'He's a Fucking Communist!'

Please note: This post was half written while ever so slightly drunk.



After a massive breakfast of cheese, honey, fruit and bread we, Kiril, Crawford and I, had another slow start to the day, and set off on a tour of Ohrid. A tour is perhaps too bold a word; a slow wander that took us to most of the major sites I think sets the picture a bit better.



First off was a v. typical, older style Macedonian style house turned museum with a rather good collection of glassware. Perhaps not the ideal way to spend a gorgeous day, but it was small and had amazing views.







Next up was St. Sophia, the Byzantine church we had seen the night before. Kiril and I ventured in, without paying I might add, while Crawfy dozed on the bench outside. Evidently, churches creep him out. Seeing a Byzantine church in person for the first time ever was a bit surreal. I felt as if I had stepped through one of my art books and would at any moment wake up in a dark lecture theatre to Prof. Gerstel gesturing wildly at slides of cross in square churches and Emperor Theodosius.




(Coca-cola and history, what a great combination. Nothing quenches your thirst for knowledge like an ice cold Coke.)






(Crawfy asleep outside)









We climbed slowly up above the city to St. John Kaneo church.


(Best picture ever)








(Aren't I precious?)







The pictures I took outside will have to satisfy you as Kiril got us kicked out of the church even before we got to go in. Evidently expressing a fear that placing candles up against 13thc. frescos might not be all that good an idea, was in fact not an entirely well received comment by the proprietess and the next thing I knew she was yelling something at Kiril and I was back outside. Alas.



After the Kaneo calamity we climbed further up the hill overlooking the city to an early Christian Basilica from the 4-6thc. And make sure to ask Crawford why I took a picture of him marching off into the woods.







Further up the path was Samuel’s fortress. We climbed up the walls to gaze out over the city.

















And of course to take absurd pictures. I could not even begin to tell you what was going through our minds when this picture was taken.



However, I COULD tell you what was going through his…but I won’t...though it could be 'I NEED TO SHIT!'





And bloody hell, more churches. Listen. You don’t want to hear about another one and frankly, I don’t want to tell you. So I’ll just set the scene.




We walk into the church, quietly climbing through the doorway. There is an old woman poised in front of the altar, audibly saying prayers to the various pictures of saints as she leans over to kiss them. To me she appears as if she too were part of the church, a relic from the past meant to be venerated for her piety. Slowly she winds her way out of the church, greeting more icon paintings as she walks past, and finally leaves us alone in the dark and musty church.



I take out my camera and covertly start to take pictures of the walls as Kiril walks around them, with Crawford trailing by his side, explaining their meanings.



Is that him yawning I see?



And now is the part where the blog title actually starts to make sense.

After dinner at an Italian place, I know such sacrilege eating ‘Italian food while away, we met up with a couple of Kiril’s friends for drinks. A few (few being the word for ‘who knows how many but at least I wasn’t on the floor ’) vodka tonics later my comrades and I moved venues to a jazz place down the block.


(Here are Kiril and Crawfy indicating that we are in a jazz place. Crawford evidently choosing jazz flute as his choice of instrument. hahaha)



At the table next to us, Kiril hears American accents and invites the occupants over for a drink. Ends up that it is two American guys in their mid-twenties, and their Macedonian translator, touring around Europe ’spreading democracy.’ Spreading democracy you say? I ask Kiril if Macedonia needs to be taught about democracy to which he proclaims, ’Fuck no, what does AMERICA know about democracy?!’ I was pretty obliterated at this point, but not enough to miss that the Americans where noticeably uncomfortable. Next, apparently, was Kiril’s announcement that Crawford was a Communist, ’for fuck’s sake.’ All this shouted in a ’Scottish’ accent, which the Americans took as an Australian one. As Kiril shouted at one I decided to pick a fight with the round one next to me about Republicans and Democrats being essentially the same party except with different spin. Being as the round one was sent here as an emissary of the GOP on a mission from God, he took a bit of an offence to that. Good thing I said it after he bought us all a round of drinks.

After downing their drinks, the Americans quickly got the fuck out of there and we, we being the two drunken boys, decided it would be a good idea to hit a strip club; the flyer for which was thrust into our hands as we walked to the jazz bar.



Very reluctantly I followed behind them as they led the way to the club, reminding them in vain that I was in fact a girl. As it turns out, the strip place was little more then a club for teenage youths where on the bars on either side of the room danced girls in their knickers. I was forced to take the above picture and then danced alone as my not-so-comrades stared at the above arse gyrate.

We finally made our way home at 6am. I collapsed into bed and listened as the guys drunkenly called each other’s girlfriends in France and Scotland, leaving absurd messages mostly consisting of how great each other were (though amusingly Kiril threatened Crawford’s with some unknown act of violence if she hurt him).




The following day the two of them were completely useless. So after watching an hour of football, I decided to ditch them and walk around town. I found an internet café, wrote up my first blog entry of my trip, and then met the guys half way home. We went for dinner and some non-alcoholic beverages then, while the two of them hit the arcade once more, I walked around the shops browsing for a pearl necklace (which was a source of endless amusement, hardy har har).

Act Your Age and Not Your Car Size

In Macedonia, it is as if the automobile industry has turned back time. Hmmm, that sentence does not make sense, it sounds as if Chrysler turned back the entire of time for some unknown reason when what I really mean is that everyone in Macedonia drives Soviet era hunks of indestructible steel. I.E.: Volgas, the Zaz (my personal favourite featured above) and Ladas. The plan, apparently, is to go back to Macedonia, or another former USSR country, acquire one of these vehicles and drive it back to Britain. Someday.



I love this picture because it just sort of sums things up? A fucking UNICEF truck parked in front of a huge ad selling some sugary, ridiculous, soft drink. I saw this truck parked there for days while in Skopje, it never moved. It was as if it was waging war against carbonated beverages. What UNICEF was doing in Skopje to begin with, I am not too sure. Kiril informed me that Macedonia is the only country in which McDonald’s actually looses money. The correlation between that sentence and the previous UNICEF rant I am not too sure about, for that, you would have to ask Crawford and Kiril, however it does give me some hope that there is at least one country that can recognize the utter shite that is American fat food.

















What can I say about the above pictures other then- Don't screw with tradition.
(all taken amongst the fruit trees in Kiril's backyard)

After our little jumping exercise was through, we called a taxi to take us the bus station. We boarded a bus bound for Ohrid, a three-hour drive south that was to take us to the deepest lake in the Balkans and the location of Kiril’s mom’s holiday flat. The bus slowly climbed out of the valley that nestled Skopje and stopped as we reached the summit of the mountain that would lead us down to the valley of Ohrid. We climbed off the bus for a snack of yoghurt and fried bread before completing the second half of our journey.



Macedonia is an entirely mountainous country, with the cities and towns mostly occupying the valleys, like Skopje and Ohrid (pronounced OrkRid by the way). In Macedonia, you watch the mountains and the mountains watch you. It seems entirely logical that Skopje would erect a huge glowing cross atop the highest of the peak overlooking the city to watch over it‘s inhabitants; incidentally making it the world‘s highest cross. The cross was officially created to commemorate the 2000 years since the passing of Christ but perhaps also it is a little extra insurance against another disastrous earthquake. You can see it in the picture above the one above, watching our bus as we leave the city. It is, however, unfortunate that the powers that be decided that lighting up the crostary in red was a good idea. Somehow, I feel that that would not go over so well in the south of the U.S.…



I couldn’t keep my eyes open wide enough to take in all the scenery as we made our way south, while these two couldn’t seem to keep their eyes open.



We arrived in Ohrid just in time for sunset.



And took silly pictures in the golden light of the setting sun.





See across the land across the water? That's Albania.







Crawford: "Hey, take a picture of me with this communist building!" I swear that's what he said.



Saint Cyril and Saint Methodius, the creators of the Cyrillic alphabet who are, of course, Macedonian.



After finding a place to have a more than an ample dinner, the boys went off to play video games while I opted to walk around all the little tourist shops.





After seeing enough flip flops and Ohrid pearl jewlery (they are famous for their pearls there), I gathered Kiril and Crawford and we took a stroll to see the Byzantine church, St. Sophia, lit up at night and...



and sit in the Roman ampitheatre, found randomly while clearing the land to build homes.

Oh the way home we bought some mediocre Danish vodka, instead of drinking out, and asked each other the kind of intimate questions that only hard alcohol can provoke before nodding off into a slightly drunken sleep.

The Unbearable Lightness of Being

The following day our biggest achievment was this:

Kiril's Nap Haiku (with a little help from his friends)

We waken and eat
And then of course we must nap
Summer in Skopje

Napping in blue skies
Talking nonesense in the grass
Crawford is bending

Eat breakfast at noon
My hammock is missing me
Crawford is bending

Grass grows, Crow flies, one
day here with cheese makes me...
Crawford is bending.



(the place marker of Mother Theresa's birthplace)



The sun has hidden away as
we lay waiting like the vitruvious man.

Clouds race across the sky
while we wait for the grass to take us
Somewhere- one day the
bridge like meat.

From Makedonia to Macedonia
such a transition
in energy, feeling and walking.
Above all the power of creative ideas
and open souls
uplifting
taking us where we need to go.

(eventually we did get off our asses and went out to meet some of Kiril's friends for drinks. He happen to bump into this smiley fellow out as well; Kiril's younger brother Ilya!)

Aja'ib: The Wonders of Wanderers

Immediately after arriving in Macedonia I felt my holiday had begun. Though Skopje is the capital, the pace of the city is like none other I’ve been in. People here don’t walk, they stroll. They don’t drink, they sip. This is not to give the impression that Macedonians are lazy by any means, but rather they somehow figured out the right way to live long before the rest of the world. Macedonia is after all an ancient society.



In Skopje there are art museums, churches and the ruins of a medieval wall to see but what do I recommend doing in Skopje? Do as the locals, not much. Find a comfortable seat near the river, order a frozen frappe and wile away the smoldering afternoon heat under the shade of an umbrella gossiping to friends. Once the sun has set move locals to a darkened outdoor establishment and change your drink to something a little harder, maybe even try the national drink, Raki.




My time in Macedonia didn’t vary too much from the above scenario (wake late, find a café, stroll, find a restaurant for dinner, stroll, find a café). The day after I arrived, Kiril and I went to meet Crawford off the train from Solun (Thessaloniki) where he was visiting a friend and working on his tan. He told us that as soon as the train passed into Macedonia you could feel the whole vibe change and relax. So the euphoric atmosphere wasn’t just affecting me. On the way back home we stopped by the flat/studio of Kiril’s father to drop off Crawford’s bags while we went to dinner. The elder Penusliski’s paintings were just as I expected, amazing. For dinner we went to a Macedonian barbecue place and ate what seemed to be an entire cow. Dessert was a sugary, sticky pastry from a small, nearby bakery accompanied by a sweet and thick drink made from yeast which tellingly Kiril did not order for himself.















Day time cafes led to night time cafes and we met Kiril’s best friend Ogden at their favourite hangout for mulled wine. We sat outside in big comfortable chairs as Macedonian music floated around us; the cool night air keeping my cheeks from turning pink from the wine. We ended the evening at a livelier establishment, the Skopjeian version of The Cellar apparently, and sang along to the house band playing western favourites.

It Was the Lark

This is the day my three weeks begins.

I climbed out of bed a little before 8, took a shower then went to wake up Brook, my guest for the weekend. I don't know how many of you have gone through my site to get to Brook's, or have even come the other way round, but owing to a series of chance connections one day early this year I found myself beginning to follow Brook's adventures on his trip around the world, which he chronicled so beautifully on his blog. It made me smile, it made me laugh and it made me jealous. And it's part of the reason I decided to take my trip, albeit a lot shorter then his. Last week I read on his site that he was in Ireland and with only a moment's hestitation, which mostly consisted of me worrying that he wouldn't have any fun in my friend drained St. Andrews, I invited him to come stay the weekend.

And much to my surprise he did.

The blogosphere is a strange place and it was even stranger to suddenly see someone standing on your stoop whose life you've silently been following. Strange but great.

So Saturday evening I gave my fifth tour of St. Andrews to him and that night made dinner for him and Mark. Over melted ice cream and whisky we talked about celebrity as the story of Elvis played in the background.

The next morning I sent Brook off to Edinburgh while I wrote emails and looked up hostels. By 9 we were both home and decided to head out to The Cellar, where else, for some pints. We took the long way home and crashed as soon as we walked in the door.

We said our goodbyes in the morning and I inherited his Paolo Coehlo book, books being the usual parting gifts of travellers. He was headed off to Paris via Glasgow and I was off to quickly hand in my dissertation before making my way to the rail station to catch the 11:20 direct to King's Cross.

The plan was to sleep on the train, but like all good plans, or at least mine, it didn't quite work out. I don't recall passing Durham, or much of middle England, so at least I had a couple of hours rest. It's just so hard to shut your eyes when your mind is racing.

It was cold and raining when I arrived in London. In a city I once felt so comfortable in, I suddenly felt out of synch. It was as if the city could tell that I gave up her bucolic buzz for the melodic murmur of the countryside.

I met a St. Andrews friend, Silke, at 5 in Holborn station. We were joined by her boyfriend and his friend and all made out way back to her flat in Fulham where she made us dinner and Guatamalen coffee. After 5 hours of laughter I said my goodbyes and hopped the 14 bus to Piccadilly. I checked email in the grimey EasyInternet cafe that occupies the basement of the Circus's McDonalds before catching the 12:20 N9 to Heathrow.

Tired beyond belief, I called my parents to keep me awake then tried in vain to sleep in the unforgiving airport chairs. I couldn't bring myself to unfurl the sleeping bag, and all the prime spots were taken anyway, so I sat and wrote while the cafe boy stared at me ignoring his customers. I read and longed for my bed so deperately it hurt. I check emails at 3am thinking about how when I tavel alone I'm not nervous but when I am with friends me sense of responsibilty for them keeps my constantly on edge, coming to the conclusion that my nerves this time are undenyably culled by the knowledge that Kiril would be on the other side of this journey to greet me. I smiled thinking about seeing him as fellow travellers snoozed around me. At 4am Sea obliged one of my sad emails to her with a phone call and had my laughing until 5 in the morning when the man laying next to me farted in my face signaling it was time to check in for my flight.


(amazing view flying into Skopje)

See You in September

So folks, I’ve been living in a foreign land now for a year. A land, I might add, my ancestors spent blood, sweat, tears and god knows how many hours in the cargo hold of a ship to escape from in order to find a better life for themselves. So what do I do? Fly my Kellas ass straight back over and set up shop of course. I’m torn between feeling proud and feeling slightly ashamed about that. That coupled with me visiting Turkey this month, I undoubtedly have my ancestors rolling in their graves.

Over all, it’s been a very good year. I’ve made some very good friends, drank some very good beer and had myself a very good time. So what about me has changed since I left NY? Well, I became a vegetarian, I became a socialist and I became a Jehovah’s Witness. One of those isn’t true. But not to worry folks, I’m still the same lovable, strange Jen, just with a new found determination to wean you all off Starbucks.

Something I once wrote, which Crawford likes to sporadically remind me of to his endless amusement, is ‘It’s not how life changes you, but how you choose to change your life.’ Well, goddamnit, it’s true because, fuck sitting in a meaningless job I hate, fuck 9-5, fuck no fresh air and an hour in the car each day, fuck capitalism, fuck living in regression, fuck staying still and fuck being afraid to just try. And with that my friends, I’m off. Leaving the UK for the first time since I returned here from NY in January. I’m off to find a little adventure, get a little tan and take some pretty pictures. I don’t know if I’ll be able to blog from the road and to be honest, I won’t be trying all that hard. See you in September. I’m outta here.

The Stats:
Church services attended: 1 (sorry Grandma)
Pierwalks: 4
Official Pier Walks: 0
Times I’ve been afraid I might see a ghost: 5
Ghosts actually seen: 0
Amount of times I’ve cursed living on the North Haugh as I am nearly blown over from gale force winds: Countless
Number of times I’ve passed out: 1 (as far as I can tell)
Items inadvertently stolen from Tesco: 1
Floods: 1
Irreplaceable items from the flood: 3 (fuck!)
Ceildhs danced: 6
Rallies marched in: 1
Spiders killed: 5 giant, endless others
Pictures taken: 2,008
Times I’ve dressed up like a pirate: 1
Words written: about 46,000
Men forgotten: 2
Visits to the Cinema: 6
Awkward confrontations: 1
New blogs: 3

Tours of St. Andrews Given: 5

Goodnight Moon

Tonight's sunset.

'And so it is'

Decided to take my camera along on my run up to the Allanhill farmstand the other day, the view from up there is fantastically beautiful.



Exploring around this area I am always reminded of my time in Denmark. In the evenings before dinner I would sometimes go for long walks along the roads that led through the wheat fields and cow pastures. For me, Denmark will always be coloured with skies so blue you could lose yourself in their colour, Vermeer white clouds and golden, sparkling wheat fields that I would walk through, arms outstretched as my hands skimmed the tops swaying back and forth in the cool summer breeze.





I found this site remarkable when I came upon it sitting so alien in the middle of the field. This is how you mass produce strawberries.

Revelations: I Like Big Brother

I confess! I like it! I watched nearly every eviction and sat there screaming at the tv when Davina would take too long to come out with it. I held my hand over my mouth anytime there was a shouting match and doubled over with laughter when Kinga couldn't get on the bucking bronco. I was officially obsessed. It was like Real World for losers, not that Real Worlders aren't usually losers (that being said I did once try out for it) but at least you can chalk most of that down to them being young and foolish.

Now a word on last night's finale: I was so happy Anthony won. I don't think anyone else in that house deserved it. He is definitely a simpleton but a harmless, sweet one. I think anyone who voted for that half-wit, social reject, weakling Eugene is a fool. I actually had to flip the channel anytime he came on, he was so creepy. I have nothing to say about Makosi other then I agree with Kemal when he said she was mentally deranged. And I think Kinga should have come in second, I can't believe she got voted off first last night. I thought she was lovely and funny, despite sticking a bottle up her...well you know. At least she wasn't malicious like most of the people in there.

Lammas Fair

Monday night I called Mark to come and walk around the Lammas Fair with me so I wouldn't look like a weirdo taking pictures of little kids.



It was actually pretty amazing. The whole of Market Street and South were filled with these outlandish, epilepsy inducing carny rides. The music was so loud you could hardly speak in the streets. I bet the residents must have loved it. Especially the fact that they had Sugababes and McFly blasted into their flats until midnight.





There was something really fantastic about it all though. Especially seeing it all up against the grey stone of the medieval buildings.





It looked as if this one was going to smash right into the side of Parliament Hall.













Toilet seats as a prize, brilliant.





Best bit, the fortune teller. What exactly is a Romany Welsh Gypsy?

Stay tuned for my school year round up. Is it me or does something seem wrong when you are 24 and your year still starts in September, ends in June and has some warm, hazy bits in between?

Miscellany

Here are some pictures from the past few weeks that don't really have enough of a tale to deserve their own post.



July 24th Javier organised his last barbecue on the East Sands. We were blessed with our typical Scottish beach weather, you know, the kind that requires a wooly sweater and mittens. Javi is the wee guy with the curly mop top holding his arms out. They were playing some sort of frisbee game that I'm not even sure they knew that it was.



The sun did make a guest appearance, however, for a hot second. That path going up the hill is where I go running everyday (this is targeted mainly to Sea because she wanted to see 'my hill'). It is the start of the coastal path on which one day I promise to take my camera because it is beautiful.



Out the living room window.



Taken just this morning actually, Rob, me and Crawford in our back garden posing with the vegetable patch before they both buggered off leaving me to fend for myself.

Herzlichen Glückwunsch zum Geburtstag Jamie!

I Apologise Ahead of Time

If you want to check out some random videos I took, mainly of my friends and I acting stupid, then go here and type in livinginabstract. One word. Make sure to hit 'Santa on a Choo Choo', my personal favourite.