2010 Travel Notes #12: On the Monastery Trail in Bulgaria

The old capital of the medieval kingdom--Veliko Turnovo--is perhaps my favorite city in Bulgaria. One of its attractions has to be the scores of monasteries, easily visitable using the city as a base. I was able to experience 6 or 7, both in my 2003 and 2004 trip. As much as I was tempted to return, I determined to see some new regions of Bulgaria, using Vidin, Plovdiv and Melnik as bases. And so I sought out Bulgarian monasteries once again, but these were more far afield, and it took a bit of traveling to reach them. I visited Lopushanki Monastery (west of Montana,) Cherepish Monastery (south of Vratsa,) Bachkova Monastery (near Asenovgrad,) Rozhen Monastery (east of Melnik,) and of course, Rila Monastery (outside of Rila.) Every monastery is unique and has its own "feel" to it, for lack of a better word. I will cover the first four in this post, and Rila will be treated separately later on.

I am glad I took the time to find Lopushanki, a small and remote monastery in northwestern Bulgaria. A whitewashed church, a two-story and galleried frame residence for the monks, a barn and few outbuildings were the extent of the monastic complex. As I was walking along the path to the church, I came across a monk, a shepherd herding their sheep and a young boy, perhaps 5 or 6 years old. The monk, who spoke halting English, was welcoming and pleased to learn I was an American Orthodox. If I recall correctly, he told me their were 6 monastics at Lopushanki.

The shepherd led his sheep towards the pen, the monk bid me good day and the little boy and I entered the church. He sat down somewhat officiously behind a table where the candles were laid out. I pushed a leva across the table to him and he handed me two candles. No candles had yet been lit, so I was momentarily at a loss as to how I was going to light mine. Seeing my dilemma, he pulled a box of matches from his pocket and struck a light. I thanked him, and he replied "No problem." I think there is no more ubiquitous Americanism throughout the world than this simple phrase. And I do not mind it a bit, for it is one of the most useful tools where communication is a problem. I glanced around and the young boy was standing at attention in the entryway to the church, crossing himself three times before leaving.

The church was not ancient--dating back to only the mid 19th century. The style was neither Byzantine nor Russian, but seemed typical of village churches seen in this region, as well as in Romanian Wallachia. A high, columned exo-narthex wrapped around the front of the church, with a soaring, gigantic fir in front. The interior was whitewashed, so all the icons were either hanging or on stands. I particularly remember the icon of Cyril and Methodius. The carved iconostasis was immense and quite impressive.

After leaving the monastery, I looked around the nearby village of Georgi Damyanova. The hamlet is poor and remote, but seems to be holding its own. Unlike some of the dying villages I had observed on the main highway, Georgi Damyanova was an old settlement, and not a planned Communist town. I stopped briefly to look at the simple village church and overgrown graveyard. A plaque on the front of the 1873 church commemorated the victims of the Balkan Wars of 1912-1913 and the First World War. (In the West we are conditioned to framing eras by those events affect us, such as World War I. For the Balkans, and especially Bulgaria, the Balkan Wars are even more significant.) On the west side of town, however, is a relic of Communist central planning. Here the simple rural lane gives way to a wide esplanade with a once-landscaped divide in the middle. A long, three-story building with expansive sidewalks and plaza stretched along one side. Of course it was now all grown-up and beginning to look decrepit--though I do not think the building was yet abandoned. It's position here, at the edge of a small village, in the middle of nowhere, on the road to nowhere, struck me as a bit bizarre.

Cherepish Monastery lay about an hour and half drive further on, south of Vratsa. On the highway out of this city, in the course of several miles, I passed 4 prostitutes plying their trade alongside the road. There was no doubt as to their occupation. And of course, this is so sad. As I was driving past, however, I started thinking--except for the hairstyles, makeup, and perhaps the quality of what little clothes they were wearing, these ladies were actually dressed no differently than the affluent American and western European young women and girls I had seen while transiting through airports, etc. Many of these young women were in fact traveling with their parents, who apparently see nothing wrong with their daughters dressing like street-walkers. And once back home, I find it everywhere--the shortest of shorts, or skirts that barely cover their underwear. If this makes me sound like a prude, then so be it. The Bulgarian prostitutes strutting and posturing along the edge of the highway know exactly who they are and what they are doing. There is more brutal honesty in their actions than in the pretense of the other situation I have just described. But enough of that.

My experience at Cherepish Monastery differed markedly from Lopushanki. The former is located close enough to the capital to make it an easy day-trip for pilgrims from Sofia. And so it was--the monastery was covered up with visitors, mostly elderly. Cheripinski is wedged alongside a rushing river in a narrow gorge. Parking is up on the road, next to an outdoor restaurant conveniently located for the returning pilgrims. As I was waking down, I was impressed to see many elderly and infirm, some on canes and walkers, coming back up the hill from the monastery. In the midst of their chatting and visiting--which sometimes gave the appearance of a picnic outing--the real ascetic labor of many cannot be denied. The monastery was founded in the 13th-century, but destroyed by the Turks and rebuilt many times. The current monastic buildings, mostly dating from the 17th-century, are all white-washed and in good repair, with flower gardens and fruit trees dotted here and there. A small monastic cemetery lies between the church and the river. The church itself is not large, a barrell-vaulted affair with a fake dome. The icons within are very westernized--I particularly recall those of Sts. Constantine and Helen and Sts. Cyril and Methodius. The site that particularly attracted my attention, however, was St. Nicholas' Chapel, in a shallow cave high about the rest of the monastery. At the end of the climb one finds a small chapel and behind a glass pane, the skulls and bones of probably hundreds of monks. Many of them may have died at the hands of the Turks.

After Cherepish, I was fatigued and decided to make for Sofia rather than visit another monastery in the general area. I was to stay there two nights before making my way to Plovdiv and Bachkovo Monastery, one of the country's most historic. Founded in 1083 by two Georgian brothers, like most in the Balkans, Bachkovo was burned by the Turks and rebuilt numerous times. The present Church of the Virgin Mary was rebuilt in 1604.

Bachkovo is the second largest monastery in Bulgaria and may actually receive more visitors than Rila Monastery. Just outside the village an extensive car park and busy restaurant mark the entrance to the complex. The filled lot and the buses parked to the side indicate that you will hardly be alone while visiting. A long, sloping walkway leads from the car park up the hill towards the monastery. Food vendors and souvenir and craft stalls line both sides of the walkway. All of this leads one to fear a side-show type atmosphere at the monastery. Such was not the case at all, and in fact, Bachkovo was one of my more favorable experiences in Bulgaria.

The monastic compound completely encircles the main church and bell-tower, a cobblestoned courtyard, a diospyrus tree brought over from Georgia 200 years ago, and flowering beds. I had feared something of a side-show character with the crush of people, but this failed to materialize. The crowd consisted of men, women and children of all ages, though young families seemed to predominate. As I approached the church, a line formed that almost stretched outside the narthex. This was not the queue to enter the church exactly, but rather the line to venerate the wonder-working icon of the Theotokos, on the right as one entered the nave. As I was to learn, this silver-plated icon dates to the 13th-century and was buried and hidden from the Turks for several centuries. I took my place in line and waited. Everyone was quiet and reverent, and no one pushed or acted impatient, as each person was allowed as much time as they needed to venerate the icon. Iconography covered every inch of the nave, but it were dimly seen, being covered as it was with centuries of candle soot. But the church seemed ablaze with light from the 12 candle stands I counted in the nave. I continue to be struck by the piety of these people. While the scene outside might be called festive, once the Bulgarians were in church, it was all seriousness. They knew what they came here to do--they came here to pray. And when I lit my candles and said my prayers, I was no longer a foreign visitor in an alien culture, but one of them--as my prayers intermingled with theirs, and those of the saints surrounding us, and ascended upward.

On the outside of the church is a plague written in Bulgarian, Russian, English and Hebrew, commemorating the Patriarch Kiril and the Exarch Stefan who, along with Tsar Boris III, took decisive steps to prevent the deportation of Bulgarian Jews by the Nazis in 1943. Kiril and Stefan are buried at Bachkovo. Before leaving the grounds, I admired the murals on the outside of the refectory, giving the history of the monastery. I also visited the Ossuary Church, the only original 11th-century structure remaining. I would have liked to seen the portrait of the 14th-century Tsar Ivan Alexander Asen within, but the church is some distance from the main compound and wisely is kept locked.

That night, I stayed in Plovdiv, Bulgaria's second city. The new city is nice enough, but tourists come here for the largely-intact Old City. I wandered about this area for some time, and visited the Church of the Virgin Mary. This is a simple barrel-vaulted, three aisle basilica. The church dates to about 1249, as Nicholas Choniates mentions it in some of his writings. In the 1880, the Russians donated a bell-tower, built in the style of that day. The addition looks very strange indeed, tacked onto the medieval church. Apparently, vespers were over with. A youthful-looking priest was taking a young lady's confession, and a man was near the iconstasis, praying. The iconography was of the 19th-century, westernized Greek variety. I particularly noted the icon of the Archangel Michael. On my way back to my room, I pasted a caravan of cars festooned with streamers. It was a wedding party on the way to their church. After all, this is Saturday night in an Orthodox country.

I visited Rozhen Monastery on my last day in Bulgaria, as I was returning to Greece. I had spent the previous night in Melnik, 20 km. north of the border. This little town is struggling to survive, primarily on it's quaintness. Originally a Greek wine-growing town of 20,000, Melnik suffered during the Balkan Wars, and when peace was declared between Bulgaria and Greece, the Greeks left for their country and in turn, the town was repopulated with Bulgarians from the other side of the border. Today, Melnik is only a village of approximately 300 souls, nestled in a valley of the bizarre sandstone mountains in the Pirin range. The town was a popular get-away for well-connected Communist apparatchiks, just as it is today for Sofia's elite. Still, there does not appear to be enough sustained tourism to support the local establishments. The shade of two 500-year old plane trees make lingering in the town centre not at all unpleasant. I stayed at a new hotel on the edge of town and enjoyed some delicious trout. The pool looked inviting, but as a measure of my continued ill health, I did not even dip a toe in it.

Rozhen Monastery is up in the hills, several miles past Melnik. Indeed, it was more or less at the end of the road. During my time there, I was the only visitor. Like Rila and Bachkovo, Rozhen is a walled compound, with a single gated entry into the cobblestone courtyard. The monastery dates back to the 13th-century, but due to continued Turkish deprivations, most of the current buildings date only to the mid 18th-century (though some iconography remains from the 16th-century.) A sprawling grapevine, planted 300 years ago, covers much of the area between the church and the surrounding buildings.

I saw only one monk at Rozhen. He was reading in the church, and after acknowledging me as I came in, continued his reading. I lit some candles, and then I venerated a Portiatissa icon of the Theotokos, which I learned had come from Mount Athos in 1790. On the south face of the church, flanking the doorway into the narthex, are two incredible frescoes--the Ladder of Divine Ascent on the left, and the Last Judgement on the right (again, my fascination with this depiction.) Both date to 1611.

I savored the quiet at Rozhen. Out in the courtyard, I heard nothing other than the sound of birds and insects, I suppose. We were several miles from the nearest village and automobile traffic. Finally, here at the end of my Bulgarian monastery ramblings, I caught a brief glimpse--perhaps--of what the monastic life must often entail. You may notice from my pictures that I have none showing the monastics or other people that I met along the way. I do not know if the monks would have permitted me to take their picture or not, but I did not intend to ask. I have a belief in treating people I encounter with dignity, and not as curiosity pieces--something I can bring back and show and have people think, "oh, isn't that quaint." I just do not do that. Maybe I am being overly sensitive, but I will leave that sort of thing to others.

(Two more Bulgaria posts will follow. After that, I should have three more posts on Greece, before finishing-up. Having embarked upon this endevour, I am now getting anxious to bring it all to a close.)

2010 Travel Notes #11: On the Danube

I entered Bulgaria through the back door, at the remote border crossing east of Zajecar, Serbia. My entry bogged down at bit, particularly at the last station on the Bulgarian side of things. Maybe I got off on the wrong foot, as I had apparently interrupted the young lady's cellphone conversation. Repeated instructions to me in Bulgarian, in a louder and louder voice of her part, did not move the process along any. Reinforcements were brought in. Apparently, I had to pay a "road tax," which I was perfectly willing to do, but they would accept payment only in Bulgarian leva (a country I had not yet entered) or in euros (which currency I had not used since Greece.) They scoffed at the idea of being paid in Serbian denars--the only money I had on me. We seemed to be at an impasse until I remembered that I had 3 five-dollar bills stuck back in my wallet. I gave her two of those and good-naturedly shrugged in a "this is all I've got" manner. She looked at the bills and then left her booth to go back to the main building. She returned with another worker who spoke a little English. Apparently she was resigned to taking the U.S. money, but then saw that the two bills I gave her were different (one being the "new" five-dollar bill.) I explained to them that the denominations had recently been changed and that it wasn't counterfeit. By this time, I think she was ready to get rid of me. She pushed some change (in leva) at me and motioned me on. There are two lessons to be learned from this. First, a repeated shrug in the face of incomprehensible instructions/questions eventually gets you moved-on (this worked at another border crossing as well.) And second, always keep some euros (not dollars) in reserve, no matter if the country uses them or not.




I was not at all put off by this, as Bulgaria is one of my favorite countries. And a government employee on the Bulgarian-Serbian border can hardly be expected to know English. The guard who did speak a little of my language asked if I had ever been there before, and was surprised to learn that this was actually my third trip to Bulgaria. Like I say, I like the place.



One is immediately struck by the change on the Bulgarian side of the border. The roads are pot-holed, the villages are markedly poorer, and one sees an abundance of horse-drawn carts on the road--things not really seen in Serbia. Forty-five years of harsh Communism did a number on Bulgaria. The central planners destroyed traditional villages and moved their residents to new communities adjacent to the collectivized farms. I remember reading that at the height of Communism in Bulgaria that there were only 900 farms in the entire country. I vividly remember the grown-up and deserted farms from my visits in 2003 and 2004. At that time, Bulgarians were once more tilling small individual plots out of the failed collectivized farms.






This was my first impression on returning to Bulgaria. The first buildings I passed were the ruins of one of these farms. And the new towns built nearby are generally dead or dying. Of course, no churches were built in the Communist towns, so there is today no core to these villages. I did see one of the larger towns where a smart new Orthodox church had been constructed, but this was not the norm. In short, there is nothing to hold residents in these post-World War II settlements, and the people move into the cities. I do not mean to paint too bleak a picture, because the landscape itself is very beautiful indeed--just empty of people. And this seems to be much more of a factor in northern Bulgaria, where the terrain was more adaptable to large-scale farming, than in the south. From my observations, it seems many more traditional villages survive in the south of the country.





















My destination was Vidin, in the far northwestern corner of Bulgaria, along the banks of the Danube. I found the city to my liking. In fact, places like this are the very reason I travel the way I do. Parts of the old city remain, with traces of the medieval fortress still standing. Vidin also retains quite a bit of early 20th-century neo-classical architecture, much like one finds in central Sofia. Added to that are far too many of the grandiose, overblown Communist municipal buildings and apartments, complete with accompanying weed-choked and trash-strewn plazas, parks and fountains, and wide boulevards with few cars. And finally, there are the monuments to modernity, built in the exuberance of the early post-Communist years, many now themselves falling into well-deserved ruin. You might say Vidin can be a bit scruffy, but it is the kind of place I like. You never know what you are going to find on the next street over--it could be most anything.
























I booked a room at the Hotel Rovno, a modern high rise, apparently the best place to stay in the city--not that there was much competition. Room and breakfast ran about 35 dollars a night. The hotel is constructed so that every room has a view of the Danube. By the time it reaches Bulgaria, the Danube is an impressive river, as wider or wider than the lower Mississippi. From my 6th-floor balcony, I had a nice view of the barge traffic up and down the river, with Romania beckoning in the distance. I was tired and planned to turn in early, so I asked the front desk about the best place to eat close by. They recommended a sports bar just down Tsar Aleksandar II Boulevard. I found the joint easily, just past the abandoned casino. I enjoyed my pasta and Zagorka, while watching a bit of the World Cup. Zagorka is one of the two main Bulgarian beers (and the only one whose name I can remember.) I had apparently forgotten just how high octane it is, for once back in the hotel, I had to stop and sit in the lobby for a moment--to try and remember which floor I was on.

The next morning I set out for Romania. As I said in the first post, my scaling-back on my itinerary ended up being at Romania's expense. And this is unfortunate, for the country has much to offer. I had originally planned to angle northwesterly through Serbia, crossing into Romania east of Belgrade, and then driving on to Timisoara in the southwestern corner of the country. From there, I had hoped to drive easterly in the lower Carpathians for a couple of days before heading south into Bulgaria. As things turned out, Romania ended up being just a day trip for me.

The one place I particularly wanted to visit was Curtea de Arges, which I thought to be just barely within my reach from Vidin. The Orthodox cathedral there is an architectural gem, and also contains the tomb of King Ferdinand of Romania, as well as that of Queen Marie--the real ruler of the country. For some reason, Balkan royalty has always interested me. Serbia and Montenegro produced homegrown monarchies, but the Great Powers selected a Danish prince for Greece, and German nobility for Romania and Bulgaria. If it had not been for World War II and the brutal imposition of Soviet Communism, all three countries might well be constitutional monarchies today. (This is even true in volatile Greece, where the monarchy had trouble hitting its stride. The 1967 coup which deposed King Constantine II was partially driven by simmering animosity against him for his staunch anti-Communist stance during their civil war. The irony here is that he was probably the most exemplary representative of the monarchical principle in modern times.) Michael, the last king of Romania, now lives in the country. Likewise for Simeon II, the last king of Bulgaria, who even served a term as Prime Minister. Constantine II is now being allowed back into Greece and is building a home in the Peloponnese. Perhaps he will no longer have to slip in secret to the Patmos monastery as before. Many of their confiscated properties have now been returned, except of course, in Greece. But there is no groundswell of support for a return to monarchy, however, with polls never rising about 25% for that option.

But back to Marie: she was a queen straight out of Hollywood central casting--classically beautiful, flamboyant, with a instinct for the grand gesture, and often seen in flowing gowns as if she were the romantic lead in a Rudolph Valentino movie. The granddaughter of both Queen Victoria and Tsar Alexander II, Marie found herself married off at age 17 to Ferdinand, the colorless crown prince of Romania. The couple was famously unhappy together, and neither was particularly faithful to the other. Of her 6 children, only 3 are unquestionably Ferdinand's. But no matter, the romantic nature of Romania suited her to a tee, and provided Marie with all the stage she desired. During the First World War, she convinced her husband to join the Allied forces. At the time, this was not a foregone conclusion, as Ferdinand was a Hohenzollern, and Marie herself was a first cousin to the Kaiser. But she was also a first cousin to George V, and Nicholas II and Alexandra. And, with a capital city billed as the "Paris of the East," there could be no other course. The war went disastrously bad for the Romanians, and they suffered greatly as the German forces overran much of the country. In all the diplomatic jockeying at the Paris Peace Conference of 1919, Romanian interests began to lose ground. Queen Marie arrived in Paris to try and salvage the situation. She was charming, persistent and persuasive. Romania came out of the Conference 60% larger than before, and their current borders owe much to Marie's intervention. To the Orthodox reader, Marie of Romania will be known primarily as the mother of Princess Ileana, later Mother Alexandra of the Monastery of the Transfiguration in Ellwood City, PA.

To reach Curtes de Arges would require an early departure from Vidin and a quick crossing of the Danube--neither of which came to pass. I needed to get some Bulgarian leva first, and walked to a couple of modern banks down the boulevard. Neither would accept my U.S. dollars in exchange for leva. I could step out to the sidewalk, however, get some euros from the ATM, and they would exchange those. I am afraid the days of the high and mighty dollar are over. And so, I was a little late in leaving Vidin. I hoped it would not take long to cross the new bridge over the Danube. Apparently I had misunderstood about the new bridge--there is one under construction, but it is far from finished. The only crossing is by ferry. I certainly enjoyed this adventure, but the time involved at the borders on each side, waiting for the ferry and then the crossing itself, made my arrival in Romania much later than anticipated. Not knowing how late in the day the ferries operated, I decided to pass on Curtes de Arges, and just take Romania as it came--come what may.

Calafat is the Romanian port town opposite of Vidin. As far as border towns go, this one was actually pretty nice. Calafat was laid out in broad blocks, with impressive churches and an attractive and relatively bustling city centre. I found an exchange booth, and traded a few U.S. dollars for leis. The town soon gave way to the gently rolling prairies of Wallachia.
This is not the Romania of tourist brochures. Flat and agricultural Wallachia is little visited by visitors, most of whom flock to a few sites in the Carpathian Mountains of Transylvania. And my experience was confined to the stretch of road between Calafat and the industrial city of Craiova. So, my observations are made with these limitations in mind. My first thought was how this region compared with Bulgaria, just across the river.This part of Wallachia is poor, to be sure, but noticeably less so than comparable Bulgarian villages. The fields are planted in grain as far as can be seen. Farmers sell their fruits and vegetables along the highway. Horse-drawn carts are seen here and there, but large tractors in the fields as well. I saw no ruins of collectivized farms. The villages one passes through predate the Communist era. While many of the homes are in need of repair, they display a distinctive Romanian style, a proud and defiant testimony against over 40 years of central planning. And above all, each of the villages had a center, a core--the parish church. In short, in this brief glimpse of Romania, I came away with the distinct impression that Communism inflicted less damage here than on their neighbor to the south.




















I decided I would turn around at the bustling city of Craiova. A Greek restaurant and a hot bowl of moussaka put things right. On the route back to Calafat, I pulled off at a beautiful monastery, and was reminded of the distinctive nature of Romanian Orthodox architecture. I walked around the grounds and the cemetery, but saw none of the monastics. But that is fine, I do not expect these institutions to operate as tourist attractions. At Calafat, a queue had formed at the ferry dock, and so I had to wait a time or two before I could wedge my hatchback onto the ferry between all the semi-trailers.

Back in Vidin, I strolled down to the city centre. This is a great town for walking, with parks and broad public spaces. Late in the day, nearing dusk, I found few people out. The city seemed half-empty. I walked down to the impressive neo-classical Orthodox Cathedral, which occupies an entire leafy block. The double doors were locked tight, with a Bulgarian flag flying on either side. Somehow that image stayed with me. Perhaps I was just a little late, but the church should have been open, with candles flickering. And the flags of no nation need adorn any Orthodox church. Vidin's ugliest building is located on the east side of the church square, a sparkling new structure in burnt orange and plate glass--the "MallVidin." Lord have mercy. In a couple of years, the Danube River bridge will be completed, which should breathe new life into Vidin. In this future hoped-for prosperity, my hope is that what is worth saving in Vidin is preserved.

2010 Travel Notes #10: With the Serbian Saints

Serbia had to be the biggest surprise on my recent journey. I think many of us still have lingering misconceptions left over from the bad press received under the Milosevic regime. I was not exactly sure of my expectations of Serbia. I just know that they were certainly exceeded. My itinerary took me over a fair portion of southern Serbia. I traveled up the E75 from Skopje, passing Nis, and turning west at Cicevac, and then angling down through Aleksandrovac on another of my so-called short-cuts. At Baljevac, I turned south to Novi Pazar, where I spent two nights. From there, I was able to venture into Montenegro as far as Rosaje. Leaving Novi Pazar, I drove north to the pleasant city of Kraljevo, and then cut back east to Cicevac. There, I headed north and east until I reached the Bulgarian border. This criss-crossing provided for a fair cross-section of the southern third of the country.

Simply put, Serbia is a beautiful country. The landscape compared favorably with any you might see in southern Germany, for example. The drive from Aleksandrovac to Novi Pazar was particularly memorable. This is very mountainous terrain, dotted with Swiss-type chalets and neat farmsteads. The more open (and empty) landscape in the east, approaching the Bulgarian border, contained some incredible vistas as well. I got the distinct impression that Communism in the old Yugoslavia was imposed with a lighter touch than in some of its neighbors. At least in this part of the country, one just dioes not see overbuilt monuments to the glories of Communism, or the rusting factories and the other detritus that is so common just across the Bulgarian border. There are still plenty of sputtering old orange Ladas and Yugos on Serbian roads, but by and large, the country seems a going concern with average middle class housing, normal vehicles and bustling towns and cities.

Although I stayed two nights in Novi Pazar, the city was not a favorite of mine. I chose it for its proximity to several monasteries I wanted to visit. Not all the Muslims in old Yugoslavia ended up in Kosovo, for Novi Pazar is a Muslim city. Southern Serbia that adjoins Macedonia, and the pocket of the country wedged between Montenegro and Kosovo is predominately Muslim. Novi Pazar itself is 85% Muslim and 15% Christian, complete with Saudi-financed medrassa. The city was frustrating to navigate, with long spidery streets that rarely connected with others. I circled through downtown for quite some time looking for the hotel I had in mind, only to find that they had no vacancy. The one they recommended was simply unfindable. So finally I resorted to a truckers motel out on the highway--which was just fine with me. I was not particularly interested in spending time in Novi Pazar itself.

Even though this area of Serbia--as well as northern Montenegro--is predominately Muslim, it is also the home to a number of Orthodox monasteries. Novi Pazar itself is also site of the oldest surviving church in Serbia. The Church of St. Peter dominates a hill, high above the city. Parts of the rambling church date to the 8th century, though most of the structure was built in 1196. St. Peter's sits amid an ancient cemetery, along with a caretaker's cottage and a bell-tower within the stone-walled enclosure. I found the church locked, so I walked over to the caretaker's cottage. I did not see anyone at first, but there was washing laid out on the front porch, so I knew someone was at home. I was able to make my presence known, and an elderly woman came out dressed in only stretch pants and what looked for all the world like a large bra. She got the large key to the church and hobbled over to the church. She told me that her name was Jovanna, and I gave her mine.

I was pleased to see that this was no mere museum piece, but a real, functioning parish church. The altar was in place, though with no iconostasis. The oldest part of the church contained a walk-in baptismal pool on the right-hand side of the nave. A side room had been converted into a hall. I lit some candles, said the Trisaghion Prayer and left a little money on the icon stands, as is customary. After I left St. Peter's, I had to drive back down into Novi Pazar. In so doing, I passed by the Orthodox Church in the city. I was interested to note that the church was behind a compound wall, just as you would expect to see in Turkey.

One of the most moving experiences of my entire journey occurred at my next destination, the Monastery of St. George in Ras, commonly known as the Pillars of St. George. The monastic complex crowns the highest hill overlooking Novi Pazar. I was unprepared for what I found there, as I had misunderstood that it was only the ruins of a church and monastery. In fact, the site did lay in ruins for over 300 years, but 1999 saw the beginning of a painstaking restoration. Much has been recovered and much remains to be done. The Serbian king Stefan Nemanja (later St. Simeon the Myrrhgusher,) the founder of Nemanjic dynasty, endowed the church and monastery in 1171. His great-grandson, the Saint King Dragutin (the monk Theoktist) is buried at St. George in Ras.

More important than the restoration of the structures itself is the revival of the monastic community there. The population of St. George in Ras consists of 10 brothers at the present time. I visited for some time with the hieromonk Nikon. He showed me around the grounds, including the small chapel of St. Nicholas, and then we visited in the gift shop. He spoke several languages, though English was not one of them. Our conversation consisted of him speaking in French and me pretending I understood. We were looking at the icons they had for sale, and he was telling me about one in particular. This particular saint had been beheaded. He made sure I understood by moving his hand quickly across his neck. I assumed this to have been one of those incidents that were all too common under the Ottoman yoke. I thought I heard something that I just could not believe, so I interrupted him. While my grasp of French is considerably less than I want people to believe, one thing I do know is my numbers in French. I said mil sept cent o mil huit cent? (1700 or 1800?) Fr. Nikon answered, Non! cinq ans o seis ans! (5 or 6 years!) I was shocked and quickly crossed myself. This was the monk Hariton of Prizren. As it turned out, a little more time had passed than Fr. Nikon thought. In 1999, the monk had been abducted in broad daylight by Albanian KLA extremists. His body was found a year later in a shallow grave. He had been beheaded and his body severely and grotesquely mutilated. Fr. Nikon showed some pictures taken as the monk Hariton was being abducted. Further information on the New Martyr Hariton can be found here. I purchased the icon and it now hangs in the narthex of our church. I walked down the hill, reminded that this was still the Church of the Martyrs. And in my mind, nothing confirms her claims more than the fact that there remain those who kill you for belonging to it.

Sopocani Monastery is a bit more remote than St. George in Ras. I headed southwest out of Novi Paz, through the mountainous countryside. The monastery is some ways out of the city, and I passed through several small Muslim villages before reaching the complex. The monastery is not on a hilltop, but on the side of a hill, surrounded by thick forests. A high chain-link fence surrounds the property. As I got out of my car, I noticed some local boys parked across the road. I could hear the Turkish music blaring from their car radio. I find it hard to explain, but I felt a certain oppressiveness in the air--as if this monastery were a beleaguered outpost, somewhat under siege. And I guess you might say it is. I saw about 4 monks there, but did not have the interaction I did at St. George in Ras. The language barrier was more pronounced, and they seemed more reserved, which is perfectly understandable.

The monastery boasted several new buildings, one of which I assumed to house the monks' cells. The church itself is simple yet impressive. I particularly wanted to see Sopocani as we are using it as a model for the church we hope to build in East Texas (at least the exterior.) While the outside view may give the impression that the church started out as a basilica, once inside it is clear that it never was. The structure is a small cross-in-square, with a large narthex added, and then a deep exo-narthex and bell-tower added to that. The monastery was founded by the Saint King Uros 1 (later the monk Simon) who ruled from 1242 to 1272. He was the grandson of King Stefan (St. Simeon the Myrrgusher), the son of Saint King Stefan the First Crowned (later the monk Simon) and the nephew of St. Sava. His tomb is in the southwest corner of the nave. The church lay in ruins for a couple of hundred years until King Aleksandar I Karadjordjevic initiated a restoration in 1926. Today, there are about 30 monks and novices at Sopocani. Architectural plans indicate considerable future construction that will result in an extensive monastic complex that will once more encircle the church.

From Sopocani, I decided to cross over into Montenegro. The border crossing turned out to be more problematic that I would have thought, given the recent date of separation between the two countries. I drove about 30 miles into the country, and was not as favorably impressed as I was with Serbia--nothing particularly wrong with Montenegro, just personal preference. Admittedly, 30 miles is not enough to pass judgment on a country. In my initial itinerary, I had planned to drive on to the old royal capital of Cetijne, which I understand as a certain Prisoner of Zenda feel to it. But this Montenegro excursion fell victim to the practical realities of my traveling. The country was more rugged and less populated. Lumbering and ski resorts were more in evidence. This part of the country was Muslim as well (although I did see an Orthodox church in Rasaje.) Coming back into Serbia, I passed several mosques under construction. The one pictured will be a sure-fire winner if they ever hold an "Ugliest Mosque Contest."

I decided that the best place to discuss my visit to Gracanica Monastery was in the context of my Serbian travels rather than the post on Kosovo (#8 in this series.) Simply put, Gracanica breaks your heart. Gracanica is a dusty market town, choked with traffic. The extensive monastery grounds are located in the center of things, behind a high stone wall with barbed wire extensions on top. KFOR troops man the entryway into the grounds. Within the enclosure, there are several towers with floodlights. The lights are directed not at the church, but at the walls. For without these precautions and without these troops, the walls would soon be scaled and the most achingly beautiful and historically significant structure in Kosovo would soon be reduced to a pile of rubble. The goal of Albanian nationalist extremists is a historyless Kosovo, with the past wiped clean. I have seen this sort of thing before, in the former Armenian lands of eastern Turkey.

Saint King Milutin, one of the greatest Serbian kings, completed Gracanica in 1321. By this date, the Serbian kings were far richer than the emperors in Constantinople Milutin was the son of King Uros I, founder of Sopocani Monastery. This king outdid all his predecessors in the building churches and monasteries. Milutin intended Gracanica to also be the place of burial for his dynasty, and indeed, his remains lie within the church. The fourth wife of King Milutin was Simonis, daughter of the Emperor Andronicus II and their portraits grace columns within the church. The interior of the church is as striking as the exterior, and the iconography at Gracanica is truly incredible. I seem to recall a lot of warrior saints being depicted. An elderly nun operated the candle and icon booth in the narthex. She seemed weary and sighed heavily as she dropped into her chair. In all, I saw 3 or 4 nuns, in addition to the 4 or 5 soldiers, and the young Serbian lady operating the gift shop near the entrance. While outside, I noticed a group of soldiers entering the church, taking off their berets as they did. Within the compound, one does not see the town or the situation outside. But I imagine that the concern is never far from their minds. I wonder, and worry about the future of Gracanica. Before I visited the gift shop, I was approached on the grounds by a toothless old beggar lady. I soon figured out that she was mentally handicapped. All I had on me were some Macedonian notes and a 50 Euro note. I tried to give her the Macedonian money, but she would not take them--as I am sure they are not exchanged within Kosovo. If I had a smaller Euro note, I would have given her that--but I had to have some money for emergencies until I crossed the border back into Macedonia. And so, she walked off. I went into the gift store and bought a couple of English language books on Kosovo--from the Serbian perspective. This broke my 50 Euro note--allowing me to give the beggar lady some and still have a little in case of emergencies. When back outside, I saw her across the way and motioned to her. I gave her a note--I do not now remember how much--and started for my car. She started kissing my hand and actually followed me all the way there, still kissing my hand. I do not mention this to build myself up, for it is no credit to me as I only gave out of my excess, after first making sure there was enough for my needs. But I could not help but think about the verse in Hebrews about "entertaining angels unawares."

The next morning, I prepared to leave Novi Pazar. This was the only place that I stayed where the breakfast was not included in the price of the room. After being served a more than generous breakfast, I received my bill from the waiter. I did the mental conversion from denars to dollars and determined that my breakfast cost the equivalent of 1 dollar. This is ridiculous, I thought. I paid the bill and left the waiter the equivalent of a 1 dollar tip. He thanked me profusely, and I thought he was going to kiss my hand as well. I feel very strongly about this sort of thing. In terms of our foreign policy, we have much to atone for. And first and last, we have inflicted a good bit of damage on this part of the world. This is a tiny thing, but maybe it will help others realize that we are not our government. And we should understand that of others as well.

A few miles drive north out of Novi Pazar and one was into a purely Serbian landscape once more. Studenica Monastery, perhaps Serbia's most famous, was my first destination. This church and monastery was founded by Saint King Stefan (St. Simeon the Myrrgusher) in the late 12th century. The bodies and relics of he, his son Saint King Stefan the First Crowned, and Saint Anastasia (the mother of Saint Sava) are in the main church on the monastery grounds. The monastery is situated on the edge of a small village, above the Studenica River. The monastic buildings are well-preserved and quite extensive. A gangly monk led me to the church and unlocked the door. By this time, I had seen quite a few Orthodox churches, but Studenica really stood out. I could easily see why it has remained so dear to the Serbian people. In our church, we have a framed icon of the Crucifixion. I knew it was a Serbian print. At Studenica I was able to view the original, over the west wall of the nave. I lit some candles, said my prayers and venerated the icons and the relics of the royal saints. I made my way back outside, and walked around the grouds a bit. By this time, some villagers had arrived. One thing I observed here and elsewhere was the significant presence of young men coming to pray. This is a good sign, I think.

As I was walking around the grounds, I began to hear the most amazing sound. I strained to hear it better. The chanting sounded like Heaven itself as it wafted throughout the courtyard. I thought that perhaps the choir had come into the church from a side entrance and were practicing. I made my way back to the church and went inside to listen. There was no choir. Only the solitary monk who had unlocked the church for me. He was walking around the church, singing alone. The acoustics were that good.

I worked my way back to the main road, and continued north to Kraljevo. There, I stopped at the Xica Monastery, a large monastic complex, with much additional construction underway. Being closer to a city, Xica received more traffic than the others I had visited--even Studenica. I continued to be impressed with the solemnity and devotion of those coming to pray and venerate the icons. Kraljevo itself is a nice city. I stopped briefly to look over a recently-completed church on the east side of the city.

Leaving Kraljevo, I pushed east towards Bulgaria. The countryside beyond the E75 highway is more rolling than mountainous. This region of the country was thinly populated and little visited, it seems. But this southeastern corner of Serbia was as picturesque as any I saw there. I stopped at a very nice roadside restaurant and rested and recouperated a bit. I walked over to a church under construction right across the road. In this part of the world, people build as they have the funds to do so. It seemed as is they had got the church "in the dry" so to speak, and would now complete it when they raised the needed funds. In light of our own economic woes, this does not seem such a bad way to go. The remote Serbian-Bulgaria border crossing was something of a hassle, but this was all on the Bulgarian side of things. I left Serbia behind, glad for the opportunity to experience a small slice of its culture.

The "Gaping Hole" That Is My Congressman

Oh dear. This is almost too painful to read and watch. If you are unhappy with those running the show now, well...here is your loyal opposition, ready to take charge. If you are up to it, try and watch the linked CNN interview with Anderson Cooper.