All Aboard the Balkan Express

Oh what a night

Late December, back in '63

The balkan express moves swiftly, on all fours, like a dragon kneeling before prey, knowing time and how it crouches, softly, bending knuckles to flex with the wind, the wind, softly softly, inching toward its inevitable suicide, the end of the day, the endgame, end of ends, bending slow to catch its prey, hopping, backlegged, two-armed, unarmed hobby horse, death in its veins, neck trained to detect the small, the soft, softly softly, with head in its tail, tail trailing, thoughts on the softness of the future, the plop-plop of time as it hops, one-legged, cross-jawed thumping, loose-eyed wandering with the taste of blood, taste of honey, dragon lips lopping soft, softly softly, toward the end, which opens its arms with the soft plop-plop, the future open, slack-mawed and arms wider than a river planet, lopping, tripping over its endless tail.

Knowing in all moments that everything could change, that the hat could drop and catalyse a waterfall in Nairobi, is the hottest damn thing on the planet, and plans should be made in the nick of time, because otherwise you're living on backwash, in backcountry, in back ends, and no one wants the smell of bat poo in a Macedonian cave (except the bats, possibly). Come and get your love.

Follow the example of these strange cats presented below in two-D, being all trouble and no strife, in the National Art Gallery in Tirana. Is like a revolution brewing or something? Hearsay and much pictorial analysis by one and two thirds of an expert have it that this was a social uprising founded upon the unspoken ideals of fashion [FAH-shun]. I asked around and was given many half-arsed quotations before I got to the real dirt.

Cor, lush boots mate! Say, mind if I look UP CLOSE? 

No cat no, gosh darnit, those are totally mine and allergic to wannabes I'll bite your FIST!

Aiming for the hat but u got my face????

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Camping on a beach in Albania after three glorious days and nights in Tirana, during which I daytime climbed to the top of the pyramid and then again at night with pizza and eclairs, ate this and that, collected all the stickers and stamps, was introduced to a wonderful and kindly Albanian family by a mysterious punk poet who goes by many names and dined with them, happily, chomping on their homemade byrek which were second, in pure merit, to no other burek I've had since. We also played dominoes competitively, which was a new experience.

A tank of a man (back 2 the beach) approaches, bald, moustache, black biker jacket, he approaches on a motorbike, so to speak, and parks up at the edge of the beach. This beach fringes an amusement park which is dormant, or derelict, it's hard to tell which. He approaches now, on foot, and shouts to me. My friend, he says, Security. Security? Gosh, officer, whatever for? I can assure you there'll be no tomfoolery here. I'll keep a watchful eye.

My head is still set slightly in Italian mode at this point, and in Italy it's easy to feel like you're not allowed to camp in the vast majority of places where you'd think you should be allowed to. Why? Because there are signs, bloody everywhere, saying it's forbidden. So when this bloke comes up to me with his swagger and his clothes I sigh and think oh alright, I can go. This can happen. 

This is when he slaps me hard on the back, gives me a moustachio'd grin, and says VERY SAFE, ME SECURITY, NO PROBLEM. See, Italy? There is another way of treating your cheapskate guests.

Montenegro is very mountainous and actually breathtaking. 

Having your breath taken is dangerous when cycling, also especially if and when your eyes are welling up with all the intensity of being somewhere so beautiful and altogether breathtaking and feeling so marvellous about it. Wet eyes and vacant lungs don't make for safe cycling so I have installed eye-towels and oxygen tanks with automatic dispensers, at some expense.

Quiet isolated dips on sandy or pebble beaches are nice after a hot ride, that's a thing you can't deny.

Hey, Bay of Kotor, you're lookin pretty divine from above (below), gimme some switchbacks so that I can descend safely, look at you closer.

Jee, thanks. Now I admire you proper.

Because of the nature of their many intertwining arms and legs, Croatia and Bosnia & Herzegovina have about eight million border crossings, only some of which are open to the public. Some, you discover when climbing to the mountain pass and staring the old man down, finding the bike between your legs to have transformed itself into a reptile of prehistoric proportions, or an angelic toad with no hind legs but a laconic purring motor made out of tweezers and baling twine, some you discover to be local border crossings for local people. 

Like above Neum, where the kindly man looks with sorrowful eyes and says Bruno, there is problem. As he leans in close, the faint wisps of tobacco smoke draw lines out of his shirt pockets. His teeth are uniform, crystalline, like turrets, and he's not wearing any trousers. Turn around, you bastard. Tail between your legs and get out of here. Yes officer. Anything you say officer. 

Burek you wowzer.

But really this is all wonderful and I am deeply happy and whole.

In Sarajevo where the old ladies sing a thousand songs a minute and the Residence Rooms provide little to no respite from the bars below. Irish pubs are everywhere, this I knew before. But did I really know? They are EVERYWHERE. But, as we discussed, what makes an Irish pub? These are pubs which sell beer, which have particular carpets and dark wood and light settings, sure, and they are run by humans, as Irish pubs undoubtedly are... but need they be Irish humans? These are not Irish. But the atmosphere is jovial, and they serve Guinness! Whence comes the license to call it Irish? This I'd like to know.

Superb superb superb and I'll tell you more if you ask me.

There is far to much to say about each day and each region and each country because every hour is a world unto itself, and this is how life should be. The world expands and contracts to fit a phenomenological perspective, as it did around Sisyphus, and a bike is only 80% different from a rock. So why roll? Because each hour is a world unto itself, and the world breathes by with such tumult and fecundating beauty (Miller talking, he loves this word fecundating). And so even but the road up to the top of the hill above Novi Pazar goes up for 600m basically just like that and it is a slog but camping near the top and munching on this big poppy seed pastry you've somehow managed to save for this moment, it feels, felt, totally and literally like sitting on top of the world, and is/was excellent experience I recommend to anyone. 

Kosovan bill to make you smile. Regale yourself with three courses for as little as 7€! and be treated. Take an accidental selfie the next day because that is how to immortalise this moment. 

The squirmy issue of ex-Yugoslavia and all the new countries with new people alongside old people and new identities and ideas alongside old ones makes for a whole shebang of cultural fireworks and not much knowing how to deal with itself. There are those of all logical shapes,  smitten or not, of all calibres and unctuous halibuts, of and not of strata, scrivened by earth's wrath and gods of green temples, those whose fields are plains which breathe an awful fire, whose legs are lackadaisical, whose hips drag and swing like pendula, twanging a racket unheard before death, before bed. 

And there are a million conversations which place one in ones cultural realm quite firmly and draw lines demarcating different histories. These are good. These people are good and they, some of them, feel imprisoned. 

Lonely drifts the whalduck.

I am in Turkey now with TJ, in Istanbul no less, and have spent time with a marvellous man called Jörg, a German of the highest order, in Greece and here, and Macedonia was fine and invigorating, but this post is already long and a bit daft, so that's for later. Ciao, babies.

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