EXIT and the branding of a nation or, 7 cities, the finale

after an uneventful 8 hour drive back to serbia from macedonia, we arrived in novi sad just in time for the first night of the EXIT music festival. even after nightfall, i could see that EXIT had totally transformed novi sad. normally jovial, self-contained and charmingly provincial, serbia's second city had been descended upon by more than 200,000 festivaliers from all over europe and it had become slick, neon-lit, the place to be. we missed buraka som sistema's performance, but caught the opening fireworks display. or rather, it caught me. or, rather, almost caught me, as i was standing at least 30 feet above ground on a platform at the very top of the VIP section. so close, i thought a spark might float down and do me like pepsi did michael. so close, we all felt the fragile foundation rock. 'if these fireworks can do this', the serb said, 'imagine what it was like with NATO bombing us.'

there it was again. in a time of revelry, serbians were thinking about war. though for most of us, this seems anachronistic, in serbia, the connection is apt.

the exit festival began as a small student protest against slobodan milosevic's regime in july of 1999, just after the NATO attack on serbia ended. three university students, dusan kovacevic, ivan milivojev, and bojan boskovic, gathered local artists, musicians and actors (including my serb) in the petrovaradin fortress for 9 days of drama, music, exhibitions and protest. two of them even got arrested for it. and now, 10 years later, milosevic is long gone, and EXIT has been condensed into 4 days. everything else about the event has expanded like the waistline of a chunky chick living next door to a krispy kreme. the fortress now bulges with about 8 stages of nonstop sound, from rock, rap, and jazz to folk, pop, and traditional serbian music. numbers? well, from great britain, alone, 20,000! everyone from NERD to franz ferdinand has performed on exit's stages. this year's line-up included prodigy, lily allen, arctic monkey, patty smith, and afro punk up and comer, ebony bones.

with the exception of prodigy, moby had the biggest turn out of the festival. and even though the serb and srjdan are convinced that moby didn't actually play one note on that gussied up guitar (fakest performance ever), he did manage to 'apologize for america's actions', citing it 'his duty as a u.s. citizen'. he then left my serbian brethren befuddled by launching into a tirade about george bush, about whom serbians couldn't care less. it was, after all, former president bill clinton who bombed them. and still, somehow, buildings and bridges and the like likely still smoldering from the attacks, 3 students from the university of novi sad marshaled the talents, anger, and passions of their fellow serb youth and created not only a woodstock, but a beast.

case in point: the dance arena, where tens of thousands gather to go tail up over techno. (europe loves her some techno.) we got our chance to partake on the penultimate night, when the serb and i met up with two of the organizers, ivan and (new addition) milosh, who promptly pressed two green sticker passes to our chests and lead us through a dark hallway, up a small flight of stairs and onto a large scaffolding of some kind. i heard a wall of beats and screams, but i couldn't see where it was coming from. there were only about 200 people in there. i turn to milosh.

'where are we?'

'the dance arena. this is backstage.' he takes me by the shoulders and turns me to the right. 'that's the stage.' i see two smallish, swedish men on the turntables. and about 4 dancers in pink sparkly leotards and tutus. huge blonde afro wigs on their heads. milosh takes my shoulders and directs my attention to the left. 'and there's the crowd. wanna see?', he asks. i eye him. 'ok.'

he leads me through the small crowd and to a railing. below it is a massive crowd. the last time i saw this many people, i was onstage at the paris solidays festival, holding a big ass violin bow. except, this crowd looked like about 3 times the size of the one at paris's solidays festival. this is not including another 3 stories of scaffoldings, holding thousands more, all facing the music makers, hands raised in salute like legions of loyal subjects to child kings. all told, the crowd was more than 70,000 strong.

i ask milosh and ivan if they'd envisioned this ten years ago. ivan barely looks up from lighting his cigarette to say, 'this? this is just the beginning.'

decades are deceptive measures of time. long enough to turn a trend (we, in fact, never associate trends with longevity), but too short for a new born, for instance, to even approach adulthood. 'the beginning', indeed. milosevic may be long gone, and the buildings and bridges are no longer on fire, but just a few kilometers on either side of the fortress, what was a bridge in '98, is 6 concrete stubs sadly sticking out of the danube, and a television station sits in rubble. serbia hasn't been rebuilt yet. and just like '99, milosh, ivan and co. ain't leavin' the dirty work of rebuilding and rebranding serbia to the politicians.

7 cities, part 2

if lenny kravitz knew what his music was being used for, he would be very happy, said the serb. further proof that he, in fact, gets it. gets that it is entirely us to have all four doors open, 'fly away' and 'american woman' blasting from the speakers, as we wait on a line of cars that looks more like a parking lot to cross the border from serbia to macedonia.

yup. a motherfucking road trip!! after london, i flew to belgrade where me, the serb, his brother, and his brother's prissy (but very nice) girlfriend, embarked on a journey through the south of serbia, the capitol of macedonia, skopje, and on to lake ohrid, where we spent the next five days roaming through the mountains, praying in monasteries, and lounging by the lake.

our trip was fantastic and eye-opening, and heart-opening, and not only because i was visited by a saint. on this trip, the serb and i reached another level in our relationship: we laughed. not that we don't always. we do, always. but up until that night, 3 nights in, on a moonlit walk by the lake, when we doubled over, stomachs aching, tears in our eyes, literally whooping and hollering, over some joke i can't remember now, our private jokes were more of a physical nature. both of us people of action (he an athlete, me, a dancer), we've always found humor in our physical impressions of, well, each other. (he nails me, by the way. it's uncanny.) but this night, he made a joke, i seized on it, added something and took the funny another level. then he played off my play off and we laughed harder. and then i riffed on his improv and before we knew it, we'd collapsed onto a bench beside the water, cackling uncontrollably.

for the next 20 minutes our ever-present language barrier dissolved like sugar in water and it was so, so sweet. we infected everyone around us with our laughter. every single person that walked by, looked at us, confused at first, then inevitably, started giggling. and for perhaps the only time in that 5 days, the macedonians around us were not pointing, whispering and staring, or asking to take photos with us. they weren't treating us like either freaks or celebrities. they were laughing with us. and it was all very human and very spontaneous and very beautiful. enjoy the show.

1 sister, 7 cities, part 1

*UNDERSTATEMENT ALERT!!!

i've been traveling a bit.

indeed, i went to 7 cities over twenty days: paris, montpellier, london, belgrade, novi sad, skopje, and ohrid. 4 of them i know quite well. even love. 3 of them, i saw for the first time, and one of those i now love (ohrid). of course, i have stories. and stories. i've told some: dancing on stage with an oscar-nominated director; taking money from a weirdly well-connected hobo/conspiracy theorist. some i've only hinted at or tweeted about: having dinner with an old friend/soon-to-be oscar winning producer (who, by the way, took my first name and gave it to a character in his last film); partying with an nba star and his white girlfriend. and then there are the big stories... too involved, too vast and too... juicy... even for this blog.

but you know what's not too big for the blog?? the visuals.

i've organized seven cities worth of pics into a slideshow, one sister, seven cities, of which there are 2 versions. the blip slideshow is of horrible quality, but the soundtrack (courtesy of that cheeky, chic chanteuse, edith piaf) and the titles are dope. the [second] flickr version has no music, but the quality's good. the photos in this slideshow are of the first leg my trip, from barcelona to paris to montpellier.

some notes:
unbeknownst to myself, i'd planned my trip right in the middle of paris fashion week. again, my homegirl from high school, and hbic of fashion branding and marketing agency, bpmw, d-money, was in town for her own 4-story trade show, {capsule}. so i wandered the le marais neighborhood...

it's great outdoor cafés; yummy falafel stands; orthodox jews, whose prayers and chants float through the eponymous quarter at noon; stylish, stellar shops, and that market, marché des enfants rouges, where robust white-haired french chefs in straw hats can flip crêpes, flirt with brown girls, and sing the blues all at once; chez-freaking-omar; the truest of indie booksellers that shop titles like ces femmes ont ouvert la voie d'obama and de darwin a piaget; where cute brunettes in designer italian sunglasses and french manicures sip rosé even during the day, because the owners of bars like havana are smoking hot mulatto men who speak english and spanish and compose perfectly eclectic soundtracks you can hear from the sidewalks...

eventually, i literally happen upon {capsule} without even looking for it, just in time for happy hour. (my timing is on fire at this point. me and the universe are synched the fuck up.) me and d$'s crew go straight from slim plastic flutes of champagne in john galliano's old garden, to two of paris's top model haunts: black cavalados and le baron. appropriately, d$'s good friend, l.a. clipper baron davis joined us... which was not only loads of bottle poppin' fun, but, you know, a story in itself. then there was solidays, and the greatest 3 minutes of my life, on stage with emir kusturica.

the very next day, i headed south to montpellier by train (tgv), where i hung on the beach, ate african food, shopped for shoes, and reminisced about new york with an old acquaintance, aziza. besides having a tumor, my ex was an able guitarist who had rollicking jam sessions at his loft in hell's kitchen. one night, almost 3 years ago, one of his musician friends brought his friend visiting from france (az) to jam with us. az and i hit it off that night, bonding over boys, jewels, and making percussive sounds with keys and bowls and spoons and things, but didn't speak again... until facebook in january of this year. the 2nd time i ever laid eyes on az, we were hugging it out like old school chums at alumni weekend in the parking lot of the st. roche railway station in montpellier.

now, montpellier is stunning. it is. but it. is. boring. it's like this gorgeous, ripped, sexy guy who can't kiss. i know it was a wednesday night, but there wasn't one bar or café--not one!!--playing any music. 'oh! you should've come at the weekend!,' everyone kept saying. right. that would be like laying down with a guy you know can't kiss.

the day after that, i boarded the tgv to the eurostar to london. i don't have photos of london, but of course, there are stories. and stories.

on a summer's night a traveler

'sorry!' this british airways ticket sales guy is pissing me off. it's like he's happy to inform me that i'll be stuck in heathrow for at least another week. and he's sweating. he's sweating and there's air conditioning.

'we've only got a few seats left, on wednesday', he continues. 'but they're business class... that'll be around 600 pounds...'

is this motherfucker smiling??

ok. travel tip: buying a same day departure ticket at the airport (officially, the busiest airport in the world, at that) during the summer is virtually impossible. this should keep you from trying, unless you're like me, and 'impossible' is the proverbial red flag and you're the proverbial bull.

'pounds??', i ask, just to be sure.

'ster-ling,' he enunciates, in the way brits have of making americans feel like they don't really speak english.

i call my brit sister, pep.

'help!! i can't get a flight out; can i stay at your place tonight?'

gracious as ever, pep came to my rescue. told me to call her when i reached the baron's court tube stop nearest her home. my gigantic suitcase contained 7 cities worth of good memories and i did not want to lug that shit on the tube at 9 o'clock at night. only, i wasn't sure i had enough sterling on me to take a taxi from heathrow to fulham. i'd been through enough that day. not only had i been denied a flight home to barcelona, but i'd just left my serb, which, now more than before, is like walking out of the warmest, most comfortable place you've ever been, straight into an arctic chill. i decided that i deserved an original glazed krispy kreme donut and a small sugary latte if not a cushy ride to pep's cushy urban digs.

licking the sweet, possibly toxic glaze from my fingers, i headed out into the evening sun, and towards the tube--piccadilly line, i think--about 15 minutes later. i see one lone taxi out front, and decide to give it a go. there are two men, the taxi driver, and another older white man, slightly disheveled. actually, kind of hobo looking. there may be a tiny hole in the right knee of his khakis; at the very least, they're stained with some type of oily substance. he's wearing a faded navy sweatshirt under a corduroy blazer. his head full of salt and pepper hair is everywhere. he's in a terrible hurry, if his mismatched luggage, strewn all over the sidewalk, is any indication. i step over a small battered red suitcase, and approach the driver.

'excuse me, could you tell me, ball park, how much a trip from here to fulham would run me?'

both men look up. before the driver can answer, the hobo hands me 15 pounds. ster-ling.

'here. put that towards it.'

'what---'

'let me help you with this suitcase'

i clutch the 3 five pound notes between my fingers like i'm giving, not receiving them. he lifts my 26 kilos of summer dresses and cute sandals into the taxi, then takes my hand, deposits me inside the cavernous london cab and shuts the door. my mouth is still open. job done, he sticks his head through the window.

'what's your name?'

'ieishah. yours?'

'nigel.'

he reaches a hand inside and gives mine a firm squeeze.

'nigel. it's good to meet you. but... are you sure about this? i mean, thank you but...'

i keep myself from saying, you look like you could use this dough, bro.

'of course, of course. where are you from originally? nigeria?'

'new york.'

'ah!! i was sat next to alicia keys at the grammy's once. but my crazy ex girlfriend wouldn't let me talk to her, she was so jealous.'

'oh...'

'well, i've gotta go. god bless you!'

'ok... god bless you, too!'

nigel disappears into the lucky throng of travelers, all of whom had the good sense to book their flights in advance.

i arrive at pep's house about 2 detours, and a month of cocktail parties' worth of get-to-know-you chat with the cabbie later (who's written down my name, and vowed to keep a look out for it on the cover of a book).

'do you know that guy nigel, who gave you the money?'

'of course.'

'he said the CIA's looking for him. he knows lots of, like, government secrets and that and they don't want him to talk. he said the world's going to be plunged into a massive depression in the next six months.'

'doesn't explain why he'd be giving away money.'

'he said we should get out of this country, cause it'll hit here hardest. sounded like he knew what he was talking about.'

as talkers normally do. this nigel. the ride ends up costing 55 quid* flat. i had 40.

*quid=pound=sterling=british currency

how i found... the orthodox church?

'WHAT THE HELL IS IN THERE???' is probably not the first thing you say to a group of serbs upon exiting an orthodox monastery. furthermore, you may want to 'exit' discreetly and respectfully, not come running out like the devil was in there chasing you. which is almost exactly what the serb suggested, as i approached the wooden bench upon which he waited for me, tears streaming down my face.

it was monday, and we had driven up into the mountains of galicica, on the opposite side of lake ohrid from the city of ohrid. it's up in the mountainabout 700 km above sea level, and boasts the black dream springs as well as the monastery of st. naum. he was the student of cyril and methodius (their statue is pictured below), inventors of the cyrillic alphabet used throughout the balkans.


we exited the car on the roadside halfway up galicica just in time to see some paragliders taking off in flight. the view of the lake from this point was absolutely incredible. we took loads of photos, and commented on how lucky we were to have skype, without which our relationship never would have survived long enough for us to get here... heaven.

after a boat ride through the black dream springs,

we went for a walk through the park, where dozens of little architectural jewels nestled, including several monasteries. i always go into the orthodox church with the serb, who's very religious, very connected to his faith and his church and his saints. normally, we just go inside, do a few hail mary's or whatever, light a few candles (i always light on specifically for my 97 year old grandma, who for some reason, i always think of inside the orthodox church). but of all the times i've been inside of the orthodox church, i don't remember feeling anything other than peace. the peace that tradition tends to bring. but i cannot remember the last time i felt touched by christianity. really soul deep, touched. not since i was a kid.

the day before, a sunny sunday morning during which the streets were filled with people, i asked the serb why these seemingly, very religious folks were in the cafés instead of the church. he said, 'the priests speak in the old slovenian language which nobody understands, so we don't go.'

though not understanding the words has never kept me from liking or understanding anything, i get it. at the very least, a kind of disconnect from the real world it's parishioners live in, for all their differences, the catholic and orthodox churches have in common. i was baptized catholic, which having committed the grave sin of being deathly boring, i've moved on from, towards the greener, less blood-filled pastures of buddhism, and esoteric thought.

by the time we got to the monastery dedicated to st naum,
i'd already been inside of a few exceptionally beautiful ones, and had decided i'd rather sit outside, and watch the old women in traditional dress, shuck corn or whatever it is that they were doing. then the serb approaches and says, 'really, you should go see it. it's beautiful.' i leave all of our bags and things with him on the bench outside, everything very mundane and pedestrian. very everyday. i walked in, looked at the paintings on the walls, some saints. some biblical scenes. which specifically i cannot remember, and i'm not even sure that i was able to see, as my eyes filled up with water.

the serb's brother's girlfriend later asked me what it was i felt. maybe overwhelm. gratitude. i remember walking in and thinking, 'thank god'. that's it. i said to myself, 'thank god'. then i started to cry.

i tried to view some of the other rooms, but i couldn't see anything in my condition. also i was scaring the two young macedonian boys who were exploring the monastery with their dad--some strange black girl with strange hair balling in the chapel--and scaring myself, too, just a little.

the serb at first made a joke about me perhaps being the devil and needing an exorcism, which knocked (most) of the emotionality right out of me. but later, he became confessional, 'i didn't really know how to react. should i be scared, or worried, was it a good feeling or a bad feeling... or maybe i was a little bit jealous. because i feel something, but not like you. and i suppose that that spirit comes to you because you're a better person or something.'

'better' is not what i would consider myself vis-a-vis everyone else who enters the monastery at st. naum, or chants with monks for money in thailand, and doesn't melt into a balling mass of emotions. i've heard that this level of emotion and release is how you're supposed to feel when you've come upon that path in life that's meant for you. i remember my life changing drastically in the year following my experience in bangkok. before that i was living in my parents home, had never really had a meaningful relationship with a man, and was dreaming of returning to europe, and traveling the world. ALL of that has changed since. and now i'm waiting, bated breath, for the transitions that this experience will usher in.

what i found in thailand wasn't buddhism, per say, but rather, another little piece of myself. another little piece of the world. and here in macedonia, yet another. in more ways than one, this. trip. rocks.

that's 'farted'

pep and i, the ex-wife of an old friend, and a very dear friend herself, had just capped a five hour gab session with wine, fish and chips, burgers... proper british pub food. a light, airy kind of spot with quick witted waitresses and tartan seat covers. the last 6 years on the table, we're full, sated, and really happy to see each other.

two men and a woman are sitting on a bench outside of the pub when we exit.

verydrunkwoman: ladeeeeees! have a good night, alright!

me and pep: thank you. thank you. and y'all get home safe. no drinking and driving..

verydrunkwoman: yeah, yeah, we're gonna {{{{buuurrr}}}}}}} head home right after this fag...

me: um, did you just burp? [i turn to one of her male companions.] did she just burp??

[the other drunk, but really calm male companion, slowly pulls the fag from his mouth and looks at me sideways]

ya lucky she ain't faaah--ed...

***

so as i tweeted, this is my first time in an english speaking country in two years. and as i said on facebook, feels good (but maybe a bit weird) to not have to translate myself before i speak. not even the humor, apparently, because i haven't stopped chuckling since i landed at paddington station. there are so many stories to tell... about french women, the basketball player and his white girlfriend, the south of france... so many stories. but things are moving so, so fast. after this 36 hours in london, i'll head to serbia (and the serb!! yay!!) in the morning.

but for the next few hours at least, i'm going to enjoy saying fag instead of cigarette, flat instead of apartment, and the 't' , that when it isn't over-pronounced between the teeth, the proper way, happens somewhere in the back of the mouth. like it doesn't happen at all. like in 'faah'ed'.