[RH] Not only can I not be accused of being terribly regular about my postings, I've also left a number of them hanging with a "to be continued" tag. And I think I've gone back and continued, like, none of them.
Anyway, since that great little trip up Rugova Gorge in the last post, we've taken a couple of longer jaunts over to the coast of Montenegro. The first time was in early June, when my mom was visiting. And just a couple of days ago, Chelle and I (and Hazel, of course) got back from another trip over there. This was our swan-song Kosovo trip, as she and Hazel went back to Seattle yesterday. The story of our drive to the airport in Prishtina at just after 4 AM is worth visiting itself, but I want to stay focused here.
For our trip back in June, we had rented a VW Passat wagon from the "Global Development" car rental (etc.) place. By U.S. standards, rental cars are ridiculously expensive over here. And the gas ain't too cheap either, naturally. But with my mom and Hazel, a car rental was the only way to go. And we liked it enough that we went back over to Prishtina* to rent another Passat from the same place for our most recent trip. The first time around, someone had recommended Budva -- on the north-central stretch of Montenegro's Adriatic coast. From there, you're basically looking out toward the east central coast of Italy ... and in fact if you climb some of the highest mountains in the coastal range, you can actually see Italy on a clear day, or so our guidebook claims.
The coast around Budva is phenomenal: Various shades of turquoise water that feels silky on your skin, lots of tidal caves to swim into, a rugged cliff coastline with little coves of sandy beaches. And Budva itself is very appealing, with a quaint old walled town right on the water, mostly rebuilt after being destroyed in the 1979 earthquake; but a few old original structures remain, and the ancient stones and materials from the ruins were salvaged for the rebuild, of course. Just feels so European after Kosovo ... but not at all obnoxiously trendy. Speaking of trendy, we'd actually wanted to go to Dubrovnik, about 80 or 90 kilometers north of Budva, on the Croatian coast. Now there's a great old walled city, one that survived not only the earthquake but pretty intense shelling during the roving wartime of the '90s. But with our limited time frame (about five days for each trip, including a beautiful but grueling drive through the mountains to get there and back), we just didn't want to go the extra miles.
On our way back to Prishtina with my mom on the first trip, we went south from Budva through the resort village of Petrovac. It was the one day of our visit that turned out to be chilly and drizzling, so it was nicely timed that we were leaving. But even so, we were charmed by the empty waterfront on a Sunday morning. We walked a little along the in-town beach, bought a few knick-knacks from a cute little tourist dive, stopped into a real workingclass cafe up the slope from the beach area to use the bathroom (and ended up drinking tea while the other patrons drank the regional rakia and grappa). And when we drove the high road out of the area, we could see that the next cove below Petrovac was bordered immediately inland by this lush, subtropical bamboo and grass savannah region. And except for what looked like some minuscule development on the very north end of that cove, the beach appeared deserted and inaccessible except by foot. I wanted to go down there and check it out -- I thought it looked like the outback fringe of a pineapple plantation abutting a deserted beach on a volcanic island -- but by that time we were a couple thousand feet above it, on the small road that went over the summit and down to Podgorica to the east.
I'm glad to say this glorified driveby of Petrovac wasn't a waste of time. Not that it would've been even if we'd never come back for a longer stay, but in this case, we did. When we arrived back in the area last week, we could immediately see that August was different from June. This was high season in a big way ... the hordes (including us) had descended. We drove north along the coast from where we'd exited the big new EU-funded tunnel through the next-to-last blip of the coastal range. And after several kilometers, we looked down toward the water and saw that we were right above the "pineapple plantation" savannah. We took the next exit and found ourselves on the main street of a little tourist village -- the place I'd perceived as a bit of minuscule development on the cove below Petrovac. The first thing we did was find a place to park, whereupon we got out and joined the pedestrian masses wandering about after a day at the beach.
* Since my last post, we moved for the summer to the city of Prizrin, about 60 miles south of Prishtina.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Saturday, May 17, 2008
Rugova Gorge
[RH] It almost seems inevitable that the longer we're over here, the more infrequently we get around to updating this blog. But plenty of other folks maintain a far more consistent blogging schedule over a far longer duration, so I guess "inevitable" isn't the most accurate term to describe our slackerly habits.
With that bit of self-flagellation out of the way, let me describe a short trip we took over to the west end of Kosovo a couple of weekends ago. This is the region of the Accursed Mountains, which lie immediately west of the city of Peja and which skirt the storied border with Montenegro. Although topping out at only about 2600 meters (8600 feet), these mountains really live up to their name ... at least in terms of their dizzying vertical uplift from the fertile plain that extends all the way from Peja back to Prishtina (86 kilometers). Peja's elevation is about 1800 feet, and within no more than 3 or 4 miles to the west of downtown, there are peaks towering a good mile or more above the city.
There's one way to drive up into these mountains from Peja, and that's via the mind-blowing Rugova Gorge. Anyone who's ever been down into the Black Canyon of the Gunnison in western Colorado would have a fair idea of what Rugova Gorge is like. Except that there's no road down at the bottom of the Black Canyon. The funny thing about the "highway" that heads up Rugova Gorge is that, engineering marvel aside, it strikes westerners as pretty much just like every other crumbling, under-maintained goat-path of a road that you encounter all over rural Kosovo. Except, of course, for the almost nauseating hair-pin turns that, naturally, shadow the contours of the roaring river that cut this gorge over the eons.
But let me back up a little: We took the bus over to Peja from Prishtina on a Friday afternoon without having too clear an idea where we'd spend the night. We'd just as soon have stayed somewhere up in the mountains that evening, but our cursory research hadn't nailed down the particulars. Such as, how does one arrange transportation up into the gorge from Peja? We knew that a taxi would always be possible, but we'd also heard (correctly, as it turned out) that this was not exactly an economical way to go. Anyhow, once we'd determined that there was no bus or van heading up the gorge that late in the day, we lugged our bags through town to the Peja Hotel, a renovated faux-Bavarian structure with small, modern rooms and in-suite bathrooms. (This relative luxury was offset by the thimble-sized bathroom sink that seems standard in the Balkans -- so small, in fact, that you can barely brush your teeth, much less wash your face, without slopping water all over the floor.) And then we headed out for a look around.
As lovely a setting as Peja occupies, the city itself is disappointingly drab and forgettable -- its architecture an unfortunate combination of neglected and crumbling traditional structures, Tito-era high-rise slums, and a smattering of generic, newly developed apartment complexes and office buildings. And it's a very traditional Muslim culture, meaning that it's rare to see a female face amongst the hordes of men packed into the outdoor cafes in the old downtown. I could elaborate, but why bother? Suffice it to say that the over-amped third-rate dance music* from the disco down the block ended by midnight, so we were able to get a decent night's sleep after all.
The next day, at the crack of noon, we finally conceded that unless we coughed up the taxi fee, it was unlikely we'd make it much beyond the Peja city limits that day. So we made our way back to the bus station, and Chelle negotiated in pidgin Albanian with a taxi driver, finally getting him down to 25 euros (one way) for a ride up the gorge and beyond, to a lodge at an elevation of about 1050 meters, with high peaks surrounding us on three sides.
As I mentioned earlier, the gorge itself is spectacular, with vertical to nearly vertical granite walls that extend upward for a couple thousand feet in many stretches.
These cliffs are pocked with dozens of cave entrances that are visible from the road. Chelle, who does some technical climbing, was salivating over the prospect of someday climbing the walls here in Rugova. In this vein, we even saw a couple of old, untended climbing lines at one point ... left hanging, in typical Balkans fashion, as a lure to some subsequent climber foolish enough to trust the integrity of a line that's weathered god knows how much exposure to the harsh elements of the gorge. (Sort of the wilderness equivalent to urban life here in Kosovo, where it's routine to come across uncovered and unmarked manholes in the streets and sidewalks, silently waiting to suck the unsuspecting night stroller 8 or 10 feet down into their foul depths. Hope you got your tetanus booster.)
Anyway, it took us a little less than an hour in the taxi to arrive at the lodge we hoped to spend the night in. We arranged for the driver to return the next afternoon at 4:30, and then we set about the unexpectedly vague path to securing lodging for the night. I say vague because, although one of the lodge employees had assured us there would be a room available that night (the place was booked solid the previous night), it wasn't clear just when. That is, there was evidently no checkout time for customers who'd spent the previous night. So even though it was now about 2 PM, they just couldn't give us a solid time frame as to when we could check in, stow our bags, and take off on our eagerly anticipated hike up the trail to the snowbound alpine lake we'd been told about.
Fortunately, Chelle did a bit of hiking around the grounds and up the slope to an unaffiliated restaurant while I sat in the lodge cafe and read my book, awaiting the checkin opportunity that I'd been led to believe would happen any minute now. Or not. By the time she returned with news that the place up the slope had a room they'd rent to us very cheaply, nearly an hour had passed and I'd just been informed again that we could check in "in about an hour." To save time, we just left our bags for the time being in the storage room at the first place, walked up to the new place, had a quick lunch, and set off on our hike. (By this point, we were running up against a limited number of remaining daylight hours.)
To be continued ...
* The likes of Celine Dion, Boney Em, and England Dan & John Ford Coley
.jpg)
With that bit of self-flagellation out of the way, let me describe a short trip we took over to the west end of Kosovo a couple of weekends ago. This is the region of the Accursed Mountains, which lie immediately west of the city of Peja and which skirt the storied border with Montenegro. Although topping out at only about 2600 meters (8600 feet), these mountains really live up to their name ... at least in terms of their dizzying vertical uplift from the fertile plain that extends all the way from Peja back to Prishtina (86 kilometers). Peja's elevation is about 1800 feet, and within no more than 3 or 4 miles to the west of downtown, there are peaks towering a good mile or more above the city.
There's one way to drive up into these mountains from Peja, and that's via the mind-blowing Rugova Gorge. Anyone who's ever been down into the Black Canyon of the Gunnison in western Colorado would have a fair idea of what Rugova Gorge is like. Except that there's no road down at the bottom of the Black Canyon. The funny thing about the "highway" that heads up Rugova Gorge is that, engineering marvel aside, it strikes westerners as pretty much just like every other crumbling, under-maintained goat-path of a road that you encounter all over rural Kosovo. Except, of course, for the almost nauseating hair-pin turns that, naturally, shadow the contours of the roaring river that cut this gorge over the eons.
But let me back up a little: We took the bus over to Peja from Prishtina on a Friday afternoon without having too clear an idea where we'd spend the night. We'd just as soon have stayed somewhere up in the mountains that evening, but our cursory research hadn't nailed down the particulars. Such as, how does one arrange transportation up into the gorge from Peja? We knew that a taxi would always be possible, but we'd also heard (correctly, as it turned out) that this was not exactly an economical way to go. Anyhow, once we'd determined that there was no bus or van heading up the gorge that late in the day, we lugged our bags through town to the Peja Hotel, a renovated faux-Bavarian structure with small, modern rooms and in-suite bathrooms. (This relative luxury was offset by the thimble-sized bathroom sink that seems standard in the Balkans -- so small, in fact, that you can barely brush your teeth, much less wash your face, without slopping water all over the floor.) And then we headed out for a look around.
As lovely a setting as Peja occupies, the city itself is disappointingly drab and forgettable -- its architecture an unfortunate combination of neglected and crumbling traditional structures, Tito-era high-rise slums, and a smattering of generic, newly developed apartment complexes and office buildings. And it's a very traditional Muslim culture, meaning that it's rare to see a female face amongst the hordes of men packed into the outdoor cafes in the old downtown. I could elaborate, but why bother? Suffice it to say that the over-amped third-rate dance music* from the disco down the block ended by midnight, so we were able to get a decent night's sleep after all.
The next day, at the crack of noon, we finally conceded that unless we coughed up the taxi fee, it was unlikely we'd make it much beyond the Peja city limits that day. So we made our way back to the bus station, and Chelle negotiated in pidgin Albanian with a taxi driver, finally getting him down to 25 euros (one way) for a ride up the gorge and beyond, to a lodge at an elevation of about 1050 meters, with high peaks surrounding us on three sides.
As I mentioned earlier, the gorge itself is spectacular, with vertical to nearly vertical granite walls that extend upward for a couple thousand feet in many stretches.
These cliffs are pocked with dozens of cave entrances that are visible from the road. Chelle, who does some technical climbing, was salivating over the prospect of someday climbing the walls here in Rugova. In this vein, we even saw a couple of old, untended climbing lines at one point ... left hanging, in typical Balkans fashion, as a lure to some subsequent climber foolish enough to trust the integrity of a line that's weathered god knows how much exposure to the harsh elements of the gorge. (Sort of the wilderness equivalent to urban life here in Kosovo, where it's routine to come across uncovered and unmarked manholes in the streets and sidewalks, silently waiting to suck the unsuspecting night stroller 8 or 10 feet down into their foul depths. Hope you got your tetanus booster.)Anyway, it took us a little less than an hour in the taxi to arrive at the lodge we hoped to spend the night in. We arranged for the driver to return the next afternoon at 4:30, and then we set about the unexpectedly vague path to securing lodging for the night. I say vague because, although one of the lodge employees had assured us there would be a room available that night (the place was booked solid the previous night), it wasn't clear just when. That is, there was evidently no checkout time for customers who'd spent the previous night. So even though it was now about 2 PM, they just couldn't give us a solid time frame as to when we could check in, stow our bags, and take off on our eagerly anticipated hike up the trail to the snowbound alpine lake we'd been told about.
Fortunately, Chelle did a bit of hiking around the grounds and up the slope to an unaffiliated restaurant while I sat in the lodge cafe and read my book, awaiting the checkin opportunity that I'd been led to believe would happen any minute now. Or not. By the time she returned with news that the place up the slope had a room they'd rent to us very cheaply, nearly an hour had passed and I'd just been informed again that we could check in "in about an hour." To save time, we just left our bags for the time being in the storage room at the first place, walked up to the new place, had a quick lunch, and set off on our hike. (By this point, we were running up against a limited number of remaining daylight hours.)
To be continued ...
* The likes of Celine Dion, Boney Em, and England Dan & John Ford Coley
.jpg)
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
I returned a few days ago from a trip to Estonia. I'm embarrassed to admit how little I knew about this wonderful, undiscovered place. After a grueling trip to Tallinn (how can a trip by plane within Europe take 15 hours door to door?) I arrived at the wrong hotel. It's almost midnight, but the lady at the front desk picks up the phone and I'm delighted when I realize she's speaking Russian. The capital is 40 percent Russian, and Narva, where I attended the conference, is a Russian enclave (97%). So I spent the whole week rediscovering Russian, and it felt good to have it once again rattling around in my head. Here's my Russian language triumph of the week: I walked into a bank and said the following: "I'm a complete idiot. I forgot my pin number for my debit card. Could you please give me money if I show you my passport and sign my name? Please?" The banker understood me and gave me money!
The Russian/Estonia situation seems calm, and it heartened me to realize that there are places where minorities get along. From my vantage point, it seems like the best of both worlds. Narva IS Russia. It was alll so familiar: the shops and architecture, and the elderly round people sitting outside of their apartment buildings. And yet this piece of cultural Russia rests in the midst of Estonian prosperity and insane cleanliness.
The Russian/Estonia situation seems calm, and it heartened me to realize that there are places where minorities get along. From my vantage point, it seems like the best of both worlds. Narva IS Russia. It was alll so familiar: the shops and architecture, and the elderly round people sitting outside of their apartment buildings. And yet this piece of cultural Russia rests in the midst of Estonian prosperity and insane cleanliness.
Saturday, March 15, 2008
Olive morte
[RH] Despite this being a real eventful time to be in Kosovo (what with independence and Serb upheaval and so forth), the stray dog situation around here is what continues to hook me most viscerally. Why I should feel more empathy for the poor Kosovan dogs than I do for the people is an interesting question -- one that could be examined ethically, philosophically, psychoanalytically, or even from a cultural anthropology standpoint. Concerning the latter (and fairly or not), I tend to see three characteristics of modern Kosovo as symptoms of a broader malaise and deficiency of cultural character:
- Animal neglect
- Extreme lack of environmental consciousness
- Absence of public space
I'll elaborate on these so-called symptoms somewhere down the road. But right now, I want to hone in on a specific example of the first one by recounting the sad fate of one of our favorite stray dogs. I wrote Laurie (sister) about this, and I'm going to paraphrase what I told her:
It's only been a week now since we buried him there. I've walked Hazel by the grave about every day since then. She was right there when we buried him, and now she's a little spooked about going up to the spot. I'm going to plant a small tree right over him sometime soon. A living tribute to a good dog.
- Animal neglect
- Extreme lack of environmental consciousness
- Absence of public space
I'll elaborate on these so-called symptoms somewhere down the road. But right now, I want to hone in on a specific example of the first one by recounting the sad fate of one of our favorite stray dogs. I wrote Laurie (sister) about this, and I'm going to paraphrase what I told her:
We've been sort of adopting certain stray dogs around here, as in regularly feeding them and caring for them. This is such a horrible place for the homeless critters -- the culture here towards dogs ranges from apathetic to fearful to outright hostile. And especially in the winter, the poor dogs are freezing and starving and desperate. So, there was this one particularly sweet dog, Olive. (Olive was a male, but Chelle's quasi-dyslexia is bizarrely fixated on the gender of animals; so, she tends to perceive the male dogs as female and to give them female names, and vice-versa.) Chelle had found him while I was in Seattle in January, and when I got back and met him, he really bonded with me too.He had a bad surface wound on his rear leg, and I started putting antibiotic salve on it when I'd feed him. And pretty soon it healed up nicely, although the leg injury seemed like it might be permanent. He ran around joyfully on three legs, even though he was still too skinny and in a bit of pain.
Anyhow, it was just last Sunday that we found him in his usual spot, but he was real sick -- unable to eat, puking yellow bile, dehydrated, like he'd consumed something toxic (like anti-freeze, perhaps). He drank all the water we gave him but barely ate a thing. Still, he seemed slightly improved on Monday, so we were hopeful. But when he still wasn't eating on Tuesday, I had a bad feeling about his prospects. I went and saw him around midnight Tuesday -- he was laying there kind of listless on the ratty old blanket we'd wrapped him in the day before (over in a bushy area near the national library where Chelle teaches). Since it was cold and wet out, I wrapped him up in it again, tried to get him to eat and drink, and finally went home.
We went back to see him the next morning, and I could tell from 30 meters away that the life had gone out of him -- he looked peaceful, but his head was leaning at a strange angle. And as we got closer, I could see a number of flies on him. It's such a sinking feeling to call someone's name ... even an animal's ... and see that kind of absence of response. You kind of know what the score is, but you continue to call their name as you walk closer, each time a little sharper and more anxiety-tinged. It was so wrenching. We covered him up under some cardboard from a trashed box so that the groundskeepers wouldn't just throw his carcass in the trash; and then we came back around dusk and buried him right there. That was just this past Wednesday. He probably died a couple hours after I last visited him there that night. Strange how a creature can go from seemingly fine to sick to dead in three or four days like that. And at some crucial juncture, they just breathe their last breath. I guess that's how it will be for all of us.
It's only been a week now since we buried him there. I've walked Hazel by the grave about every day since then. She was right there when we buried him, and now she's a little spooked about going up to the spot. I'm going to plant a small tree right over him sometime soon. A living tribute to a good dog.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Kosovo post-independence
[RH]: I was just looking over this blog, and I noticed that I hadn't contributed anything since just before Christmas ... and that my last post was a description of a visit I made with Chelle to North Mitrovica, the Serb enclave in the north of Kosovo. I sort of disingenuously concluded that post with a "to be continued" tag. But the more time that passed, the less inclined I felt like revisiting that train of thought ... or maybe even with revisiting that whole trainwreck of Serbia-Kosovo relations, as bound up in ancient blood feuds, religious zealotry, and cynical reworkings of history as they are.
Anyway, a new historical event -- Kosovo's declaration of independence (on Sunday, February 17th) -- has prompted a return to some of those thoughts. To no one's surprise, North Mitrovica has been a flash point for Serb outrage over this "illegal" Kosovan declaration. As a result, the administrative border (the bridge over the river separating the two parts of Mitrovica) has been essentially closed due to the inflamed passions, posturing, and rioting of Serbian nationalist groups at the bridge. As far as I'm concerned, this New York Times editorial sums up the Serb predicament pretty succinctly:
"Serbian leaders have a clear choice: stoke this xenophobia and self-pity, and further isolate themselves, or tamp down these passions and accept Europe’s offer of economic and political integration."
http://www.nytimes.com/2008/02/23/opinion/23sat1.html?scp=4&sq=editorial+on+serbia&st=nyt
For the time being, though, the Serb strategy has arguably succeeded in stalling the process by which EU nations formally recognize Kosovo. I haven't seen a current list of those nations that have joined the U.S. in Kosovo recognition, but I believe that most of the EU members have decided that it's only prudent to go slow here.* For one thing, Europe appears to be cowed by Russia, which, under the leadership of former KGB reptile Putin, has been using this crisis as an opportunity to throw its weight around. (Russia, of course, is Serbia's most important ally.) And its supply of Cold War era nuclear weapons aside, Russia's vast reserves of natural gas and oil have given it untold leverage in Europe and elsewhere in this age of Peak Oil.
Although Prishtina was flooded with international journalists during the week leading up to independence, and for several days afterward, it seems that most of the media imagery our friends and family in the U.S. have seen involved the aforementioned Serb rioters. And, granted, their torching of the U.S. Embassy was a pretty dramatic act that was just made for TV news. So I can understand the worried inquiries all this has triggered from folks outside of Kosovo. The fact is, though -- at least here in Prishtina -- the mood has gone from ecstatic exhilaration
(during the amazing public celebration period, which lasted for about three days during the actual declaration period) to a mellower sense of well-being and goodwill during the past week or so. This later period has coincided with the onset of a warm, sunny early-spring interlude, where almost overnight the outdoor sections of cafes and restaurants became filled to capacity with happy, optimistic locals. It's difficult to square this upbeat atmosphere with the reports of protests, riots, and even the occasional bombing occurring as close as 50 kilometers away. For the time being, the Kosovo Albanians seem content to ignore those ominous drumbeats from North Mitrovica and Belgrade.
* After Serb nationalists torched the U.S. Embassy and vandalized other foreign embassies in Belgrade, the EU heaved a collective shudder and opted to put Kosovo recognition on the back burner for the time being.
Anyway, a new historical event -- Kosovo's declaration of independence (on Sunday, February 17th) -- has prompted a return to some of those thoughts. To no one's surprise, North Mitrovica has been a flash point for Serb outrage over this "illegal" Kosovan declaration. As a result, the administrative border (the bridge over the river separating the two parts of Mitrovica) has been essentially closed due to the inflamed passions, posturing, and rioting of Serbian nationalist groups at the bridge. As far as I'm concerned, this New York Times editorial sums up the Serb predicament pretty succinctly:
"Serbian leaders have a clear choice: stoke this xenophobia and self-pity, and further isolate themselves, or tamp down these passions and accept Europe’s offer of economic and political integration."
http://www.nytimes.com/2008/02/23/opinion/23sat1.html?scp=4&sq=editorial+on+serbia&st=nyt
For the time being, though, the Serb strategy has arguably succeeded in stalling the process by which EU nations formally recognize Kosovo. I haven't seen a current list of those nations that have joined the U.S. in Kosovo recognition, but I believe that most of the EU members have decided that it's only prudent to go slow here.* For one thing, Europe appears to be cowed by Russia, which, under the leadership of former KGB reptile Putin, has been using this crisis as an opportunity to throw its weight around. (Russia, of course, is Serbia's most important ally.) And its supply of Cold War era nuclear weapons aside, Russia's vast reserves of natural gas and oil have given it untold leverage in Europe and elsewhere in this age of Peak Oil.
Although Prishtina was flooded with international journalists during the week leading up to independence, and for several days afterward, it seems that most of the media imagery our friends and family in the U.S. have seen involved the aforementioned Serb rioters. And, granted, their torching of the U.S. Embassy was a pretty dramatic act that was just made for TV news. So I can understand the worried inquiries all this has triggered from folks outside of Kosovo. The fact is, though -- at least here in Prishtina -- the mood has gone from ecstatic exhilaration
(during the amazing public celebration period, which lasted for about three days during the actual declaration period) to a mellower sense of well-being and goodwill during the past week or so. This later period has coincided with the onset of a warm, sunny early-spring interlude, where almost overnight the outdoor sections of cafes and restaurants became filled to capacity with happy, optimistic locals. It's difficult to square this upbeat atmosphere with the reports of protests, riots, and even the occasional bombing occurring as close as 50 kilometers away. For the time being, the Kosovo Albanians seem content to ignore those ominous drumbeats from North Mitrovica and Belgrade.* After Serb nationalists torched the U.S. Embassy and vandalized other foreign embassies in Belgrade, the EU heaved a collective shudder and opted to put Kosovo recognition on the back burner for the time being.
Friday, January 25, 2008
Had a frightful walk with Hazel last night. It was early but dark – around 6 pm – and we were walking on a busy sidewalk next to a vacant grassy lot. All of a sudden we hear the sound of barking dogs and soon see three feral dogs running at us with teeth bared. They shot through the fence and went right for Hazel. As she wrestled with one of them, I try to fend off the others. The cigarette man comes running to my aid, beating them back with his box of wares. I run across the street, and they keep coming at us. It was amazing in some ways to see the pack work: they circled us, growling and lunging. It was impossible to run away, since they seemed to be everywhere: to turn toward one was to turn my back on another. Imagine it: I’m in the middle of the street shrieking at these dogs, waving my arms frantically and kicking at them. I fancy that I was a bizarre combination of hysterical and fierce! Finally, one man jumped out of his car and sent the creatures scurrying away long enough for Hazel and me to cross a busy street make our getaway. Poor Hazel! The old girl can’t get a break here.
Saturday, January 12, 2008
Richard arrived safely in
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)