Random meetings

This one happened in August last year, on a train between Cracow and Warsaw, in Poland.

I ask this girl about a magazine lying on the bench in the train cabin. I ask in English and she replies in English. A conversation ensues. Upon learning I was Brazilian, she asks if I knew Elizabeth Bishop, the American poet who lived for many years in Rio de Janeiro. I not only knew her; she was the author of one of my favorite poems, which I said to her astonishment. She was a poet herself, who lived in New England and was in Poland visiting her folks. Since then we had the opportunity to meet twice in NY.

So when someone points out that travelling alone must be dead boring, I have to say that I am sure to meet interesting people along the way, something that perhaps wouldn't happen weren't I alone.

The poem, by the way, is "One Art":

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

Balkan travels (2) - More border stories

- Please open your bag. Yes.

- What are these bars, chocolate? Yes.

- Please, open one. Yes.

- Where are you going to? Macedonia.

- What for? Tourism.

- There's nothing to see there.

That's what the Bulgarian border officer said after checking thoroughly what was inside my backpack. Every passenger had to leave the bus with its bags. The bus was searched and all the bags put on a table and opened. It's interesting to notice that I was not entering Bulgaria. I was leaving it.

After arriving in Skopje, I wondered why the Bulgarian guy was so harsh on Macedonia. The city looked clean and organized, the road that took me to Ohrid was very good. And Ohrid itself looked like a piece of Côte d'Azur minus the celebrities and luxury cars. The beautiful scenery and people, good bars, food and wine are there. I recommend visiting the place before it loses its charming naiveté and becomes part of the expensive and crowded circuit of summer Festivals. I can imagine a fancy boat taking Nicole Kidman and the like for a ride to the Albanian side in the afternoon before they announce the winners of whatever festival (Lake Ohrid is in the border between Macedonia and Albania).

As a friend remarked a day later, everyone needs some else to look down on. The Romanian taxi driver in Sibiu, upon learning that I would head to Bulgaria a day later, told me to be careful because Bulgarians were thieves. He looked at me strangely when I told him I had good friends in Bulgaria and was sure I'd have a great time there. In Ohrid, a Macedonian guy of Albanian origin questioned why on earth I would go to Albania. I read somewhere that Albania is one of the countries that suffers most of a misperception about thievery. I spent less than 2 days in the country but never felt unsafe. Tirana, by the way, had a surprising lively nightlife for a Monday. Plenty of nice bars. (It also has its Apple and its Bang & Olufsen authorized dealers). And would I ever have guessed I would hear Vanessa da Mata's "Não me Deixe Só" in a bar in Tirana?

A second border story, this one at JFK in NY:
after checking my passport and my visa, the officer at the passport control comes with this:

- What's the purpose of your visit?

- I'm returning home, I reply.
He looks at my visa and says:

- You're returning to your job!

Balkan travels (1) - The Day I was Stopped at the Border - and Sent Back

When I was a teen in my hometown, an average-size city in the State of São Paulo, it was common for people around my age to try and spend one or two years abroad and return back to the old life in that industrial, moderately crazy town. Favored destinations were the US, the UK and Australia, where one could improve his English and be exposed to a somewhat different life style in a developed country. People would go, work as a waiter or some other job and come back. One concern was getting a tourist visa, which was easier if your parents were well-off but not a sure thing. I considered this sort of short-term migration myself but never did it.

Visa issues ceased to exist when I became a diplomat. Now even for personal travels, I could use my diplomatic passport and get a visa, if needed, in a easier and quicker way. So I was astonished that, from all places, and after visiting around 60 countries, I was denied entry, from all places and for the first time, to Moldova.

Of course, I am aware that this split personality issue (Diplomat-Backpack traveller) is not always an easy one for people to grasp, though my experience so far had been of a beneficial relationship for both.

I was in Northern Romania, where I spent 1 day visiting the painted monasteries in Bucovina (World Heritage sites worth a visit both for the architectural and spiritual aspects and the natural scenery). It was close to Moldova, a 6-hour drive by Maxi-taxi (a minivan) from Suceava to Chisinau. After waking up and managing to board the minivan that had already started leaving the Station, there I was, in my way to spend a few hours in Moldova's capital before boarding a train to Bucharest and then proceed to my next destination: Bulgaria.

At the border, the bus stops and all passports are taken to the border police.

They look at this travel document belonging to this exotic animal, most probably unheard of in the Romanian-Moldovan border: a Brazilian diplomat coming by bus.

After some 30-40 minutes, the bus driver decides to leave, saying that another bus would soon pass the border. Other passengers didn't show signs of distress at the long wait - of course and fortunately I couldn't understand what they said.

The border police was waiting for a confirmation on the actual need of a visa in a Brazilian diplomatic passport. At this point, I must observe that according to information I had obtained in my Foreign Ministry's website, that visa was not needed.

In the whole border post, only a young officer from the Customs knew some English and tried his best to be my interpreter. He looked thrilled in his new position, one that none of his superiors or colleagues could take up. He also enjoyed the possibility of brushing up his English. And he couldn't resist having foreign ears to hear how life in Moldova was difficult for the young, due to a lack of opportunities and better pay, as well as a tight, Communist-style control almost everywhere. He looked pretty authentic and, although financial issues made their way into the conversation, no hint of a bribe was made. Other people from the Customs approached to say the issue was not their responsibility: they were only the Customs and the border police were the tough guys.

Then, I'm taken to the office of the big boss, where I realized all the pages of my passport were scanned in this modern facility. I should have asked for a copy. I am subjected to an interview:

- What is the purpose of your trip? Tourism.

- Where are you staying in Moldova? I'm not staying. I'll spend only a couple of hours before boarding a train back to Bucharest.

- Did you already buy the tickets? No.

- At what time does the train leave? At 5:10 pm.

- How do you know? I checked the information on the internet and at the train station in Romania.

- Are you allowed to travel for tourism using a diplomatic passport? Yes.

- Are you carrying a regular passport? No.

- Where are you living? Where do you work? In the US, at Brazil's Mission to the UN. Can you prove? Yes, here are some documents.

And then, this pearl:

- With all due respect, is this passport authentic or false? Of course it is authentic, as well as all the visas and stamps you can see.

(The official pointed out it was strange that my photo was glued instead of printed on the page. He was obviously used to more modern documents than the older model I was carrying).

And then:

- I'm sorry, but a visa is needed and I can not let you in.

My young interpreter looked really sad, more sorry than I was.

At this point, in the split of a second, I considered switching from the backpacker mode to the diplomat in a tough negotiating situation mode and come with a discourse like: Brazil enjoys peaceful relationships all over the world, including with Moldova. After 60 countries, this was the first time I'm not allowed entry. People in my Ministry and in the United Nations will know that a Brazilian diplomat was not welcome in Moldova and, worse of all, his status and passport were considered a fake. But I also considered that the 3-4 hours I'd spend exploring the charms of Chisinau was at that point reduced to no more than 1 1/2 hour; another visa stamp and country included in my visited countries' list were not worth the hassle. And what if that official was right and I indeed needed a visa?

In the end, I restricted myself to mention that I was very disappointed because I really wanted to visit Moldova but had to understand his position. And that I hoped that the information he had regarding the visa was the accurate one and not the one I had.

The always polite officer then led me to the other side of the premises where they arranged me a ride back to Iasi in Romania, where I waited a few hours before taking my train to Bucharest.

And yes, they were right. I needed a visa for Moldova after all, as I found out later. It was my fault I didn't check the information I had before leaving Bucharest or even New York, as Moldova was already a possibility then. And after all, those guys at the border were pretty polite and serious in their jobs and, in retrospective, looked willing to help. Perhaps the interview was a way of evaluating the possibility of letting me in despite not fulfilling the visa requirement. I have to concede that having a diplomat coming in a bus from Suceava, with no clear purpose besides some sightseeing for a few hours and no place or reference at all in the country might look a bit suspicious in a place that is still not an obvious tourist destination in Europe's map.

But I won't give up. I'll still visit Moldova (with the due visa) and perhaps for more than one day. It's not only a matter of honor. After all, they have the largest underground wine cellars in the world in Cricova.

Entitlement

Now that I created my own blog, I feel a slight sense of entitlement, of belonging to the Big Virtual World. I have an email account since 1994, but didn't venture much into the net's fare, like podcasting, blogging and the like. And I still remember writing and receiving letters. Today, the regular mail sadly functions only for propaganda and bills.
I remember I felt a similar sense of entitlement when I became a landowner - okay, that's an exageration (I once bought a small piece of land in my hometown, enough for a small house. I sold it before real state prices soared and bought stocks just before the Asian crisis in 1996. Don't trust my timing for investment).
The "bourgeoising" process was completed when I became an employer (I had this housekeeper coming once a week to do all these chores I postpone as much as I can).
Now, I'm a blogger and can share bits and pieces of my experiences and thoughts with everyone, which is perhaps not the wisest thing to do. But it might be fun. And help me not to forget how to write in a way different from the regular UN or Itamaraty unexciting styles.