Biking in Serbia (Almost)

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Yesterday, just before returning to Szolnok from Budapest, I thought of taking a train to another country, just for the day. It was too late in the day for that, so I decided to take the bike to Szeged the following morning (today) and bike down to Serbia from there.

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Well, biking to Serbia isn’t as easy as I thought it would be. First, there was a big street festival in Szeged, so I had some trouble figuring out which road to take. I didn’t want to ask, in the midst of these festivities, “How do I get to Serbia?” So I listened to a delightful musical duo–on the Belvárosi bridge–and then tried to wend my way south. (Here’s a short video I recorded.)

There are few border crossings; you have to know where they are. I biked for several hours down a dirt road right along the border–with the Tisza and Serbia to my left, and Hungary to my right–but saw no roads going into Serbia. A couple of times I followed a path in the Serbian direction, but the first one led to the Tisza (and no further), and the second led into a dense wood.

 

A police car came my way; the policemen told me that I was essentially biking on the border between the two countries. I asked them if this was permitted; they said yes. So I continued on, only to reach a dead end eventually. (That was where I turned onto the path that led to the Tisza; that’s Serbia across the river.) On my way back, I saw the policemen again; we waved at each other.

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Although I didn’t make it into Serbia, I could not have wished for a more glorious bike ride. I saw many storks, a spotted deer, a hare, horses, and sheep. I undulated through dirt and mud. Clouds started to tower in the sky, but not a raindrop splattered my way (or even in my vicinity).

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When I returned to Szeged, I discovered the route to Beograd–one of two ways to get to Serbia from the city. Next time I will know what to do; by the time I figured all this out, it was mid-afternoon, and I didn’t want to stretch the day too far. I watched a folk dance performance for a few minutes and then headed back to the train station.

In a week I will return to Szeged for a synagogue concert by the Budapest Festival Orchestra. Later in June, I hope to try the Serbia trip again.

Image and video credits: The map is from Google Maps; I took all the other pictures and videos today.

Update: I am not the only person who found the border crossing tricky.

“How Was It?”

When I come back from a trip–or anything, really–and people ask, “How was it?” I don’t know what to say. “Rich, beautiful, fantastic,” etc.–those are generic words, but if I go into too much detail, I might try anyone’s patience, including my own. Moreover, the most important parts are often the most difficult to sum up. So I put together a slideshow–just a fraction of the photos I took, but a hint of the three weeks. To avoid big downloads and crashes, I put it on YouTube. (I adjusted and re-uploaded it several times; this is the final version.)

Also, I made a short video playlist of musicians I heard on Istiklal Avenue in Istanbul. I find myself listening to these songs again and again.

Speaking of “How was it?” yesterday I saw a delightful performance of The Government Inspector, Jeffrey Hatcher’s adaptation of Nikolai Gogol’s play. The acting, stage set, directing, and the text itself combined into a performance that was part social satire, part panorama of human vice, and part utter silliness and play. I was grateful that that last part, the silliness and play, did not get short shrift; to me, it was the greatest part of all. Afterward there was a discussion with the director, Jesse Berger; the Russian scholar and author Emil A. Draitser; and several members of the cast.

Gogol’s play and the adaptation have the same basic plot: Residents of a small provincial town learn of the imminent arrival of a revizor, or government inspector. They scramble to cover up the town’s far-reaching corruption. In the meantime, Khlestakov, a self-indulgent, imaginative, unsuspecting dandy, has been staying at the inn for a week; once his presence is noted, people assume he is the revizor himself. This plays out hilariously–and in this production, everyone is having fun. But there’s also a sad irony: while believing they are covering up their foibles, the townspeople actually reveal one vice after another, particularly obsequiousness. What seems like concealment unravels into disclosure.

But this does not sum up the play, the adaptation, or the performance; as I was watching, I noticed that each scene, and many moments within the scenes, come across as pictures, po-gogolevski. The wordless scene at the end–the famous “nemaia stsena”–still shifts and staggers in my mind.

This actually brings me back to my trip. The four lessons I taught in Istanbul (to four sections of eleventh-graders) were about the relation between concealment and disclosure in specific works of art, music, and literature: a Degas painting, a Verlaine poem, the second movement of Beethoven’s Symphony no. 7, a passage from Kierkegaard’s Fear and Trembling, and Chekhov’s story “Home.” This play would have been a great addition to that syllabus, had there been time for it. In that sense, the study continues.

So my reply to “How was it?” is “Was? No, is.”

Street Music in Istanbul

Not only is there music on just about every corner in downtown Istanbul (especially on Istiklal Caddesi), but some are so soulful that they halt you for a while.

Here is my favorite musician so far. I love the quiet subtlety of his music. I heard him (and took this video) on my first day and then saw him again two days later. I hope to learn his name before I leave. Kudos, also, to the young man holding the microphone; such service sometimes goes unnoticed.

Then this morning I heard this beautiful duo. The song’s melody reminds me of a piyut I began learning recently. They aren’t identical, but they have similar cadences.

If I learn who any of these musicians are, I will add the information here.

As you can see, walking around in Istanbul is no ordinary matter. You have to be dreamy and alert at the same time: dreamy because you can’t help it, and alert because so much is happening all around.

istanbul cat 2As I was listening to the duo, some children came up to me and began begging. I gave a few coins to one of them. Then another approached me; I shook my head and left, but she walked along with me, saying “Syria, Syria” and many other things. (She may have been a Syrian Dom refugee.) With her hands, words, expression, and urgency, she conveyed that she needed something to eat. I finally motioned to her that I would go get some change. She understood and waited outside as I went into a McDonald’s (of all places). They wouldn’t give me change without a purchase, so I got some Chicken McNuggets, gave the girl some change, and fed the quasi-food, bit by bit, to cats in the neighborhood. Here is one such cat.

Update: On May 25, my last day in Istanbul, I heard the duo again and learned their names! They are Fali Talebi and Sherko Hoseini, from Iran. I will write a separate post about them. A month later, well after returning to the U.S., I asked Sherko the name of the song. It is “Ta Bahare Delneshin,” an old Persian song. Sherko kindly sent me the lyrics and a link to another recording.