pay homage to Tom Hanks’ character at the American cemetery in Colleville-sur-Mer is played out often on these grounds for reals. There were more than a few “pilgrims” like that there the day we visited, all of them 90+ and accompanied by much younger family members. Groups like that were by far the most numerous tourists visible and it made me wonder who will support the economy of the village when these old WWII veterans die off.

Of course the answer is simple and was revealed immediately when we moved on down the road to the other two major tourist destos in this northern part of France, the Musée de la Tapisserie de Bayeux, and Le Mont Saint-Michel, both also living monuments to the human fascination with tribal warfare and human attempts to be in control of geography.

The Bayeux Tapestry is a single piece of fabric measuring 230 feet in length and 20 inches wide, hand-embroidered with a historical depiction of all the goings on between the Anglos and the Saxons up until the climax of the Norman conquest, which was the Battle of Hastings, which, for your information, was fought on my birthday (October 14th) in the year 1066. (Just in case you want to send a card next year.) The who what when and where about this “first known comic strip” is described by those ubiquitous museum appliances known as “hearing devices” that you turn on at the beginning and then slowly march along from section to section as some guy with a haughty British accent gives you the D.L. via pretty shoddy earphones. The tapestry itself is remarkably preserved behind glass, (everybody agrees on this, though not on anything else about it, like who made it and when and where) and for a piece of fabric that’s nine hundred years old it looked in better condition than some of the underwear I had packed for the trip. (Traveler’s tip: Pack your oldest underwear and sox; throw them out along the way making room for new purchases and souvenirs!)

Mont St. Michel was by far my favorite tourist trap in all of northern France. Everyone else apparently thinks so too because if you don’t get there the minute they open the gates, you’ll be trampled by the hoards that arrive soon after opening. (Think of Disneyland on Labor Day weekend and triple that.) It’s one of UNESCO’s World Heritage Sites so more than 3 million people visit every year (most of this year’s 3 million were there the day we were). What draws them? Hard to say. As monasteries go, there isn’t anything absolutely unique about Le Mont St. Michel, except that it’s situated on a tiny tidal island at the confluence of the Couesnon River that made it marvelously defensible when the tides came in. Plenty of would-be pilgrims to the monastery met their watery fates when high tide rolled in. More than one or two monarchs thought it made for a nifty prison over the centuries, too. All the usual tussle between the Normans and the Anglos as to who owned it and who fired which cannons on which would-be conquerors occurred, and that’s enough history right there to give Brad Meltzer a permanent boner.

In short, everything you will see up there on the northern coast of France is evidence of why we can’t have nice things. Too many meanies and too much human avarice and greed. We seem fascinated by human history and we spend inordinate amounts of time and money visiting sites of critical events but we don’t seem to be making much headway when it comes to ostentatious displays of barbarism and brutality. Northern France is the scene to more than the average, I suppose. But, it’s quite beautiful if you look past that. And, huge big fun to bike.

As a side note, we took the high-speed rail from Cologne, Germany into Paris to connect with another train to Caen to get up to Normandy. It hadn’t even been two weeks since the thwarted terror attack on that other Paris bound train. Now, of course the whole world knows that the mastermind behind the Paris attacks on November 13th was the same guy who sent the train killer out. We love France and Paris and we have a lot of love for some people who live there, so even though we try to keep Desto3 from commenting on world politics, we’d just like to say…fuck that guy. (You’re welcome.)

We, your intrepid Desto3 guides, stipulate thus: Germany is a pretty tame desto, all possibilities for international travel considered. And, if you’ve seen one German city, you might think that you have seen them all. But, hey, au contraire, mon ami (Pardon the Francais, sie vous plais, but I’m on a train bound for Paris as I write this so it’s as good a time as any to bust out the sketchy French.)

Regarding the Deutschland – here’s what I want to say about Cologne, Germany: It is one German desto that will surprise you. It is the Portland of Germany. An island of tolerance and gentle folk who live and let live. Think the Austin of Texas. Or, the Berkeley of California. It is decidedly NOT Berlin or even Munich. (No quarrel with either of those two fine Teutonic cities.)

As it is one of the very last weekends of the summer folks were out in the town in every district in droves, and not the usual hoards of American tourists one has come to expect in western Europe. Locals and other Germans are in town to visit the Cathedral, probably the biggest foreign and domestic draw, but also to get a head start on the Carnival season or what is popularly referred to as “the fifth season”.

Carnival really doesn’t occur officially until November but like elsewhere, there’s the time-creep of any season that promises a surcease from the ordinary routines of regular life and promises instead even a modicum of Fun. The locals say, “You should see the Carnival season when things really get bumping.” But even in September you can definitely feel a charge in the air that signals something very big is coming. In Cologne, Carnival eclipses the Octoberfest that preoccupies the rest of Germany. You won’t go to Cologne to celebrate Octoberfest. (Head to Munich.) But Carnival as described by our hosts sounds like Mardi Gras, German style, which means of course, lots and lots of FOOD and lots and lots of ALCOHOL.

Cologne does boast the requisite number of breweries (this is Germany after all) and brew houses, but we didn’t see a single quart sized schooner like the type you are used to drinking out of from Germany to Wisconsin during the Octoberfest. Instead the freshly brewed beer – “kirsch” is one – is served in short, slender iced glasses like tall shot glasses and in a typical brew house in Cologne you must remember to put a coaster on top of your glass to signal the wait staff “no more” when you’ve had your fill. Failing to do so summons another and yet another with alarming alacrity. Even though this potion is relatively “light”, enough of them will knock you on your American ass just like any other beer will, given sufficient quantity. It’s best to drink your bir with a lot of good German wurst and other regional culinary delights.

In Germany (everywhere we’ve been so far) the cuisine is very heavily weighted in meat products. This is true in Cologne as well. There ARE vegetarian options on the menu, but we didn’t see any tables at the brew houses with anything remotely salad like atop them. (If you are a vegan, you’ll probably do better to hit up one of the new and very trendy places over in the “student quarter” where a hipper, less Germanic cuisine is very popular now. Both districts are jam-packed with diners late into the evening but the vibe is just a little bit different in each. Try both. The brew houses, of course, are more authentically “German” and the other restaurants elsewhere reflect an internationality one finds almost everywhere now.

Climb the Cathedral steps (costs a tiny toll) and maybe take a city tour by bus to get the general lay of the land. Walk along the river. Hang out in the large square in front of the Romanesque Museum (wherefrom you can peek down onto the floor one flight below street level to see one of Europe’s most impressively preserved Roman tile (look up this).

Probably a ton other cool things to do if you have more time. There are after all over 30 museums, more than 100 schools (higher ed) and 250 churches in the city of Cologne.

And, of course the WWII history is a bit of a draw even now. Allied forces bombed them to the ground during WWII (Everything except the big Cathedral which, depending on who you talk to was either preserved as a marker and the way the bombers got their bearings to find the city and bomb it flat, or, it was “protected” because it houses the remains of the “Three Kings”. (The Maggi or Wise Men, if you aren’t RC.) You pick.

Grab some traditional German food which is ten kinds of delicious and very, very fattening. Some people say Cologne is just another western European industrial city, but Desto says, just go. Don’t write Cologne off like some kind of “Cleveland”. It’s got way more character than you will expect.

Bardarbunga!  I know it sounds like something that your born again uncle Phil might yell out loud if he missed that nail head with his ballpeen hammer and whacked his thumb. But, it isn’t. It’s an erupting volcano in Iceland. (Happening right the hell now, Uncle Phil!)

In Iceland it’s spelled Baroarabunga with a few fancy little marks that mean nothing to us – Icelanders have their own “special” language which has linguistic roots in Western Norwegian and Faroese dialects. Since there are fewer than a half million inhabitants, (I’m being kind; there’s really closer to 300K), none of us are likely going to be ordering up Icelandic from Rosetta Stone. (No worries. Everybody speaks excellent English. Better than most Americans.)

Spelling be hanged, Bardarbunga is situated in the middle of the tiny island nation. It’s just one of many active subarctic volcanoes in Iceland and this geological drama is just one of the things that make life uniquely interesting here.

Two thirds of the entire population of the country live in Reykjavik, a charming coastal city located roughly where Los Angeles is on our map if Iceland were the continental U.S. The other major cities are all in the north and all likewise on the coast. (A continuous highway rings the entire island and joins up every major city.)

The interior of Iceland is a geologically active and forbidding zone with a huge number of active volcanoes, (remember the one that erupted in 2010 and shut down air travel all over Europe? I do. I got stuck in France. Boo hoo.) Also, Iceland boasts a large number of constantly emitting geysers and some of the world’s largest glaciers. Every one of these marvels bears a cute Icelandic name that makes them sound like characters right out of Lord of The Rings. Strokkur. Vatnajokull. Eldfell and Eldgja. (My personal favorite, Hekla, which some people might think is a good name for a pet if you were of a mind that naming your kitty after a volcano sounds like a great idea.)

There’s definitely a Tierra del Fuego vibe in Iceland and that is due to the similar climate. While both TdF in the Southern Hemisphere and Iceland up in the North are situated in extreme latitudes, (Iceland is almost “Arctic”) both locations enjoy milder average temps than you would expect because they get the warm ocean currents. And by mild I mean an average range of 32F – 48F pretty constantly. (And, wettish with an average precipitation of 118 inches annually.)

Secondarily, the “vibe” you will enjoy in both regions, north and south, is about their social cultures which likewise bear some similarity. Both Ushuaia in Patagonia and Reykjavik in Iceland are distinctly “young” towns. There don’t seem to be any old folks around. I asked a few locals, “Where are all the parents?” They seemed quite amused by my observation that the whole place seemed like a gigantic college campus. Not to say that there’s anything wrong with that, but in both cities, after a couple days I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had flown in for “parents’ weekend” but I couldn’t find my own kids.

There’s lots to do in Reykjavik and a good way to scope things out is the Segway tour that you can pick up down on the harbor. (They rent bikes, too.) You’ll cover most of the city in less than a half a day with a guide included in the price. (Iceland is relatively expensive like all of the Nordic countries and you will need their currency, the Krona.) Outside of town you might want to take the low-rent option and ride a tourist bus out to the various (but majestic and other worldly) tourist traps. You can also upgrade to a rental car and drive out to see the natural wonders on your own. Another excellent option, but it takes a full week, is the cruise that circumnavigates the island and covers the whole Icelandic enchilada. Speaking of food, you won’t starve, but, neither will you swoon. You’ll be deliriously happy if you are a big fan of mutton. Reykjavik is a super safe city with virtually zero crime.

A little random trivia for you:

·      Internally, Iceland is almost 100% independent of non-renewable energy sources. Exceptions are for oceanic vehicular transport. (Ships and boats, if you will.)

·      Iceland was one of the very first global nations to legalize same sex marriages and Iceland became the first country in the world to have an openly gay head of government. (When Jóhanna Sigurðardóttir became prime minister.)

·      Iceland has both Universal Health Care and the fourth highest life expectancy in the world (81.8 years). Kind of odd because they are nowhere to be seen! Maybe they’re all in Miami!

·      According to the Global Peace Index, Iceland is the most peaceful country in the world, due to its lack of armed forces, low crime rate, and high level of socio-political stability.

·      Handball is the national sport of Iceland. (Ha!)

·      Just about the only negative thing about Iceland is that Iceland gave the world Bjork. (Go ahead. I’m ready for the hate, Bjork fans. Bring it.)

********** CAUTION! ADULT MATERIAL WITHIN *****************

Can we talk about haggis? I can make you this promise: if you follow us to Scotland, you WILL talk about haggis. More than you can ever imagine. And, the chances are very, very good that you will EAT haggis, at least once, more if you decide (as we did) that haggis is one of those things like oral sex – an absolute sensual delight, and sort of strangely delicious. Or, alternatively, if the quality is poor, it can ruin your whole day and even throw you off giving it another go any time soon.

Let’s be honest, no two episodes of certain human activities are exactly the same, and eating haggis is one of those that lies on a broad continuum. When it’s good, it’s really good, but when it’s bad, whoo boy! We had both the good and the bad. (All of it is ugly.) But, when in Rome, (or the Scottish Highlands as the case may be)…

For those who are asking themselves, “wtf is she talking about?” Allow me to enlighten. Haggis is a form of meat product. One generally purchases haggis from a butcher shop in Scotland, however it is also found packaged in grocery stores. We had haggis appetizers that were startlingly delicious little canapés that were served with a fantastic flight of Scotch whiskey (in thimble-sized glasses), and we had haggis sandwiches (nothing I would recommend, unless say, you are a fan of SPAM jerky) and we had haggis on toast with breakfast (don’t even ask).

We even visited haggis at the source at a wonderful butcher shop in Sterling. The head butcher there waxed poetic about the stuff for long enough to let us know that his “haggis talk” is one of the main amusements available in his little town for tourists passing through. He made his version of haggis sound pretty good and it even looked kind of good, but alas, we were not in the market for “raw” haggis without the facilities to prepare it. Maybe we really missed out or might be another bullet dodged. We will just never know.

Food-wise, Scotland is famous also for fresh fish and it is always available on almost every menu in every restaurant and expertly prepared in the better restaurants. Lake fish is plentiful but coastal fish are lovely, too. No risks involved in the fish choice. Also in the food & beverage department you will want to hit up a Scotch distillery while in Scotland and up north these are everywhere. The vibe in the district (and within the tasting rooms) is “wine country chic” except of course the liquid refreshment is Scotch, not vino. We were told that the Japanese are buying up all the distilleries in Scotland but we did not confirm that rumor.

So, you’ve tasted haggis, you bought your friends an L80.00 bottle of scotch and next up, you have to go see the Loch Ness monster. Oh, you do, but not because you will see her. (You’ll see the plastic replica floating in the pond at the Loch Ness tourist trap and you’ll see the highly suspect film sightings if you pay the exorbitant entry fee – we did not; we are what you might call monster non-believers.) The reason to make the effort to get to Loch Ness of course is the startling geography and stunning beauty, within a day trip of Glasgow airport.

We recommend for a quick and dirty trip to Scotland, at the very least, do Edinburgh, Inverness, Loch Ness and Isle of Skye. The Scottish Highlands will blow your mind. You think you’ve seen green? Hah! Go to Scotland. Now, you’ve seen green. Think you’ve seen some interesting topography? Just go already. Nothing compares. Nothing. It is tempting to think that there is indeed a benevolent deity up there in the (Isle of) Skye. One that has favored the Scottish people with a land of unsurpassed beauty, and, okay, if not the greatest culinary experiences, at least well, the greatest Scotch whiskey in all the world.

But, then…there are the midges. Midges are something like mosquitos but much smaller. They exist in clouds and the bite packs a wallop for such a tiny pest. The existence of midges make it impossible to open your doors or ride in the car with the windows open. Signs in the inns warn of the hazards of open windows and doors. You cannot stroll around in the dusky evening without attracting an actual personal detail of these wicked little demons from the netherworld.

So, if you do believe that there is a God, and if you come to believe that he must dearly love the Scottish because he surely favored the Scottish people in all other things, just remember, he also gave them the midges and just one bite from one flea sized mother fucker midge, and you will know: God is kind of a dick, too.

Things you will need for your 24 hour layover in London:

1. Approximately $200 for the taxi ride from Heathrow into London (anywhere near Buckingham palace). There are alternative modes of transport and these are dirt cheap IF they are in operation. We had none of these available to us. Temporarily out of service! Tough luck, Yanks!

2. Reservations. For everything. Especially if you are there “in season” which, in London seems to be always. It’s “possible” (not easy) to get lodging or a substandard meal or a last minute transport back to Heathrow on the morrow without arranging well in advance, but, be prepared for a sound British scolding for not thinking ahead. The only thing the Brits are willing to give you without prior notice is a curry take-away and an imperious lecture.

3. An iPhone. Apparently they screen visiting travelers as they proceed through customs. Everyone entering the UK MUST have an iPhone. You are also required to take a dozen selfies (or “us-ies” if you are traveling with others), in front of every fucking famous British structure, monument, clever pub sign, all uniformed personnel, (including the guards at the Palace and the doormen at the swankier hotels), and EVERY SINGLE signpost on EVERY SINGLE corner. I’m not sure how they monitor this. Ask Julian Assange. He knows.

4. Money. A boat load of it. A big boat, QE II at least. (See #1.) But, also, food is expensive in London, even fast food. Booze, too. Hotels are on a par with New York prices or steeper. Our only outing was a quick dinner and thank god we downgraded to a “less formal” place at the last minute. I don’t know about you but I am not overly fond of dropping several hundred dollars on a meal I will instantly regret and forget. (Yeah, yeah, I know. Everybody (Anthony Bourdain) says the Brits have come a long way in their culinary efforts. Meh. (I am positive that Anthony Bourdain is selling out.) Although, we did have a very good meal at the Heathrow Holiday Inn on our way home. You will doubt. I expect that.

5. Sunscreen. Does that make you think I am mad as the Hatter? Seriously, this was like the 5th time I’ve been in London (mostly shorties on layovers) and every single time, except for the one last January, it was sweltering and relentlessly sunny. Maybe I’m just the lucky one. But, I say, better to be prepared and pleasantly surprised than to be forced to BUY sunscreen in downtown London. Calculating time (from your precious 24 hours) spent on locating it, and the dear price that the stuff commands, one would think that their entire national inventory is apparently produced by 3 Nubian eunuchs who work a scant 2 days a year. Slim pickins and you’re going to pay out the ass. Go on. Throw in a travel size tube of spf 30 with your umbrella. You’ll surely need one of these items.

6. A sense of humor. Honestly, is something horribly wrong happening to the British character or what? This is the country that gave us Monty Python for crissakes. This trip everybody seemed to be having their monthlies, starting with the “greeters” at the airport, (this is what you call a “greeting”?!). Then on to the whiny, “there-are-no-English-people-left-in-London” taxi driver, and even on to the wait staff in the pubs. How can you be unhappy if you give people beer for a living? Everybody was cranky and irritable and humorless. Even the immigration guy gave me a little grief. First, he looked at (examined) every single stamp in my passport. I have a LOT of stamps in my passport. He suggested that I have too many stamps in my passport. Really. Something – thank you, Jesus! – told me not to tell him I was CIA when he asked what my profession was. (Just in case the NSA is reading, I am NOT in the CIA.) I told him I was a writer. He gave me a very suspicious going over. There’s a first time for everything. I just blinked at him like a gecko. He went through my passport again. Seriously, I spent more time with that immigration officer dude than I spent in at least one of my marriages. Finally he took Pablo’s passport. He has twice the stamps I have. I could see that Dudley was puzzled, even distressed. Before he could call for back-up from the Home Office, I finally offered up, “We’re retired.” Ah ha! The magic words. All suspicion vanished. Instantly. It was a little unnerving.

Later, lounging around our hotel room, pondering the day’s events I came up with the following theory. I think that Interpol gives international spies code words to expedite ingress and egress from foreign destos. That day the passwords were, “We’re retired.” I just lucked out. Again.

Sorry about the recent hiatus dear friends and followers. Your faithful Desto3 team has been busy carousing with French (also Ukrainian/American) rock stars, sampling the delights of modern western medicine and trying a little Hollywood on for size. These are three separate adventures, alas, none of these can be shared. You know the drill…what happens in O.P. stays in O.P. We are sworn to secrecy. Zip.

But, we’re baaaaack. Not back back. But, back in the game. Back in the saddle. Back in travel-mode. Back on the job. Reporting to you today from Bosnia-Herzegovina, and also Montenegro, our postcard will be all about several tiny little tiny towns in that region (still in the former Yugoslavia).

After Sarajevo, Mostar was our first stop. The local guidebook calls Mostar “the greatest pearl of the Herzegovina necklace”. And, it just might be that. A relatively unheralded town, it’s been on the international radar since 2005 when the “old bridge” in Mostar was declared a World Heritage site by Unesco. The “old bridge” is actually the new “old bridge” since the original one, built in 1566, was destroyed by “servants of the evil power” in 1993. You can not exaggerate the enmity felt and expressed by the citizens of Mostar toward the jerks who blew up the bridge. In reality, the original stone bridge connected the significant geographic divide of the Neretva river that separated Eastern and Western Herzegovina and the banks of the river within the city of Mostar. Symbolically, and maybe even psychologically, the old bridge represented an actual co-operative and tolerant era that present day Mostarians believe endured for nearly five centuries. Just like elsewhere in the Balkans, you will find no dearth of “monuments”, including cemeteries commemorating either outright war or just the unlucky participants. You could spend a full month visiting these on both sides of the river. Likewise plenty of religious architecture, representing all the usual suspects, has been constructed, destroyed and reconstructed, and you can visit almost all of them now as tourist attractions. The only Jewish Synagogue in all of Herzegovina was built in Mostar circa 1889, but after the “immigration of the Jews” (a quote from the official guidebook – kind of gives you a hint about who is writing the history of Mostar for the tourism industry), in the early nineteen fifties saw it turned into The Puppet Theatre. It is still a theatre today.

But, what’s Mostar really like? It’s great! Hints of Florence, a smidge of Toledo, a flavor of some U.S. college towns. Great Rue du Crapola. A lingering ambience from centuries past of the brass artisans for which Mostar is famous. And, like provincial France and Italy, good food if you know where to go and how to avoid the typical tourist traps (which world-wide seem to over charge you for shit food). Most of the younger locals speak English pretty well and the streets seem extremely safe. (Mind you, Herzegovina is in between wars so now would be a great time to go. You never know when the haters are going to get riled up or bored and start mayhem. History lovers in particular will enjoy Mostar. And, it’s only a half day’s drive in between Sarajevo and the coast of Montenegro…

…Our next desto. We stayed in an efficiency apartment (owned by Serbs) in the town of Budva. As in Serbia, all commerce in Budva is regulated by the “who do you know?” network. Budva, maybe most of the coast in Montenegro, is the tourism playground of the Serbs. The place is completely over-run with Serbs. They vacation there in much the same way northern Americans vacation in Miami. Annually. And, many wealthy Serbs own condos or villas there. The other highly plentiful group, (seen populating the beaches and the nicer beach resorts in vast numbers), is the young nouvou riche set from Russia. We heard more than a few indelicate remarks about this population from our Serbian friends. It would seem that all is not exactly hunky dory between these folks on the social front, but the Russians have the Euros so, “Welcome to Budva, Comrades!”

From Budva we took a car ride up the coast (windy, narrow and gorgeous – think Pacific Coast Highway in California) to Kotor, another very popular tourist destination. It’s crowded like you can’t believe pulling in the day trippers off the cruise ships that leave from Dubrovnik, and the only way to escape the maddening crowds is to make the climb up to the top of the mountain that looks down over the harbor. Cruise people generally are not the sort to make a two to three hour climb in the heat. (Maybe if the dessert buffet was up there…naaaahhh, not likely).

Then we stopped at a couple beaches, (one remote and private) and one completely developed and “lousy with Russians” – a direct quote, and then we went back to Budva for a great fish dinner and one of the best wines of the trip.

One interesting observation after our dedicated beach day: about half the European bathers (males) are now wearing board shorts ala the beach goers of the good old US of A. The other half have still not gotten the memo, proudly sporting big manly white bellies over Speedo style swimming costumes. And, sadly for Pablo, the women of the Balkan coast do not sunbathe topless, although in my experience, even in France and Spain, the ladies most likely to prance about in the waves without a top usually look more like my poor old mum (may she rest in peace) than the Baywatch Babes. So, leave the binoculars at home and move along. Nothing to see here.

You don’t hear too much about the city of Sarajevo these days, but I promise, you will.

Remember when everybody you knew was going to Tuscany a decade or so ago? And, then it was Prague. And, a while later, Peru, Ecuador and the Galapagos. Get packed. It is soon to be all about the Balkans. How do I know? Little things like (the travel blog) Foxnomad’s “Best City to Visit” competition naming Sarajevo in 2012, numero uno, beating more than one hundred other cities around the entire world. Also, if you put any stock into Lonely Planet’s recommendations, take note that a few years ago, on their list of “best cities in the world to visit”, the city of Sarajevo, ranked #43, beats out the other Balkan cities, Dubrovnik at #59, Ljubljana at #84, Bled at #90, Belgrade at #113, and Zagreb at #135 – all of them lovely – by a long shot. (You will pardon the expression.) I say that because if you mention Bosnia-Herzegovina, and in particular, Sarajevo, to anybody who has been drinking legally for a decade or more, those names, more than any thing else, likely conjure up the nasty little skirmish known as “The Bosnian War” which, sadly left it’s ugly mark on the city in the way of bullet holes and war ravaged bomb sites, still excruciatingly prominent throughout the nearby area and inside the city limits proper.

Prior to the 1992 Bosnian war, Sarajevo earned national attention as the site of the 1984 Winter Olympics, beating out Sweden and Japan for the honor. Back then, the Olympic committee picked Sarajevo as the ideal choice thinking that if indeed Sarajevo got the honor, the Olympics held in the non-aligned Yugoslavia would not be boycotted by the Cold War countries. Among the citizenry, there were also those aging naïve-niks who wished for a Sarajevo that might become a symbol of world peace in a country that had been the epicenter for centuries of religious wars as well for the actual location of the outbreak of WWI. (You can visit the site and stand on the sidewalk where the archduke Franz Ferdinand of Austria was blown away.) Well, as my old friend, Butch used to say, “If wishes were fishes, we’d all be in the sea.” Fat chance. Within a decade, Bosnia was again an ethnic slaughterhouse of epic proportions.

Is there a country with a bloodier more violent history than Bosnia? I don’t think so. If you look up, “cluster-fuck” in the dictionary, it says, “*see also the history of Bosnia”. Going way way way back.

To tell you the truth, I simply can’t truly grasp what the beefs are. Mostly religious of course. (Ain’t that always the way, Grace?) And, ethnic. And, tribal. And turf. But, who did what to whom, when and where and how? Wowza. As an aside, let me just give mad props, (as the youngsters say) to the school children of the Balkan nations whom I assume have to learn (and comprehend) the complex history of the region. It makes my brain hurt to even try.

Is it safe to go there now? Hell, yes. I never felt safer than I felt strolling up and down the main drag very late at night looking for the best pastry, among many, many fine looking opportunities to buy late night grub. In the afternoon, you can sit in a hookah bar smoking sheesha among tables populated by head scarf girls, Orthodox Serbs or crucifix wearing Catholics. Currently, the only conflict among the residents and café customers of Sarajevo seems to be who’s going to take the bill. (And, btw, I will give Bosnia an A in the food department.) Fabulous coffee, too and surprisingly decent wines.

So, to sum it up, it’s a safe city; it’s also a cultural and historical mecca, if a tiny bit war-torn. And, for those of you of the Roman Catholic persuasion who might be hoping to get your Marian apparition* on while taking a little vaykay, you’ll be jazzed to know that the Bosnian town of Medjugorje has become one of the most popular pilgrimage sites for Catholics in the world and has turned into Europe’s third most important apparition site, where each year more than 1 million people visit. It has been estimated that 30 million pilgrims have come to Medjugorje since the reputed apparitions began in 1981. Mickey Mouse, eat your heart out.

*For the non-Catholics, a Marian apparition is when the Holy Virgin Mary (mother of Jesus) makes a personal appearance just for you, usually giving you some instructions like “build me a cathedral here on this spot” or, “dedicate the rest of your entire life to prayer”. Oddly, I guess, it isn’t ever anything mundane like, “hey, go get me a Fudgesicle and be quick about it”.

Okay, non-believers, be nice. I had a client back in the day who for a while saw Homer Simpson in Starbucks occasionally and when he stopped showing up she just said, “Maybe he’s off caffeine.” My policy is, just because Homer (or Mary, Mother of God) doesn’t appear to me, that doesn’t mean I’m a bad person, or other people are crazy. But, neither of those things can be entirely ruled out either. Let this lesson be an opportunity for us all to practice religious tolerance. Hopefully it catches on in Bosnia.

Wish you were here.

Why?

Why Serbia? If I had a dollar for every person who asked that question, I could have paid for an upgrade to “upper class” on that last Virgin flight.

Even the Serbs asked a plaintive, yet sincerely incredulous, “Why are you here?”

So, I’m gonna tell you.

Country counters come in all stripes. The variety known as the “purists” pick nits, split hairs, quibble incessantly, take no prisoners, and they do NOT count a country if said country wasn’t a country when their little pooties touched down on foreign soil. (They look askance at the counters who double dip.) So, since Pablo tends toward this kind of purism in his counting ways, and because he was in Belgrade only back in the day, and not since…(back when Tito ruled the roost), he was loath to include “Serbia” in his final country count. Likewise, all the Balkan nations, which were back in the seventies collectively just one country, Yugoslavia. Not to be condescendingly informative, but, try to remember, Desto 3 has a few followers who were born in the nineties. They think Tito was Dorothy’s dog in “The Whiz”…IF they saw the musical. They don’t even know who Judy Garland was, forget Toto. Forget Tito.

Onward. We were bound to retrace Pablo’s steps through the Balkan region to legitimize the boy’s country count. Serbia, Bosnia-Herzogovina, Montenegro at least. Not Kosovo because we traveled with a Serbian guide in a car that had Serbian license plates and that’s a no-no. Essentially, to Serbs, Kosovo does not exist.

For my part, somewhere along the line I met and made fast virtual friends with a lovely young American writer Laura, an ex-pat living in Serbia with her Serbian husband and her two (adorable) Serbo-American kids. When I told her that I’d be in the neighborhood, so to speak, she did what is done (universally) in that part of the world, she invited us to visit. And, so we did.

Here are my reflections on the nation and the people:

I did some field research. Research consisting of informal interviews of every Serb I could get my hands on. “Give me the first 5 characteristics you think of when you try to describe the typical Serb.” Dozens of them were forthcoming. That’s my first observation. Serbs are extraordinarily accommodating – first example: we arrived at the Hotel Moskva in Belgrade at midnight our first night, starving as it had been at least an hour since we’d had anything to eat. The closing hotel kitchen nevertheless whipped us up a couple of scrumptious club sammies and sold us a bottle of (excellent) local vino while they literally swept the floors around us. They told us to enjoy ourselves and not fret about keeping them well past closing time. And, they meant it, or at least seemed to.

Notably, in response to my survey, every single subject I asked included the word “stubborn” in their five characteristics. Most of the time that was the first descriptor they listed. But, also, “loyal” came up a lot. And, “family oriented”. Which I think is why my ex-pat friend is living there.

The culture can’t be beat for child rearing. Serbs generally think that children are precious and they take delight in the little ones like no other culture I’ve seen. They also take the whole “it takes a village” thing very seriously. Your kid messes up and I’m the only adult on sight? It’s my duty to straighten them out. (But in a nice way. Like a beloved old Auntie. Children are revered in Serbia.) Also, nobody hesitates to issue unsolicited parenting advice in Serbia. To complete strangers. The neighbors will let you know in a red hot second if they think your kid needs a sweater, and what the hell is wrong with you anyway that your kid is wearing an item of clothing deemed “inappropriate”? You’ll get an earful. The best way to describe the Serbian ethics of child rearing is thus: the children of Serbia belong, in a way, collectively to everyone, as if the next generation truly is a national resource, and for that reason, everyone is obligated to protect them. Everyone has the right, nay duty, to care for them (maybe even discipline them).

One afternoon after we’d hooked up with our hired car and driver, Pablo gave a big pretzel to a kid on the street at our Serbian guide’s suggestion and when I told him that you can’t do such things in America, that a geezer handing out baked treats to kids on the street would find himself in prison answering to the name “Mr. Stranger Danger” before the sun set on the day, he shook his head and said, “Oh, yes, in America everyone has their lawyer’s number on speed dial.” (That’s a little insight for you re: what Serbs think about us!)

I’ll admit that at first I thought there were some boundary violations (in terms of “mind your own fucking business”), but then I kind of started to like it. A lot. There’s a real sweetness to the attitudes about childhood in that part of the world. We could learn from them. It was easy to understand why my writer friend and her husband packed the kids up and moved them to Serbia for their primary years. (And, I’m happy to report that this was apparently an excellent strategy because their little darlings are spectacular human beings. Bi-lingual human beings, too.)

Our guide was a 29 year old Serb who possessed seemingly infinite knowledge and absolutely zero reluctance to render his (informed) opinion. For a solid week, from breakfast to nightcaps, he lectured non-stop about all things Balkan. Culture, history, sociology, archeology. You name it. One day toward the end of our trip, half way up to the top of the climb overlooking Kotor in Montenegro (more about this area soon), after listening to Srki’s non-stop daily lecture, I asked him, “How much of what you are telling us is bullshit?” He paused and gave my question some earnest thought. “Three, maybe four percent,” he said. Then, “but, I embellish, not really make things up.” You’ll pardon me for giving him extra points for knowing the English word “embellish”. (Do you know the Serbian translation? I didn’t think so.) I also give him extra credit points for his candor and honesty about the recent history of the region, although for the life of me, I still can’t grasp the complexity of the border and ethnic issues in spite of my effort. The disputes in that region go back to antiquity. And, Serbs, remember, (everybody else, too) are stubborn.

In short, I came away understanding little more than I knew before I got there but I conclude this one thing: if you can do it, hire a guide and a driver if you have only a short time to cover a lot of ground. It’s so worth it.

A Few “Housekeeping Notes” from your Desto3 Team

In response to the widow Hopkins, writing from her deathbed in Great Britain and the (semi hostile) email I got this week about eliminating the comments section…

First, about eliminating the comments. We had to do it. Here’s why.

Those of you who have any kind of world wide webbie experience know this already: within twenty minutes of having a virtual presence on the internet, you will immediately (IMMEDIATELY) get quite a few emails from hopeful new subscribers with names like “Vladamir” or “Serge” telling you how much they like to “loffes your site”. (Vlad, this message is ambiguous at best,…do you mean you “love” my site, or you love to “laugh” at my site? I just don’t know.)Either way, Vlad, as 99% of me believes that you are a hacker somewhere in Eastern Europe who just wants to get into my system so you can try to sell worthless penis enhancing products to my entire subscriber list …No.

Even though there is that one percent of me (ego) that wants to believe that I am the best travel blogger out there, and I could have a HUGE virtual presence in Albania… I can’t take that chance. (I’m doing this for you, hostile subscriber!)

Also, and this is hard to admit, but I have to do it…(with some trepidation as I am recalling a short lecture I gave one semester which I titled, “Professor S. Has Better Things To Do…”. The gist of the lecture went something like this, “I have over 120 students this semester (adjunct faculty is horribly over-worked and exploited but that’s a different blog) so if every one of you writes me just ONE email that takes me only FIVE minutes to read and answer…do the math, people. That’s about twenty hours a week. Please, please, please!…only email me with SERIOUS problems or questions.”

Well. Now, what do you suppose happened? Of course. My mail doubled. My inbox was flooded. (Why are Psychology majors so perverse? And, so needy? Sheesh.) Anyhow, taking that known risk, let me just be honest here and tell you this sad truth. Because an admin has to respond individually to each and every comment, reading comments (and weeding out the ones from riff-raff Euro-trash) is a J.O.B. and nobody at Desto3 wants one of those. So, that’s why we disabled the comments on the site almost immediately. So sorry. (But, also, not really.)

Now, we DO love the comments that come via email to our MyNextDesto gmail address or personal email addies if you happen to have those. (So far, Vlad and Serge do not.)

Just know that even though we read everything, we might not be able to send you a response right away, or ever. (I am oddly even fond of the compulsive proof-readers out there!) And, I am saddened almost weekly that I can’t repost some of the sweet and funny comments we get from our “regs”. (You know who you are! Please don’t stop writing us with your comments and even your complaints). We really really do love YOU.)

One final thing, Mrs. J.C. Hopkins has been writing to me lately about the 17.5 million GB pounds that her late husband left to her. As she is on her death bed, (poor soul) she has asked me to step up and be the administrator of the funds, suggesting that perhaps I would be using them for a children’s hospital or some other worthy entity.

I’m going to pass on her generous offer but only because I don’t trust myself.

I suspect that with 17 million pounds plus, I’d be way more likely to buy myself a little house on the water front in Malibu before I gave any of Mrs. Hopkins’ money to sick children. (Turns out, I’m just not that nice, but I’m grateful that the widow Hopkins clearly thinks so highly of me.)

But, hey, you can let me know if you’d like to give it a shot. I’ll put you in touch with her asap.

And, as always, know this: wherever we are, “we wish you were here”!