Who wants to go where everyone is? Maximilian Reich is leaving behind the hackneyed destinations and is heading to places where package tourists are as rare as bags with a proper certificate on the Chinese market. Where is Reich headed this time? After Demir Kapija.
You may well find a few errors in this text. I apologize for this. The reason for this is quite simple: I’m a crack hoe. As wide as a Russian bouncer, as full as an Oktoberfest tent, as tight as a Swiss diving watch. Or to put it another way: I am in Demir Kapija. Don’t you know it? Never mind, until recently I would have thought it was a Turkish schnapps. And that’s exactly why it’s the ideal location for a travel story – after all, my editor-in-chief said, all the other newspapers already write about classic dream destinations like Marrakesh and Santorini. I would love to work for these other newspapers, I thought – and four days ago I boarded an Edelweiss Air plane and flew from Zurich to Skopje, the capital of Macedonia. From there, we were to continue by bus the next day to the small village just before the Greek border. But one thing at a time…
The most likeable flag in the world
A trip to Macedonia is like someone trying to stick their finger up your butt during sex. I had a queasy feeling and no idea what to expect. It can be great or it can simply suck. After landing in Skopje, I get into a cab outside the airport and pay 20 euros to get to my hotel in the city center. If you ever come to Skopje – for whatever reason – I recommend “Hostel 42”. It is located in the trendy “Debar Maalo” district, just a few minutes’ walk from the main square and the old town, and a single room costs just 17 francs per night. The owner is a two-meter-tall former volleyball player who took part in the Olympic Games sometime in the 1980s and is now trying with equal zeal to be the world’s best host. As I step through the entrance gate and push my trolley into the courtyard, he pats me so effusively on the shoulder that I fear he has dislocated my joint. “Ah, you must be Maximilian? Welcome to Skopje. I was just about to go jogging. Would you like to come with us?”
Jogging is at the top of my top 5 list of the stupidest activities in the world. The only thing left to do is to get behind it:
2. dog yoga
3. ironing socks
4. hugging trees
5. the bavarian finger hooking
So I shake my head and thankfully decline. “I’ve been up since 6 a.m. and I’m too exhausted.”
“Ah, Maximilian, nothing cheers you up better than running a lap of .” Then he laughs and puts my joint back in place with a second tap on the shoulder.
It’s actually no wonder that the people here are so nice. After all, North Macedonia also has the most likeable flag in the world. A radiant sun on a red background. How unfriendly can the locals be? Only a flag with the kissy-mouth emoji on it would probably be even more adorable.
Mother Theresa from the sausage snack bar
I stow my suitcase in my room and set off on a short exploratory walk. The town’s landmark is the stone bridge, which was built by the Romans. It crosses the Vardar and today connects the modern city with the Old Bazaar. It used to be the largest bazaar in the Balkans. Today, the district is criss-crossed by narrow alleyways lined with cafés and jewelry stores, and for a moment you might think you got on the wrong plane and landed in Pisa by mistake. After 300 meters, however, the historic quarter ends and you are back on the ground of reality – or rather on Macedonia Square, as the main square is called. The centerpiece is an enormous statue of a horseman, around which modern department stores and restaurants are arranged in a circle. Here you can eat a delicious pizza for 4 francs and then drink a cappuccino for 1.50 francs at . In contrast to other eastern cities such as Krakow and Prague, the tourists have not yet descended on Skopje. Here you can still eat cheaply and stroll through the streets in peace without being ashamed of your fellow countrymen in Birkenstock sandals and being harassed by souvenir dealers.
“Sunglasses?”
“Huh?” I turn around. A young man is standing next to me, holding out a dozen pairs of sunglasses. “I’ll give you a good price,” he says in English.
“There’s no sun at all.”
“Of course the sun is shining.”
“Where I come from, we call it drizzle.”
“Where are you from?”
“Germany.”
“I have a cousin in Hanover.”
“Ah,” I say”
“Strong sun in Hanover.”
“Well…”
“How long have you been in Skopje?”
“Arrived today.”
“Welcome to Macedonia.”
“Thank you very much.”
“Have you seen the stone bridge yet?”
“Yup.”
“And the Old Bazaar?”
“Yup.”
“And Mother Theresa’s house?”
I am astonished. “St. Mother Theresa from Calcutta?”
The sunglasses nod. “She was born here in Skopje. She used to live back there.” He points to a food truck.
“In the sausage snack bar?”
“Nonsense, come with me.”
The street vendor leads me closer and points to four golden angles in the floor next to the sausage snack bar. They draw the outline of the house where Mother Theresa was once born. “In 1963, an earthquake practically destroyed the entire city. That’s why there are hardly any old houses left.”
“Gross.”
“You should take a look at the old station tomorrow. The station clock still hangs on the outside façade and shows what time the quake started and stopped.”
“Unfortunately, I’m going on to Demir Kapija tomorrow.”
Demir Kapija seems to be the geographical equivalent of a face tattoo, because everyone shakes their heads and asks: Why are you doing that? Which doesn’t necessarily increase my personal enjoyment of traveling. Above all, I don’t know what I’m supposed to do there myself. I therefore provide a different answer each time .
The nice hotel owner: “What do you want in Demir Kapija?”
Me: “I’m a key witness in a mafia trial and I’m supposed to hide here until the trial.”
The lady at the ticket counter at the bus station asked incredulously: “Demir Kapija?”
Me: “I want to bury my grandpa’s ashes there. I didn’t like him very much.”
My friend, the sunglasses salesman: “After Demir Kapija? Why?” And then adds: “You’d better take a pair of sunglasses with you.”
Me: “I’m a professional boxer and I’m preparing for my fight there.”
The answer I get is always the same: “Ah yes.” Just like my mother said when I announced to that I wanted to dye my hair blonde. An “aha” that actually means: “Well, you’ll know what you’re doing.”
Of course I didn’t know it then – and I don’t know it now.
Still better than bull testicles
So the next morning at 8 a.m., a bus takes me to Demir Kapija. The trip takes just under two hours and costs 6 francs. When the bus stops on a gravel parking lot at the entrance to the village, I am the only one to get off. The village has 4,500 inhabitants. There are two or three small supermarkets and a few cafés and betting shops lined up along the pedestrian street. To the left are the train tracks, and to the right of the mile are a few residential buildings. That’s all there is to see. Or is it? Three people have gathered in the distance – they are standing by a railing with their camera phones in their hands. I wonder what sight might be there? The city landmark? The Macedonian version of the Eiffel Tower? Or an art installation? Or perhaps a Macedonian Banksy has immortalized himself on a wall here overnight? Nope. It is a dead dog in a stream that has been washed up on a catchment grid. How picturesque.
The sight of the four-legged corpse is too much for me. I’ve seen enough and go to my hotel. After a hot shower at , I sit on my bed with a towel around my hips and google what I can do here. As it turns out pretty quickly: nothing, except a wine tasting.
Apparently, “Demir Kapija” translates as “Iron Gate” and gets its name from the fact that two climate zones collide in this region. This makes the location particularly suitable for winegrowing. I hate wine. I went to a restaurant with my ex-girlfriend on New Year’s Eve, where all the guests were served the same menu. First we had caramelized chicory and then tuna steak on artichoke puree. I wanted a Pepsi to go with it. And my ex wanted a new boyfriend, she was so embarrassed to sit at the table with a redneck like me. And now this redneck of all people has an appointment for a wine tasting tonight at 6pm.
It could have been worse, I think to myself as I sit in the restaurant of the Royal Winery Queen Maria in the evening. The place could also have been famous for its boiled bull testicles. Then I would have to eat them now. Nevertheless, it is not pleasant. There is probably nothing sadder than a wine tasting for one person. It’s a bit like “Dinner for One”, as I sit there alone at the table and the waiter pours one wine after another. First a Chardonnay from 2016. The sommelier explains a few sentences, and I look at him like I used to look at my math teacher and just think: “I hope he doesn’t ask me any questions. Question.” He pours me a sip and thankfully disappears again. I take the glass and hold it under my nose because I once saw that you have to smell the wine. So I take a whiff. “Hmmm… Wine.” Then I swirl my glass, because I once saw that you have to swirl wine. So I swirl it. A little wine spills onto the tablecloth. Next, the waiter brings me a Sauvignon Blanc. “What year?” I ask – just to pretend I’m interested and knowledgeable.
“Also from 2016.”
“Ah! How interesting.”
I repeat the game with the third wine, a rosé. By the fourth round, a glass of red wine, I’m already well and truly dumbstruck and prefer not to say anything for fear of slurring my words. Grinning blissfully, I sit in my seat and listen to the waiter’s words. And as he pours me a full glass, I think to myself: Demir Kapija is actually quite nice after all. Cheers.
Curious to find out what else our author experiences in the middle of nowhere? Follow him on Instagram (maximilian_reich) on his travels, and see where he’s headed next… if he has internet there.
