by Alex Crevar
New York Times Travel Article about Skopje
From
my hotel room’s balcony, Skopje, the capital of Macedonia, lay before
me like a curiosity shop at the crossroads of antiquity and absurdity.
Its shelves were crammed with symbols of long-gone epochs, genuine
collectibles and dubious tchotchkes. An Eiffel Tower topped one
building. A Statue of Liberty adorned a hotel. Beyond them, authentic monuments like the crenelated Kale Fortress, with sixth-century foundations, the minimalist Museum of Contemporary Art and the domed St. Clement of Ohrid Church crowded the vista.
But
it was the city center’s new hodgepodge of mammoth monuments and
appliqué wedding-cake facades that demanded my attention. Hellenic
statues held watch over squares and streets. Macedonia’s main government
complex, recently recast as a copy-and-paste White House, complete with
square portico and tympanum, begged for recognition.
This
novel retro collection was part of a controversial urban-renewal
project, starting in 2010, called “Skopje 2014.” For some, the
undertaking, which includes statues, buildings and renovations, was an
attempt to refashion the center and attract tourism. For others, it was a
political scheme to leave an inappropriate stamp on the culture’s
legacy — with a ballooning price tag.
According to a database
created by the Balkan Investigative Reporting Network, 136 structures
were built for more than $700 million — a sizable sum for one of
Europe’s poorest countries. The strategy is a curious one for a city
with a 2,500-year history spanning the Roman, Byzantine and Ottoman
empires.
“The
main conclusion of most of the tourists is that Skopje became Europe’s
new capital of kitsch,” Andrej Zernovski, the mayor of Skopje’s Center
Municipality, wrote in an email. Mr. Zernovski is a member of the
Liberal Democratic Party, which opposes the country’s ruling party. “The
consequences of changing the look of the city are changing the identity
of the city, because neoclassic and Baroque style have never been
present in Macedonian history.”
On
a crisp spring day, I headed for the center, alongside men in shirt
sleeves carrying leather man-bags (omnipresent in Southeastern Europe)
and women with oversize sunglasses and defiantly high heels. I passed
through the recently erected Arc de Triomphe-like Triumphal Arch. The
Paris-cum-Skopje monument was still meringue white, not yet the blank
canvas for protest — against growing concerns about corruption within
the ruling party — it would become a week later.
In
Macedonia Square, the city’s main quad, I made my way through the
gaudy, government-sanctioned statues. A 72-foot bronze, sword-thrusting
likeness of an Alexander the Great on horseback (officially named
“Equestrian Warrior”), it was unveiled in 2011) towered above
pedestrians. Four representations of Olympias, his mother, sat at a
fountain’s edge.
At Gallery Osten,
a venue dedicated to drawings with monthly exhibitions and permanent
pieces by Salvador Dalí and Pablo Picasso, I met Angel Sitnovski, a
local architect. We went around the corner to Gostilnica Kaj Jole, a
restaurant with traditional dishes like tas kebab, slow-cooked pork and
onions, which cost 280 denars, or about $5. In the same building as the
Macedonia Writers’ Association, the bohemian hub was established in
1963, when an earthquake rocked the city center and killed more than
1,000 people. I ordered the stew and a local pilsner called Skopsko.
“The
only good thing is they chose a small area to build all of this — about
one square kilometer,” Mr. Sitnovski said of Skopje 2014’s effect on
the city. He shook his head. “It’s really necessary for travelers to see
the old parts that haven’t been destroyed.”
A
list of suggestions in hand, I set out. At sunset, I crossed the Vardar
River, which bisects town, to the Ottoman-era quarter, known as
Carsija. I stood atop the Stone Bridge,
built in the 15th century on Roman footings. Behind me, the fountain
beneath Alexander was now illuminated by a kaleidoscopic light show as
Wagner’s “Ride of the Valkyries” blasted on a loop. Looking
forward (northeast), the warrior’s father, a Brobdingnagian Philip II,
stood at the edge of Carsija with a fist raised in salute to his Day-Glo
son.
An
aha moment washed over me. To discover Skopje’s core, one must crack
its shell and dig into its neighborhoods to peel back the layers of this
unexpectedly delicious city, renowned for fresh food and venues
spotlighting Macedonia’s musicality.
I
entered the old bazaar district, the center of life during a 500-year
Ottoman rule beginning in 1392. Stone-block medieval mosques and
minarets anchored flagstone streets lined with terra cotta-roofed shops
selling jewelry, copper coffee sets and leather goods. Today, former
hammams and hans (inns) serve as galleries and museums.
I
walked up a steep alley, past tiers of bar patios, to Sveti Spas
Church, which contains a 30-foot, intricately carved iconostasis and a
17th-century fresco. Next door, I took a seat at Pivnica Star Grad, which opened in 2009, brews 10 beers and had a band playing American rock to a packed terrace. I ordered an IPA.
“I think the best place in Skopje is Carsija,” said Pane Temov, the brewery’s owner, who also directs the annual Buskerfest,
and helped re-establish the ancient neighborhood as a night life
magnet. “I see this as an asset to the city and the diversity that comes
with it.”
Two
neighboring sites, on the edge of Carsija, occupy diametrical ends of
that diversity. The Kale Fortress (free entry), Skopje’s calling card,
was built upon the city’s original settlement, likely from the Bronze
Age. The medieval ramparts one walks today, with sweeping views, were
fortified many times from the sixth century to the Ottoman Empire.
The Museum of Contemporary Art,
which opened in 1970 behind the fortress, is perhaps Skopje’s best-kept
secret. Natural light floods the three-wing, 32,000-square-foot
exhibition space containing 3,000 pieces from 65 countries. Artists
include Alexander Calder, Picasso and the photographer Robert Adams.
In
the days that followed, nearly every conversation I had became
political. As we hiked a trail to Vodno, the 3,497-foot mountain to the
city’s southwest, my friend Aleksandar Donev, born and raised in Skopje,
spoke emphatically. “This has always been a complicated and mixed city
historically and ethnically — when you think about [territorial] issues
with Greece, Bulgaria and Albania — but right now we’re really having an
identity crisis.”
Our
path took us below the cable car ferrying families to the summit and
the 216-foot Millennium Cross, built in 2002. We stared down into the
center and the denture-white, Skopje 2014 structures surrounded by
comparatively tasteful Communist-era Brutalist architecture.
“The
main square used to have flowers and an understated kind of cool,” Mr.
Donev continued. “You have to scratch the surface of this city, because
coming here just to take pictures of that means nothing.”
Back
in town we headed to the Debar Maalo neighborhood, a 10-minute walk
from the main square, but a world away. Bistros and cafes lined leafy
streets. Tattooed parents pushed baby carriages. Friends clinked
wineglasses at streetside lounges.
We grabbed a table under a sprawling walnut tree in Casa Bar’s
patio. Opened in 2013, Casa keeps R&B playing during the day and
D.J.s spinning at night. I ordered a mojito and settled into a laid-back
Skopje rhythm — more concerned with eating and drinking than erecting
monuments. When the subject of Skopje 2014 came up, one new acquaintance
said: “It would be cool if we can use this in a good way. Maybe paint
the buildings and statues different colors.”
For
dinner we walked across the main thoroughfare, Bulevar Partizanski
Odredi, to Gostilnica Toto, where locals squeeze into the taverns and
spill onto its curbside terrace. We ordered simple, hearty dishes: green
salads, roasted zucchini and red peppers, blocks of cheese, warm bread,
stuffed grape leaves, bowls of a homemade purée called pindzur (green
peppers, garlic and eggplant), and sausages, called kepabi. We drank
half liters of Zlaten Dab beer. We sipped grappa. The bill for two came
to $22.
Across
Southeastern Europe, even among hard-to-impress neighboring countries,
generalizations about Macedonia — slightly larger than Vermont,
population 2.1 million — persist. One is the landscape’s dense beauty.
Another is the diversity of its music.
“We
are in some interesting crossroads between the East and the West,”
Vlatko Stefanovski, the globally renowned guitarist and Skopje resident
told me over Skype on a break between European gigs. Mr. Stefanovski,
who mixes traditional and popular styles, was a stalwart of the Yugoslav
rock scene in the 1970s and 1980s. “We have influences from the old
Byzantine music, we have influences from the Ottoman times, and we also
have influences from the classical music of Europe. And in recent times
we have big influences of pop music and rock and jazz.”
As
my week came to a close, I put aside a day to visit two places that
highlight the city’s strengths: Matka Canyon and Sektor 909, a seminal
nightclub opened in 2003. I first headed to the canyon, 10 miles
southwest of Skopje. The gorge, cut by the Treska River, covers nearly
20 square miles. Around the river and lake, created by the Matka Dam,
trails wind through forests that act as arboretums with 77 butterfly
species. Trekking along one path, I watched climbers and a kayak
competition. I passed three monasteries, wedged into rocky nooks, built
between the 14th and 17th centuries.
By
the time I arrived back in Skopje, there were already murmurings of
marches to protest the country’s ruling party, which was under
investigation for offenses including wiretapping, blackmail and
electoral fraud. However, when I walked into Sektor 909, thoughts of protests dissolved with the beats pulsing through the mirrored space bathed in seductive red strobes.
Dancers
mixed with off-duty D.J.s checking out the competition. “When we
started, a few promoters fought for different styles of music — we were
Detroit Funk House,” the owner, Ognen Uzunovski, told me. Mr. Uzunovski
said one reason he continued to promote eclectic styles was because he
had a role “to educate young people, especially in this political
situation.”
The
Colorful Revolution, as it has become known, began the next day. Men
and women, young and old, all took to the streets. Frustration and
creativity intersected in the form of peaceful marching, plastic
whistles and, definitively, paint.
Within
a week the bedizened emblems of kitsch became vehicles for
Pollock-esque, purposeful art as protesters hurled balloons filled with
paint on government buildings, the Equestrian Warrior, the Triumphal
Arch. The symbols of corruption became the substrata for liberation. The
shell was cracked. Beneath the surface, an ancient capital on the verge
of a Renaissance was making its debut.
No comments:
Post a Comment