During this great Easter season of renewal, colored eggs, fertility and Resurrection, a season in an otherwise dark hour of grim economic reality - an unusual message arrested my attention. This is about an almost virtual rebirth of some old strives of our humanity. Benevolence. Reaching out. That sort of thing. My heart will be filled with joy if this post may enlighten a single one of you my dear blogging companions on the Volkskrant's blog.

If the information that follows may indeed leave you with a sentiment that there is this new, till now absent chance to help color this patched life we go through right now - I'll be very happy for you. And for me too.

Look here please.

Mark Hoplamazian, the CEO of the well known hotel chain HYATT, extends a possibility, a chance that one person, accompanied by a partner, can enjoy the hospitality of HYATT for 365 days and nights in any and all of their great hotels around the world hopping from one to another on one million free air miles allowance (that comes to some 1,600,000 kilometer) valid for transportation on many if not all the airlines of the world.

This is not a promotional blog. HYATT had paid millions for shaping up this possibility into a widely distributed advertising pages in the best read newspapers of the world. THus - this is an irrelevant speck in the ocean of their advertisements. What impresses me is the philosophy behind the main message and the attitude in which it is conceived, Of course I know and am aware of the present crisis and empty rooms, unsold empty seats flying across the skies and all that. But so are the CEO's of the other big chains, those running the Marriott, the Hiton, the Inter-Continental, the Dour Seasons, the Merridien, the Best Western, the Kempinsky, the Holliday Inn, the Ramada, the Sheraton and so forth.
http://www.wego.com/hotels/chains/
None of these CEOs but Mark Hoplamazian had thought to share a bit of their hospitality and generosity with the world.

Why is this so?

Being a very suspicious and touchy to cheap gimmicks old tourist industry fart, I disregarded the second part of mr Mark Hoplamazian offer. (HYATT also gives 10,000 free one-night on BB basis or two as prizes to people who simply register in the program, no purchase necessary) But that is nothing.

To live for a year in a HYATT around the world. That is very much something.

Think what it does to the one who gets the prize?

It is not the dollar value that matters, this maybe something like $ 250,000-$ 350,000, which, for me, is not much.

But this not much, once you accept it or fit into a dream of getting it, changes your life quite a lot.

Who do you decide to travel with, for starters?

Do you keep the same company throughout?

Will you have learned the airlines itineraries and how far can one million air-miles take you, for how many times?

What will you do out there?

When you come back "home" after a 2-3 months, how does your apartment or a modest house appear to you?

The neighbor, the friends, the relatives?

What will have you brought back?

The same or a different you?

What is the message behind all this? Did Mr. Mark Hoplamazian contemplate about those aspects of his offer?

You may ask him directly, this is his e-mail address published with his consent, for any queries about this project. mhoplamazian@hyatt.com

I have asked these questions, in a different form, in a post to my Macedonian readership. Those poor people, handcuffed to their tiny landlocked territory are not capable of even dreaming what does this mean? They dare not even comment the possibility. 1,500 of them read my post on Bulgarophobia but this, this they skip. There is no hatred, there is no politics in it. Therefor, there is nothing interesting for them in an offer to roam the world as guest of the luxurious hotel chain. Drilled to receive only punches - they cannot conceive either hospitality or generosity from others.

And that, that message, that there is still generosity in the world, especially in the corporate world, is what maked this promotional campaing of Mr. Mark Hoplamazian simply unique. I have a feeling that it has already achieved its aim.

The financial world media is getting carried away lately. It begins leaking strategic concerns of their masters like a seave. Take the UK based Financial Times for instance and its stance towards Russia and China, two fish-bones in the avaricious throat of the UK-US interests.

There is no need to go deep into the texts to understand what disturbs them most. All it takes is note the theadlines and the placing of the items expected to shape up the attitudes of the army of the financiers and speculators around the globe, Take, for instance, this few most recent examples.

"CHINA EXPLAINS 17,8% RISE IN DEFENCE BUDGET" reads a top page 6 headline of the FT. Somebody, a correspondent aptly called Stephen Fidler, reports from Singapore that Chine (faced with US calls for increased transparency on its expanding military budget) stepped up efforts to explain its defence policy to the rest of the world. The implication is that China's leadership got so scared by the US calls - that it sent a top officer to explain the 17,8% rise of its defence budget. Every single penny of it, down to the decimal points. Not the "rise" of the budget, not "the 17" percentage points, but all the "17,8%".

The guy from Singapore tells the whole world that the Chinese have opened their military budget spreadsheets at a conference (in London) organized by an obscure military think-tank (it had become a premier forum, we understand, for Asian security issues) that spits poison and nonsense concocted by perverted individuals. The scribe, this guy Fidler, who filed the text from Singapore appears to be somebody from the establishment trusts. He was either flown to London to attend the event or was sent the minutes to report on something happening thousands of miles away.

The tone of the message is that the US would never bend to explain to China its own military budget in an effort to build mutual trust. But China, well, China runs like a puppy and hurries to explain every single penny it spends on salaries, on new uniforms, better military schools and so forth, because it is the big US that demands such open admission of subordination. This sort of lntonation and the authoritarian language is laughable but the media risks practicing it only to relay some sort of self confidence: "We are strong", "We are obeyed" "we have to behave as the bosses of the Universe".

The UK media and the FT in particular use "must" only when addressing their messages to president Putin or the Chinese leadership or the fallen, out of grace individuals and institutions of the West, although, occasionally, even the establishment, whenever straying from the liberal capitalist path gets a "must" directive.

I do not believe that the sharpest brains in the US would be much impressed with the outcome. The Chinese may build their long-range rockets, satellites, nuclear warheads and GPS projects by paying the workers with medals and pictures on the village billboards, but that part of the equation does not make the advancement in China's space programe less visible or efficient. This sort of approach to the relations with China is wrong because with the 17,8% or 27,9% rise of military expenditure - China will have 729% lower military budget than the US. That is when the real questions may begin raining from all sides...

The other day I have read something about the commemoration of the deportation of the Jews from Macedonia. Almost every march during the past 16-17 years since I am in the Netherlands, I wanted to launch an appeal for help of tracing my one-time neighbor in Skopje, Macedonia, little red-haired freckled beauty called Jenny although she was Jennika for all of us.
(Above, the building of the old theatre in Skopje. Opposite of it - not on this pic - was the Jewish quarter. But Jennika lived on the other side of the river, across the wooden or jewish bridge, and some 400-500 meters upstream, to the right of this pic. This photo is confusing. The same building but on the left it is photographed from the north watching to south-east, the camera on the left bank. The right side of the pic shows the same building of the old theatre as seen watching from the south towards the north while the camera is on the right bank and the river, Vardar, seen in front of the theatre, flows to the right.) She was lively, so beautiful shoulder-long curly hairs and so playful. Then, sometime in 1948, her family and herself moved to Israel. If she remain I believe that she would have become a minister or ambassador or something. She probably is doing fine out there too and I would be greatful if somehow I could exchange few memories about our games in the yard with those beautiful cherry trees that are blossoming right now. Once, during a chat with Haim Bar-Lew the famous general and labour-party leader, I asked whether he could help me trace her. The man was very busy at the time (it was 1975 of what I remember) and said that it is possible but he could not drop everything for an immediate search. So, my appeal is following: if you think you have people who could help, or if you know what is the best I should do - please be kind enough and give me your hand in this. Thank you so much in advance.

Let me not involve you in the mystery that made me walk up the east platform of the 51 Sneltram Sportlaan station in Amstelveen. There was no train in sight and I turned east. Directly across the center-bound leg of the Beneluxbaan, over the dyke and the usually muddy path after it, a gorgeous wild cherry tree was beginning to blossom. It, all of its buds and its splendor together with the back yard and the three level perfect house was once, short six years ago, the sweet and warm home of my family. ABN-Amro made me sell it because of the Nasdaq crash and my ambition to outsmart the CBOE and become the George Soros of Macedonia in the Netherlands. The regular void I experience widening just under the tips of my lungs as an indication that I may faint any minute, warned me to sit down and think of the wild cherries in blossom instead of sinking stock exchanges. I loved that cherry tree even when (usually late in April) it would shed its delicate petals under the watery needles of the most delicate spring drizzle. Now it seems to me that the most memorable playful moments of all my childhood initiated from event in a yard of a great three-storied house, right at the beginning of the outskirts of Skopje, a stone-throw away from the river they called "mighty" in poems written by serious people. There were two huge cherry trees, absolutely dominant, one providing crispy, juicy, sweet, pink-redish-yellowish large fruits and the other pale lemon-creamy very sweet and also very crispy fruit. Both trees had sleek, very hard to grip and climb, trunks and despite all the neighborhood waited for the cherry-picking weekend - we, the kids, enjoyed plucking the earliest and the forbidden fruit much earlier. [L] There were two more "prunus" varieties (hate to consult the encyclopedias now) a definitely well domesticated Dalmatian marasca more sour than bitter wild cherry which we call "vishna" from the Turkish "visne", a fruit originating from the southern shelf of the Black Sea hazelnut covered steep hills. The sour-bitter fruit would tend to dry on the branches and then it was delicious. The other "visne" was very juicy and quite sour and was excellent for cakes, juice and compot although the women would cover the fruit with brandy and sugar and leave on the sun for weeks till i became, after sieving, a liquor. The garden had also had three huge pears, two apricots, two peaches and two quince: a male and and a female. That one was away from the gate, deep into the yard, closest to the main entrance, it blossomed delicate large-petal flowers and provided the substance for a variety of winter relishes and delicacies. Our ever cold bedrooms used to smell of freshly aired woolen yambolia and sun-yellow shiny quince placed atop heavy walnut, perfectly polished cupboards. But that is not my point although it might be. Then, 57-58 years ago there were no free markets, one could not go in a C100 and by cherries for "slatko". Guests would be shown maximum honour and hospitality when offered three cherries in heavy syrup with an accompanying glass of cold (well run) tap water. Even the owner, a colorful type, an architect, Ljube Pota, is not the point of this post although he several times actually fired his hunting gun (I believe in the air) to scare the night attacks on his prized cherries. He would cover the trunks first with thick layer of white (calciumoxid with water) and then with sticky tar that will ruin one's clothes for good. Despite at the harvesting weekend he would give away to the neighbors about a kilo of cherries - he was, for a long period - a most hated person and his two kids mainly paid for his attitudes. [L] Our yard looked majestic during the short chery-blossom season and we were very lucky that the two trees were of different varieties and, naturally, blossomed one after the other. First the pink then the white. But even the "white" cherry gave pale-pink blossoms. There are so very many wild decorative cherry-tries around Amstelveen and it is a pleasure now to walk the greens and the alleys along the dykes. Further down I have a pic of a cherry tree above Lake Ohrid, taken ages ago with a Kiev and a poor film, but it does bring some idea of what I am talking about. Despite I take it as an indication for cherry-blossom lovers - the Wahington Memorial greens and all of Japan and Korea are, at roughly about this period - the most revered popular places for the cherry-tree festival. One of the Dutch customs or attitudes NOT to plant edible vegetables in their yards or public places appears in such a contrast with this handful of memories. What is the point of having a tree if its fruit is not edble. OK, there are highly decorative trees, but so many among them are also edible. They, as I understand the yard and the family life, also extend the scope of the relationships, they help dexterity, teach home economics, introduce nature in the daily life, the lot. But, probably, there must be a dark reasoning behind the banishment of the edible fruits from either public or private surfaces in towns and cities even in cases where an edible tree may be a great fun for all. But, to come back to this early season of wild-cerry blossoming: I would never trade the memories from the orchard of my childhood in Skopje, Macedonia for any of these other venues...no matter how much more picturesque may those arrangements appear to all the world around me. [L]

Although she was born the year of the October Revolution, although her brother and two sisters served 15 years (put together) labour camps and prison terms for their political affiliations or obstinacy (call it intransigence if you wish) Petranka Tetka Pepi Stefanova ( maiden Haji-Arsova) kept totally passive and mute for the outside world. No secret police or friends could attach her any political label. She kept the family haberdashery shop, ran the candle production business, took care or helped the kids of her brother and sisters before, during and after the second World War. She did it under the Serbs, under the Bulgarians, under the Communists but was well retired and quite deep in age to do a thing when Macedonia became independent. She was the constant. underlying security of the tempestuous family. She was the third of four kids to Vasilka (maiden: Projcheva) and Lazar Haji-Arsov, a colonial shop owner who went bankrupt on bad loans the year I was born. The eldest child among the four was my uncle Stefan Haji-Arsov, an old communist and revolutionary. The second born was my mother Marika and the youngest, who survives them all, Bojka. They were all under the spell of their mother's side of the ancestors line while keeping relatively tepid relatins with their cousins and nieces from the father side of the large family. My grandfather's bankruptcy and early demise must have played some role in that attitude. This very presentable grandfather of mine, Lazar Haji-Arsov, died of a foot-wound (triggered by a small nail in the shoe of the left foot) he neglected. Since he was a diabetic the leg went gangrenous, he refused cutting it off under the knee but was too late to be saved latter. He refused, at the deathbed, to see my mother, his pride and most favorite kid, because she had ran away to marry a communist. He was barely conscious when they told him that Marika had a kid, his grandchild (that was me) and would he like to see the boy. He might have - but he died unrepentant. My aunt Petranka had his strike of blind obstinacy, even spite, an awful attitude to bear with. [L] (Here, in Athens, 1982, pepi, next to my son, with her older sister, Marika -my Mum, next to my daughter: they were indivisible. Now they are together again... Enjoy eternity, you have deserved it) Aunty Pepi married (at 28) a close friend of my father, a graphical wizard from Kumanovo Boris -Boko- Stefanov who was a hell of good guy. They two embraced me when my father suffered in on of those many behind-the-curtain political farces of trials, the notorious Trajco Kostov process in Bulgaria. He was sentenced as a Titoist spy while my Mum was fighting for her life in the worst Goulag of all, Tito's Goli Otok as a hard-core Stalinist. Those were the years of endurance. Her husband, my uncle Boko, did his best that I integrate, became a fervent Titoist and enjoyed unmarred youth and adolescence in what became one of the most open, fiercely non-aligned, independent, human-fraced socialist environment ever achieved on this planet. I am one of those who have problems accepting the reality of its bloody dissolution. Boris Stefanov was killed in Skopje earthquake on July 26th 1963, next door to the room where I was invited to sleep that night. Pepi never considered remarrying. She lived long enough to see her eldest son become a minister of economy, but then she was crushed when her younger, Vancho, died of a huge hemorrhage that was triggered in a most joyous atmosphere, in my sitting room in Skopje, while we were around a table with his brother and nephew sipping whiskey and making beautiful plans for the future. He came to pick a dress (short, above knee length) I brought from Amsterdam for his daughter and dared not be the first to be attacked by his Mum for tricking the young girl wear such an "unbefitting" outfit. Now that girl is a journalist and she took superb care of her grandmother. Yesterday, when Marga Balabanova-Stefanova the widow of Vancho, otherwise a university professor and ph.d. in dermatology told me the sad news - Nina (for who the dress was bought) was next to her Mum but could not talk. Pepi was an uneducated woman, just sharp brains. She took great pride with her mother Vasilka mostly because of my grandma's attendance of the Solun (Bulgarian) High school way back at the beginning of the last century. I doubt grandma Vasilka graduated it, but some of her sisters (there were eight more) did. The stories we were fed on were spun around events when my grandmothers were young girls in Veles, before even going away to Solun. It was a make-believe history of a long, long decline of a large family. Pepi, who died peacefully on Sunday, December 24th, was right in the middle of it. She is survived by her son Petrus, grand-daughters Elena, Nina and Iskra, a grand-son Boris and two daughters-in-law.

This is a sunny day over Bosphorus as I enjoy it from the balcony of the superb residence in Beyogly, directly over the waterfront where people walk, just off the small park with children playing and I sun-tan while the muezin calls the muslims pray, his melodious voice rising up in the skies and his incantations so beguiling, so abstract, only reminders, not summons, that God is one and only...

The excursion ships ply the waters, opposite is Asia, basking in the afternoon sun, and there is no sign that trains are leaving Haydarpasha Station for Baghdad and Lake Van, towards Tigris and Euphrate, while the dome of the Fenerbahce Stadium is out in the right and will shine tonight...
Will be taking some more photos, missed so many opportunities, behaved so irrationally lazy, pity, now, after five very relaxed weeks, almost a lifetime;
One may really want to spend more time in homey, hospitable, tame and yet so very exotic places like this at 14-15 centigrade for the best 4-5 midday hours when the binocular helps me see others, stretched in armchairs on their balkonies, let the images sink in through half closed eyelashes... [L] And these two are for Eline. Both pictures look west: one is panorama of Topkapi Museum with Aya Sophia (the Holy Wisdom) and in continuation Sultan Ahmet Mosque (where the pope prayed facing Mecca). Far away behind the minarets is our Netherland. [L] The other show Beyoglu, the most central of Istanbul boroughs. The gardan you see is on the same level with the penthouse of the building on the left. It is an Arab bank with its luxury entertainment area. The building of the bank is some 6-7 stories (verdiepingen), goes down to the level of the boulevard across which is the Bosphorus. There are somke 150 stairs to the bottom of the property atop which you see this luxurious garden. There is yet another one, higher, further to the right. The Arabs have bought a nice slice of Beyoglou rising some very steep 70-80 meters from the sea-level. Different life-stiles, different habits.

If you were so impossibly lucky to have Alexis Alexi Manthekis as a friend, you would not be surprised if he had found you at Lands End, least of all Istanbul, or Constantinopoli as he would call it. For Alexi is a formidable person and a man of various, most unpredictable resources and abilities. His letter reached me in Istanbul; that is I happened to be here when the PowerBook cling-clonk that an incoming e-mail (who writes letters nowadays) has hit the in-box of iMail.
The message had a momentous effect. It took me good 27 years back in time, when one warm summer of 1979, the Providence wanted us to make acquaintance. It ripened to a genuine family friendship. I treasure it very, very much.
But, before I continue, let me tell you something about the top combo pic: On the left you see Alexi (19 at the time) with a hunting trophy somewhere in the savanah of Kenya. Alexis hunted lions, buffalo and occasionally small game as we see in his picture here. I know that this early-age pass-time was NOT his cup of tee. He did not even hunt the chicks in Berkley: they hunted him, the homey young man of a strict, spotless family upbringing. His dad had (let me borrow this) "A farm in Africa". Actually it was a vast property: some gold mines and other developed entities, entertained royalty and heads of state - Alexis was a regular visitor to St James Palace, home of his close friend  Prince William of Gloucester  who tragically died in a plane crash during an air rally in England in the early seventies. William was Ist cousin of Queen Elizabeth II. Tho photo on the right side is his former school - The Prince of Wales School in Nairobi which faked as a club house which (if you try hard) will surface in your memory in a scene from Out of Africa. The spot on the right being the exact place where Meryl Strip falls on her knees to beg the governor for help.
And those were the playing grounds and the people Alexi mingled with. Part of those landscape, part of the acquaintances, friendships and more importantly - part of that wealth had rubbed in onto him and let it be felt for quite some time. He ate his chef-salad in patisserie Floca on Voukourstiu str in Athens, with the plate on his attache case of baby-crockodile leader and wore an all-gold Cartier or Patek Philippe. He was my most trusted advisor when it came to picking the most adequate accommodation on the best location in Athens for my position as a Yugoslav National Tourist Office director for Greece. He finally came up with a suggestion for a most prestigious Paleo Psyhico, Vyronos 21 (Byron's Street) residence. It was so absolutely spotless. We entertained the top of the social circuit, threw official parties and we all loved and enjoyed as our warm home for quickly gone by beautiful four years. Now, the story of Alexi. You would not dream that he was a former representative and a friend of Athina Onasisand her family, a regular holliday guest at the fabled Onassis private island of Scorpios and that eventually authored a very well read book about parts of that tempestuous experience. You would not but it is true.

Tony Kushner was 7 and stuck in Lousina when we watched, aghast in the packed common room of Bentham Hall of residence on Cartwright Gardens in Bloombsery, the BBC news about President Kennedy assassination in Dallas, Texas. (Do NOT miss the previous link for ANYTHING) I was 24. Those around me somewhat, but not much, younger. Now you know of modest me, you know of John Fitzgerald Kennedy and Texas, eventually of Bloomsbury (because of Virginia, Joyce and T.S.) but do you know of Tony Kushner, ladies and gentlemen of the Volkskrantblogging community? (I will not ask you about Jeremiah Bentham and John Cartwright because that will be unfair.) OK, how many? One, three, seven hands. Good. ( The three graces on the top pic, walking towards Traphalgar Sq. are, from left: my Maca (pronunced Mha-tsa) then Vera Ivanovska from Bitola and Dominika Georgieva, colleagues and British Council scholars) I do not intend to write about the gay guy (three years ago NYTimes made history by covering, in the "Vows" column, Kushner's marriage with another queer) because of various reasons, the main being you will be inundated with stories about him. His newest show. Caroline, set sometime in the winter of 1963, opens in London one of these these days and here, the very many friends of Kushner will be telling you about it. Then, by the grace of, what was his name, aha: DeneMoll, here next spring. (Me too will help you: Some of the songs you can listen clicking "radio" on the bottom of the interface after the intro on the link above.) Now I can tell you why this particular London event made me sit and write this post. [L] (The guy on the left is Naum Nachevski the then correspondent of "Nova Makedonija" from London, a great old friend and a fine journalist. The boy is his son Vlatkosomewhere in Canada now. Nex to them is my poor self, a little bit cocky, at 24: "So young and already spoiled, they would say. I was correspondent of the tabloid "Vecer". Naum arranged that I be assigne to University College of London University instead of going to Exeter or Bath or some other dumb place in the UK. He needed me for card-games and gossip, but was a real friend at that.) Self described queer, Jewish socialist or not, Kushner is innocent of triggering this reaction. Or at least, if I cannot save him from that, he definitely is innocent of the road I chose for my reaction to travel: RIGHT TO THE STARS. This guy may have twice as many awards, but he had deserved them reflecting on different topics. [L] (The pictured above with me in front of Bentham Hall, my home from those unforgettable student days in London, is Petrus Stefanov former minister of Economy of Macedonia who was left without employment and I have sheltered as a director of my joint venture in Macedonia. I could have beter opted for a mamba.) JFK remains an idol, that is how I see it, not because of standing up to Khrushchev's essay to mount nuclear warheads on Cuba. That was stupid and Nikita Sergeyevich should have called that bluff and sent the ball rolling. But at that time people were still judged by how tough they were, not how reasonable. The Reds did not need to install nukes on Cuba to be able to bomb the continental US of A. Thus - who was tough and who reasonable? The answer is self evident. Khrushchev paid his price to the politbureau and was removed less than a year after Kennedy was assassinated. Those two were characters out of this world although they so much looked like epitomes of the ruling classes they led. Both contributed a lot and lifted, alerted the hopes of many. Nikita and John could agree easily and totally over "Don't Ask what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country" although they would have slightly different views what aim should such a slogan serve. Where John F. Kennedy excelled was his global vision. Khrushchev was still aiming and promising to provide the Russians with butter while Kennedy had a different agenda. He outpaced on matters divorced from the imminent everyday, thus pettish, strives of the people around him. He fascinated with his stare towards the stars, towards the other worlds, towards the Universe. Ideas like that are strikingly different than running to adjust the humankind according this or that ideology. We see it clearly now despite some believe that the so called "market economy" and profit run society is the embraced philosophy for the better future of human race. John of the Kennedy clan never made such a mistake. Underlying his actions during the short tenure in the Oval office was the subtle proposal of a slogan for potentially a new ideology: concentrate to reach the unknown worlds around those twinkling stars way up yonder. This may sound and be childish because there are loads of other preconditions to distinguish an aim like that from a dream (who had a dream, he, the adulterer, or the devoted preacher?) of an innocent child. But he paid for the dream he offered, didn't he. Yes indeed, and dearly. Topmost price.
Then what? Some 40 years hence we do not reach the stars but a point (with the compliments of the Dutch genius) where a man marries another man. As if they did not fornicate before and needed a written document that they do it under consent of the king. Get the right to adopt a third non-adolescent man to caress and love and bring up as a new begetter of the humankind. Crap. No more picnicking at the Sea of Silence. Gunpowder, treason and plot again. 9/11 and stuff. The crescent and the cross. Oil and wheat. Just as it was 5000 years ago. Even earlier, the era of the Naked apes.
Of course that from this perspective those days when the Moon was walked and stomped (six years after the shots in Dallas) were the starlight hours of the civilization despite, and again: totally sober, despite all the cruelties of Vietnam and wherever. Go ask Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin. If they do not confirm this - I'll delete the post.

This guy Pepijn from Rotterdam published a post today (too different for me to comment or do anything) which kicked a train of thoughts and here you are. Henry Moore at the entrance at the modern or new wing of the National Gallery in Washington D.C. Marvelous (and huge at that) piece of art. The two humans you see are Maca (pronounced Mha-tsa) my Penelope (according her bitterest critic, my Mom) and our son Igor Popov. then First Secretary with the Embassy of Macedonia (presently sorrowfully, no, shamefully headless) in Washington D.C.. Now, have a look how very different reactions trigger the very same names or images: Bij het bezoeken van de tentoonstelling “Henry Moore, sculptuur en architectuur”, welke momenteel te zien is in de Kunsthal, moest ik denken aan de beeldjes die bij mijn ouders op zolder staan. Zoals Moore de mens als inspiratiebron gebruikte voor een Brancusiaans feest van abstracte vormen en lijnen, zo heeft de maker van die beeldjes geprobeerd een werkelijkheid achter het naaktmodel zichtbaar te maken. In vergelijking met Moore is het werk bij mijn ouders dat van een beginneling. De meeste mensen die de beeldjes zien, vinden ze lelijk. Maar toch moest ik eraan denken: het werk op zolder is namelijk door mezelf gemaakt toen ik het eerste jaar van de kunstacademie volgde en Henry Moore was het grote voorbeeld van mijn toenmalige docent beeldhouwen.... The Quote is from today's entry by Pepijn. 20:20 pm Saturday, 21 October 2006 You do not read this part down there nor click as I ask you. Why? You simply MUST click here and leave your comment THERE. Please!  

If William -Bill - Shine, a Harvard class Phi-Kappa-Betta or whatever and from class-year whichever and a fine friend of Macedonia since whenever, eh, if that Bill was back in time and had a chance to ask Rem Koolhaas, Professor in Practice of Architecture and Urban Design at the famous University, what does he think about building from plans 80 years old, reconstructing a structure perished 40 years back in an earthquake - I really would not know how would the Pritzker-prize laureate respond. If I were the Minister of culture of Macedonia I would employ, I would kindly request, cajole Bill Shine to insist not so much on a response but on a commitment of Koolhaas to counsel Macedonia about this project. The other Pritzker-laureate, Kenzo Tange (who won the international UN-sponsored comp[etition for Skopje master-plan) is gone. The Japanese was anyway mad angry at the city for what he probably had a good reason . Thus, a new beginning or rethink from Rem Koolhaas would be the next most qualified move by the Ministry at this moment. But let me not speculate. [L] I was so greatly, so very nicely surprised when I have seen that the mentioned Ministry paid quarter of an expensive page in the FT to announce an International Open Tender for the "reconstruction activities" for the building of the "Skopje Old Theatre". Some will take me for nuts, but if you were (pity for you that you aren't) a theatre-going youth or a grown up person - you would feel elated. Behind this move must be a handful of people (some old friends) who pushed this for ages. Full 30-40 years now. Very romantic, very nostalgic, exclusively well educated, equipped with polished manners, widely and wildly traveled, modestly influential individuals, One of them is prof. d-r Damjan -Dache- Zernovski , one hell of creative and well mannered guy. [L]( On the left: Rem Koolhas, Chinese Central TV in Beijing - strikingly different than the the theatre from the early years of the last century) Courageous move. Whenever in power these people of the VMRO do build and reconstruct. Ganka Samooulovska-Cvetanova did a historic job in Ohrid. Now this project. I do not believe that any really big Dutch firm will express formal interest to get involved in the building (from scratch) of a building which was one of the four "showpiece" buildings of Old, pre-earthquake Skopje. That may be a poor judgement. The capital of Macedonia, in everything but practice is Macedonia self and nourishes long memory. The present mayor is the richest man of the land and a businessman. A flight to Skopje is 2,5 hours and the weather should be like Indian Summer till about 15th of November. The tender application costs €150 for which one gets the documentation. That alone is worth the trip. By the time Macedonia is a full member of the EU there will be plenty of other buildings to erect but I am afraid the best positions will have those which will have expressed interest in Macedonia now (The top: That is what needs to be re-built from scratch.) 17:55 pm Thursday, 19 October 2006 You do not read this part down there nor click as I ask you. Why? You simply MUST click here and leave your comment THERE. Please!  

I would have looked like the fattest one among a flock of penguins if I followed Tosko Mirovski's suggestion that we all wear dinner jackets, plastrons, bow-ties and lacquered shoes for the habilitation of the thesis that was going to upgrade our friend Igor I. Tulevski to a rank of philosophiae doctor of Medical sciences of the Amsterdam University. Till then he was just an ordinary md.d. with the AMC of Amsterdm. The event rose a furious reaction in my barely settled order of priorities for the future and past events for further digestion and inventorization.
[L]
Igor, a bright young man whose parents were my friendly acquaintances for many years, arrived in Amstelveen one late afternoon driving his old VW Golf with Macedonian registration plates. This indicated he'd be around for the summer only. Eventually he decided to remain for good. The summer I describe my services and help were soliceted the old way - through intermediators, a friend of a friend, that sort of stuff. I was to suggest them the most reliable and inexpensive accommodation that there was. That was the very first time I met Igor. His father and uncle are both respected MDs. He was a medical student back in Skopje, but, being very bright, he was in trade and hard work and sniffed the air whether it will be OK to try his luck here. I fixed a room with Anka - Ance - Vasileva and that is how he had begun his life in the Netherlands. It was all ages ago.
[L]
D-r Tulevski is now with the AMC in Amsterdam Zuid-Oost and is renown expert in diagnostics of ailments of the right ventricular function (ante-chamber of the heart) and overload due to chronic pulmonary embolism. Nowadays I see Anka, where he continued to live after that first summer passed, more often than I see him. Igor Tulevski is one highly well mannered young man of superb intelectual capacity, he is amiable and I often take him as my very dear young cousin or that sort of a relative. If not a full-fledged novel I could write a long, most readable story about him now, not so much because of my narrative abilities but because people are interested in him as Tulevski had become a celebrity in Amsterdam, a top cardiologist running his own clinic. But I doubt I'll do that, partly because I have no time and partly because he is too sensitive. Even this post I had to edit because of his sensitivity. His habililitation (on April 15, 2003) was a huge success, though. Promotor was Prof. dr. E.E. van der Wall and co-promotores were Dr. B.J.M. Mulder and Prof. dr. D.J. van Velthuisen. His PhD thesis was a perfect example of ICIN (the acronym stays for Interuniversity Cardiology Institute of the Netherlands) integrative activities as the Universities of Amsterdam, Leiden, Rotterdam and Groningen. the rector magnificus of Amsterdam University (UvA), prof. mr. P.F. van der Heijden bestowed upon the young Macedonian the title of doctor of medical sciences.
[L]
D-r Tulevski paper was described as a significant contribution to early detection of the malfunction of the right ventricular , the most difficult for observation part of the hart and a notorious "serial killer". D-r Tulevski is the third doctor of medical sciences with two professors of the universities of Maastricht and Rotterdam (the late prof. d-r Voislav Vuzevski, pathology) which Macedonia has contributed to the Dutch medical science!
I have a bunch of pics from that glorious day (and night, yes) which may appear here when adequate posts begin oozing in.

I love Israelis as much as I do Egyptian Arabs. (No ambiguity here: A lot, in the sense: Very much). That is probably why I went there so often - at the time when traveling was still a big and easy pleasure for me. Flew in on Ben Gurion Airport only an hour or two before Anvar el Sadat landed to shake hands and chat with Golda Meir like (one who is) a grandfather with (someone who is) a grandmother, a very special moment from the events displayed on the shop-windows along my Memory lane. [L] When work was done I looked around for those famous Jewish chicks expecting a memorable lay, but all there was were girls in uniforms. Now that I read Jezzebel's itch and her ovulating problems, these pictures spring out from behind the corners of my memory and something does not fit. -How are the girls out there,- asked me Igor (on this pic here, framed in the opening of the monument) when I was finished with the first story about my impression from Israel? He would find alone that Tel Aviv means the Hill of Spring in both Hebrew and Arabic, that it was bestowed on the place by Nahum Sokolow. I wanted to tell him that he will enjoy some of the most exciting beaches on the Med, best clean playground to look for a date. But then, the reality and my disappointment with Jewish girls at the time prevailed. So, I retorted: -Uniformed,- and after a short second then,-short, dark-skinned, like the Greek. Or the Arab women.
That was the shortest veritable answer. There was no point telling him about the night in the bars and restaurant over bottles of red (sweet, undrinkable) wine. None of them would come close to discussing (I am an ugly-looking person, there were golden boys flirting them like mad) anything indicating the road toward sex. As if they hatched their eggs for omelette not for ovulation and copulation. But that is life. Jezzebel would lay Mihai and he hates her guts. That's Life. 12:25 pm Sunday, 15 October 2006
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This was long time ago a WYSIWYG. You know the acronym stays for What You Saw Is What You Got, don't you!? That is how the acronym becomes eternal. Even those who do not strife for eternity - eventually get it. In a full, solid measure of one size fits all 2,5 x 1,5. But when one looks at these two it becomes just another pair of chick by a pool that could be anywhere in the big wide world. True? No. Nada. Ne. Nixon. False. These two are worlds appart. On the left the one and only Petranka - Pepi - Gavrilska (married: Gavrilska-Cvetkovik) and Marija - Maca (mha-tsa) - Cvetkova-Popova. You do not see many people around them but if it was a wide-angle lens, a fish-eye, there would be a bunch of shipowning magnates like Niarchos, like Chandris, like Georgios Potamyanos , or occasionally Peter Livanos, Nikos Pateras, Dimandidis, Vardinogianis, Konstandakopouls. That sort of big fish. Or their wives. Or mistresses. Kids. Friends. All in all: paramithi, Greek for make-believe. It was a make-believe because, obviosly, we did not belong there. No. Despite the 4,2 Jaguar, despite the prestige of the office, despite the charm these two up display. Pepi was the younger daughter of my super-friend Gavrilo - Gace - Gavrilski. On the next, lower pic, her older sister Tanya (now she carries, I think, her husband's modifies surname: Dzambaz) and is something big (shareholder too) with "Makpetrol" where her dad was boss till he died. Elephantiasis killed him. [L] But then, it was my job, too, tanning by the pool with the richest people of the land. You would love it, I'd bet. You might be sure you could do it about 1000 better, as many in Skopje and all over Yugoslavia thought. But first you need to get it. Small thing, makes all the difference, does it not? There is no chance that I could walk into their offices and waste their precious time with theories that they need to include Dubrovnik in their cruise itineraries. Becuse the Americans are crazy after Dubrovnik (which is true) and because it is onh the way from or to Venice. What a Mediterranean cruise is the one without Venice...and Dubrovnik as ports of call? Nothing. Those and other, similar Sheherezade stories, again and again, I spun around the pool. It payed for the drinks. And the weekends passed easier, too. [L] The last pic shows Igor, my charmevescing son. That is shown here only with one reason - that you compare his Mom on the first pic with the girls 22-24 years her junior. She was not 20 when she delivered Igor. That is why Astir Palace Vouliagmeni, the Janguar erhete (the cry of the park-attendants) and all the luxury (you hve not seen our residence yet) which lasted for four beautiful years. In my judgement this is the place of all Attica. Try me for this. But beware: I have a trump card: Irina was there few weeks ago for a Seagate Technologies seminar (she lectures on Six-Sigma novelties) because she is a Master Black-belt in that martial-arts of high quality in products and serevices for big corporations. She brought me, among the many other presents, the newest pics! Take this challenge about Astir and make my day!
01:35 pm Wednesday, 18 October 2006 You do not read this part down there nor click as I ask you. Why? You simply MUST click here and leave your comment THERE. Please!

My old Ricoh was a very good camera with excellent lenses and still I did not manage to stop it shaking: the pic is obviously blurred a bit but it is history never the less. There are so very preciously few pic (blurred or not) of the former heads of the unrecognized Macedonian Orthodox Church. It is strange, but you do not see the newly elected (few hours before I clicked to make this photo) His Beatitude Archbishop Gavril of Ohrid and Macedonia. He is on the photo that follows. What you see, from left to right, is the representative of the Socialist Republic of Macedonia d-r prof. Vlado Kambovski all smiles and satisfaction with the result of the vote. He was and still is a professor of Criminal law at the University of Skopje but then was there as a deputy prime-minister of Macedonia or federal minister of Justice and president of the Commission for religious affairs - a big shot. He read law together with my wife and we keep a fine relationship. Next to him is the handsome figure of one of the controversial princes of the Church: His Eminence bishop Kiril of the northern eparchies of Kumanovo and Tetovo, former Boshop Australian-Canadian and American of the Macedonian Orthodox Church (MOC). Since he had been constantly handicapped to reach the throne of the Archbishopric of Ohrid, you see him just as relaxed as he was on his forewall tour around the US and Canada. We know each other quite well. In the right corner, smiling slyly is His Eminence bishop Stefan" who trailed the winning bishop. [L] There he is, with a white hood, the old, very tired looking newly elected head of the controversial church. His Beatitude Archbishop of Ohrid and Macedonia g.g. Gavril. He followed Archbishop Angelarij who was killed in a car accident. There is no point to tell you the complex history of the Archbishopric of Ohrid, its legality, the schism with the Serbian Orthodox Church and the refusal of all the other orthodox churches to recognize its independence. Too complex. Some aspects are well explained here. The Macedonian people refuse to budge and do not care any more whether the church is embraced by the flock of sister-churches or not. That stance, of course, will lead to bigger, legal and other headaches but then - so what? My people are not very happy with such a stalemate but persist supporting their spiritual leaders. [L] I brought this to your attention to note that HB Archbishop Gavril decided to break all canons and resigned sometime in 1992. He was reported to have begun drinking out of desperation. The Holy Synod refused to accept his resignation. During those calamitous days this pictures, the events of the day of his election as the head of the embattled church sprung in front of my tired, dazzled eyes with the course of destiny. Only after he died in the spring of 1996, a new head of the church was elected. Bishop Stefan submited his name again and lost again. His Beatitude Archbishop Mihail a very jovial, alert old man who often flew across the Atlantic via Amsterdam, was elected. I kept him company between flights. He never forgot to bless me. When Mihail died, bishop Stefan, at 44, became the new Archbishop. 01:35 am Wednesday, 18 October 2006 You do not read this part down there nor click as I ask you. Why? You simply MUST click here and leave your comment THERE. Please!

It is a long, incredible story how did I persuade my first and most capable (by all world standards of journalism) editor Jordan - Joco, Diviot Petel - Ivanovski to let me file from the earthquake-stricken Peru. If interested you can find that report here. It goes on.. The very next day after my arrival I called the Yu-embassy. For one it was practical: they would know if other journalists were there, I would feel a bit safer once they knew I was there, they would show some gratitude for the newspapers from home I was bringing and they would like to hear the latest political gossip and to find out, from a Macedonian, what kind of person was their new boss: ambassador Kole Casule, a fine friend of mine. The konsul-general, I think someone called Lazic a Montenigrin guy, told me that there were only two YU-communities in Peru. The ustashas those were the Croats and then the chetnicks which were the Serb nationalists. They were at each other's throats and the Embassy staff tried to be as neutral as possible. -Thus, no Macedonians that you know of, comrade Lazic?
-No. There are, closest to your parts half-a-dozen or so guys from around Pirot, but they are Serbs: Ichkovic or Asparukhovich, they keep their distance, peasants, stink like hell, they have broiler farms around their houses, all married with local fat Indios from the jungle. This Lazic was some ignorant secret service fool sent to Lima as a reward before retirement. Most of the Consuls and Consul-generals of former SFRY were either formal employees of the Ministry of interior or their detached eyes and ears, the "co-operating comrades". Ichko, but also Asparukh or Asen would denote either a Bulgarian or a Macedonian whose father or grandfather insisted on such a name as a clear sign what is their political orientation. A sort of defiance to Serb pressure against Macedonian ethnicity. -Could you call them they are first-door neighbors, may just as well chat with them, how and why did they come here. -Piece of cake. He, actually, took me there. Stayed for a while and when the hosts had begun playing worn-out singles with Macedonian songs asked me whether I did not think it was time to go. -I'd like to stay, folks, but it is far from here to the center, so I better get a free transport back. They lived somewhere around Miraflores of what I remember, near the sea and I would not get in any cab because it was totally unsafe. (There were reports that big, plump people were abducted and killed because gangs out in the provinces made amulets of human fat: I was a perfect target for those.) -No way, we haven't eaten yet. The fun is just beginning, they said. And you have not told us anything. Neither have we,-said a guy from the souther Macedonian town of Valandovo, Ichkov.-We shal drive you to your hotel. When we were "all among us" the Macedonian men and their Indios women with handsome kids, the story opened up. They were partizans, some 30 all in all who towards the end of WW2 decided to march to Salonika, to Solun, and liberate it because they expected that all the partizans will go like one body and one soul to liberate ALL OF Macedonia. They were sorely mistaken, but they found out that little fact too late, when, surrounded, they were taken prizoners of war by the British and American forces. They were lucky: the Greeks would have killed them all. The war raged for another three years but they were sheltered in Anglo-American camp. To be returned to Yugoslavia they would have been surely shot by the YNA (Yugoslav People's Army) as deserters and traitors. The Greeks wanted to kill them all without trial. So, when the Americans asked them whether these boys (they were all 18-19 would agree to be resettled to America - they accepted. Only when they boat reached Panama they realized or were told that their final destination was Peru. half a dozen, desperate and with idea that it was their last chance to rich USA and Canada (traveling peniless over all of Mexico?) dived from the boat with a hope to swim to the shore. -We have seen them eaten up by the sharks minutes after they hit the water. -Why don't you come back home? -We can't, they'll shoot us. I could not believe my ears. Told them that Kole Casule, a partizan like them, a good guy, a writer and a proud Macedonian is coming as ambassador, that he will help them for sure. Their eyes welled with tears of hope and desperation. I got stoned. Upon my return I wrote series of articles about them. One day now Petre M. Andreevski stopped me and said: -I want to shake your hand. For your serial about the Macedonian in Peru. The truth will not die. I would like that at least some of them enjoy the Indian summer of Valandovo and Dojran. 20:20 pm Tuesday, 17 October 2006 You do not read this part down there nor click as I ask you. Why? You simply MUST click here and leave your comment THERE. Please!

You would not have a sweet idea who these people are but you may know what's the name of the boat behind them. No know? Maybe the man who used it? No? But you must guess that it is me behind the lens of the camera, true? OK. The owner of the boat: the one and only Jacques Yves Cousteau. The name: Alcyone. (Why: Because Alcyone was a semi-goddess and the name means "she who prevents storms" or something like that, and a beloved daughter of Aeolus the god of winds. So? So, you see those two reinforced aluminum tubes instead of masts for sails? Yes, you do. Well, those are the turbines, those drive the boat, this "Alcyone" here.) In a way - the fact that we nearly had tea on that boat is more important than the whole damned story. The guy on the far left is Misha Uzelac, a man for all seasons, our liaison for Hollywood and L.A. and a great old friend of mine from the pre-earthquake days in Skopje. He owns, sails and rents a different yacht than the "Alcyone". The tall black mustachoed man is Stole Popov (no relation) a film director, in his second try (first successful) to get the Motion Pictures Academy nominate yet one of his films (this time a feature movie) Happy New 49 among the top best five in the category of Foreign Language Feature Movie. Behind him is my son Igor then assistant PR director of our consulting team. The bearded man at the end is the producer Stevo Crvenkovski who lived enough to be first the minister of Foreign affairs of Macedonia and then ambassador on the court of St. James's. God almighty, what have I lived through with this crazy bunch! The future minister dressed like a garbage cleaner, smoked worse than a Turk and was 10 times stingier than Balzac's Gobseck. In Hollywood, men, in Hollywood. These two would not pay four drinks (fheirs own and two for newsmen, the reviewer and the photographer of LA Times) and wanted that I make a miracle without money employing the charm of Uzelac his influential wife Connie whose father was a director of the Library of Congress, Mirjana von Blaricum a hairdresser and I think Golden Globe committee or something member, Pece Dingo an upcoming director whose stepfather was a rector of UCLA or something similar. But I had all the heavyweights around too. Elia Kazan came to see and loved the film. Dushan Makaveev and George Milicevic too. There was a a big panel discussion in the Kennedy Center in Washington D.C. "Variety" and "Hollywood Reporter" came out with stunningly lavishing reviews. But the producer would not release $1,500 for a yet one show for more Academy members to see the film. When we returned to Macedonia I stated for the cameras that Stevo Crvenkovski and Radoslav Ognjanovski, then the director of "Nova Makedonija", did whatever they could to thwart the promotion of the film (it lost the nomination for five votes) and that such behavior was tantamount to a betrayal of a national interests. Five months latter I had to leave Macedonia and was again here, in Monterey Bay, on another, personally financed project. Some pretty tough times. Oh, yes. Yes indeed. 15:35 pm Tuesday, 17 October 2006 You do not read this part down there nor click as I ask you. Why? You simply MUST click here and leave your comment THERE. Please!

Now, is the right time to wander between Washington D.C. towards Colonial Williamsburg and jute out at Newport. Middle of October to early November the nature along that trail, much better known as Shenandoah Valley sets the nature in in flames of colors. Reminds me of a French baigneuse, a woman who is going to have a late afternoon bath in a warm room. (When we were kids the older bums of our "mahala" (which stays for "neighborhood") would place us the younger kids as sentries at the corner of a small street in Skopje and they, the fucking voyers, would peep (through the wooden jalousies of the pied-de-terre window) the beauty of my childhood Bebeka taking a bath in her room.) That is how beautiful Shenandoah Valley is. And you need not hide and peep but be in the midst of it with wide open eyes. Bebeka is old now, haven't seen her for ages, but Shenandoah is as seducive as ever. (You can enjoy some Mahala music with this post.) Irina up there was tired and she said she felt like embracing and mingling with Mother Nature but I think she could not walk in the heeled shoes any more. Then we moved to Newport and enjoyed minesweeper to carrier hopping on an open day with the Seventh Fleet of the US Navy. That is where the second pic comes from.
Now, when I look at this photo I feel somehow embarrassed: such a disservice to this proud flag has been done lately that one is confused whether throwing out the water the innocent baby may be lost too. But that will go into Politics and all this here remains in innocent Memorabilia. Take my word, mark my lips: pack up and go to Shenandoah and Washington D.c. any October-November, especially during an election year. One cannot but feel the pulsing of the Nature and the American Nation out there. Quite an experience. 07:45 am Tuesday, 17 October 2006 You do not read this part down there nor click as I ask you. Why? You simply MUST click here and leave your comment THERE. Please!

When anything reminds me Ilinden 1903 I feel pain. It is almost physical. Everybody and everything involved becomes a culprit, a part of the huge complot, massive enmical conspiracy against my project of producing 500,000 silk scarves on the occasion of the 100th anniversary of the event. Ilinden 1903 is the shortest, all-encompassing expression for the strives, the ideas, the tears, the dedication, the blood of the best, young or old, of the nation organized for the uprising in Macedonia. Its aim was to proclaim an independent state in Europe, It did not know of the EU nor would have cared much. If it knew - there would be only more divisions. The anniversary was only three short years ago. After long thinking (as my Zvane would say, I concluded that the best commercial item would be something which could sell well to foreigners and expatriates as a present for women, which would cost up to $10, which would be very easy and light to pack and carry, which would commemorate something nice, would be fashionable and appreciated. That is how a Hermes-type of a silk scarf came into position Nr.1 of the selection. I gave Nevenka Ivanovska-Tikvesanska a polyester 2-color scarf (with a tourist attractions map of Yugoslavia, we used to distribute as a complimentary item to the tourist trade personnel around the world as a specimen, she worked speedily a day and night and eventually produced a quote, from Korea (not the nuclear part) for $4,5 per scarf. I hoped that she will grow so enthusiastic with the project that she would finance the start - be she would have not made her first million dollars if she worked that way. In the meantime Jana Janevska, the daughter of our most accomplished author Slavko Janevski tried to animate the son of Mateja Matevski to work on the computerized design of the scarf. A flurry of e-mails rained between Amsterdam, New York, Skopje and Seoul. Nothing came out. One of the reasons was Nikola Popovski the shit-head who was the speaker of the Parliament (Sobranie) of Macedonia. He degraded Ilinden in a despeakable way because of his narrow minded self. But it is all passed now. Only the pictures of the regiment of Hristo Dimitrov Kutrulija and of Damjan Gruev with his friends, my poor meddling over the scarves produced by Hermes designers (selling at $160 each) remain to burden my hard-disc. And remind me of this failure. Especially those silent resolute faces of my forefathers. They, their faces, their clothes, their arms, their postures speak volumes. One needs to be their blood to understand them fully. 06:05 am Tuesday, 17 October 2006 You do not read this part down there nor click as I ask you. Why? You simply MUST click here and leave your comment THERE. Please!

If Johannes Vermeer was alive a month ago, he would have been baffled with Valentina Capova-Nestorovska probably much more than I have been. Now, judge for yourselves, here she is (I mean Valentina) in the Royal Cabinet of Paintings Mauritshuis, standing next to the Girl with the Pearl Earring. The picture was taken (how appropriate) by Valentina's husband Oliver Nestorovski better known simply like Oli a recent, but very charming, very outgoing, very business-like acquaintance and a top-league dealer-wheeler around Macedonia. If he cannot do it - it is undoable. Now, to make this clear for copyright and other reasons: I have nothing to do with both the models or the authors. What I admit is simply drinking a couple of beers together in Silversant before Oli and Vale flew away to Skopje, then traveled (by car) to Greece. I still do not know whether I have sent her an e-mail as I have promised to do, but I got two things from her few weeks ago: a set of pics from their Greek holiday, some from Amsterdam and few days latter a message, through a mutual friend, that she was surprised I never wrote. This is published as some sort of a profound excuse.
Only because Valentina impresses me so much I would not venture into describing what wealth of emotions, kindness, knowledge and manners I feel she carries within herself.
The other pics (those you cannot see if you just scroll down along the blogg) are different but very telling too. In any case - a most impressive, most accomplished young lady. Or, better, un profile nouveau d'une dame Macedonienne. 21:50 pm Monday, 16 October 2006 You do not read this part nor click as I ask you. Why? You simply MUST click here and leave your comment THERE. Please!

The moustachoed young man on the far left, heavily ridiculed for always wearing a pullover, was one of the very few political large-size (in every meaning of the word) meteors on the political skies of former Yugoslavia. Vasil -Cile- Tupurkovski, a University professor, doctor of law, president of the communist/socialist youth of Yugoslavia, member of the federal executive council of the Communist party, member of the Presidency of Yugoslavia, vice-prime minister of independent Macedonia. The master-mind of full diplomatic recognition of Taiwan. Leader of the Democrati Alternative party. With the authorship of The History of Macedonia from Philip and Alexander the newly born Herodotus of Macedonian history in which he executed a by-pass to bring in fresh idea that the Slavs of Macedonia have equal amount of ancient (Alexander's) blood thus only partially related to the the big brother in Moscow. We have been friends for ages. The last time we have seen each other was here in the Tribunal, Carla del Ponte was circling around him calculating whether to invite him as her witness against Slobodan Milosevic. I tried to guide him into her tunneled brain and reasoning but he would not listen. She evaded him as a witness, Milosevic died - and his story about his role in the last days of Yugoslavia - is not a part of the official record of the YCTI. He can now tell it only in pubs like this one. What you see is a New Year dinner party. The guy right of Tupurkovski is Dimitar -Mitance- Jovanovski a former deputy major of a borough in Skopje now a cafe-owner. Further to the right is Katerina Colancevska-Ragjenovic also a University professor and superb friend. Next to her should be me. The place was owned by two popular footballers. One was Kiril Dojcinovski a big name in Yu-footbal, later a soccer coach around Latin America and Mexico. The other one Meto -Zhelka - Spasovski, captain of Vardar soccer-team and a great sportsman. Even I do not bake those big roasts any more...Not many close people who can eat so much are left around me...
17:10 pm Monday, 16 October 2006
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