Dubrovnik

Another bus; it seems like I’m in them so often. Such a wayward life.

Dubrovnik lies at my back. The two nights I spent there were lovely; it gave me one full day to see the city, which is really all I needed, I think, to see what I wanted to see—in short, Old Town, which lies on an outcropping of the rocky Dalmatian coast. Surrounded by walls, Old Town is like a castle, surrounded by turrets and ramparts.

I like to wonder through places like Old Town; places where the streets wander like casual conversations, slipping in and out of shadows and happening on small, pleasant discoveries. Though clearly a historic site, Dubrvnik (like Splt) is alive with activity: restaurants and little shops, and even people living within the walls in apartments, hanging their laundry out to dry on lines between stonework buildings.

I walked the Old Town walls, which ring the entire city, and as I looked out over the red tile roofs, I imagined what life would have been like here hundreds of years ago, what it would feel like to be in such a place: from food to clothing to shelter, all one’s material needs could likely be met without ever having to leave the protection of town.

But then again, man cannot live on bread alone.

On the east site of the city lies the port, where ships and their crew could find haven and respite. I imagine what it would be like to be a merchant sailor here, how comforting to return home after a long trip abroad—to come back to the safety of these strong, tall walls after so long at sea.

We don’t build walls of brick and stone anymore. But I think the safety we derive from walls, be they physical or emotional, can’t be denied. Like food and water and clothes, safety is one of our most basic needs—the presence of which gives us courage to take risks, meet challenges, and make extraordinary discoveries.

For me, my adventures are possible only because I have the safety of emotional walls, built by the love and support of my family and friends. I can set sail to distant places because I know I have that kind of home to return to.

And in about a month, I will, after 28 months away.

Right now, it’s hard to think so far ahead. Right now, my mind is all filled with Kotor, and what new adventures and discoveries it might bring. 

Hvar

By the time I finally reach my next destination, I will have taken one ferry and at least three buses to get there—about 10 hours from hostel to hostel. Some distances are more difficult to cross than others, regardless of how such distances are quantified, but each is a new adventure.

Hvar is a lovely port town that lies just off the coast of Croatia and has a tendency to attract a lot of young college students. I stayed at a hostel where I was fortunate enough to meet a group of young college girls from Britain. We went out together my last night in Hvar, and I left them at close to 1am when they boarded a boat to continue the drunken festivities while I returned to the hostel to prepare for the next day of traveling. (I am, after all, not as young as I used to be, and have never been overly fond of the Dionysian revelry so common among college-aged youths). But it was nice to go out and see Hvar’s nightlife.

As we walked out to the loud, crowded bars, I talked to one of the girls and conveyed to her the similarity I observed between Hvar and New York City. She seemed surprised at this, but for me, they have a lot in common.

Hvar, like NYC, has a lot of history. In fact, Hvar’s history is far longer than New York’s, but like the bustling city, you wouldn’t think to look at it that it had much history at all. Sure, there are buildings here and there that give an echo of what the city’s been, but for the most part, it denies its history, living in the current moment.

You won’t see much of all Hvar’s been walking through the city, besides maybe a distant fort or old church or piece of stonework. Hvar was colonized by the Greeks in about 384 BC, and since then, it has been under control of Romans, Byzantines, Venetians, Neretvans (Slavs), Austrians, French, and English… and has been passed off a countless number of times. Yet, you’ll find little to tie the island to its historic roots; that’s not what the city is, not who the city purports to be. It is a city of the now; a city that doesn’t look back, and therefore, like New York, it makes the perfect destination for youths who also don’t have much of a past, and who are interested in the now.

In Mongolia, there is a saying that to visit a land you should drink the water—kind of like a “when in Rome” sort of saying. It’s one I try to follow, so while in Hvar, I tried to forget my history and live in the now: lounge on the beach, go out at night, lose myself a little. But though all of these things are fun, I realize that this culture isn’t really mine. (Accept maybe the lounging on the beach and swimming in the sea; I think I’ll keep those).

And maybe it’s good to lose yourself a little, to live in the now and not let yourself be restrained by old fears or regrets. Traveling, I think, does that: already Hvar is part of the past, and I live in the now of the lovely Croatian coastline moving past me. Dubrovnik is just ahead.

Split

Thus far, the view of my travel from one city to another has been hills and fields and forests and mountains. This time, I look out the window and see the beautiful blue waters of the Dalmatian Coast, islands sprawled over them, peacefully sleeping in shades of blue-green.

I had expected to only spend a day in Split, but ended up spending two; there is so much to do, so much offered up, in this coastal Croatian city. It has an activity that summer elicits and, though I don’t know what Split is like during other times of year, it seemed like the city was in full bloom: young and old enjoying the warm sunlight on both pebbly and sandy beaches; the herds of yachts and boats in the harbor that form a familiar forest of swaying masts; families traversing the white stone streets where stalls pop up like dandelions, selling everything from indistinctive hats and overpriced souvenirs to some beautifully-crafted jewelry and hand-made woven bags.

Pizza shops and ice cream parlors, wine gardens and beer gardens and expensive restaurants and cheap fast-food stalls….

For me, the most remarkable thing about Split is that you’ll find all of these things within walls that are literally hundreds of years old. The Diocletian Palace was built by the Romans in the early 3rd/late 4th centuries A.D., and while it appears like ruins, there are still parts that are well reserved—and still functioning: people live in some of the palace’s old apartments, there are hotels that operate out of pieces of history.

Some people might stand aghast that such an ancient site isn’t partition and conserved and turned into a giant museum with fees for entrance and an exorbitant souvenir shop and café installed. But I love it, just the way it is: it’s a living monument. Churches and mosques were meant for worship, ships were meant for sailing, and palaces were meant for living and working and life: the palace is a statement that beauty shouldn’t be the abandonment of function, but the elegant coexistence with it.

I think there’s something universal about that message. Appearance is just how something looks: appearance is fickle and changes; it doesn’t build anything; it doesn’t create. That comes from the inside, from the drive and motivation of a person, from the way one functions and moves through the world. For me, the world is teaching me how to move through it, with every city I visit, with every site I see, with every person I meet.

Split shows how me how I can transform and re-appropriate the past to enliven the present. California, North Carolina, Tokyo, Pennsylvania, New York, Mongolia--places and people I've loved… somehow the relics of my past form the structures I see and live through, not the walls that confine me, and not the monuments I lock away.

The ferry shuttles me on to Hvar; I look forward to relaxing on the lovely Croatian Island.

Zagreb

Croatia passes by the window in green fields and forests. It was raining when I left Zagreb.

I got lucky in Zagreb, where the weather held out for the day I there. I arrived in the evening and ended up staying out late with a group of other travelers from the hostels, including two girls from Poland, one boy from Germany, and one boy from Australia. It was fun to go out; I really haven’t since I’ve been to Europe. I slept in until 9 or so the next day; by then, the weather was a little cloudy, but not rainy.

Maybe because of its size (which feels small compared to many capital cities I’ve been to) or its traditional culture (which, it would seem, involved knitting, crocheting, and sewing), Zagreb seems like the city that “quaint” was coined to describe: it’s cobblestone streets run through down meanderingly, and here and there you’ll find a farmer’s market or hobby-craftsman selling jewelry or knitted tablecloths. The motif of a red heart (sometimes paired with a boy and girl) is everywhere: the reason, it would seem, is this:

There once was a boy who loved a girl very much. As a gift, he gave her a red heart with a mirror on it, so that every day she could look in the mirror and know that she was the only one the boy loved. Now the heart, sometimes with the mirror, is everywhere: on knitted clothes and painted saucers, jewelry boxes and keychain charms. It’s lovely, cute… quaint.

The cobblestone streets lead to old buildings and churches, too—I think Zagreb Cathedral may be one of the most intricately-decorated churches I’ve ever seen, small but impressive. St. Mark’s is also lovely and very distinctive with its tiled roof.  As afternoon began to wear me out, the streets led me to the botanical garden, lush with flowers and ferns and trees.

Now I head toward the city of Split, enjoying the mountainous, arboreal, quaint beauty of the Croatian countryside through the window of a slow-moving train.

Belgrade

Ah, I feel the ground below me rumble and move and the reflective state comes over me like a familiar tide. Belgrade slips through channels leading to the past, though I sincerely hope it will flow back in the future.

Belgrade was, for a me, a town that echoed with a hum of the familiar; with each step I take westward, with each city I pass through, the geographical and cultural arias  more and more contain melodies that resemble those of my home, and I know I'm getting closer.

There were a few melodies in Belgrade that rung familiar: the architecture contains motifs characteristic of Greco-roman art so popular in much of western Europe (including women in togas and reliefs with laurel wreaths); the people adore their pets, particularly their dogs (I saw one small white lapdog with its ears and tail dyed pink); the number of familiar fast-food chains (McDonalds, Burger King, KFC) that have popped up everywhere.

However, perhaps one of the more subtle melodies was the melody of newness than underlies the city.

Don't get me wrong: Serbia has a long history, with its own prehistoric cultures and times of subjugation and rule. Yet, it's Serbia's last hundred or so years of history that tears down everything that came before. Within that time (the time of two Balkan Wars and two World Wars), the city has been bombed about 70 times, and rebuilt more than 40 times, crumbling into dust those structures that once defined its landscape, its skyline, and its culture (or cultures). The poor attempts of the government at preserving what artifacts remain to Belgrade only encourage the disappearance of Serbia's history under the layers of new brick and stone laid above it.

Belgrade, therefore, despite some of its classically styled buildings, is all fairly modern. Familiar for me, whose country is so young. But Belgrade is unique, too. All cities, I think, have something to teach. Maybe Belgrade teaches people not to be fooled by appearances: what's most important--what a city or who a person truly is--is sometimes buried just below the surface.

Now, I listen to the song of Belgrade fade away, and look forward to hearing the one Zagreb sings.

Sofiya

The sweltering heat of Turkey melted into the temperate cool of Bulgaria under the light shower that greeted us at the boarder. All of us flowed in and out of the bus as we passed through passport control, with the moon and star of the scarlet Turkish flag on one side and the bright white, green, and red bands of the Bulgarian flag on the other—along with another, more familiar one: the yellow ring of stars on the EU’s blue flag. Though the US is not part of the EU, there was something comforting about seeing it waving me onward.

Bulgaria held many small signs of my approach westward, from commercial signs in the form of Subway restaurants, to arboreal signs in the forms of maples and other trees similarly native to the Americas, to cultural in the form of second-hand stores (which I never really saw in Mongolia, ever). Yet, the presence of Cyrillic felt like a comforting tie to the past two years.

Despite its reminders of places past, Bulgaria was still awash with the delights of distinctness. Sofiya, its capital (at least the part of it I saw), is pleasantly walkable, dotted with small shops, parks, etc.--and has all the quaintness of a small town. It carries 6,000 years of history as easily as a bard holds a hum, and the architectures and relics of its time as part of the Byzantine Empire, Ottoman Empire, and periods of independence exist intermixed throughout the city, like a garden growing organically as it would. The arrangement lends itself to pleasant surprises and hidden delights.

I took a free walking tour that mazed meanderingly through the streets to many of the city’s major sites, including orthodox churches, catholic churches, mosques, and synagogues, all of which exist harmoniously together. My favorite was, perhaps, the Alexander Nevsky Cathedral, topped with gilded domes and decorated with ornate carvings.

Sofia is small, and while I likely could have found this and that to see and do to encompass another full day, I feel compelled to press onward. Right now, I am on the bus to Nish in Serbia (where from I can take a bus to Belgrade), watching the hills rise and fall, the cities resting sleepily, and fields of corn and sunflowers soaking up the sun (and the latter splashing bright yellow across the landscape). I am sleepy from rising so early, but it just lends a dreamlike quality to everything.

By the time I post this, I will be in Belgrade.

Istanbul

When I close my eyes, I can still see the lights of the street glowing in hues of yellow and red, hear the currents of voices and laughter, and smell the scent of hookah and beer drifting through the warm air on my last night in Istanbul. I see the lights of the fountain situated between the Hagia Sofia and the Blue Mosque, its waters warbling, laughing in the dimness of evening, surrounded with couples sitting close and children playing with glowing toys that street merchants sell for a handful of liras.

Istanbul is one of those cities that holds on to its history while embracing modernity, that keeps its past in every heartbeat of its present. Its efficient trams bus tourists through site-seeing districts and across the Bosphorus. The Grand Bazaar is as it always was, with merchants calling its wears and trying to persuade customers into its stores, only that the stores are filled with western brands of shirts and shoes right alongside traditional Turkish pants and textiles.

For me, Istanbul’s architecture rises above all else, from the intricate designs of the Hagia Sofia to the steep obelisks of the hippodrome to the minarets that steeple over the city like totems to the religious and historical texture of Istanbul. I think, of all of them, I loved the Blue Mosque best; its lovely domes and towers stand as quiet testaments to the beauty of geometry; the unity of its structure, the regularity of its design, the simplicity of its coloring…, stalwartness with solemnity, unostentatious and unobtrusive and unaffected… majesty with modesty.

The cats in Turkey are, for me, utterly delightful; they have little of the skittishness to which I am accustomed, and I found them lounging about wherever they could find a spot of shade: on carpets being sold just in front of shops, in the middle of sidewalks and beneath chairs and tables in restaurant… even on the footpath half-way up to the old church that lies on Prince’s Island.

Istanbul is certainly an international city; it has that feel, and as a tourist, especially one staying in a hostel, I felt the internationality fairly directly: rooming with people from Spain and Croatia and Korea, touring Galata Tower and Dormabahce with a Pakistani, doing breakfasts with a Canadian, and spending my final evening talking with a couple, one from India and another from Serbia.

It’s one of those cities that I could see myself living in one day, if fortune is kind to me. It’s certainly a place to which I hope to return, one day.

Today, the weather has turned a little chilly. It was raining as I passed from Turkey to Bulgaria. The scenery has changed, and while I am loathed to leave Istanbul and those I have met there, I look with eagerness to what may await me in Bulgaria.

Cesme

I’ve always found transit an ideal time for reflection. In life, the stillness of place sometimes hides our momentum through the world—the feeling that, because we stay in one place, we’re not on a journey. Of course, we always are. I am fortunate that my life has been filled with moments of movement and meditation.

I journey from Cesme (pronounced Cheshme) to Istanbul by bus, and enjoy watching the Turkish cities and countryside swim by in the form of clean white houses, fields of corn and orchards of olive trees, and occasionally a delicate-looking minaret or two.

Cesme was quite beautiful. I arrived on Saturday evening after missing my flight from Istanbul to Izmir after torrential rains grounded flights and breathed chaos into the functions of the crowded airport. I arrived in Izmir at about 10:30. My bags did not.

My host greeted me at the airport, good humor unaffected by the wait, and carried me to the resort town of Cesme, right next to the startlingly cerulean Aegean Sea. His sister was kind enough to let me borrow her clothes—ones admittedly much nicer than mine. Fortunately, I didn’t have to impose on her for too long; my bags arrived the next evening, and my host and his sister took me to fetch them.

The days I spent in Cesme with my host and his remarkably hospitable and generous family were eye-opening and delightful: my host took me out to a beautiful sea-side restaurant, gave me a tour of the lovely houses and harbors of Cesme, and took me out to the sea, where I enjoyed swimming in the warm waters.

Compared to Mongolia, Cesme is a place of overwhelming color and diversity—the deep greens of the trees, the brilliant blue of the sea, the demur whites and playful pinks of the flowers… I have always felt the environments around me transforming my inner landscape; Cesme has bloomed that landscape into a myriad of color.

More than anything, though, I enjoyed spending time with my hosts—losing myself in conversation as we lost our way through cobblestone streets in labyrinth-like districts, ensorcelled by quaint cafes and darling shops—spending evenings in the fading light of day surrounded by gardens and the harmony of the rushing sea and the rustling leaves and purring cicades. … All the places where words find fertile ground to grow and bloom.

 I owe my host and his family a debt of gratitude for these last several days in paradise.

And now, Istanbul awaits me.

Saying Goodbye

I’ve been utterly remiss in keeping this blog updated. I tell myself I will, that I’ll record everything in due time, but between the lack of internet, the preoccupation with projects and events, and the feeling that most of what I did isn’t necessarily worth recording, I never got around to it.

Maybe it was worth recording. I am always surprised when I’m told people actually read this blog. To them: Thank you, and I apologize.

The last few months have been a bit of a whirlwind. I suppose all my life in Mongolia has been a whirlwind, even when a frozen winter seemed to deaden the progress of things. But spring in Mongolia makes things teem and stir, and in summer, happenings occur with the corybantic desperateness that accompanies the understanding that, in a place like Mongolia, winter is always just around the corner.

My life in spring was, for the most part, consumed entirely by the dental project. After literally months of working and planning—checking teeth, checking hotels, checking schools; arranging schedules, arranging lodging, arranging transportation; talking to directors, talking to teachers, talking to doctors and governors and NGOs… —it happened. The dental clinic happened.

6 days, 5 schools, 9 dentists, 5 dental personnel… 2126 children.

Countless volunteers helped us. English teachers from every school helped out, and even went to other schools to help with translation. Students came out to help, working with dentists, training adults to do fluoride or dental education. School staff pitched in—school doctors, accountants, teachers, directors.

World Vision provided transportation and printing. Mercy Corps helped out with logistics. The Education department helped with printing and communication. As I planned and put this together, I was witness to something truly amazing: an entire town—people from different and sometimes competing agencies helping one another, working together—all coming together to help the children… strangers becoming colleagues, people becoming friends, and individuals becoming a single community, filled with common purpose.

In other countries KIDS visits, I heard, they sometimes need to hire translators. They sometimes need to bring food for the children. They sometimes worry that children aren’t taken care of at home. Not in Mongolia. Mongolians cherish their children; all the children are well cared for, well loved, well fed and taken care of. And people need no more motivation to give their time but the knowledge that they are making healthier Mongolia’s most precious resource: the children. And it makes me proud, because, though I am a foreigner here, they are ‘manaikhan’—my people.

Every day during the dental clinic I got up at 6am to get to the hotel to deal with any issues that had come up (the hotel was really bad). Every evening I helped resolve any issues that came up. I arranged impromptu meetings, planned for the next day, fielded questions, … and I went to bed late and utterly exhausted. Every day was a struggle to get out of bed, but once the dental clinic began, I didn’t feel it. It always subsided looking into the eyes of the children who came to the clinic, not to return until the clinic ended for the day.

By the last day, the weariness was all-consuming. I was so utterly spent; I don’t think I’ve ever been so exhausted in all my life. As I told my parents, though, it's that weariness that you get when you give everything you have, not just physically, but emotionally--when you put your whole heart and soul in something for a long time, until you're spent and can't give any more. But it's not a bad feeling, per se, because I know it comes from caring so deeply that nothing short of all you have is enough.

When the dental clinic had finished and the dentists had gone home and I was left with only the weariness and the memory, I realized that, though it would be heart-wrenching, I was able to leave Zavkhan. I gave everything I had and I achieved something good and can leave knowing that I have nothing to regret.

Now I have left my site. It has been hard: in soft, quiet moments I feel the ache that comes from leaving a home that will be difficult to return to.

Some people think the hardest part of being a Peace Corps volunteer is the hard work—the making fires, the irregular power outages, the washing clothes by hand in a shallow bucket. Others think it would be the culture shock, trying to learn the language and integrate with the people. But for me, the biggest danger was falling in love with a place I would have to leave, and the heartbreak of that departure.

 No, not danger; inevitability.

You don’t even realize how many people you know, how many friends you’ve made, how many brothers and sisters and mothers and fathers you have, until you have to say goodbye. I’ll never know the full impact I made, but I feel the impact in me as big as a crater. I feel the loss in me as a deep ache in my chest. I stay moving because if I slow, I feel the longing for that home so acutely and the distance so distinctly and the difficulty of return so painfully that it’s hard to keep the tears at bay.

The ache is great. But the joy is greater.

Dortai. Hairtai. Bayartai.