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I am from the Middle East and have lived a number of years in the US, France and the Middle East. After completing my engineering degree I randomly bounced around desk jobs in search for a steady career until, after 10 years, I've finally hit a brick wallI. Frustrated with the professional and social environment around me I decided to go off on a tangent: for a year I'll be on the road trekking all over Eastern/Central Europe and focusing on creative writing, the one thing I seem to find myself in.

I've been writing for a number of years. A few of my works have been published, but I've always been hesitant to call the craft of writing anything more than a hobby. During my journey across Eastern/Central Europe I'll be developing original ideas as well as writing about the places I visit. I'll be publishing my pieces on this blog while looking for other publishing opportunities where I go.

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Tuesday, 30 November 2010

Crossing the Polish-Czech Border (Part I of IV)

If it wasn't for the city of Wroclaw (pronounced Vroost-Wahf) then my journey across Poland would have been a let-down. Warsaw has no charm and Krakow is so-beautiful-it's-plastic, not to mention that it's completely overrun by tourists. Wroclaw, however, seemed more personable and more genuine. It's a college town that offers culture and history, but also highlights its 'alternative' character. Right behind the city's main square lined with baroque-style buildings and elegant restaurants is a maze of narrow streets where, between tired buildings scarred with graffiti, hide cafes and pubs with an artsy atmosphere. Late one afternoon I took a stroll in the city's large botanical garden, walked between towering gothic cathedrals made from red bricks then caught a live jazz show in a smoky pub. While there I also got to watch a couple of films that were a part of an American Film Festival. The films in the festival were all screened in English with Polish sub-titles and ranged from black and white classics like Citizen Kane and Casablanca to contemporary independent and art films. 

Wroclaw was my last stop in Poland. Next on the itinerary was the city of Olomouc (pronounced Olo-moats), in the Moravian region of the Czech Republic. The Lonely Plant guidebook reckons it to be the second most beautiful city in the Czech Republic after Prague - quite a considerable statement to make, so I thought I'd check it out for myself. Another reason why I chose to make that city my starting point in the Czech Republic is its geographic location: roughly south of Wroclaw. However, problem is there's no easy way to get there. I had two options: (1) ride the train from Wroclaw and change trains three to four times or (2) ride the train back to Krakow - a 5 hour trip - then to Olomouc - an additional 4 to 5 hours.

While considering my options a random idea suddenly popped in my head: I'm not very far away from the border, so why not cross over to the Czech Republic on foot then find transportation to Olomouc from the first town I come across? On one fine morning I walked into the Wroclaw information centre to voice my idea. The young lad sitting behind the desk looked confused when I asked him for details on crossing the border on foot. After realizing I wasn't joking, he replied: 'this is the first time anyone asked me this question.' His colleague, a man around my age, jumped in and said that it was possible, adding that he has done it several times before. He took out a map of the region and started outlining a plan. 

It sounded outrageous: I start in the small town of Międzygórze, hike up the Sudetes mountain range to Śnieżnik - the highest peak of the Śnieżnik massif (1424 m above sea level) - then back down on the other side, into the Czech Republic, to the village of Stříbrnice where I catch a bus to the nearest town. All this while carrying a big backpack and a smaller day-pack packed with belongings for a year's travel: over 20 kg of weight. The plan sounded completely insane, but I couldn't resist. I went for it.                               

Thursday, 25 November 2010

Barbara

Paris - November of 2007. My mother was ill and interned in a hospital while I was in the city on a two-week holiday from work to arrange her flight back home. The first week of my vacation passed and there was little progress: I've been dealing on a daily basis with doctors and nurses, insurance companies and commercial airline companies, yet there still were too many pending issues. So many that it looked doubtful they could all be resolved in a week. 

I met Barbara on one of those cloudy and cold winter days, on a day when I felt especially weary and in want of company to chat with, to talk and laugh about things light and insignificant. She arrived around noon. I let her in my apartment, we briefly introduced each other at the door then she went straight to the kitchen. I grabbed my jacket from the dining room and was about to say goodbye when, through the open door connecting the dining room to the kitchen, I heard her ask: "have you eaten?"

Her question threw me off guard. It sounded more like it was meant to fill the silence rather than to find out about my state of hunger. From what I heard at the time, Eastern Europeans are not known for their sociability - especially when they're communicating in a foreign language that's not very familiar to them. As Barbara is Polish and communicated in broken French I decided to humour her question: "Yes," I replied. "Bread and cheese."      

She shook her head disapprovingly as she took out cleaning products from different cupboards and set them down noisily on the kitchen table. "That's not good. You should eat more."    

I didn't know what to say. She moved quick and with very little grace to all corners of the kitchen, her busy hands opening drawers, taking out a sponge, a towel and other items she needs to clean the apartment. Barbara has been working for my mother for two years, she could clean the place blindfolded. Her shoulder-length blonde hair looked unusually bright in the grey light. I thought we were done talking, so I told her I was heading out and asked if she has all she needs.

"Yes," She answered. 

Somehow, that answer lead to a conversation. That conversation led to another, then another, and another.... Tangents opened up at every word and we made good on them - exploring them enthusiastically until we were lost in a maze of tangents. Poland, France, our lives, food, literature, toilet paper - we touched on as many random topics as we fancied. Barbara is paid to work two hours. We ended up talking for an hour and a half. She literally had to put an end to our conversation and ask me to leave so she could work. 

Walking out into the cold winter day I remember feeling my steps lighter and my spirit lifted. A week later I resolved all pending issues and left for home with my mother. 

*

Last I heard, Barbara left Paris and returned to Poland, her home, to be by her ill mother. While planning my journey across Eastern/Central Europe I thought of looking her up. A neighbour of mine in Paris managed to get the address for me. After I got a hold of her we scheduled a meet for when I visit Krakow.  

We met in Rzesow, her hometown - less than two hours by train from Krakow. The day was cold and grey, somewhat similar to when we first met in Paris. I arrived at the main train station on time, at around 11 am. I couldn't see her anywhere around. In front of me were big grey block-buildings, unkempt middle-aged people shuffled about like it was their full time job. In the parking lot nearby a group of people huddled on the side of a dirty white bus to remove their luggage from the trunk.  A young lady with short red hair ran around the station's entrance as if looking for someone. She ran in one direction behind me, retraced her steps, crossed the street to a dingy hotel then back to where I stood. Her ungraceful gait was strangely familiar. At one point the red-headed woman and I looked at each other. She wore tennis shoes, jeans and a faded green jacket. I recognized Barbara from her eyes: they were very clear and very round, with the distinction of being those of a person ready for a laugh or to jump into a fight.    

We laughed - neither of us believing the moment. Barbara walked me through the sleepy student town towards a restaurant for early lunch. She's now married, has a boy and works in a company as an accountant, her speciality by degree. I told her about my frustrations in life and how I decided to  leave everything behind for a year. At the restaurant, after we placed our order, Barbara confides in me that she's not happy. Her mother pressured her into marriage. She wed a friend she knew for five years, a friend that was all right back then but that has now 'changed.' About her job Barbara mentions: 'Poland has two types of jobs: the first works you like a slave and pays you an ok salary. Everything else pays you a low salary. Cleaning apartments in Paris was not great, but it paid enough and I had a private life..." Our pizza was served and she kept on unloading about how her life changed, how she wishes for the independence of her old life in Paris. More than once she looked me in the eyes and warned me to: "never get married. NEVER." At one point she ran out of words and voices from around us poured into the silence between us. She shrugged and asked what other countries I plan to visit.

There were light moments: at Costa Coffee, after lunch, she tried teaching me how to say 'hi' in Polish (unbelievably difficult) and I gave her some complicated Arabic words to chew on. I, of course, entertained her with a few interesting stories and observations from my travels. After Costa she took me to a bar popular with students and pensioners. There she had me try beer flavoured with strawberry or raspberry syrup - a sacrilege and an awful experience. But these moments were always overshadowed by the reality she had to return to. Eventually the time came when I had to leave. We said  farewell at the station - she gave me a hug, waved goodbye and walked away.

*

In the train, on the way back to Krakow, a text message interrupted my thoughts. It came from Barbara's number and was in Polish. Unfortunately I couldn't go to the apartment I rented to translate the message using Google Translate - I rushed off to a restaurant where I was to meet a Polish acquaintance and her Polish friends for dinner. The night was going well - the food was good and the company pleasant. After our main meal I felt comfortable enough to hand my phone to my acquaintance and ask her to translate the message for me. She let out a brief gasp after reading it and immediately handed the phone to her friend. He put on his glasses, read the message and let out an: 'Oh my God!' before handing the phone to his wife who read it and also gasped. Confused at their reaction I asked why they look so shocked. My acquaintance replied: "the message translates to: 'Stay away from my wife or I will kill you. Leave Poland and never return again.'"

I was expecting something in the lines of 'It was great seeing you again... I really enjoyed our meet...'. So, at first, the translation really confused me. But then I started to feel slightly 'high.' I was extremely flattered by this death threat. Furthermore, as an aspiring artist, such a threat is a rite of passage, a badge of honour. It's ironic: I always thought that one day I will receive death threats because of my creativity, a la Salman Rushdie. It never occurred to me that I could be threatened with my life because I am good company or a good friend. 

After my ego let out some steam my thoughts went to Barbara. I wanted to contact her, to find out if she's fine, but there was no way of doing so without causing more problems. I felt disgusted by the reaction of her husband, yet, at the same time, sadly understood his insecurity. Walking back to my apartment, the crowded streets of Krakow felt claustrophobic and oppressive. I thought of sending her an email, then decided against it. Later on, maybe - after a few months. For the mean time I'll turn off the lights, go to sleep, and, in the next day, keep on moving forwards.

       

       

  
               

Friday, 12 November 2010

Auschwitz-Birkenau

Auschwitz (1)
Auschwitz (2)
Auschwitz (3)
Birkenau (1)
Birkenau_Barracks (2)
Birkenau (3)






















Typically, when people think of or hear the word 'concentration-camp' Auschwitz is what comes to mind. I myself thought that way until I read in the Lonely Planet guide that Auschwitz is one of two concentration-camps - the second being Birkenau. The latter is about twenty times greater in size than Auschwitz, it served as the train station to unload Jewish prisoners, it had two massive gas chambers and is the camp where the majority of Jewish prisoners were executed. 

The day was foggy when I visited both camps. A hazy and gloomy canopy covered buildings, grounds and all living things. After watching an introductory film on the holocaust I was put in a group of about ten people. Our guide was a young Polish lady with blonde hair hidden under a big grey woollen bonnet. She spoke English with an Australian accent, in a tone that stayed solemn for most of the time. We started the tour at around 11:20 am along with a few other groups of roughly the same size as ours. Each tour lasts three hours, starting in Auschwitz and ending in Birkenau. During those hours we were shown ruins, buildings and exhibits as our knowledgeable guide imparted on us facts and details of what went on in the camps. Throughout the tour a few people in the group posed questions to our guide, but, for most of the time, everyone kept a respectful silence, like when visiting a cemetery. 

*

I must admit that after a couple of days I forgot most of what our guide said. What stayed with me is the emotional imprint of the gloomy mood and the respectful silence in the camps. However, the mind works in mysterious ways. Sometimes, information or a memory seems forgotten, but actually it is just in the dark. All it needs is a random trigger to bring it to light, and suddenly we remember. 

A few days ago I watched the film 'The Counterfeiters' - a true story about a Jewish counterfeiter working with a team in a concentration camp to counterfeit the British Pound and the American Dollar for the Nazis. In one scene one of the team-members mentions that he survived Auschwitz because of 'Kanada'. Even before the dialogue explained this detail I immediately knew what he was referring to. My mind unearthed it from somewhere: after the prisoners were unloaded from the train at Birkenau their luggage were confiscated, emptied for valuables, and dumped in a warehouse nick-named 'Kanada' - in reference to a distant and beautiful place. In another scene a counterfeiter almost goes into panic at having to take a shower with the rest of his team, screaming 'they're going to gas us!'. Again, my mind immediately dug up this information and threw it to the fore. Having just arrived at Birkenau, the prisoners, while still on the train platform, would line up in front of a Nazi that would assess whether they are fit for labour. With a gesture of his thumb the Nazi would create two lines: one to head to the barracks and the other to take a shower. The men and women heading to the shower are led to a dressing chamber where they would undress, then are crammed into an elongated shower room where, instead of water pouring down from the shower heads, a lethal gas is dropped on them from holes. A few minutes later, after the gas has done its job, fellow inmates wearing a gas mask would come in to the shower room and remove all jewellery from bodies, all gold or silver teeth and scalp the hair off women before taking the bodies to the crematorium.                      

*

I don't usually like to visit museums - they define information too rigidly and drily for me, giving my imagination no room to wander. It's either that or I cannot connect emotionally to what's exhibited. However, at the Auschwitz-Birkenau museum I did not have such problems. Among the exhibits I saw was a large mound of rusted and broken eye-glasses from prisoners that were executed. In one large room, rising to a height of about 5'8 or 6' and behind a glass window that spans the length of the room, is hair from the women that were gassed or killed otherwise. Near that exhibit is a small window where we can observe something that looks like a rug - our guide informed us the item was created from the women's hair. Another exhibit shows a mountain of worn out shoes that reaches the room's ceiling, stacked behind glass windows on both sides of a narrow corridor. These displays are suggestive and interpretation is left to the imagination - a powerful way to conceptualize the horror that happened as imagination has no boundaries.

A particular exhibit that stayed with me is a long corridor of black and white mug shots hanging on both walls. Under each photo is a date range indicating the person's life span in the camp. Some lasted years, others months while some lasted not even a day. The faces all look grim, some even carry bruises. A few pictures had flowers fastened behind their frame, put there by a relative or a friend. A mug shot of a young woman caught my attention. She had short hair, her face was round and, on the corner of her lips, there was a hint of a smile. I looked up at her round eyes and caught a soft beam of light in them. She looked smart and beautiful. I imagined her an optimist, a woman who is ready to smile, to enjoy the moment and every breath of air. I looked at her dates - she lived for a couple of days. My concentration got interrupted by people bumping into me. Our guide noticed I was missing. She looked in the corridor from outside and called out to me - the tour had to continue. 

Afterwards I felt as if I should have done something before leaving. Had I a flower then I would have fastened it behind her picture, but I didn't know where to get one. Besides, I didn't want to delay the tour anymore than I already have. So, today, using my words and imagination, I return to that busy corridor and stand again in front of that woman's picture. People are bumping into me as they move forwards and the guide calls out to me with a wave of her hand. I signal to my guide with a nod of my head. In my hand is a flower. I slip it behind the photo's frame to fasten it against the wall and walk away. The flower holds and gently leans over the woman's head, its petals bright and beautiful.




Monday, 8 November 2010

Warsaw (Part IV)

"Do you live in Warsaw?" I asked the man sitting next to me.

"No - home is in the US. I got business interests in Warsaw, so I fly in often." 

"Your business holding up to the financial crisis?"

"Better than ever. The banks here are very strict about lending money, so Poland came out much better off compared to the other European countries." He noticed the barman and called out his order: "a pint of beer."

I did the same: "double-shot of Jameson - neat." The barman nodded to both of us and went to work. 

We sat in silence for a few minutes and watched music videos from the '80s on the flat screen monitors behind the barman. The music poured down into the bar from above. Cigarette smoke drifted across my eyes from the person I was talking to. He was short, had long hair and wore a sports jacket and jeans. A mutual acquaintance introduced us a few hours ago. Tiring from the joy and kitsch of the videos I turned to look around me. It was the end of the working-day and young professionals started pouring into the bar. The barman placed a tumbler with my drink in front of me.   .             

"What you doing tomorrow?" Asked the man with long hair without looking away from the flat-screen monitor in front of him.

"I'm leaving to Wroclaw"

"Yeah, that's right. You mentioned that." He replied and drank his beer.

I took a sip from my drink. "Why Poland?" I asked. "What brought you over to Warsaw?"

He turned to look at me. It took a few seconds for him to answer: "The cheap high-life," He said. "Where else can I find women and lead a life of luxury for a fraction of the price back home?" He chuckled and turned his attention back to the extravagant music videos. "Things are changing, though - life is becoming more expensive here. But back in the early nineties..." he shook his head. "F***. Everything was easy. There were so many opportunities to make money. I got on the money train late, though, 'cause I was having too much fun f*** around." He smiled nostalgically at a thought, took a long drag from his cigarette and blew out the smoke towards the screen. Looking at the people around him, his eyes narrowed on a waitress serving a table at the other end of the room.     

"That waitress..." He started pensively. "I wonder if..." The waitress turned from the table she served and headed to the kitchen. "Shit! That's her!" He looked at me in amazement. "Last time I saw her was in the nineties." His eyes lit up, "We travelled to Prague together. At our hotel I said: 'listen, we're going out tonight. If you don't pick up a guy and I don't pick up a girl then I'm sleeping with you.'"

"What'd she say?" I asked

"'Sure!'" He replied. "Each of us picked up someone that night and went back to our hotel. She went to her room and I went to mine - we f*** all night like crazy. The next day, we woke up together in the same bed!" 

The air around us became bluish and hazy, thick with smoke. We both stared at the flat-screen television and drank without saying another word. I finished first and slung my backpack on my shoulder. "Already leaving?" Asked the man with long hair.

"Yeah, I'm calling it an early night. Good talking with you." I extended my arm. "All the best." We shook hands briefly and bid each other farewell. 

Outside, the cool air and open sky were a welcome relief from the air in the bar that sat on my shoulders like a heavy lid. Cars, trams and buses owned the streets. Crowds walked the side-walk under the bright glare of neon-signs and light pouring out of shopping stores. Beneath my feet, covering the street in a second skin, were leaflets - open-invitations for men not to spend the night alone or, for a change, with someone else. I steered away from the main street and walked back to my hotel on side-streets and alleys. The sound of traffic echoed in the background and shadows appeared around me - strange and ominous shapes that grew and faded, that ate each other or kept their distance, that lashed out at me with something or waved suspiciously, as if enacting scenes from a feverish nightmare.                  


Thursday, 4 November 2010

Warsaw (Part III)

Milk bars are a relic of the communist times. These canteens first opened in the late 1940's to serve milk to the people, in an attempt by the communist government to popularize milk as a beverage. Some time later these milk bars became canteens that served cheap fast-food to the masses. Most of them closed when communism fell, but a small number still remain open. Probably thanks to loyal pensioners, students and bums - their main customers.  

The milk bar we went to in the district of Praga was sterile: dull blue walls, one small plant gracing the window overlooking the main street, grey linoleum floor and grey tables surrounded by plastic chairs. Elderly and middle-aged people with long faces and opaque gazes sat around their table slurping their soup or slowly chewing their food. They briefly glanced at us then quickly turned back to their food, as if the curiosity in our eyes brought about something painful in their minds. 


The system is simple: you order and pay for your food at one window, then wait until your order is called from another window. Our guide did the honours. He selected a few meals from a crumpled menu taped on the first window and placed the order to a stone faced old woman wearing glasses. She punched numbers on her massive till, presented the receipt to our guide and said out the price in a pre-programmed voice. Near us were people standing patiently in front of another window. A figure wearing an apron appeared on the other side, her face and legs hidden by the window's frame. A great balloon of steam rose from behind her. Her voice called out an order and a thick blue veined hand slid a plate on the counter to the other side of the window.

Our order was ready in a matter of minutes: seven plates of pierogi - dumplings stuffed with either meat, cheese, cabbage and some other vegetable. The group struggled to finish off the plain and oily food. Once done we had to return the plates back to the kitchen and dispose of the plastic cutlery in a trash that has seen better days. On my way out, as I walked past the pick up window, I heard something clumpy hit the ground. I turned to my left and saw a man in faded clothes holding a soup bowl filled to the brim that tipped in his hands. The soup was thick and brown in colour. It fell in chunks at the man's feet, making a dry and sick sound as each chunk hit the ground. Peas and other vegetables looked out of the thick brown liquid from the linoleum floor. The man just stared down at his feet, his hands still holding the bowl out in front of him, and let out a deflated sound, like a balloon losing its air.  

Wednesday, 3 November 2010

Warsaw (Part II)


I don't typically like to do tours - listening to someone recite history by rote is not a good investment of my time, especially considering I'll forget most of the information by the end. But in Warsaw I came across one I couldn't quite pass up. Adventure Warsaw takes you off the beaten path in a yellow coloured Socialist Nysa 522 (see picture) to the Communist highlights of the city. What's more, the tour guide/driver walks a fine line between being lively, funny and crazy. Our guide, for example, had many anecdotes and stories from history but kept on going on wild tangents that were often-times irrelevant yet nonetheless amusing.

The open-air market market in the district of Praga looked similar to an Arabic bazaar, except with Socialist overtones. The stalls were made of faded green wood rotting away at the seams and were manned by grey-faced old ladies and old men selling everything from wedding dresses to hair dryers and Gillette blades. No one shops in this market anymore. On the chance that we would stumbled on shoppers, they would be elderly. The women and men working at the stalls leave their post to chat with their neighbour, a cup of tea in their gloved hand. They would stop chatting and glance at us for a brief second before picking up their conversation again. They know we're not here to shop, that we're just here to take a look at thing of the past and to imagine how it used to be. But these are the last days of the open-market - there are plans in the works to remove the stalls and use the land to develop real-estate projects.     

At the other end of the market our tour guide pointed to a door behind him and, with a big smile on his face, said, "this is the best place. It's a sex shop and there's an old man working inside!" He walked up the few stairs to the door, opened it and stepped in. After a few seconds he waved us into the shop. There was an elderly man inside. He sat behind a desk stacked with old pornographic magazines and next to a shelf filled with sex toys. Behind the front door were various random items on sale such as old vacuum cleaners, used guitars, used sun glasses and more. The old man looked frail. He squinted at the light from the sun that reached inside his dark and mouldy shop. His head bobbed up and down as we walked in and he smiled, amused and slightly embarrassed. After everyone walked out our tour guide said a few words to the old man and closed the door behind him, forcing back the sunlight out of the shop.               
   


       

Tuesday, 2 November 2010

Warsaw (Part I)

"So, where about Australia you from?" Asked the Canadian, standing still and relaxed in his cashmere coat, his legs spread out in a wide stance.  

"Melbourne," Replied the Australian, digging his hands further into the pocket of his faded green jacket and his neck deeper into his scarf.  

"The wind - cuts right through you doesn't it?" The Canadian showed his teeth in a crooked smile, his eyes hidden behind black sun glasses.

"Yeah, it's awfully cold." Said the Australian between clenched teeth as a cold wind blew right through us. His tanned skin and short curly blonde hair stood out in Warsaw - it spoke of the golden sun and the deep blue sea. A world away from where we were.  

The three of us stood outside the red brick wall of an old Vodka factory in the district of Praga, waiting for the rest of our tour that went off to buy vodka in a small store attached to the inactive factory. Across the busy street in front of us were residential buildings of no particular character and cars parked everywhere. This district used to be the seedy part of Warsaw until artists moved in and slowly created a bohemian environment. 19th century buildings made from brick still stand here in contrast to downtown Warsaw, which has mostly been rebuilt after having been levelled to the ground by the Nazis during WWII. Destruction didn't reach across the Wisla river to Praga because the Russian army was stationed there, comfortable in it's front row seat to the theatre of Nazi carnage.              

"What brings you over to Warsaw?" Asked the Canadian.

"Thought I'd travel around before looking for a job," Replied the Australian.

"Back in Melbourne?"

"No, In London. Got no attachments in Melbourne."

"That's the way I like to live," replied the Canadian, nodding his head approvingly. His lips stretched again in a crooked smile: "no attachments in life," he punctuated this comment with his hand slowly slicing the cold air across his waist. "So where you heading after Warsaw?"

"Probably Slovakia, I guess. I'd like to eventually get to Turkey and maybe visit some of the countries in the Middle East. Don't know about the visa requirements for these countries, though. Guess I should check up on that."

"Nah, you'll be fine. You can pay for a visa when you get to the airport."

"How'd you know? Did you visit the Middle East?" Asked the Australian.

"Yeah, I went to a few countries there when I lived in Cairo," Answered the Canadian.

"Yeah? What did you do in Cairo?"

"Just hanging."

The Australian jerked his head back a bit back and furrowed his eyebrows. "Just hanging in Cairo?" 

"Yeah," shrugged the Canadian. "Everybody's got to hang somewhere," he added and flashed another crooked smile.

The door of the small vodka store swung open and two middle-aged English men walked out carrying plastic bags. Both calculated out loud how many quids they paid for their bottles, very satisfied with the bargain they got. A young girl walked out next, also carrying a plastic bag. She smiled at the Canadian and walked up to him. 

"So, what Vodka did you get for us?" He asked. 

"Check it out," She answered with a satisfied smile and opened the bag to show him.

Our tour guide walked out last from the store - the only one to come out empty handed. He only had on jeans, a white sweater and a scarf. Walking passed us, he flashed a wide smile and waved one skinny white arm for us to follow him. "Ok everyone, lets go to the open-air market. I know you must be hungry, but just hold on. Trust me, it's worth it. Afterwards we'll have lunch in a milk bar!"