And behind this door, Hotel Number 1

The Pristina skyline is dominated by a tan marble and concrete behemoth: the Grand Hotel. As the geographical center of town, both locals, visitors, and colonizers use it as a point of reference. Apparently, during the war, Serbian paramilitaries used its twelve floors of hotel rooms as a center of operations and dormitory.

At this point - and of course I find this out only after staying one night - the Grand is the hotel frequent-visiting foreigners 'love to hate.' Hrmph. I had an interesting time. The entire place is a time capsule for a foreign time and place: 1970s Yugoslavia. Once considered opulent, it was clearly the epitome of modern design and style when it was built. From the black and white marble floors and trim of the entrance to the vomit green carpeting in the rooms to the iridescent red headboards and curtains (that apparently haven't changed since they were first installed), nothing has changed since Tito stepped foot in the place. Except for, of course, the installation of wireless internet. Good wireless. Fast wireless. The conduit through which I started this blog. This modern convenience is juxtaposed with the state of the bathroom: none of the electricity worked, nor was there hot water to the shower.

To recap:
6 kbps Wireless? Check. Bathroom lights and a hot shower? Maybe next year...

The smoke-filled lobby is filled with tired looking middle-aged men in either rumpled suits with red security badges or gray sweaters (cab drivers waiting for a job). My room was comfortable and had a nice view of the southern part of this city - better when the power shut off at ten past midnight. Though you can barely see the faint outline of buildings at first, you are practically blind for about twenty seconds, when the not-so-faint whirr of the hotel's generator starts up. One of the room's lights turned back on, while the city remained dark.

Surreal Moment du Jour

Surreal Moment du Jour: Waking up at 4:05 am to the sound of a muezzin calling out the morning call to prayer, the Athan. I looked out the window, and could just barely see the yellow light of the sun peeking up over the hills. Several small, thin minarets dotted the valley below Velania, a hillside neighborhood I was staying in. After a few minutes, a couple of other muezzins started up, creating a sort of canonical call to prayer.

All Athans aside, the Kosovar people are actually rather apathetic when it comes to religion. While around five percent practice a strict version of Islam, far less of the women actually wear headscarves when on the street. Instead, they dress in completely Western skintight boot-cut jeans and halter tops, tank tops, and lot cut short sleeves - all while tottering on minimum 3 inch stillettos and slathered in impeccable blue eyeliner and six coats of mascara. I realize I have yet to meet any rural Kosovars, thus my observations may be skewed (I have read that rural culture is more consevative, and women are rarely seen in restaurants or bars after dark). Even though unemployment hovers between fifty and sixty percent, one of the only profitable businesses are cafe/bar operation and black market importation of cigarrettes, hawked baseball stadium hot-dog guy style on the street.