An Eerie Sense of Homecoming

Those who look at this blog could be forgiven for wrongly thinking that I dislike the former Yugoslavia, or tolerate it out of necessity owing to my relationship. This tale, however, should convince people otherwise.

In early 1993 I was just flying back to the UK after a visit to Canada. It was one of those strange times in a young mans life (I was 24): love life just recently in tatters, no job prospects in the then depressed economy, an unfinished PhD and only six months left to deal with it. I didn't feel I had a lot to smile about. As I woke from my typical 20 minutes of sleep on the night crossing, I noticed the sun shining out in from the blinds and opened mine to see the countryside over England and experienced a strange feeling of thank goodness I'm home at last. I remember remarking to myself how strange this was at the time: I mean I'd just lived in this country a three years, and wasn't Canada still my home? Anyway, seven years later I left the UK somewhat reluctantly for Germany, and still consider it to be home. Formative years, you might say, define the man, perhaps in some ways more so than where one actually grows up.

Last week, we were in Opatija for a) a break, and b) a survey of the ever improving house on Krk. We lucked out, I must say, with the weather: it was mostly glorious, and being March, refreshingly empty, which proved ideal and just what we needed: quiet walks by the sea, some sunshine, and I even ate Lignje na zaru and enjoyed it for the first time in ages (I had, as readers of this blog might remember, an overdose on this some time ago).

Anyway, in thie middle of this break, I had to drive from Opatija to Genoa for a conference. It was a nuisance driving 700km there and back on two successive days, but easier, I reckoned, than any train or plane combination odyssey. The conference was in a lovely venue in the centre of the old city, we had fabulous food, the people were very nice, I had a great walk around the old port, the drive back was long but mostly painless, and when I got into Slovenia I felt for only the second time in my life: thank goodness I'm home at last.

What on earth? I mean Slovenia isn't even a place where I've spent much time. Two nights in Ljubliana on separate occasions and perhaps two meals in and around Bled. Upon self-inspection I realised that it was a kind of better the devil you know feeling than anything else. I mean I like Italy, but it drives me bonkers. The drive was mostly painless, but perhaps 10% of the time I had the crazy gesticulating Italian 50cm from my bumper at speed. I stayed in a lovely hotel room, had a fantastic view and the internet and phone didn't bloody work (as ever). The language frustrates me (I speak some Spanish and French, but as these are seemingly both muddled with Serbian now, Italian is like some kind of strange puzzle in my befuddled brain), and I don't really understand how Italians think. That's not to say that I couldn't one day figure the country and the people out, but certainly at the moment, it isn't home. At least in the former Yugoslavia I understand the crazy drivers (e.g.: Rule 17: in Istria/Kvarner, if you see "RI" on the license plate, it is best to get out of the way. Rule 18: do not drive in Belgrade, etc.). When stuff doesn't work, at least it is consistent (usually a bad view goes together with not working, and if you pay for stuff it work, unlike at least my most recent Italian episode). The people might not be my people, but I'm beginning to understand the way they think, and for the most part, I like them, warts and all. And I suppose even if they laugh/gawk at my Serbocroation or my wimpy foreign manners, they do, for the most part, accept me.

The nail in the coffin, if that is the appropriate metaphor here, is that I have never, not in nearly nine years of living and working in Germany, felt the same thing upon landing in Frankfurt or crossing the border by car. The devil I know better is definitely that of the south Slavic variety.