Passport

I got my passport in the mail yesterday! It was fascinating how fast it was, faster than if I actually went to the passport office and waited to submit the application for renewal in person. And I spared myself the stench of sweat, unpleasant lineups, and doubting questions of a passport clerk.

I'm guessing it's because of the postal strike. The postal workers came back to work the day I mailed my passport papers, and now, a mere 12 days later, I hold the brand new passport in my hand. So, Berlin, I think that was the last obstacle standing between me and you. The plane tickets are already booked and paid for, the hotels booked and paid for. All we'll be splurging for is food, transportation within Germany, sightseeing and entertainment. Excited!

Gardener

As much as I am addicted to running, my better half is addicted to gardening. In the newly-done backyard, there's a big flower bed—a nice, big space to fill with plants of all kind. Even on an insanely hot day like today, with temperature over 30 C and humidity bringing it at around 40, she still finds energy to fiddle with her flowers.

Here's Meg in action.

The room where "magic" happens

This is the room where I have been held captive for the last 3+ years. It’s generously called the “multimedia studio”, but it’s actually a box with a door. The walls are “soundproof,” though I can hear people outside the room when they breath loudly, let alone talk, or, God forbid, laugh. Still, all the audio podcasts are being recorded in here. Until recently, video was being taped here as well, but we moved that part into a bigger space a floor below. At my desk there are no drawers—there’s no room for them. My “office” is tucked away from the editorial newsroom, so it’s easy to forget it’s there at all. And that I’m there. So I live my half-existence as a kind of a friendly ghost that people like to see occasionally, though not too often, judging how rarely someone comes by. The pictures on the wall are of the people who recorded their voices in here. They make the room less empty, and me less lonely.

Patio

Early in June the contractors for the patio stones gave us a call to announce that they will start working the next day. Great, eh? Except for the fact that they were supposed to come in July. Needless to say, we scrambled to get the money ready a month earlier than planned. In the end, it all worked out. We have a gorgeous new stairs at the front entrance, and equally fantastic backyard. And summer already feels less hot when enjoyed in our own yard.

Sketches

I've seen some amazing sketches done by some really talented people. I was never one of them, always more apt to sketching with words than with a pencil. Luckily, there's a cure for my ineptitude. As it's commonly said in these days of iPhones and iPads--there's an app for that. Moving forward, I suspect you'll see me sketching my world and my life in words and, well--sketches...

A jar of pickles, a jar of memories

Yes, this is a jar of pickles. No, I didn't go insane, or at least not completely. The thing is, these are the pickles from Bosnia and Herzegovina, exported to Canada and absolutely blowing away the competition in terms of quality and price.

Last time I left Bosnia, I left a country of ruins, land mines, scars real and internal, mired in unresolved political and religious tensions which, it seemed to me, will last for generations. And now, not even 15 years later, in the heart of Canada I am buying Bosnian produce. That, of course, means that the situation there has greatly improved. I wonder if at least some of the scars have healed too.

With a tandem of "butchers of Bosnia"--Radovan Karadzic, the mastermind of genocide which brought me there in the first place, and his henchman General Ratko Mladic, with blood of around 8000 men and boys from Srebrenica on his hands, all massacred by his direct order--finally on trial in The Hague at the war crimes tribunal, maybe it's fitting that I can bite with such a pleasure to this tiny but superb product of the country they meant to bleed to death. Bosnia, it seems, is moving on. And, as an afterthought -- looks like the scars of Bosnia live deeper in those who left her than in those who stayed.

The Thousand Autumns of Jacob De Zoet, a novel

by David Mitchell

Oh, it's been a while since I last visited my own blog. I'm positively rusty. Still there are a few things I want to put on the record. All in its time, though, and every thought in its own blog post. For this one, just a few musings on the book I just finished reading. "The Thousand Autumns of Jacob De Zoet" by David Mitchell reminds me of the Clavell's "Shogun", the book I devoured as a youngster. De Zoet took me to the port of Nagasaki at the turn of the 18th century. It's a fascinating story about love, history, politics and the clash of cultures. It's written in a fashion I find extremely annoying: the author often interjects a quick visuals from the surrounding right into a conversation or a train of thought of a character, which makes a reader constantly re-reading previous lines to be able to follow two strings of narrative going at the same time. In almost 500 pages long book it quickly becomes a tiring way to tell the story. Which is too bad, because the story is really captivating, and deeply sad.

Well, after closing the last page I'm equally saddened with the story and relieved that I don't have to put up with the annoying style of storytelling any more. A strange mixed feeling, maybe not of love and hate, but certainly of melancholy and happiness.