Red Roses, Sarajevo Blues, part 1

RED ROSES, SARAJEVO BLUES
Charming Hostess at the Sarajevo Jazz Festival, November 4-8
A montage of vignettes in two parts

Part 1 of 2

THE PLAYAS:

JEWLIA, Charming Hostess leader, born and raised in East New York to communist parents, now resides in San Francisco, CA.
ANMARIE, Charming Hostess sign language interpreter, born and raised in the corn fields of Iowa, climbs to the top of the grain silo to use her cell phone when visiting mom, now resides in San Francisco, CA.  JEWLIA's partner.
CYNTHIA, Charming Hostess member, born and raised granola-style in the Santa Cruz mountains, now resides in the Bay Area.
GANDA, Charming Hostess substitute/East Coast rep, born and raised in east L.A. county, now resides in Brooklyn, NY.  Flown in to keep ChoHo MARIKA's seat warm while MARIKA tours with Vienna Teng.

Vedran, the medical student

We arrive in the afternoon on the 4th, after three planes and numerous metal detectors.  As soon as we get off the plane, I realize with dismay that I am wearing my most American jacket, the SUV of outerwear -- a bright blue Gore-Tex ski jacket.  (I have never skied.)  Sarajevo customs official stamps our passports without questions or second glances.  He nods at me with heavy eyelids when I say thank you. 

Our driver is holding up a sign that says SARAJEVO JAZZ FESTIVAL.  His name is Vedran.  He's blond, young, masculine and handsome.  He leads us out to the van in the small airport parking lot.  We are surrounded on all sides by perfectly geometric mountains.  The autumn afternoon sunshine shines beyond low, wispy clouds, and the air smells faintly sweet and charred, like burning firewood and plastic. 

Jewlia riffles through Vedran's CD collection.  His CDs are labeled Nervous System, Respiratory System, etc.  Vedran gets in the driver's seat after stowing the luggage in the back of the van. 

JEWLIA: Are you a medical student?

VEDRAN: How did you know?

JEWLIA: I can just tell by looking at you.

VEDRAN:  Okay. 

JEWLIA: I looked at your CDs.  Why do you have them in English?

VEDRAN:  They don't have any CDs like that in Bosnian.  They have anatomy, but not systems.  So what do you want to do?   We can drive through the town center or we can have a panoramic drive.

ALL: Panoramic.

We wind around the city's edge.  Vedran points out the 1984 Olympic Village, torn apart by gunshots.  Clotheslines hang over bullet-ridden balconies and pockmarked edifices, the glass shattered in cobweb shapes.  Jewlia asks if we're going to pass Grbavica; Vedran wants to know why we want to know about Grbavica, the neighborhood he lives in.  We drive around the lip of the bowl of Sarajevo, dense with houses like lichen, before swirling down into the town center.

VEDRAN:  Excuse me, over there is the Children's Village.  That's where the children who lost their parents in the war live.

JEWLIA:  Who takes care of them?

VEDRAN:  The mothers without children.

Restaurant Jez (pronounced Yezh)

Restaurant Jez is the kind of place I would normally take one glance at and turn right back out of.  There's nobody in the place.  Its fancily folded cloth napkins and leather bound menus in English signal tourist pandering, but since the festival is paying for us to eat here, we eat here.  The restaurant is filled with grandmother and grandfather clocks that chime out of time.  The walls also are mounted with hand grenades, rifles and other strange old war relics.  A blue gas fire burns behind faux wood logs in a little grate. 

We order a vegetable plate with buttery, well-salted slivers of summer squash and eggplant, a sad caprese that must include those sad ethylene gassed Holland tomatoes, and little ice cream scoops of al dente (read: undercooked) rice.  For my entree, I choose the Jez Plate, a mystery mix of grilled meats which is perfectly sufficient, if not terribly exciting.  The other diners' steaks come with intensely heavy, cheesy sauces.  I'm not entirely sure if it is representative of Bosnian cuisine.  If it is, I'm not sure I'm going to enjoy Bosnian cuisine.

Restaurant Jez
Zelenih beretki 14
Sarajevo
++387 33 650 312

Asian Persuasion

I wake up in time for continental breakfast.  I still can't do the whole Euro fleisch mit kase for breakfast thing.  Since I have to sing in the evening, I opt out of the yogurt and muesli.  I also shy away from the chicken paste and fish paste, which look like miniature tins of Fancy Sheba cat food. 

I take a brisk morning walk through the old town center, which seems remarkably well preserved.  I pass the set up giant chess game, where the old men will congregate later, wearing berets and newscaps, pondering the game en masse. 

People look at me with curiosity, but without hostility.  I know I look different, but I don't look that different.  They have dark hair and fair skin, I have dark hair and fair skin.  But I'm different.  A woman I'm walking next to looks at me and smiles.

WOMAN: Japan?  Korea?

GANDA: [I lie.]  Thailand.

WOMAN:  Very nice, very nice.

I assume she's going to try and swindle me out of something and walk in a different direction.  I don't know what's worse -- that tourists get swindled everywhere, or that I immediately assume that someone who strikes up a friendly conversation is going to try and rob me.

Make sure you get some burek

Lonesome Hero says I should get some burek.  We choose a storefront at random and order up the burek.  A hose of filo dough is wrapped around a filling of meat, spinach and cheese, or potato, then swirled like a snail shell onto a pizza pan.  The lady cuts us each a large wedge and weighs it on her scale before sliding the wedge onto stainless steel plates.

BUREK LADY:  Yogurt?

ALL:  Da.

The pastry is thin and well browned, the meat filling is divine, savory and oniony like a good Swedish meatball.  The spinach and (goat?) cheese filling is light and delish.  We pour our yogurt over the pie, which adds the right touch of moisture and tart creaminess to cut the richness of the meat.  We later realize that the yogurt was probably meant for drinking, not as a condiment.

I have got a crush, my baby, on you

I request a mug of hot water from the hotel restaurant so I can have a cup of PG Tips from my personal stash in my room.  Once I get up to the fourth floor, though, I realize that I have left my room key at the reception desk.  I get back in the elevator and stare down at the floor, where earlier that morning, someone had hocked a lugey and someone else had cleaned it up.  The doors open and I start to step out only to realize that we are not yet on the ground floor.  Instead, I stare like a deer in headlights at a handsome man.  He smiles at me.

MAN:  [Scrumptious English accent] Going down? 

GANDA:  [Pause.  Pause.  It's your turn, you idiot.]  Yes. 

He drags his large black duffel and smaller black bag into the telephone booth-sized elevator. 

MAN:  What are you here for?

GANDA:  The Sarajevo Jazz Festival?  [Not a question but a valley girl inflection.]

MAN:  Ah.  You're a jazz musician?

GANDA: [Smiling.] Of sorts.

MAN:  Of sorts?

                                    GANDA:  I'm a singer.
[Simultaneously]
                                      MAN:  A singer?

MAN:  Where are you from?

GANDA:   New York.

MAN:  Whereabout?

GANDA:  Brooklyn.

MAN:  Whereabout?

GANDA: Park Slope.  [Liar.]

MAN:  Whereabout?

GANDA:  [Laughing.]  Actually, it's south of Park Slope in Sunset Park.

The doors open into the lobby.

GANDA:  Are you here for the jazz festival?  [A total possibility as all of the participating artists are in one of two hotels.]

MAN: No, I'm a writer for the New York Times. 

GANDA: [That is so hot.] Ah, do you live in New York then?

MAN: No, I live in Slovenia, but I'm in New York from time to time.

GANDA:  Ah.  [To the receptionist.]  I forgot my key. 

[She hands me my key.  Say something.  Ask the dreamy New York Times writer who lives in Slovenia what his name is.  Ask him what he's covering.  Ask him why he has to be checking out of the hotel right at this moment.  Invite him to the gig.  Say something!  Your tea is getting cold!]

GANDA: See ya. 

[I can't believe I just said "See ya!"  Who am I?  Fucking Frances McDormand in Fargo?  I just closed the fucking door on the super crushable New York Times writer who lives in Slovenia.]

MAN: [After a pause in which I feel like I'm being mocked.]  See ya.

I go up to my room alone and drink my tea alone.  Later I try to google him without much success given my limited amount of information ("new york times" + "slovenia").  Even later I leave him a Sarajevo Jazz Fest postcard with his luggage, which he's left in the receptionist area.  I circle our performance info and write, "Please come if you're free.  Brooklyn girl in the elevator, Ganda Suthivarakom."  But he was checking out of the hotel, and he's probably going home to Slovenia.  To a hot Balkan wife.  Or a hot Balkan boyfriend. 

No Guns, No Photography

The Round Midnight shows happen at the Coloseum Club, which is half casino, half music venue.  Signs posted by the revolving glass doors have pictures of a crossed out gun and a crossed out camera -- no guns, no photography.  We have to go through metal detectors to get into the club.  The performance area is quite chic, with tiered seating, plenty of red velvet, and a grand piano which ChoHo does not need.  The chiming and ringing of the slot machines is far enough from the stage that it doesn't interfere with the music.  The cigarette smoke is overwhelming, but the audience is attentive and listening.  More and more folks wander away from the slot machines to listen to three American ladies sing a cappella in Bosnian, Ladino and English.  It's a good show, especially considering my eleventh hour involvement.

Anmarie tries to take a picture of the three singers after soundcheck, pretending to play the slot machines.  A burly bouncer in a gray, shoulder-padded, double-breasted suit strides over.

BOUNCER: NO PICTURES.  Let me see camera.

ANMARIE:  Here, we didn't even get the picture, we got the carpet, see.

The bouncer scrolls through the pictures distrustfully, then hands the camera back to Anmarie.  I take a picture later outside the club instead.  I don't plan on making trouble with big Bosnian bouncers.

Motor City Roots, Jazz Jamaica (UK)

After our gig, we head over to a much larger venue to see the late night headliners, Jazz Jamaica (from the UK).  Their poster says, "Jazz Jamaica Motor City Roots."  The Hammerstein Ballroom sized venue is packed with a swaying, sing-along crowd.  The air is thick and white with cigarette smoke.  We follow Jewlia down to the pit, where I listen to four bars of, "I'm eeeeeeeaaaaaasyyyyy, I'm easy like Sunday moooooooorninnnn."  I see Anmarie. 

GANDA: This is not for me.

I turn around and walk back to the hotel.  It's about 2:30 a.m., and it's just me, the nippy fog and the click of a woman's heels on cobblestones.

to be continued...

Read part 2 here.