Dear half-century-old Momus posted something real nice the other day. Among his tidbits of wisdom:
You know too much about LA and not enough about Laos. On the internet and in "the real world" you're consistently looking in the wrong places for inspiration. Why is that? Partly it's because the things that could really change you make you scared.
Reminded me to briefly mention the magic that was my ten-days-in-September fumble at various points nearby or on the Danube (Vienna, Budapest, Belgrade and places between).
Most great things about this trip can be credited to happenstance, starting with what seemed to be an inconvenient stopover. I landed in Brussels between Toronto and Vienna, left my bags checked at the airport and blindly headed into the city. Stumbled upon a fantastic Sophie Calle retrospective at BOZAR. Just so happens I'd recently read The Mystery Guest by Grégoire Bouillier (the cover of which, beautifully gold-foiled, had appealed to my magpie-like aesthetic sensibilities). The story includes a whimsical encounter with Calle, and I'd put it somewhere in the back of my mind to further investigate her work at a later date. Who knew?
Merely the start of a brilliant last few days of summer. Tiny things, nice moments. A short list of highlights:
- One day in Vienna, Klas and I rested in a public park after a day of aimless tourism, only to catch sight of a dancing woman in a bright yellow patterned headwrap and dress, singing in front of a camera for what could only be a perfectly low-budget music video. In front of a Russian memorial, no less. Caught her on tape (er, the video function on my digital camera).
- Johnny the radio host took us to a party in nearby Slovakia, which put us in a former bomb shelter in the bottom of a mountain under a castle, listening to very loud and obscure electronic music. The name of the genre escapes me.
- In Budapest, I met up with my friend Vladimir, a television journalist from the press tour in Israel back in June/July. After spending a couple of days overwhelming ourselves with opulent architecture, we drove to Belgrade through Hungary and beautiful Serbian agriculture (truly rolling hills!), stopping overnight in a small town called Sombor to visit his extremely hospitable army friend and his charming, English-speaking girlfriend. We bonded while the boys conversed in Serbian.
- In Belgrade things got pretty perfect. Out of nowhere rose a rakija festival, complete with bootlegged honey schnapps (which I later managed to get through customs). Another day, we fell face first into a parade with singing crowds and airborne hats. On a stroll through downtown, we stopped into a small free gallery and saw one of Vlada's most favourite paintings ever, quite by accident. That sort of stuff.
Serbia had rarely crossed my mind, to be perfectly honest, and I'd certainly never thought to go there—until I met and became friends with Vlada and took a chance because I planned on being somewhat in the neighbourhood. Turns out the people, the food, the culture—mostly entirely amazing. Do not go to LA, people! Visit Belgrade!
Perhaps my Canadian (and urban centre) mentality did not, however, prepare me for the old-country approach when it came to gay rights. For the first time since 2001, organizers attempted to hold a much-anticipated Pride Parade on my last weekend in town. Due to threats of violence, the parade had to be cancelled. Kinda sad.
