Sunday, Oct. 19, 2003

More than two weeks ago, I sat in a coffee shop sipping espresso from the tiniest of cups and gazing at the breathtaking mountains.

It was our first day in Sarajevo, and I had just returned from exploring the city, noticing every bullet hole and every bombed-out building.

I thought about the things we’d do. I never could have imagined how much we’d actually accomplish.

We’ve interviewed international officials, chatted with young people about the country’s future, drank coffee with struggling families and witnessed the physical and emotional consequences of war.

We’ve traveled across the country and back, visited remote villages and trekked through mountains.

We’ve laughed so hard we ached.

We’ve nearly collapsed from exhaustion.

We’ve been moved to tears.

A lot has happened since we got off the plane in Sarajevo.

Tomorrow, we get back on it.

It’ll be hard to leave. Part of me longs for the familiarity I left, my own warm bed. But the other part has grown attached to this struggling country, which has offered an incredible lesson in humanity -- the worst of it and the best of it.

Today, I find myself in the same coffee shop sipping my 100th cup of espresso from the tiniest of cups. I had just returned from touring the city. But this time, I didn’t notice the scars that were so obvious two weeks ago.

As I gaze at the now-familiar mountains, I think about how nothing has changed since that first day. The coffee is still strong. The mountains are still breathtaking. The bullet holes are still there.

Somehow, though, everything is different.

Saturday, Oct. 18, 2003

With his paw curled up under him, he slowly limped along the sidewalk, finding support against the cement buildings. His black nose brushed the pavement in search of scraps. Judging by his thin frame, he hadn’t found any in quite some time.

Soon, he would be at the feet of an old woman huddled on the curb, with outstretched hands cupping a few coins. She would have nothing for him. He would have to press on.

Ordinarily, I would have asked someone to help him, to call the local animal shelter or someone. Instead, I just kept walking, turning away as if I hadn’t seen him.

It’s not that I didn’t care. My heart ached to see this poor creature lost and hurt.

But in Bosnia, it’s nothing to see dogs and cats roaming the streets, many with tufts of fur missing or with injuries. They are the country’s forgotten animals. And in countless numbers, they forage in trash bins and drink from dirty puddles.

After two weeks here, I’ve gotten used to seeing them. But I haven’t gotten used to turning away from them.

Outside of our hotel, a pack of dogs have made a home on a concrete slab in front of a beaten up apartment building. In the morning, they’re asleep. At night, they howl. I look for them every now and then. Are they still out there? Have they found food today? It’s getting cold.

Tonight, I noticed a mattress on the slab. Somebody does care.
I recently asked a man why there are so many dogs and cats without homes. He seemed surprised at the question. He looked toward a trash bin at a cat perched on top and shrugged.

“They have no place to go,” he said.

It’s always been that way, he continued, but it’s been worse since the war.Yet another casualty.

I feel guilty thinking about the animals when the people here have suffered so greatly. But every time I see a dog lick at a dry gutter or bury its nose in a piece of garbage, I’m saddened. We’ve seen kittens crying for food, puppies chewing on trash and dogs sitting at the edges of fast-traveled roads, some right in the middle. Then there are the unlucky ones. When you see them, turning away is all you can do.

So while cows are walked on leashes to graze and sheep are tended to daily, the country’s dogs and cats wander alone.

I often think about that dog limping along the city sidewalk. I wonder what happened when he reached the woman's feet. Did they look at each other, or did they both turn away?

Thursday, Oct. 16, 2003

We zigzagged through the mountains, trying to keep up with our guide.

At this stage in the trip, we consider ourselves pretty good mountain drivers, having driven more than 1,000 kilometers in the past two weeks. But our guide is an expert, handling hairpin curves like Mario Andretti.

We ascended the woodsy terrain leading to a tiny village outside Srebrenica. Then, without warning, we came to a halt.

“You should leave your car here. It’s 6 kilometers up, and the road is not so good,” he said, gesturing toward a narrow dirt road that began where the main one left off.

Trying to get our rental up that tiny road didn’t seem like a wise thing to do – nor did pushing our luck. The gas gauge was dangerously close to E.

So I parked the car off the road, and Beth, Krista and I happily jumped into his SUV and headed up the rocky path, speeding through enormous muddy potholes and holding our breath.

“Road is not so good?” Talk about an understatement.

We made it the top, shaken and a little stirred. But the view of Bosnia’s mountains melting into those of neighboring Serbia’s made the rough ride worth it. We stood at the edge of a cliff in awe.

Behind us, men were busily building a school for the 25 children who live in the tattered village nestled in the side of the mountain.

Our guide, Danijel Lekic is the architect for the tiny two-story school. He filled us in on the project and introduced us to the village leader, who was dressed in military fatigues and a black knit cap.

“Oh, he’s the mayor?” We asked.

“No, he’s the village leader” Danijel replied.

Not quite understanding what the man’s job title was, we asked again. “Ok, so he’s the mayor?”

“No,” he repeated. “He’s the village leader.”

Basically, that meant he’s the guy the villagers turn to when they need something or have a problem. I’d say it’s more of a calling than a job. He has no office, no paycheck and certainly no perks. What he has is a responsibility, an important one at that.

This is a village with a lot of needs and few, if any, resources.

We stood there in the cold and chatted with the men, jotting down what they were saying as we struggled to write with numb fingers.

We made our way down the slope into the heart of the village, where fewer than 100 people were rebuilding their lives after the war had turned them inside out.

It was a difficult thing to see. They have no electricity. No running water. Their only heat comes from wood stoves, and winter is fast approaching. Many of the homes are so badly damaged they are unlivable. In one, clothes hung
on a line.

We sat and had coffee with the village leader and his wife in a small room inside their home. They smiled and laughed as we talked about America and Bill Clinton while Danijel translated. Outside, their children played.

I found myself thinking how I could never live like they do. Then I felt guilty for comparing the life I had chosen with the one they had been dealt.

Tuesday, Oct. 14, 2003

To whoever stole my passport: Thanks a lot!

Because of you, I spent a chunk of the morning trying to get a new one.

OK, I don’t know exactly what happened to it.

Did someone steal it? Possibly. Did I lose it? Probably.

Whatever the case, it’s gone and surely in someone's possession right about now.

I only hope they get some use out of it. It would be a pity if it were crumpled up in the street getting walked on or worse. That I couldn’t bear.

So how’d it go? Well, before I could even deal with the passport problem, I had to first interview an official from the Office of the High Representative –- who by the way started things off by complaining about the hotel he stayed at last night. (Join the club.) I wanted to ask him if he had hot water or unwelcome visitors, but he didn’t look like he was in the mood to swap hotel horrors. He clearly was irritated –- and I hadn’t even started the interview!

After the lively chat, I made a beeline to the U.S. Embassy. If you’re wondering why I waited till today to go, American Citizen Services is only open two days a week and has obscure hours, something like 1-2:30, 3-3:45, 4:52-5 p.m. I guess that’s somewhat exaggerated. But seriously, the hours are limited.

I approached the compound, which is what it looked like. A tall white cement fence and uniformed guards are meant to keep out trouble. I was escorted to the office, checked for weapons and pointed to a window.

The people were friendly and helpful, and I started to feel less anxious about everything. It’s amazing what a smile can do in highly stressful moments.

I filled out some forms, explained what I thought had happened to my passport and slid a color copy of it under the window.

Things were clicking along.

Next: pictures. No problem. I’ll get those taken, they’ll put my passport together and I’ll be on my way. Wrong.

First, I had to actually go and get my picture taken, as in leave the office. Why the U.S. Embassy doesn’t have a camera on hand wasn’t worth dwelling on. Ordinarily, something like that would have driven me crazy for at least a good 15 minutes, probably more. But I needed to conserve my energy. And besides, this is Bosnia, where as mentioned before, nothing is easy. I’m now getting used to that.

I found the photo shop, though I could barely fit inside of it. It was literally the size of a tiny walk-in closet. Some guy picked up a camera, snapped my picture, and in two minutes I was out of there. It was the quickest thing I’ve done here yet.

Back at the embassy, I got my third security search of the day. I’ve been searched so many times in the past week that I don’t have to be told what to do anymore. Coat off. Pockets emptied. Arms out. I’m sure it’s quite impressive.

I turned over the photos of me half smiling and looking as if I my will had been beaten out of me. Pathetic doesn’t even begin to describe it. I might have asked for a retake if the circumstances weren’t so, well, serious.

“You’re in luck,” the woman behind the window tells me. The processing time is considerably quicker than before, she says.

“Seriously!” I said, perking up. She nods and says, “Instead of two weeks, now it takes about one.”

One week! I don’t have one week. I leave Monday. The office is only open Tuesdays and Thursdays. I asked about expediting the passport. That apparently is expediting it, she says. The only other way I could get it sooner is if it were an emergency situation. Certainly being in a foreign country without a passport is an emergency.

Apparently, it's not.

I stood there staring at her, hoping for a miracle and wondering if the rocks I picked up from the shrine in Medugorje were still in my coat pocket.

Passports have gotten processed in three or four days, she finally says. I perked up again. But they can’t guarantee mine will be, she adds. “Oh,” I said, feeling somewhat deflated.

There is a bright side. If the moon and stars align, I could have my passport by Friday.

If they don’t? Well, that’s a journal entry for another day.

Lost in Sarajevo: Hope of making that Monday flight back to New York.

Monday, Oct. 13, 2003

Tonight, we returned from our great Northwest adventure, and all I can say is it’s good to be home!

The Holiday Inn in Sarajevo isn’t exactly where I’d prefer to hang my hat. But considering the hotel we slept in the last two nights, home is as good a word as any.

Let’s just say that hot water was at a premium and the hotel double booked my room with a resident from the neighboring Una river. I promptly evicted him and suspect he’s back in the river right about now.

Aside from the hotel, and I use that word loosely, the Northwest corner of Bosnia is beautiful. Mountains stretch as far as you can see with tiny homes scattered across them. Many of them are still shattered remnants of the war, but others are nicely rebuilt or in the stages of repair.

We spent our time in Velika Kladusa and Bihac -- two very different places from the rest of the country, and not just because of geography.

A separate war within the larger conflict broke out in that part of the region, with three armies fighting against each other for years. It was the only place in Bosnia where Muslims were pitted against Muslims, unlike the rest of the country where the war waged between Muslims, Croats and Serbs.

But you wouldn’t immediately know that Velika Kladusa had undergone devastation. Large homes and neat storefronts lack the kind of damage we saw in many towns and villages along the nearly 10-hour drive from Sarajevo.

Only after talking with the locals did we realize that the scars from the war there do exist. But today, they are mostly within.

It was dark and difficult to see what damage remained from the war in Bihac.

Beth, our translator and I had dinner there Sunday night while Krista recovered from motion sickness back at the “hotel.” (Blame it on the winding roads.) But we assumed by the military presence on the streets that things may not be completely stable there.

Over cabbage salad, chicken and some stuffed sheep skin dish (I, of course, had the cabbage salad), we talked about life in Bihac with a young waiter who lived there during the war. And we learned from an official of the European Union Police Mission about post-war efforts to reform the local authorities. Corruption, we hear, is not uncommon.

Each day spent here has offered a wider perspective and a deeper understanding of the consequence of war and the resilience of the human spirit – and to think, we have one more week to go here.

Tuesday, Beth and Krista head north of Sarajevo to learn more about life in rural towns. I will stay here in the city to meet with an official of the Office of the High Representative, where I hope to learn more about the future of this country.

Lost in Tuzla: Our patience. We lost that at the banks in Tuzla on the way back to Sarajevo when they wouldn’t cash my travelers cheques. Two banks. Two unpleasant tellers.

Friday, Oct. 10, 2003

Where else can you spend the morning hiking up a mountain to see the Virgin Mary and the afternoon standing on the scaffolding of an historic bridge in the midst of repair?

Only in Bosnia.

Our first adventure of the day was Medugorje, where the Virgin Mary has apparently appeared to the faithful. I huffed and puffed my way up the rocky mountain to see what all the interest was about.

It wasn’t an easy climb. And when I got half way up the hill, I reconsidered whether to forge ahead on this treacherous journey – that is until I saw people twice my age making it to the top.

So I continued, passing groups of people praying at monuments along the way.

I wondered how many of these people expected to see a vision. I guess I secretly wondered if I would.

I got to the statue and checked things out. No vision. Oh well. I picked some rocks, stuffed them in my pocket and headed back down the mountain, huffing and puffing.

On to our second adventure: The Stari Most bridge.

The bridge, built in the 16th century and a symbol of Mostar, was destroyed during the war.

It’s being rebuilt, and we wanted to see how things were going.
I managed to talk the workers into letting me into the construction area, where I met the architect. He took me up onto the scaffolding, where I got a close look at an amazing project and a breathtaking view of the river and surrounding mountains.

I watched the workers move large blocks into place near the arch of the bridge, which is about a year from being finished. And I looked around at the destroyed stone structures at the base of both sides, where the past and the future meet.

It was a fascinating day and it makes me wonder what could possibly top it.

Photo by ELIZABETH A. MUNDSCHENK: Projects Editor Kristina Justin interviews Svjetlana Pekic, the project supervisor, as reconstruction work continues on the Stari Most Bridge in Mostar.

Thursday, Oct. 9, 2003

"No thank you, I'm not hungry."

"Eat, eat." She smiles, motioning with her hands. "No, really. I'm not
hungry. But thank you."

"Eat, eat,"; she continues, pushing a plate of food.

"But I'm really not hungry."

She frowns, looking almost disgusted but persists. "Eat, eat."
Hungry or not, in Bosnia, you eat when it's offered, and you drink when that's offered, too. Saying no is as impolite as leaving anything on your plate or in your glass.

That's just the way it goes when you're in someone's home. And after a week of being guests in family homes, we've got that lesson down pat.

The hosts are terrific and will bend over backward to be sure you're well fed, that you have plenty to drink and that you are as comfortable as can be. (Standing or sitting on the floor is absolutely forbidden.)

It's sort of an awkward thing, being fussed over so much. You don't want anyone to go out of their way when you're a guest in their home. It seems impolite. But it's only impolite not to let them.

Today, we stopped by one of Iki's relative's homes on our way to a local elementary school. A quick stop, we thought, though we should have known better.

Fatima, Iki's sister-in-law, poured us a glass of Coke, and we chatted and then headed off, not realizing we broke one of the main house guest rules. We left our glasses half full.

Before we made it down the stairs toward our car, Fatima came after us.

But by that time, we had already put on our shoes. (In the homes of Bosnian Muslims, you must remove your shoes before entering the house.)

Taking them off again and going back into the house seemed like too much to do just to gulp down our drinks. So we told her we'd be back for them.

When we returned an hour later, there the glasses were, in the same spot -- untouched.

We drank our Cokes and got ready to leave. Wrong move. One of the relatives was making dinner. At that point, we didn't even bother to decline. We sat back, drank freshly made coffee, and while the feast was being prepared, we chatted. Well, sort of. We mostly listened and smiled while the family spoke in Bosnian, mixing in some English.

Four hours later, we left, but not before cleaning our plates and drinking every last drop in our glasses.

Lost in Sarajevo: Not a thing! Today was a good day.

Wednesday, Oct. 8, 2003

It snowed in Bosnia today. Snow! In October! And apparently early at that, or so an Associated Press reporter Beth and I met with this morning said.

"I can't believe it,"; she said, gesturing toward a large window that framed the blanketed mountains – a beautiful view from her sixth-floor office.

Snow here usually falls in December.

Of course, it didn't stop us from getting out and exploring more of this amazing city. I threw on my coat and gloves and wrapped a tiny digital camera around my neck, while Beth slung her two massive cameras over her shoulders. I looked like a tourist. She looked important.

The snow turned to light rain as we trekked through the city streets. It was cold, below 30 degrees. But the sidewalks were still bustling, like they always seem to be no matter what the time of day.

People were bundled up under umbrellas on their way to somewhere. Merchants tended to their quaint shops. And military men, often in pairs, walked briskly with the foot traffic.

I couldn't help but think about how only yesterday I was traveling along a narrow mountain road, passing an enormous cow here and there randomly grazing on the side.In the states, you see cows gathered in fenced pastures a good distance from the main road.

Here, it's rare to see more than one cow in a field and quite a sight to see it wondering wherever it wants to wander. One chomped grass at a roadside gas station. No one but us thought it was odd.

The contrast between urban and rural living is sharp, especially considering there isn't much distance between the two. A mere10-minute drive outside of downtown Sarajevo leads to mountain homes, where life seems so simple. You know, however, that it's not.

Lost in Sarajevo

Well, we've been doing well these past two days. We've only lost one thing.

Ok, it was a big thing -- our rental car. What happened? You'll have to read Krista's Weblog for the details.

Monday, Oct. 6, 2003

It's been only four days in Bosnia, but somehow it feels like weeks since we arrived.

We've done a lot in a short time, and much more lies ahead. Getting it all accomplished though will be a time management miracle because here in Bosnia, everything takes time. Every meal, every visit and every excursion has taken double the amount of time expected, and in some cases triple. There's no eat and run here. Dropping by someone's house for a second easily evolves into an hour-long visit. And a quick cup of coffee? Unheard of.

Time is an investment. If you don't have it, don't bother.

Today, we had an appointment with the International Committee for Missing Persons, which helps Bosnians locate the remains of those killed during the war. It should have taken us 15 minutes to get to there. It took an hour.

The traffic was fine. No construction tie-ups. Iki's brother-in-law insisted we park in a lot and walk to the office building. We'd likely not find a parking spot, and it'd be safer for our cars, was his reason. He's a generous man who is always looking out for us. We figured it couldn't be far. But what he considered a walk, we considered a hike.

We kept wondering how far the place was. He doesn't speak English, so we couldn't ask him. Instead, we had Iki ask him, but somehow never really got an answer. So we kept walking --- passing plenty of empty parking spots, by the way! I just kept thinking, "This doesn't make any sense."; But we didn't want to be rude, since he was just trying to get his charges to their appointment. So we kept our mouths shut and followed along. We finally got to the ICMP office, tired -- and late. But all was well.

We skipped the walk back, thanks to the rain, and took a taxi back to our car. I'm betting Iki's brother-in-law would have walked back if given the chance. But we stepped in this time.

Somewhere in Sarajevo

Ok, so it's been four days, and we've already lost a passport, a pair of glasses, a computer bag and Beth. We found the bag and Beth. The bag was left in the hotel lobby. Beth was left at the site of a bombed out robna kuca (Bosnian for shopping mall). She jumped out of the car to get a picture, and since we couldn't park, (none allowed), Krista and I drove around the block to give her time. Except the block isn't an ordinary block
and we ended up near a mosque.

When Krista heard the prayer from inside, she crammed into a parking spot and ran toward the sound. I followed, video camera rolling. We got back into the car and tried to make it back to Beth, but we couldn't remember how to get back. While we were driving in circles, Beth ended up at the mosque, taking pictures. Turns out the mosque and the robna kuca were only a block apart. The city streets are a maze.

We finally found the place where we left Beth, but there was no Beth. Panic set in. What happened to her? Where is she? Did she wonder off to shoot? Is she in the bombed out robna kuca? She was fine. She hiked it back to the hotel when she figured we got lost.

Krista's glasses? Still missing. She lost those at the soccer game.

As for the passport, (Yes, mine. And yes, again) that too is still missing.

Lesson learned

Always keep an eye on your belongings and never, ever wander alone near bombed out robna kucas.

Sunday, Oct. 5, 2003

To be in the middle of hundreds of screaming fans is exhilarating. But to be in the middle of hundreds of screaming Bosnian fans is, well, confusing.

"What are they saying?"; I kept asking Amela, who was all decked out for the Sarajevo vs. Zeljo soccer game.

Sometimes she told me. Other times, she was
too caught up in all the action to translate. I don't blame her. And being caught up myself, I faked it.

Volim Sarajevo!"; or "I love Sarajevo" was easy.
Some of the other things I repeated I later found out were things I wouldn't utter to anyone, let alone scream them in public.

Bosnians are serious about their soccer. And they don't hold back. It doesn't matter that the game is long underway. The fans keep screaming. And it doesn't matter whether anyone makes a goal. Sudden bursts of team spirit, including shooting flare-like fireworks and ear-shattering noise bombs toward the field, are as random as the aim. At one point, one of the whipped flame-throwers nearly grazed my head.

Yeah, Bosnian soccer fans are definitely serious about their soccer. Though I wondered if anyone actually caught any of the game. The players seemed almost secondary to the main event going on in the stands.

I finally moved away from the mob and took a seat closer to the field. I thought I'd actually watch the game. Instead, the line of police officers that surrounded the field mesmerized me. They stood in their black uniforms, some with shields, others with helmets and certainly all with guns, staring straight-faced into the crowd. Never once did they crack a smile, chat with each other or look in any other direction than front and center.

One passed the time popping pumpkin seeds into his mouth, never taking his eyes off the crowd. (Pumpkin seeds and juice were the game snacks sold in the stands. No
alcohol here. And none needed!)

Another chewed gum pretty intently. None of them flinched, not even when the fireworks landed at their feet. Instead, they simply moved their leg, but never their stare.We didn't stay for the whole game. And it was probably a good thing, considering we were warned more than once that the fans get into fights.

We later found out that's true. The Sarajevo team spirit leader got beat up, apparently when he tried to storm the field with other fans.

Did I mention Bosnians soccer fans are serious about their soccer? Maybe a little too serious, but what an experience it was.

Saturday, Oct.4, 2003

A crammed tram ride into the city. A verbal exchange between Amela and a stranger. An unexpected greeting from police guarding Bosnia's version of the White House. Saturday night in Sarajevo. What a night.

We got off the tram rather quickly after Amela shot back at a guy who told her she was being too loud. I don't know what she told him in Bosnian, but let's just say the English version isn't exactly fit for print. The tram dropped us off somewhere in the center of the city, which was full of people, who if they weren't, definitely looked under 25. Stilletos were apparently all the rage, and men did their best to keep the women from serious injury on some of the stone walkways.

We passed shops, vendors and bars. And when we came upon the president's office, which by the way lacked any real security, I hoisted Krista on my back to peek into the window. We snapped a few pictures with two plain-clothed officers who came outside to see what exactly we were doing. A glimpse of plush red carpeting in the entrance way was all we got.
Not bad considering you can't get near the big house in Washington D.C.

The night ended at a bar outside the city along a winding mountain road, where Amela and her cousin danced to live Bosnian music and I tried to avoid the clutches of an overly friendly stranger much too fond of my cheek.

Saturday night in Sarajevo. What a night.

Friday, Oct. 3, 2003

It's after 6 p.m. and I'm in a coffee bar inside the Holiday Inn in Sarajevo.

As I sit here alone sipping Espresso from the tiniest of cups and listening to Bosnian music that sounds a lot like American techno, I watch the sunset. The perfect close to what has been a whirlwind day, the first of the 18-day trip.

I'm surprisingly relaxed after hanging around Sarajevo and drinking some of the strongest coffee imaginable, hence the small cup. The coffee bar is nice, and I could sit here all night. But it's also lonely, though there are a least a dozen or so people around, they don't speak English and I don't speak Bosnian. So I smile. They smile.

I parted with my fellow teammates shortly after arriving at the airport around noon. Beth, Krista, Iki and Amela went to visit with Iki and Amela's relatives somewhere in the city. I took off to meet with a professor at Sarajevo University.

As Amela's uncle drove his daughter and me through the city streets, I got my first glimpse of this historic place (I insisted on taking a cab. They insisted on taking me. I'm glad they did).
On its face, Sarajevo looks a bit like many other large, American cities that have been marred by neglect. Old buildings stand with exposed brick and crumbling cement. You know, the typical inner-city blight. But it wasn't neglect that tore at the facades of these once beautiful buildings. It was gunfire and grenades.

After the interview, and after my very helpful driver and translator left to rejoin Amela and Iki, I walked the narrow streets to get a closer look at one of the consequences of war.

Holes the size of two fists and in many cases the size of beach balls, cover far too many buildings — a great many of them apartments. It's a surreal feeling to be in the center of a city that had been hit with such violence. You wouldn't know it by the people milling about or by the zillion Volkswagens clogging up intersections, but its clear by the scarred buildings and the armed police and military men on the sidewalk and in the street.

I continued my exploration, amazed at nearly everything and everyone. Desperate for a cold drink on what turned out to be a warm night, I stopped in a small store.

I bought a Coke and tried to make small talk with the owner. He knew very little English but was extremely pleasant, like most people I've encountered so far.

He's owned the store for 10 years and witnessed the war. I wanted to know what he saw, what he experienced when this country's capital was under fire. He talked and talked, but I couldn't understand him.

A teenager did her best to translate but she too knew little English. So I smiled. He smiled.

Trying to chat up two military men standing guard on the a city street didn't go well either. The German men spoke only a few words of English. I did manage to figure out that they were working for the SFOR, a security force are stationed around the city to "keep the peace."

We tried for a while to communicate but ended up doing a lot of smiling and nodding, which I gather I will be doing a lot of these next two weeks.

Did I mention I lost my passport?

Well, only for about five minutes. I'll save that story for another time.