#RAPPER NOREAGA SHIRTLESS WINDOWS#
Open windows and “No Smoking” signs quietly inhaled unfiltered knockoff Camels in between Station burek and shots of dark Turkish coffee at the nearby cafe. On the train from Sarajevo to Zagreb I had spent my last remaining konvertible marks on train At every hour, at any time, perfect for those leisurely walks through twisting alleys and hawker bazaars, in dingy apartments camped around a bottle of homemade rakia, before or during train journeys snaking across the Balkans. Different countries, primarily around the Balkans, have their own preferences, but the common theme is that burek is sold everywhere, in a manner that rivals the way that pizza and bacon, egg and cheese sandwiches are sold in New York. Eventually I would try feta cheese and spinach (marginally better for you), unidentified ground meat (lamb, I think), apple (a step above McDonald’s apple pies), and even sour cherry burek fillings (actually really good), but I think potato is still my favorite. It’s hard to go wrong with anything involving spiced potatoes, and this one was particularly satisfying in the way that unhealthy, heavily seasoned street food typically is. That one has potato in it,” he replied, pointing at a seemingly arbitrary tray of specimens. “You should get that,” a man loitering by the counter said, in perfect, Midwestern English. But obviously, the first thing I did was duck into a bakery and look for something greasy and salty to fill my maw. In an effort to hide my gaping ignorance, I had read most of the Wikipedia entries on the subject during the short ride into town from Croatia. Almost two decades later, I suppose you could say I was back among my former stomping grounds. the Siege of Sarajevo, the Srebrenica massacre) were raging at the very moment two dumb schoolkids were blithely moving imaginary armies across the face of war-torn Central Europe to commit imaginary atrocities. In second grade I used to play this weird Risk-like game using our geography workbooks, with this kid named Tommy Schnurr coincidentally the Yugoslav Wars (i.e. The first time I had burek was in Sarajevo. In a land of unfamiliar histories and impenetrable Cyrillic script, burek is extremely comforting for the averaged cosseted Westerner.
They come in a variety of shapes and sizes and could easily be mistaken for some of the more familiar “meat-wrapped-in-carbs” foodstuffs enjoyed by Americans on a regular basis: croissants, knishes, pierogis, 3am taquitos from 7-11. Of originally Ottoman extraction, burek is essentially a flaky handheld pastry made with phyllo dough and some kind of savory filling. I spent around a total of 30 days in the Balkans, and for about 25 of them I ate burek, sometimes twice a day. But it’s still 500 kilometers to the end of the road. I remember thinking that Ljubljana Railway Station was the nicest, most modern one I’d seen since I landed on the continent, German-engineered steel beasts with their sleek, silver lines humming along high-speed rails (Deutsche Bahn is somehow involved with Slovenia’s train system). It was very pretty when I first got on the 6am to Budapest, when the sun was first starting to break over the trees.
Every time I close my eyes, try to catch a bit of shuteye, I’m still in the forest, the endless forest.
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