EU opts for feebleness

European leaders have decided, with their choice of two nonentities as the EU’s figureheads, that they do not want the union to be a serious player on the world stage. To those who had hoped for more ambition, this was disappointing. It had been said that the relative importance of the two posts would be determined by the personalities who first held them. The choices that were finally made seem to reflect a determination by EU leaders to keep the EU, as such, subordinate to the national vanities of members states. Eurosceptics who want EU institutions to have as little content as possible have reason to be pleased.

In one crucial respect the new set-up will be a relief. Among all the media comments about how low-profile the two new top figures are, at least everyone seems to agree that they are competent. That will make a welcome change from the embarrassment of having the oaf Javier Solana as the face of the Common European foreign and security policy. Having been NATO Secretary General, he actually did have an international profile of sorts. It just goes to show that an impressive-looking CV can mean very little. It is quite possible to have done a string of responsible jobs, giving the appearance of great experience, but to have done them all badly.

Behind the EU’s latest choices is the reality that the union’s big countries still want to conduct foreign policy themselves on all the issues that count. Paris, London and Berlin never allowed Solana to take a significant role on any important issue, such as Middle East policy, for example, or Turkey. Solana was left to pick up the crumbs that national governments did not care much about, notably ex-Yugoslavia. Perhaps Solana will be best remembered for his doomed efforts to stave of Montenegrin independence, pressurising Podgorica to join a re-formed, very loose, unworkable union with Serbia dubbed “Solania” by Balkan wags.

But the shame is that a Europe that is no more than the sum of its member-state parts has persistently failed to count in the international big league as it could. It is not only in the Balkans that the EU continues to be ineffective, its significant resources not matched by political clout. During the growing crisis that preceded the Russian invasion of Georgia we had the spectacle of the Foreign Minister of Slovenia, supported by the Baltic states, attempting a diplomatic intervention, to the hardly disguised irritation of the bigger European states. That the EU appeared to do better a little later, when the invasion came, was because by then a big EU country, France, headed by an energetic president, led the European efforts. The episode actually demonstrated again that in foreign policy it is not the EU that counts, but that if Europe has any role at all, it is down to its larger members. Even when the EU big beasts, France, Germany and the UK, act jointly, as over Iran’s nuclear programme, their efforts seem to be no more than tolerated by the US for as long as it cannot think of anything more effective.

So most likely the EU will continue to have no effective voice collectively, and the European presence in international affairs will continue to be the small voices of the three largest members, occasionally trying to adopt common positions, and on such occasions annoying all the smaller EU members. And we will have to wait for another big new institutional re-jigging to see whether EU leaders can finally turn the aspiration of EU influence into reality. For the time-being, if there are any more crises in Europe’s backyard, effective action from the EU remains unlikely.

Ottoman Istanbul brought to life

Among the novels I have most enjoyed have been those that evoked a culture, a way of life that has passed into history, a world that is alien to us in the modern West. One outstanding example is Kurban Said’s Ali and Nino, set in the Caucasus before and during the Russian revolution. Like Ali and Nino, Jason Goodwin’s The Janissary Tree is set at a time of turmoil when older, oriental traditions and values are being challenged by new, modern, western ways. Set in Istanbul in the 1830s, it marvellously and convincingly depicts the sights, sounds and smells of the imperial city, from the secret world of the Sultan’s harem to the markets, coffee houses, baths and teeming, bustling streets. From the perfumed maze of the harem, to the foul-smelling tanneries, from the formidable Sultan’s mother, to the transvestite dancers-come-prostitutes of the seedy underbelly of the city, this is an expertly drawn picture of a bygone era.

Goodwin portrays the clash of civilisations, between the old world of the janissaries, the once feared shock troops of the Ottomans, and the new world of western, uniformed soldiers, drilling with booted feet, marching in line. The rich oriental world, with its fabulous colour, its exotic smells, its once glorious triumphs, doomed to failure by the march of modernity against which it can no longer compete.

The novel is more than anything a vehicle for Goodwin, an accomplished historian of the Ottoman Empire and travel writer, to portray the history of the Empire in a different form. The book is an illustration of how fiction can be a particularly powerful means of presenting history, of which Ivo Andrićs masterly The Bridge on the Drina is such a fine example. As a portrayal of Ottoman Istanbul, and of a difficult period in its history, this is a wonderful book.

As a novel, it is not entirely satisfying. The idea of a murder mystery in 1830s Istanbul is wonderful, and the choice of the well-connected, well-informed and well-educated eunuch, Yashim, as the main character, the investigator who unravels the plot, was inspired. However, as a character Yashim is never fully developed, beyond a suppressed anger at his neutered state. A more skilled novelist would have done better, which is why this book does not approach the heights of The Bridge on the Drina. And the denouement is rather rushed, the different strands of the plot not fully drawn together.

But despite those reservations, it is a wonderful, rich and delicious evocation of a world that is no more, a world entirely alien, almost as much, I suspect, to the inhabitants of today’s Istanbul as to a reader in Western Europe. In the West, in Britain or France say, one has a sense of continuity, that the world we live in is the direct descendent of the worlds of our forebears in the nineteenth, eighteenth of seventeenth centuries; that we came from them. But in Turkey, there was a break, or at least a succession of breaks, as modernising Sultans, and finally Ataturk, determinedly tore up the traditions of the past, stamped them out and replaced them with something different, imported. It is hard from our modern perspective even to imagine, let alone grasp that vanished world. The monuments to that age, above all the Topkapı Palace, give us at best a glimpse. Wandering through the gilded rooms of the harem, one can marvel, but not know the world that once existed there. It is so foreign to us as to be incomprehensible. Yet I think Goodwin has done as good a job as is possible of reawakening, in the pages of his novel, the bygone world of the Ottomans.

Lament for Dubrovnik

I find Dubrovnik a depressing place nowadays.

I remember the first time I stepped through the Pile gate into the old city, all those years ago. The main street, Stradun unfolded before me, funnelling down to the clock tower at the far end. The shiny flagstones shimmered in the fading early evening light. The immense city walls towering up on either side. I had never seen a more impressive sight.

I was young then. I sat on the steps climbing up the narrow side streets, overflowing with greenery from the tall houses. The little bars supplied cushions for us youngsters to sit on as we wiled away the carefree nights. It was beautiful.

In daytime, exploring the streets, the palaces, the monasteries, the old harbour, all the little narrow streets, walking the walls, taking the cable car up the mountain above the city, marvelling at the view. The sea lapping at its walls, a blue sky overhead. A city built on the trade between Europe and the Ottoman Empire, one of the greatest summits of European civilisation.

Then there was the war, the destruction, the vandalism of one of Europe’s greatest treasures and the careless slaughter and terrorism of its people, by barbarians. Returning a few years later, Dubrovnik’s charms were no less. The crowds had gone, the city was struggling. But it was still beautiful, and the endurance of the war seemed to have given it an even greater nobility. Dubrovnik was lovely in winter as well. Evenings in the Trubador jazz club, the random punters joining in the jam sessions of Marko and the regulars. Lunches at Kamenica, the oyster bar on the main square, or at Rozarij.

Afternoons on Lokrum, swimming in the clear sea, wandering the island, alone like it was my kingdom, strolling up to the castle at the top, sitting in the botanical garden. Lunch at the restaurant in the ruined monastery, whatever fish had been caught that day, the recommendation of the waiter never failing, washed down with wine, looking out over the garden, with the peacocks, to the sea beyond.

Things started to go wrong when the Lokrum restaurant was taken over from the hotel Argentina by another, lesser hotel. All quality gone, the waiters clueless and uninterested, the beautiful ruin made gaudy.

But still visits to Dubrovnik were delightful. Buying fruit on the market and taking it off to Lokrum, to sit and reflect between dips.

But then the crowds started to increase. And not the exuberant youths, the excited backpackers of 20 years before, staying for a pittance in private accommodation. Now it was the cruise boats, two, four at a time, spewing forth thousands of people for a few hours each day, clogging up the streets, the cafes, not eating, going back to their boats for lunch. The antagonism of the locals, for whom the hoards became nothing more than money fodder, people to be filched, the lowest quality they could get away with, for the highest price. Even the wonderful Kamenica succumbed.

This year I arrived at Dubrovnik in a huge thunderstorm, massive cruise boats towering above the harbour, others standing off at sea. I got out, soaked, as soon as I could, down the coast to Cavtat, still charming, still delightful, the locals still friendly. Lounging on the rocks, soaking up sun, coffee at Zino’s. Evenings on the dreamy terrace, the sea lapping below, figs by the armful. Alas, even Cavtat had its disappointment though. The once wonderful Leut, now with higher prices, the quality gone to pieces. This was the second year it was so. I gave it a second chance, but I will not give it a third. The once beautifully dressed seafood salad now flat and dull. The fried squid, once so crisp and delicate, so perfect, now sloppy and tasting of nothing but the oil in which it was cooked. The house white, once pleasingly fresh and fruity, now lifeless and not even chilled. Perhaps they just don’t care anymore. Perhaps they don’t think they have to. A shame. They had a reputation once. Gerard Depardieu had eaten there, and Misha Saakashvili. I wouldn't recommend it to anyone now.

Dubrovnik has become little more than a commodity to be sold. But it is being devalued. Nevertheless, the walls, the palaces, and somewhere, no doubt, the spirit of the people, the troubadours, is still there. Maybe still in winter.

Partisans in Montenegro

What a pleasure it was to be in Montenegro. Perhaps it is mainly due to familiarity, but I am hugely fond of the place. This year there was a splendid event organised by the UK embassy and the Montenegrin defence ministry. At the village of Brezna, between Nikšić and Plužine, there was a ceremony and the unveiling of a monument to mark an operation in 1944 when the British and other allied air forces rescued around 1,000 wounded Partisans who would otherwise have been slaughtered by the approaching German army. A makeshift airfield was prepared and the wounded evacuated, all in 48 hours. The event included a wonderful exhibition of photographs of the airlift.

An old soldier remembers

The attention given in recent times to the last few, very old, First World War veterans made the presence of a few elderly men who had participated in the events at Brezna in 1944 seem especially poignant. The 88-year old British gentleman who had helped build the airfield was sprightly and clearly delighted to be back and to reminisce. Among those who made speeches was the head of Montenegro's World War II veterans' organisation. He had been not far away during the Brezna operation. Beginning his speech with the nostalgic "Drugovi i drugarice..." ("Comrades" - male and female). He spoke warmly of lasting Montenegrin-British friendship. There were other old partisans there as well. What they achieved was remarkable, and in the midst of a very brutal guerrilla war, this was a humanitarian mission, to save lives. Some other ambassadors were there, including those of Russia and the United States, whose air forces had also participated. The German ambassador was not present. Apparently he did not consider it had been organised in a spirit of reconciliation. It is hard not to conclude that his presence, more than anything, would have helped stress such a spirit. But it is difficult to escape the nature of what had happened. The German army would have killed all those wounded, if they had got the chance. They had already massacred hundreds of innocents in that very area. While appreciating that this event may not have been comfortable for the German ambassador, perhaps on this occasion it was not appropriate for him to criticise the lack of commitment of others to reconciliation. But it was a happy event, and a wonderful recognition of the heroism of those old men.

Rucola or not

I love Rucola (Rocket). One of my favourite things to eat. In Albania recently, I ate it (with parmesan, olive oil and balsamico) until I was almost tired of it. That bitter, peppery taste is delicious. Quite a luxury in England, in the Balkans it is almost as readily available as lettuce.

So it was with pleasure that I awaited my Rucola and parmesan salad at the restaurant Opera, just off the Trg Republike (the main square) in Belgrade, next to the Hotel Majestic, the favoured haunt of British spies in the Yugoslav capital in the couple of years before the Germans invaded the country in 1941. The Opera is supposed to be a good place, but today there was a problem. The Rucola was not Rucola. I noticed at once that the leaves were completely the wrong shape, too wide and rounded. I had a taste to confirm, and indeed, there was none of the trademark herby pepperiness. I signalled to the waiter. I am afraid this is not Rucola. Not Rucola? Yes it is. Our Rucola is like that. What? So Rucola at that restaurant is different from Rucola everywhere else? No, I insisted, it is not. He took the plate away. Moments later the manager came over with the plate. She agreed that it looked unusual for Rucola, and that it did not taste like Rucola. But, she insisted, it was Rucola. They had been buying it from the same man for five years, and he had sold it to them as Rucola. Very patronising. When I still maintained it was not Rucola, she raised her eyebrows and grimaced impatiently, as if I were an idiot. At this point I got cross. This was not Rucola. Whatever her man said, she should know it was not Rucola. I had proper Rucola at that restaurant on a previous occasion. This was something else, possibly spinach. She agreed to take the plate away. At least my pasta dish was OK, but the dessert was a disappointment, a soggy cherry pie with not very good ice cream and, worst of all, they put on the plate some of that sweet, sickly red stuff from a tube, that is supposed to taste like strawberry, and is meant to make ice cream look more colourful for children. Awful.

I had a Rucola salad at Trebeca, near Kalamegdan, the next day, just to check I was not crazy. Hooray! Real Rucola. Confidence restored a little.

Archives in Belgrade

I have been having a nostalgia trip, going back to my old days as a graduate student, working in musty archives, poring through documents of times gone by. The last time I worked in archives in Belgrade was in 1994. Ultimately, it was a reasonably fruitful stay, but my word it didn't come easily. At the Arhiv Jugoslavije (Archive of Yugoslavia) the lady in the reading room was appalled that I had entered the building without handing over my passport (the guard at the entrance had waved me through without asking for it). How could they know who I was? I might be a terrorist. I might have a bomb in my bag. I kept a straight face and offered to let her see the contents of my bag.

But those were not normal times in Belgrade. Walking back to the flat where I was staying, in the elite district of Dedinje, I regularly passed the headquarters of the notorious Arkan, the football hooligan turned secret police agent turned gangster and war criminal, who nevertheless never lost his baby-face. It was scary just to pass the place on the street, with the menacing black-clad security guards standing outside. I just looked straight ahead up the street, avoiding looking directly at them or the building, lengthening my stride and hurrying past. One morning there was the news that one of the guards had shot a man dead in the street as he walked past the building. Apparently he had walked back and forth in front of the building, arousing suspicion. The headline was not that Arkan's men had shot a passer-by (who may well have just been trying to find his way, or else had a fatal curiosity), but rather who was this man? It was a warped country at that time.

I eventually got permission to work in the Arhiv Jugoslavije, with the help of a reference from a local historian. Help from a local contact was also crucial to getting into the Arhiv Josipa Broza Tita (Archive of Josip Broz Tito). Initially I was refused permission. But then a friendly local historian who I had earlier met in London, visiting the archive himself, asked if I had been there. They phoned me to tell me I could use the archive after all. Connections mean everything in the Balkans. At the military archive the junior officer who dealt with me was very friendly, and I received a signed and stamped document confirming that "Comrade Palmer" was granted permission to use the archive.

Fifteen years later, this time things were easier at the Arhiv Jugoslavije (I handed my passport in at the gate, as requested), which had by now taken over the Arhiv Josipa Broza Tita as well. All very friendly, the staff helped me find the documents I was looking for. At the Diplomatic Archive, at the foreign ministry, it was another matter. I should have applied to use the archive well in advance, as the approval of the foreign minister himself was required - excessive, surely.

Researching a visit to Yugoslavia by Brezhnev in 1976, I did not find exactly what I was hoping for. But it was fascinating to see the dynamic between these two "brotherly", yet long-estranged and deeply suspicious old dictators, Brezhnev and Tito. Behind the diplomatic niceties, the talking was tough. The Soviets were upset by the criticisms of the Soviet Union by Yugoslav politicians, writers and journalists. They wanted the use of the Adriatic ports and Yugoslav airports. They were reserved about Yugoslavia's prominent role in the non-aligned movement, with its many non-communist members - hob-knobbing with capitalists. They pressed for direct social contacts between Soviet and Yugoslav organisations, bypassing state and party (an opportunity for infiltration, the Yugoslav side clearly thought). The Yugoslavs, who had a good idea what was coming, rejected the requests and reacted defensively to the complaints about anti-Soviet writings. Tito, who talked happily with Brezhnev about hunting, was short and to the point on substantive matters: this is completely unacceptable; we do not work like that. The middle of the Cold War, Tito played Yugoslavia's hand between East and West firmly and skilfully, but communist or no, he knew that his regime's financial backers were in the West.

Blood feuds

While working in Albania recently I read Ismail Kadare's Broken April. It seemed like a good time to read a novel by Albania's most celebrated writer. It is a fine book, portraying a world, the world of the blood feud, that is utterly alien to modern society with a persuasiveness that only fiction can achieve. Of course, it is abhorrent, bizarre, that families, generation after generation, can have been bound, afflicted by this scourge which often had nothing to do with them personally, its origins lost in the mists of time, beyond the fact of their being trapped in such a diabolical cycle.

Particularly extraordinary is that it still goes on. While reading the book I met the head of an organisation that works to bring about reconciliations among families engaged in feuds. He estimated that some 3,500 people are confined to their homes, unable to leave for fear that the vengeance of the blood feud would be meted on them. It still has its hold. Sentences for murders are longer when they involve a blood feud - as much as 25 years in gaol. Yet young men in remote places are not deterred, accepting the sentence rather than the shame of not having avenged the blood of a family member. The modern state seems hardly to exist for such people, who adhere instead to the older law of the Kanun (code), perhaps the only example of the rules of the blood feud being codified in detail. I was especially amazed when the man told me he recommended, as part of a solution for those caught in the blood feud, that parts of the Kanun should be incorporated into modern Albanian law. The positive elements, he said, referring to sections of the Kanun that deal with reconciliation. The whole thing would be better consigned to the past, a past that was so forcefully portrayed by Kadare.

Beer and mountain huts

I like Zagreb in summer. Half empty, as its inhabitants head off for the coast, it is quiet and peaceful. No problem finding a place to sit outside my favourite cafes. Ice cream at Millenium, and coffee at Pif. Steamily hot, of necessity everything moves at a slower pace.

And there is nice beer to be found in Zagreb. As ever, the micro-brewery whose beers can be found at Mali Medo (Little Bear) on Tkalčićeva street are superb. The find of this stay was Kasačko, a bottled beer from Gospić. In style, it is very similar to many English beers, which must be a good thing, a darkish brown colour, bitter to the taste, very nice. Interestingly, it comes from the same region as the once marvelous Velebitsko, which is sadly not what it was since production was increased. I first tried Velebitsko about ten years ago, when visiting the Plitvica national park, in Lika, a region part-way from Zagreb to the Dalmatian coast. Both its dark and light versions were superb, without exaggerations among the finest beers I have tasted anywhere. It couldn't be found in Zagreb then, but each time I passed by Plitvica I picked up several bottles. Then it changed. Suddenly Velebitsko could be found in many places in Zagreb. It wasn't bad, still among the better beers in Croatia, but nothing like what it had been. What a shame. And now there is Kasačko, also from Gospić, different from and still not quite as good as the old Velibitsko. But it's good to have it.

I have drunk Kasačko twice this trip. Once at Kaptolski Klet, an old-style Zagreb restaurant opposite the cathedral, where pleasant cool breezes waft down from Sljeme on a hot evening. The second time was on Sljeme itself, at the Runolist "Planinarski Dom" (mountain hut, although rather more than a hut). It was a superb lunch at Runolist, confirmed as my favourite "dom" on Sljeme. It had rained heavily one day a week earlier, and was therefore an excellent time for mushrooms. I ate "vrganji" (ceps) in a sauce, with pasta. It was delicious, and a heaped plate for less than five Euros has to be good. There was also their excellent home-made bread, and a sour cherry and apple strudel. All washed down with Kasačko, and in excellent company.

Climbing Sljeme on a Sunday and eating well at the top is such a joy. Somehow everyone seems to leave their troubles behind at the bottom of the mountain, and all are happy, in good spirits. I climbed Sljeme four times in just over a week. It's not the same on weekdays. Fewer people, and not the same as the Sunday regulars. Not everyone observes the custom of greeting people they pass with a friendly "Dobar dan" ("Good day") on weekdays. And the doms don't make such an effort with the food. There was little on offer at Puntijarka on Friday, and the turkey with "mlinci" (a kind of Croatian noodles) I opted for were disgusting - virtually inedible, dried out, probably several days old. I used to like Puntijarka very much, but this was a disgrace. That said, their (freshly made) apple strudel was very good.

Ghosts in Tirana

One of the first observations almost all foreigners seem to make on visiting Tirana is that it's a lot nicer than they expected. And it's true. Tirana is really a rather pleasant town, with nice green spaces, gardens and birdsong, and lots of lively cafes and clubs. It feels odd sitting at my favourite cafe in the Block (the area of central Tirana that used to be closed off by police, reserved for the communist elite), and looking at Enver Hoxha's former villa across the way (his garden is a bit unkempt these days). In this modern, bustling city it is hard to imagine what it can have been like less than two decades ago when the most oppressive communist regime in Europe was still in power. In this very informal country, in which laws are cheerfully disregarded, I often find myself wondering how the communists ever manage to exercise the control they did? It's like the saying about not being able to herd cats. Who could ever have managed to herd Albanians? Well, of course it was fear that did it. Although I suspect that officials, police and people all found little ways of compromising, turning a blind eye and getting around many of the more petty restrictions on their lives.

The pyramid, Tirana

But in the midst of this modern Mediterranean city there are reminders, ghosts of times past. Not just Hoxha's house. There is also the pyramid, a dilapidated, decaying building on the main boulevard in the city centre, designed by Hoxha's daughter as a museum to her vile father. Now it is crumbling, no longer a museum, although still in use. It's an ugly building. No doubt it will be torn down one day, like the statue of the dictator that used to stand on Skenderbeg Square. I was amused one evening to notice some young boys on the top of it, breaking bits off and throwing them to the ground. Vandals with taste.

For me, perhaps the most ghostly building is the Hotel Dajti, just along the boulevard from the pyramid. Once the one hotel in town where foreign visitors stayed, now an eerie, empty building, still standing while the ownership of the land it stands on is disputed. Some of the windows are shuttered, others are broken, and still others are wide open, as if the rooms are being aired for new guests. I was told that some foreign visitors to Tirana in the 1990s stayed in Hoxha's house, then a hotel, and found that they could not sleep. Was there a presence in the house still? I think the Hotel Dajti may be haunted as well.

Another ghostly reminder is at the factory at Kombinat, a suburb of Tirana built around a big factory. The factory itself is rather extraordinary. In rigidly atheist, communist Albania, the entrance looks very much like a religious building, perhaps a monastery. I think it must have been conscious, a factory as the new place of worship in the new, secular world of the proletariat. In the square outside the gate is a plinth on which once stood a statue of Stalin, plastered in campaign posters for the forthcoming parliamentary election when I visited - a much more fitting purpose.

I like Albania. Seeing a place where so much progress has been made from such an unpromising starting-point gives me hope. The ghosts are still there, but they're faded, lost, out of place in the much brighter new Albania. They shouldn't be forgotten, but they're no longer scary.

Pimms in short supply

This evening I went to the Queen's Birthday bash in Tirana. I always feel a little embarrassed on these occasions. Other countries have national days, but we don't have one of those. Just the Queen's birthday, which isn't even her birthday.

But this evening I was especially embarrassed. Usually, a Queen's Birthday do is at least a bit of fun. Often in the garden of HM Ambassador's residence, with lots of food and plenty of booze. A good excuse to slurp and cavort with international officials, and local politicians and others, not all of whom are altogether awful. But this time all I managed to lay my hand on was one measly glass of Pimms (rather well-mixed, alcoholic Pimms, but still), and a few rather sad canapes. And this is Albania, the land where hospitality is sacred. I've been to rather a lot of diplomatic receptions over the years, which is probably a sad reflection on the life I lead. The most important criteria for judging them are the quality and the quantity of the food and the booze. The best ones I've been to have been by the Spanish (very generous) and the Russians (caviar and vodka). But the Brits were generally pretty good. I suppose the stinginess this year in Albania is down to the belt-tightening of the financial crisis, which I suppose is reasonable. British taxpayers could reasonably ask why their money should be spent on the revelling of people like me. There wasn't even a band. Every other year I've been to one of these events there's been a band, or at least some buglers, or pipers (if the ambassador's a Scot). This time we had a recording of "God Save the Queen".

Even if taxpayers might reasonably be spared the expense of my Pimms, I couldn't help feeling a little ashamed. To me this evening spoke of a country without pretensions even to be second-rate. We should be able to do better.

Football

Yesterday Tirana was full of flags, the black and red of Albania, and occasionally the blue with stars of Kosovo. Albania were playing football with Portugal, or, as one female colleague put it, Ronaldo was in town. Unsurprisingly, Albania lost. But it was rather cruel, Portugal's winning goal coming in injury time. And despite being much the better team on paper, the Portuguese really did not impress. Ronaldo did not light up the match, in what would have been a dull, pedestrian game, were it not for the passion and determination of the Albanian underdogs. They deserved to get a result. Although the people in the bar where I watched the match did not seem too disappointed. No doubt it was expected.

But the really memorable thing was the camerawork. It seems that the TV cameras were practically among the fans. Frequently the pitch was partly obscured by their upraised arms, and every time something exciting happened the fans leaped up and those of us watching on TV had our view obscured by someone's head. For this reason we missed the first Portuguese goal altogether. How bizarre. The Albanians in the bar where I watched the game seemed to accept this cheerfully as quite normal. We foreigners couldn't help ourselves roaring with laughter. What a country!

Tirana in spring

I'm really impressed by Tirana. After the hard times it has been through it has emerged as an attractive, lively, pleasant city. Lots of green spaces, birds in the trees, chirping merrily, so different from the aggressive cawing of the crows in Prishtina. There are nice cafes, many of them with gardens. All in all, it seems like a relaxed, pleasant Mediterranean city. And for the moment, the weather is mostly just pleasantly warm and springlike. No doubt, as summer progresses, it will become horribly hot.

There are nice places to eat as well. As well as traditional Albanian food, there is a strong Italian influence, and lots of seafood. There is a downside; I have been suffering horribly from food poisoning the past few days. But overall it's really good to be here. One of the pleasantest places in the Balkans.

I am full of admiration for the multi-talented young man from the British embassy who plays guitar and piano for a really rather good rock band on Saturday evenings, and then plays the organ in the Catholic cathedral on Sunday mornings. Remarkable. He speaks Albanian as well.

Of course, there are negative aspects. The politics (the reason I'm here) are dirty. Respect for laws is as and when people find it convenient. That can be seen in the behaviour of state institutions, political parties, and driving habits. Law is a very low currency here, perhaps unsurprisingly given the country's past experience.

Wild Strawberry Rakija

I love wild strawberries. One of the most delicious fruits there is. And the pleasure is still greater for the joy of coming upon them during a ramble through the woods, rummaging through the undergrowth in search of the delectable little red berries. And then there are those intimate moments when a companion, having got lucky and stumbled on a rich seam, offers you some of her find - what a sacrifice, it must be love. And then there is the dear friend who showed me the secret little corners of the garden, behind the bushes, where a precious crop of the fruit could be found. Real trust there, that I would not succumb to the temptation to scoff the lot.

So, visiting Belgrade last weekend, how could I turn up the chance to try a Wild Strawberry Rakija (Eau de Vie)? Friends had taken me to a restaurant in the hills out of town (roasted lamb and veal, and lots of salad - I preferred the lamb, nice and succulent - the veal was a bit overdone for my taste). the waitress proposed the Rakija as an aperatif. I have tried a variety of Rakijas, most often plum (Sljivovica) and grape (Lozovaca), as well as Travarica (Lozovaca with herbs) and pear (Viljamovka), as well as mulberry (in Albania). But Wild Strawberries. That sounded interesting. And what was it like? It smelt and tasted just like wild strawberries. How odd! I never before tasted a spirit that tasted exactly like the fruit it is made from. Wild strawberries with an alcohol kick when it hits your throat. Very nice of course. But if I want to taste wild strawberries would I rather just eat wild strawberries or take it as Rakija? Not sure. But an entertaining experience.

Something nice to say about Prishtina

I have often been a bit harsh about Prishtina. It is too easy to do. Prishtina is such an obvious target for criticism, that it almost becomes cheap. So let's look on the bright side. Today I am feeling in good spirits. Possibly this is because I will be getting away from Prishtina in a few days time. Very definitely it is because I will be getting away from a job I have not enjoyed and a boss I have not got on with. But I also find myself feeling more positive about Prishtina.

It's a nice spring day. Arriving at my office (not to work, it's Sunday, and I was just there to fetch the car), there was a man across the street sweeping up the dust and muck in the gutter. Now that is a step forward. One of the worst things about Prishtina in summer, when it is hot and dry, is the dust swirling around, getting in your eyes, making them sting, and in your throat, making you cough. But now they're cleaning the street. That is a novelty, and very welcome. I think this town is getting better. Another surprise this spring is the sprouting, here and there, of little patches of garden, tended lawns and flower beds. Someone is trying to make the town look prettier. Someone is trying to encourage a new spirit of civic pride among the citizens of Pishtina. Perhaps they might even stop chucking rubbish about.

And there are nice things to do. It's good to be able to say that there are even some things which are really good. For example, Prishtina boasts a really cool cafe, Strip Depo. The quirky decor, with the hotch-potch of furniture, the absence of any sense of theme in the eclectic choice of pictures adorning the walls, it all seems great fun. The music's good too. At one time this was a favoured haunt for younger Prishtina intellectual types, but its popularity has spread much wider now. No point in going in the middle of the day, when it's heaving with people, but in early evening, it's a pleasant place to relax in a deep armchair, with a coffee and a fresh orange juice.

Today I had a walk and lunch (trout with grilled courgettes and carrots and a Greek salad, washed down with Peja beer) at Germia. Loads of people out enjoying the sun and the fresh air away from the town, children running about, screaming with pleasure in the spring warmth. It could be a park anywhere in Europe. Prishtina is coming on. Yes, there is plenty to complain about. Hardly surprising in a place that was recently one of the poorest, least developed backwaters of Europe, suffering under the heal of an Apartheid-like regime. It's all too easy to look on the bad side. But things are getting better. Someone once divided Eastern Europe into the "Europe of Hope", and the "Europe of No-Hope". Kosovo is now part of the "Europe of Hope".

Back in Skopje

Last weekend I was in Skopje again. Beautiful spring sunshine, sitting outside cafes and restaurants with friends, great. Skopje must be one of the most underrated cities in Europe. It's not one of the most beautiful cities, it's true. The rebuilding after the 1963 earthquake was typical of the era and of the grey communist regime that undertook it. But it's full of life. It just feels good to be there. I've always enjoyed myself in Skopje, ever since my first, brief, crazy visit in 1988. Some cities seem to have a spirit about them, an energy. Skopje has that.

There may be worse things than 60s communist greyness. Apparently, the latest government plan for poking the Greeks in the eye is to build a huge statue of Alexander the Great on the main square. Apart from the fact that baiting a more powerful and influential neighbour is daft, I fear it will be one more step in the determined effort to turn Skopje into the capital of kitsch. The ghastly Mother Teresa memorial house is one example (Mother Teresa was a native of Skopje).

Mother Theresa Memorial House, Skopje

What kind of architectural mishmash is that? Then there are the ridiculous little statues sprouting around the town centre. Skopje risks becoming a laughingstock. In one previous job, we had an office competition to see who could bring back the most kitsch souvenir from their holidays. I fear Skopje might become a kind of mecca for kitsch aficionados.

A week in Macedonia

A week in Macedonia (as an election observer) was such a pleasant interlude. It just has so many nice things that one struggles to find in Kosovo. Within minutes of arriving, I am drinking Skopsko with an old friend in the Cuban bar, eating hot buffalo wings and a rocket and parmesan salad. Just normal nice things, in a pleasant atmosphere. The city is so much cleaner than Prishtina. Why cannot city governments in Kosovo manage to provide such basic services when everywhere else in the region can? In Skopje I feel relaxed and contented in a way that I never do in Prishtina, where life always seems to be about endurance, devoid of pleasure.

There are, of course, some negative aspects. The temporary metal wall along the river embankment, blocking off the views for all the riverside cafes (including the Cuban bar) is an eyesore. It's to enable trucks to drive along to a building site on the edge of the main square. New buildings on the square fill people with apprehension. Do the construction tycoons care about the aesthetics of the square? It is not the most beautiful square, it must be acknowledged. But it is a lively central space, a focus for the city. Will they improve it, or spoil it, as they have already spoiled the old bridge?

And then there was Ohrid and Struga. Deep snow, blocked roads and soggy feet. And then spring sunshine, lunch by the lakeside and a stroll through the old town of Ohrid, with snow-capped mountains in the distance. What a scene, what a rest for the mind.

Fresh milk in Belgrade

Recently I spent a few days in Belgrade. How different it is from Prishtina. The streets are (more or less) clean. The air is not clogged with smoke. There's water in the tap all of the time.

And, what bliss, there is fresh milk in all the shops, for my tea and for cereal. I take back a litre with me to Prishtina, which lasts me for almost a week. What a difference it makes to my life. Such a simple thing, so easily taken for granted, and so missed when I don't have it. Oh there is fresh milk in Prishtina. It mainly comes in plastic bags that have to be snipped open with scissors. That's how milk came all over Yugoslavia at one time. What a stupid container for a liquid! It's not all that nice, and usually only lasts a day from the time of purchase, if you're lucky - sometimes it is bad when you buy it. Recently cartons of locally produced fresh milk have appeared in a few places, but to me it tastes the same as the long-life milk most people use here. I loathe long-life milk. Tea is still refreshing with it, but the taste is unpleasant. I just gulp it down quickly, no pleasure at all. Most people don't seem to have a concept of fresh milk. They seem to think it means unpasturised milk (you can buy unpasturised milk in the villages). Once a bemused shopkeeper who didn't understand what I meant by fresh milk suddenly understood: "Oh, you mean milk in a bag".

Belgrade was refreshing. So many nice places to go, nice cafes, restaurants, pleasant streets and parks to stroll in. And then it's back to Prishtina. But I mustn't be too down on the place. At least one thing is generally better here - coffee. And that is also important.

Churches and flags

Today I visited Gračanica, a Serb enclave close to Prishtina. Not much goes on on a Sunday. The market traders that line the main Prishtina-Gjilan road on other days are nowhere to be seen. That’s a shame, as the home-grown produce sold by the local Serb peasants is worth visiting for.

I strolled in a graveyard. Most of the tombstones are in a similar big, showy black marble style, with photographs of the dearly departed. It would appear that many older graves have recently been given newer stones. Most are Christian, but one stands out for me, with a five-pointed star in place of a cross. The occupant was a man who had come of age just as the communists came to power, and had presumably risen on the revolutionary tide. In placing the star on his new-looking stone, his relatives had stayed true to his communist faith. One thing that strikes me is that on many of the stones there are two names, and two pictures, but only one giving the year of death, the other left open. I think I would find it depressing to see my name and picture on my tombstone while I am still alive.

Gračanica monastery

At the centre of Gračanica is the 14th Century Orthodox monastery. It has survived fires and the removal of its lead roofing in the Ottoman period, yet still stands, its icons worn and damaged, the eyes poked out in many cases, a typical Muslim desecration. Nowadays its entrance is guarded by a couple of Swedish soldiers, razor wire topping its walls. Standing among the saints and medieval Serbian kings, the biblical scenes, one has a sense of timelessness. Some of the participants in the 1389 Battle of Kosovo, which took place not far from here, are said to have prayed in this church before the fray. It is small and intimate, enclosed, until one looks up to the small dome high above, the face of Christ looking down, as if ones attention is deliberately being drawn upwards to the heavenly.

I’ve never managed to understand the Orthodox Church. With its intense conservatism, it is an alien world. On the one hand is its rich artistic heritage, its icons and churches, its mesmerising chants that seem to connect it to a spirituality largely lost in the modern world, and consciously given up in western Christianity. On the other is the poisonous nationalism that pollutes and discredits it in the eyes of so many outsiders. In a corner of the church at Gračanica is a huge Serbian flag, wound around its wooden pole. How does the pretension to be a universal church, embodying timeless values taught by a God who is said to have created all mankind in his image sit with this narrow, chauvinistic nationalism?

I am tempted to see it as a kind of paganism, worshiping at the altar of the nation. But as I am not a part of it, I really have no idea how its adherents see their Church, their worship, their God. I have no idea what this mystical entwining of a universal faith with the body of a nation means to them. This is one of the features of religious faith. Outsiders see alien faiths largely in political terms, never properly understanding the spiritual element which is generally central for the adherents themselves. It is the same with Islam. Outsiders are scared by the massed ranks of the bowing faithful, seeing them as dangerous, threatening fanatics. Brought up as a Catholic, I am often aware that outside critics generally just don’t get what it is that Catholics are about. Without having ever experienced the simple spirituality, the heart-swelling faith in God, the hope for a better hereafter, seeing only the strange ceremonies and priestly robes, the overtly political, and sometimes discreditable role that the Church has played in history, they cannot understand that, as with other faiths, at its centre is the strange but simple belief in God. Whether or not one continues to share those beliefs, it is only those who have been on the inside who really understand them.

Serbs and bilberry juice

Today I was back in Mitrovica. It is a sad place. At each end of the famous bridge that divides the city between its Albanian south and mainly Serb north there is coiled-up barbed wire, ready to be pulled across at a moment’s notice, should there be trouble. Two NATO armoured personnel carriers sit at the northern end, with their big machine guns on top. Walking along the main road in the north, I pass a patrol of ten or so French soldiers, rifles in hand, who drop into a café on their route.

The bridge, Mitrovica

I’ve come to meet Oliver Ivanovic. He became famous in 1999 when he organised the Serb bridge watchers responsible for dividing the town. After that his image was transformed. Urbane, charming, fluent in English and Albanian, he came to be seen as a leading Kosovo Serb moderate, the favourite interlocutor for the internationals. Now a state secretary in Belgrade’s Ministry for Kosovo, he spends much of his time in the Serbian capital. He’s a busy man nowadays – I had been trying to get a meeting for weeks. Now his main battle is with the hard-line criminal elements that ran the north for years before the present government took over in mid-2008. He promises to root out corruption among the Kosovo Serbs.

Oliver is friendly, gregarious, an open smile ready on his lips. He knows who I am, and who I represent. He knows I argued for Kosovo independence years before it was declared. But he doesn’t seem to hold it against me. This is something I find strange about the Kosovo Serbs. I would expect them to hate us westerners, especially Brits and Americans. Did we not bomb them and support their Albanian enemies? Do they not see us as responsible for their misfortunes, for the loss of the territory at the centre of Serbian history and mythology? I would expect them to. Probably they do. And yet they are almost invariably friendly and hospitable towards us, welcoming us as their guests. How would I feel in their place?

I ate Prebranac (a spicy bean stew) in the restaurant I usually go to in Mitrovica. Quite tasty. I also enjoyed the homemade bilberry juice.

In a way the Kosovo Serbs’ situation is a bit like that of the whites in South Africa. Outnumbered, losing ground, a sense of siege, defensive, aware that they are widely vilified, and probably fighting a losing battle. Yet I’ve almost never found them aggressive. No doubt it would be different if I were an Albanian trying to return to north Mitrovica to reclaim my house.

Hills and rubbish

I had a Sunday afternoon walk in the hills outside Prishtina today, at Germia. It was a fine, sunny day, almost spring-like. Ahhh, for fresh air, away from the smoke of the Obilic power stations that so often chokes Prishtina, away from the dust and cheap petrol fumes of the city, away from the crow shit-spattered streets.

But one thing you cannot escape from, even in the hills, is the rubbish, the refuse with which the people of Prishtina clog up their town and even their supposed weekend beauty spots. It's everywhere in the city. Plastic bottles strewn about, trees hanging with wispy plastic bags, like some strange kind of fruit. Every scrap of green, every tree, the verges of every pavement. Dust, rubbish, crow shit, bad air, these are the things that stick in the memory about Prishtina. Crumbling stairways, general decay. Even new buildings look dilapidated almost at once.

Walking in the hills, breathing in the air, enjoying the nature, I try to avoid seeing the rubbish. The places where people sit to admire the views are invariably spoiled by cascades of plastic and paper spilling down the slopes. There is a point with a particularly fine view over planes and hills beyond. On a bright day one could see for miles and miles. It's obviously a popular spot for walkers, as one can tell by the quantities of litter thrown about.

What do these people think about when fouling their city, and even their beauty spots? It's depressing. The only mild comfort I can find is in the thought that it's not that beautiful anyway, and if they want to destroy their little patch of earth, at least they largely leave the best bits to the rest of us.

Wines and labels

Kosovo wine is returning to the UK market. According to the website of the producer, StoneCastle, its wines measure up to the best of France or Italy. Well, no they don’t. I tried the StoneCastle Merlot recently, and it was actually OK – you can drink it (with the caveat that during extended periods in this neighbourhood my palate is highly unreliable). It tasted like Merlot anyway, which is a good sign.

I tried another Merlot the same evening, from a winery owned by one of Kosovo's most prominent luminaries. According to the label, it was a 1993. My host told me he didn’t believe it. He had never seen any vintage other than 1993. Well, it certainly didn’t taste like a fifteen-year old wine. Isn’t that a great idea? What if Burgundian producers were to label all their wines for the next fifteen years as Grand Cru from 2005?

But the proliferation of private producers in the Balkans is a good thing. Slovenia is well ahead of the pack. I prefer the wines of the Goriška brda region (Collio in Italian, in this border-straddling territory). I am a long-standing fan of the Sivi pinot (Pinot Griggio) from Ščurek, and the wines of Movia are worth drinking. The wines of Croatia are as diverse as that country’s geography and climate. So far, I’ve not been convinced by the heavy reds of Dalmatia which are so admired in some quarters. They just seem very big, usually flabby, often oxidised, and uninteresting. The wines of Istria are often more restrained and refined, like those of Matošević.

But I think Montenegro is especially interesting. I’m biased – I like Montenegro. The hills between Bar and Virpazar seem particularly promising. That Montenegro has an indigenous grape variety, the Vranac, adds to the interest (it’s grown elsewhere in the Balkans, in Macedonia, Bosnia and Kosovo, but Montenegro is its real home). Several small private producers have been springing up, and some of them are really pretty good. The prices some of them go for in Podgorica shops – up to 50 Euros for a bottle last time I was there – are also an indication of how highly they are prized. It’s really quite exciting.

Mud, dust and shit

It's been raining in Prishtina, and as always, the streets are slopping with mud. When it's dry, the dust and grit blows around, getting into your hair, your eyes, your throat, making you cough. When it rains, walking the streets is a constant test, trying and failing to avoid being splattered by passing cars, mud covering your footwear, splashed up to your knees. There's always some challenge.

Worst is the gauntlet that has to be walked every evening under the trees full of cacophonous crows, avoiding the torrents of shit they send down on to hapless humans below. I've worked out a route from my office down the road to my favourite café, dodging from one bit of open, treeless space to another. There's only one point where passing beneath a tree is unavoidable. Oh how I hate them, how they torment me. Before I go to bed I have to deal with the multitude of crows that spend the night in the branches next to my fourth-floor bedroom window. If I leave them be, I get a dawn call of cawing. Flashing them with a torch works quite well, but there are usually a few hold-outs, blasé in the face of human efforts to trick them. I keep a supply of plastic bottles to throw at them. But fifteen minutes later I have to repeat the exercise with the hard cases who have returned in the meantime.

Well, this is Kosovo after all, the "Field of Blackbirds". A Serb told me recently that the crows are the souls of dead Serbs, come back to haunt the Albanians and foreigners who have taken over their sacred land. Well, apparently they are not very discriminating, as he has been their victim too. Of course, the reason for their proliferation is the filthy state of the city. But where are all the cats? Don't they have any pride, allowing their town to be taken over by birds? I can't help thinking that a few men with shot guns one morning could wreak havoc among them. I'd volunteer.

Serb enclaves

Yesterday I went to Mitrovica. It was grim. After the recent troubles (a Serb youth stabbed, a café bombed, firemen attacked, a journalist beaten, and Albanian shops torched), armoured personnel carriers squat at key points, by the bridge and next to the court building. French and Belgian troops patrol the ethnically mixed Bosniac Mahala district where the trouble was concentrated. Some of the Belgians grin at passers by, trying to impart cheerfulness and good will. The burned out shops down one street are blackened, with broken windows and charred, damp little heaps of destroyed goods outside that once enticed shoppers to stop and buy. The grubby streets, with the filthy slush of the melting snow, spattering legs as cars drive by, are quite enough to depress spirits even without the latest damage the inhabitants have inflicted on their town.

Mitrovica bridge, under guard

Lunch starts with a spicy, greasy fish soup, with hunks of fat that did not come from any fish I am familiar with. It is followed by two trout, grilled according to the menu, but in fact fried and greasy. In the corner of the restaurant, Marko Jakšić, one of Serb north Mitrovica's duo of strongmen, holds court in his track suit. Who would believe that this silver-haired man could inspire such fear? Appearing relaxed, smiling gently, there is no sign that he is nervous at rumours that the Belgrade government is out to get him, or that he is concerned by media stories of corruption. Rather, the speculation has it, it is he and his cronies who have stirred up the recent troubles as a lesson to Belgrade and the internationals that they are still in control, and no one should mess with them.

The day before it was Štrpce, a Serb-majority area in the south, at the foot of mountains, with a ski resort that locals hope will one day bring prosperity. The 1970s hotels, even were they not shabby and broken now, seem a memorial to the shoddiness of that decade. To think that places like this actually made Yugoslavs feel optimistic then. Lunch is roast veal in a mushroom sauce - quite tasty.

I got in trouble with the police, for parking on a little bridge. Well, I couldn't find anywhere else, and there was no sign saying not to. And I was in a hurry to see the top man in the parallel Serb municipal administration. I returned to find a note saying to report to the police station, and that the front registration plate had been taken. They were very strict at first, and I was very contrite. I was in a hurry to meet Mr. Staletović, I stressed several times. They seemed to appreciate the fact that I, a foreigner, could speak Serbian. They let me off.

Štrpce is very different from Mitrovica. Isolated from Serbia, the Serbs here are interested in jobs, and ready to reach an accommodation with the Albanians who live all around them. Bizarrely, the official municipal administration and the Serb parallel one exist side by side in the same building. They rub along uneasily. Surrounded by spectacular mountain scenery, this is perhaps the one place in Kosovo where one can see Serbs having a real perspective. Here it will be possible to live well, so long as politics does not interfere. The locals probably know it.

Prishtina in sunshine

It is a cold, clear day in Prishtina, the bright sunshine sparkling on the snow. Young men are out on Mother Theresa Boulevard with shovels, breaking up the hard-packed ice and piling it in heaps on the side of the road. Broken steps hidden by snow have become slopes for children to slide down, or for adults to fall down. The book sellers are at their usual place near the Hotel Grand, in the sunshine, which, though bright, does little to cut through the chill. The little tables with cigarettes and mobile phone scratch cards for sale line some streets, but many of the sellers are not to be seen, presumably escaping the chill and watching from nearby cafés.

Prishtina continues to change at a startling pace. Pedestrians only now on Mother Theresa, the city centre begins to show some potential to be almost attractive. Lots of new cafes are packed with Prishtina's smart young things, dressed to the nines, staying for hours, drinking just one coffee, and smoking lots of cigarettes. The dwindling numbers of internationals congregate in their favoured pubs and restaurants. Gleaming new buildings tower over the city, either mocking the shabbiness of the streets below, or holding out a bright perspective for the future, depending on one's level of optimism.

For all its enduring grubbiness, Prishtina has an optimistic feel. It is a city and a country on the move. Though still poor, the proliferation of new buildings, the breakneck expansion of the city's boundaries, the upgraded highways, all speak of a brighter future. No doubt there is plenty of dissatisfaction. The young men hanging around with nothing to do, the youngsters reduced to hawking cigarettes in the cafes, point to the poverty and lack of opportunity that afflict many. There are still frequent power cuts, and the water goes off every night. Frustration at the challenges of realising Kosovo's independence still threatens to boil over into anger and violence. Yet this is the capital city of a new country. A long-held dream for Kosovo's Albanians has been realised. For now, it still seems that the hardship is worth it.

Snow

I prefer Prishtina in the snow. For once, neither dusty nor muddy, even the stink of the nearby power stations seems somehow to have been smothered. Snow makes all cities look a little alike, from the most beautiful to the most ugly. Or perhaps I'm trying much too hard to be positive about Prishtina.

I just finished reading Orhan Pamuk's "Snow". Another apparently ugly city that took on a new aspect when all white. It was a huge struggle, dreadfully dull. I forced myself to read to the end, mainly so I could say with conviction that it was awful. So slow-moving, such uninteresting characters. It was all completely unconvincing. Maybe Pamuk is as introverted as almost all his characters, analysing every thought, every action in endless detail. But most people are not so utterly tiresome. How did Ka manage to talk to so many people, sit in so many tea shops, walk so many streets, have so many clandestine meetings, get arrested and tortured, make passionate love so many times in such a short period, and still manage to fill several notebooks with every detail of everything he did? And why would he want to record every little boring detail?

My expectations of Pamuk were high, and I was dreadfully disappointed. Are any of his other books any better?