Episode 35: I'm Afraid Of Americans

"Yeah, I'm afraid of 
Americans. I'm afraid 
of the words. I'm afraid 
I can't help it. I'm afraid I can't."

— David Bowie, 1997

It's been 8 years since venturing across the great Atlantic to Paris, embarking on my first trip abroad. Words can't express the experience of exploring a vastly different country and culture. Next to being awestruck by the extraordinary Eiffel Tower, Louvre, and creepy-cool cemeteries and catacombs, I can distinctly remember unravelling silly Americanized stereotypes I'd been shamefully harboring about Parisians. For example, not everyone was obsessively puffing cigarettes and I certainly didn't see anyone wearing a bright red beret with a handlebar-mustache and scarf. However, two of the country's more popular myths were dead on. Yep, most Parisians I encountered were dressed chicer than a runway model and, unfortunately, quite rude — particularly to Americans. 

Now, whether you're a pessimist and choose to believe the rudeness is simply due to the French disliking the U.S. or you're an optimist and safely assume Americans are purely paranoid is solely up to you. But let me state for the record — and solemnly swear on a stack of Serge Gainsbourg albums higher than the Eiffel Tower — that during the majority of my Parisian peruse, there was plenty of snobbery abound.

Nevertheless, since I was having the time of my life chillin' in my main man Serge's hometown — it didn't bothered me none. In fact, of all the many dream destinations I've since acquired, that first Paris adventure still remains high atop of my favorite travel spots. You can call it 'the hit mini-series that spun-off the Blog-O-Daria series.'

Speaking of travel treatment, Bulgaria, a Balkan country widely known for its current neutral conflict stance with neighboring states and beyond, continues to welcome this American boy with open arms. And despite a total number of 250,000 Bulgarians residing within the good ol' U.S. of A — including one Nina Dobrev, the gorgeous starlet from the ultra-popular U.S. series The Vampire Diaries and the first Bulgarian actor to make waves in Hollywood — the cordiality is somewhat surprising when you consider the country's staggering 95% yearly denial rate to obtain an American visa.

But after some self-speculation over the matter, one of my analytical thinking Sweathogs named Luciano, a native Bulgarian and aspiring filmmaker, recently deduced that, "Bulgarians can separate the American government's stingy visa acquirements from the American people." A discerning attitude that could explain my ever-so-present celebrity status within the Sunflower Capital Of The World.

On that note, during the middle of May, me, Sarah, Joe, and Georo — pronounced like Zorro with a J — a newcomer to the Blog-O-Daria series you'll soon learn about, ventured off on a long-awaited journey to The Republic of Serbia, America's infamously known Balkan country, where I wasn't surprise to find out firsthand that a huge majority of its inhabitants had difficulty separating the American government from its citizens. Hold on to your hats, folks — this one gets hairy . . . 

"That until there no longer
First class and second class 
citizens of any nation,
Until the colour of a man's skin
Is of no more significance 
than the colour of his eyes —
Me say war."

— Bob Marley, 1976 
(after Haile Selassie's speech)

DECADES BEFORE THE TURN OF THE CENTURY, I think it's safe to say most assumed life after 1999 would be similar to popular 60s and 70s sci-fi stories such as Star Trek and Star Wars, or perhaps even frighteningly like Logan's Run or Soylent Green. By the mid 90s, though the likelihood of the latter or a Roddenberry-Lucas world was indeed doubtful, predictions still miraculously ranged into the bizarre territory of visiting alien life-forms to dark and disastrous dystopias.

Popular culture was quick to cash in on these fictive dreams and fears with the addition of more books, films, TV series, and even video games presaging life after 1999. The music world was no exception. Long before he was a symbol and devoted Jehovah's Witness, rocker Prince penned what eventually became the soundtrack of 1999 with a pop groove about partying like it was your last. 

With the exception of seemingly futuristic advancements like Internet, iPhone, Skype, high-speed railways and skintight stretch jeans, when the turn of the century finally did roll in, thankfully none of the aforementioned foretelling emerged. However, for many Serbian citizens, I can only imagine the Belgrade bombing of April 1999 must have felt like the beginning of the end.

It was a war that sparked much world debate and division. The Kosovo War — fought by the forces of The Federal Republic of Yugoslavia, the Kosovo Liberation Army (a Kosovo-Albanian rebel group) and NATO — lasted from 1998 to 1999 and suffered thousands of casualties and heinous war crimes. And despite criticism of the NATO bombing — which ended the war — as a political diversionary tactic to block out the Monica Lewinsky scandal, most, if not all, of Yugoslavia's neighbors, every EU country, and every member of NATO supported military action.

Well, call it brave or daring if you want to, but after visiting the Autonomous Province of Kosovo (find this and other adventures from Yugoslavia break-away countries in Episode's 16, 25 and 26), the last stop on the Kosovo War Zone was Serbia, the country accused of committing the most war crimes, including ethnic cleansing, systematic rape and genocide. That said, and keeping with the original traveling crew, consisting of me, Sarah, Joe, and his boyfriend Georo (who replaced Teresa this time around), we set out on our delicate mission.

Before I continue, it's a good time to fill you in on Georo — the newest co-star to the Blog-O-Daria series. But in order to do that, here's a small recap on how the crew met for any newcomers. Rewind back to 2000, when Sarah, my girl from the north country, met Joe, a Buffalo native and fellow school teacher, while volunteering for the U.S. Peace Corps in Bulgaria. Fast forward to 2009, and, coincidently, the two good friends ultimately ended up working in the same country they'd originally met. This was also the same faithful year I packed my bags and moved to the Sunflower Capital — which is, as you've probably already guessed, how I met Joe.

Three years later, after a troublesome time locating a Gay partner in Bulgaria, a country, like most European states, socially conservative on the homosexuality issue, Joe met Georo, a native Bulgarian from Pleven and assistant professor at Plovdiv University, who, perhaps due to his impeccable English and boy-next-door looks, frequently gets confused for an American. After less than a year courting, I can easily say our generally extraverted-take-charge Joe found quite a compatible match in mellow go-with-the-flow Georo.

Now whether you're best friends, lovers, or members of the same rock 'n roll band, traveling can make or break a relationship. So, the big question was: can Joe and Georo travel together? The answer was yes. But it didn't just work out, it brought them closer together. A reason most likely due to traveling being an integral part of Joe's life, which may have earned Georo, who initially resisted venturing beyond his homeland, big brownie points. Now that I've filled you in on Georo, let's get on with the journey.

"America, your head's too big.
Because, America,
Your belly's too big.
I love you, I just wish you'd
stay where you is."

— Morrissey, 2004

IT WAS AN EARLY MAY MORNING WHEN Joe, the crew's expert driver — who I call Speed Racer — gassed up Sport, his trusty Skoda, scooped us up and headed for The White City, better known as Belgrade, the largest city in Serbia and Southeastern Europe and home to my man Novak Dovovic, six-time Grand Slam winner and current world champion — often regarded as one of the greatest tennis players of all-time.

After settling into our shared, but spacious, hipster-styled accommodation at the Hostel Central Station — which was located downtown adjacent to the main railway — we took a long stroll through the city and shopped on the courtly Knez Mihailova Street, one of the most valuable landmarks of Belgrade protected by law.

With far less stray-dogs and clean wide streets, but a vast amount of mostly unpleasant graffiti — ten-times more than Sofia, but, thankfully, a clear absence of swastikas that currently plague the aforementioned — Belgrade was quite similar to Sofia in appearance, but to our surprise, not as developed in terms of your usual modern day city commodities, like subway stations or popular food chains and retail stores.

Our assumptions may have been garnered by Belgrade's popularity within the U.S. and beyond — or, perhaps, the bewilderment of the late great Amy Winehouse opting for the White City over the Sunflower Capital during her final concert tour. Nevertheless, with a huge presence of bike lanes and even bike lifts, cycling in Serbia was quite impressive and far more ahead of the game than Bulgaria. 

Speaking of lifts, the following day we took a tour of the beautiful Belgrade Fortress, the largest and most important historical landmark of Belgrade, located high on a cliff near Kalemegdan Park. After exploring the grounds, we chilled inside the courtyard where we got a stunning view of the River Sava and Danube.

However, no other view within White City limits was more stunning or eerier than the bombed-out buildings that remain untouched throughout the center. Like Sarajevo's display of hundreds of bullet riddled buildings, shops, and homes in remembrance of the Bosnian War For Independence, it was utterly surrealistic when gazing upon the military guarded, partially destroyed Hotel Jugoslavija, Central Committee, Avala Tower, and the alleged accidentally hit Chinese Embassy.

This reminds me of another topic. Belgrade might go down in Blog-O-Daria history as the only city within the East European boundary, where I received zero celebrity status. In fact, with a steady amount of stern stares and hasty helpings — that made my Paris experience seem like Mayberry — I learned quickly that a huge amount of Serbians weren't too fond of us being there. This was quite apparent when me and Joe, probably the two most archetypal Americans of the bunch, ventured off on our own in desperate search of bottled water. Here's where it gets hairy . . .

"You done put 2 of 

America's most wanted

in the same mother (expletive) 

place at the same 

mother (expletive) time?"

— Tupac Shakur, 1996

WHILE SARAH AND GEORO CHILLED AT the hostel making future travel plans, as previously stated, me and Joe hit the Belgrade streets for water, snacks and other useful items. It didn't take long to locate a tiny kiosk called Stiletto located a block from our hostel to fulfill our needs. The clerk, who was somewhat friendly, spoke no English, so I pointed everything out. After he rung me up, seemingly out of nowhere, a short scruffy Serbian man in his early thirties wearing a cheesy grin approached and ask me where I was from. 

"The United States." I happily replied.

"I like America. Where you from there?" 

"Washington, D.C."

"That's great. I like that."

While Joe was finishing up his order, the scruffy man grinned wider and preceded to give what I assumed was his order to the kiosk clerk. However, Joe, who speaks fluent Bulgarian — a slavic language about as close to Serbian as American-English is to British-English — could easily decipher the conversation. Mr. Scruffy, who assumed we were mute to Serbian, was slyly telling the kiosk clerk that Americans were 'yellow belly cowards.' 

Now, ain't that the pot calling the kettle . . . yellow?  

I was angry and confused, but perhaps more disturbed than anything else. I mean, this clown didn't know us from jump street, but assumed we were cowards because of our nationality. Before my temper could boil any hotter, Joe calmed me down and gave some good advice to keep our original whereabouts to ourselves from now on.

At first, I was reluctant to lie about my nationality. Yeah, I guess my American pride got the best of me. But it didn't take long before I accepted the idea. And brushing up on my phony British accent, which I picked up from watching countless hours of Avengers, Prisoner and other classics from the Beeb during my youth, was a good incentive. So for the remainder of the journey, we transformed into London Owen and Toronto Joe.

"Wrote a song for America
They told me it was clever.

Jessica's gone on vacation 

On the dark side of town forever.

Who knew?"

— Dan Bejar, 2011

MAMA USED TO SAY there's always something sweet waiting for you on the other side of town. Well, she was right. After a short train ride to Novi Sad, the second largest city in Serbia, I soon discovered we needn't an identity change after all — well . . . at least not for now. Heavily devastated during the 1848 Revolution, but fully restored today, Novi Sad is an exquisite little city generously equipped with neoclassical architecture and some of the friendliest inhabitants I'd ever encountered. And yes, my celebrity status returned with a sweet vengeance.

With my guards still on the defensive side and phony British accent intact, seconds after arriving in the courtyard of the main square near Novi Sad Cathedral and The Orthodox Cathedral of Saint George, I was taken by total shock when a group of teenage Serbian girls charged and requested to take photographs with them. And though I felt like Ronnie, Bobby, Ricky, Mike, Ralph and Johnny all rolled into one, the scene was absolutely bewildering. The love I got in Novi Sad was a complete turnaround from Belgrade — which, need I remind you, is a mere 40 miles away.

However, after some speculation over the matter, Sarah, my great historian from the north country, gave a possible theory for our exceptional treatment. She proudly informed me that Novi Sad is officially a city within the Autonomous Province of Vojvodina, which holds a degree of freedom from Serbia — similar to Kosovo's current situation. It's also cool to know that the city is populated by multi-ethnic and multi-cultural identity and, might I add, a number of mechanisms to promote minority rights.

After absorbing all that Novi-love, we did a little sight-seeing around Stari Grad — the city's old town, and shopped on Dunavska street. Later in the evening, after lunching on top of the Petrovaradin Fortress next to the Clock Tower's yummy Pizzaria Teresa, we headed back to Belgrade.

"I am your rose,

American dreamer.

Flyin' high down through

America. Didn't you know?"

— Laura Nyro, 1978

SPEAKING OF EATING, DON'T YOU JUST LOVE dining out when exploring new destinations? I think it's of equal importance to exploring historical landmarks — and music stores. Well, during lunch on the last day of the journey, we chowed down on more yummy Serbian cuisine at the ultra-upscale Dorian Gray where we met up with Mirna, a native Serbian and friend and former co-worker of Joe.

Still hungry late in the afternoon, after a desperate attempt to locate a seafood restaurant, I got a second shockwave when mister celebrity status made a brief appearance in Belgrade. You see, it all happened when two delightful Serbian girls named Tanya and Daniella, who were resting up from cycling on one of Serbia's many bike paths, stopped to ask where I was from.

After the chaos at the kiosk and high hopes of leaving on a proper note, I was secretly yearning to meet a friendly Serbian stranger in Belgrade to get the sour taste out my mouth. So in my haste to answer — and perhaps a touch of that male-to-female intuition — I ditched the phony accent and forgot the promise of keeping our whereabouts secret. Nevertheless, in this particular instance, my intuition was on the money. The two girls turned out to be pretty awesome. Not only did they recommend Porto, a huge yacht by day that cleverly converts into a yummy seafood joint by night, they literally walked their bikes and guided us there.

During the half-hour walk to Porto, I seized the opportunity to get first-hand knowledge on life in Belgrade — especially in finding out if our American animosity was simply imaginary. So, after the usual run-of-the-mill first meeting chatter, I gently eased into the political stuff and asked Tanya, the brunette who spoke impeccable English, her feelings on Serbia's possible entry into the European Union.

Without hesitation, both girls, who were dolefully unemployed college graduates, confessed: if joining the EU or staying out of it would grant them employment opportunities, then they would be up for supporting the grantor. It was then that I approached the big question — straight forward.

"Tanya, I'm gonna come straight with this next question. Do Serbians like Americans?"

"Good question, Owen. And I'm gonna come straight with you. Half of us do, and the other half don't."

After all that straightforwardness, Tanya offered her apologies for any uneasiness me and the crew might have felt during our stay, further adding that she agreed with my opinion of separating a nation's governmental actions from the citizens — especially regarding travelers making the journey to explore an opposing country.

To cool out on all the copious conversation, I switched the subject to my adoration for biking and longing for my Bad Boy, an all-black Cannondale hybrid sadly on lockdown in the U.S. That's when Daniella, the quiet blonde who spoke a minimum amount of English, asked if I wanted to ride her bike. Though reluctant to cheat on Bad Boy for the umpteenth time, I gave in to her thoughtful gesture. Then after she carefully adjusted the quills and seat to my measurements, I was off for a quick ride.

As I whizzed by the graffiti stained underpass of the spectacular Ada Bridge, observing an equal division of seemingly supportive and opposing onlookers, I wondered how long would it take before the wounds of the Kosovo War would heal? Perhaps a 100 years from now? Or maybe an eternity? Whatever the answer holds, for now it was cool to know the girls were doing their part to keep the peace.

Be seeing you.

O