“Nate, man, can you please pass me the slivo,” Bashkim said, referring to the bottle of plum moonshine next to me in the backseat of his 1998 Opel Corsa. This wouldn’t have seemed out of the ordinary had my Kosovar Albanian friend/fixer/translator/driver not been at the wheel of the his European hatchback as it braved the Croatian toll road somewhere between Zagreb and Split amid rain and violent winds about 3 a.m.
Bashkim had so far demonstrated remarkable skill and discipline at the wheel, and I, having not slept in the past 36 hours was in no position to argue. Sensing my discomfort with the alcohol enterprise, Bashkim reassured me that he required just a drop of the potent liquor — made by his girlfriend’s father — on his tongue just for the purposes of stimulating his senses.
Such began the road to Kosovo.

Croatia and Hungary (aka
Taking the molotovian approach to protest, Serbs in the northern Kosovo flashpoint city of Mitrovica 


