GOING HOME

We hiked up the hill at twilight, my dad leading the way.  It was our second to last day in North Macedonia, September 9th, 2023, and I wanted to see our old vineyard in Podmocani, my dad’s village.  The last time we visited this site was in 2003.  Despite the land not having been farmed for decades back then, deserted vines were still punching out of the earth.  Seeing them at that moment 20 years ago sparked my intrigue for wine and set me on a path.  Without that vision, I would never be here today.  We dreamt of someday replanting those vines and creating an eco-tourism destination.  Now, 20 years later, standing in that same spot, the vines had vanished though their aura filled the air.  “They’ve all dried up,” my dad’s childhood friend said.  No one farms grapes in the area anymore.  They hardly farm the apples the region is famous for.  Those who do have trellised their apple trees like modern grape vines and olive orchards.  Wide, thin and boxy.  The branches were full of fruit, though yields seemed a fraction of what they used to be.  I understand the form versus function idea, like corseting an opera singer to accentuate the role.  Though this looked like embezzlement.  You don’t know exactly when it happened, but something was missing. 

I know that time and distance amplify the perception of life’s losses and gains, unlike breathing them slowly day to day.  Though I never imagined this deep, silent void.  These trees were the lifeblood of the land.  The last time I harvested apples from this orchard was the autumn of 1999.  My uncle led the way with fabric bags slung over our chests.  You would get lost in each tree’s arms and easily win any game of hide and seek, balancing on thick, sturdy branches to gently twist off each prize.  The apples on this present day hung naked against their backdrop, exposed to the elements and my indignation, though I am still processing the why of it all. 

 One of my mentor’s says fields like this are made for tractors, not for fruit.  Though there aren’t any people to do the work.  They’ve mostly left or given up.  Machines need to make up the loss.  The same goes for vineyards in the U.S.  We covet the idea of hand-picked grapes, though to harvest the acreage in California by hand in a timely commercial manner, the entire state’s population would have to dedicate two months every fall to working in the fields.  Even then, I don’t think we’d successfully pull it off. 

Walking many villages throughout Macedonia today, there is an air of abandonment.  Dusty lots, vacant homes and aimless groves burdened by fruit no one wants to pick, each ripe morsel dropping one by one to the dirt, waiting for the memory of a place to return.  Those who remain in the villages are either thriving, having adjusted to the psychological demands of the new democratic system in a relatively new country, or they are lost, unable to find the notches in the walls in front of them to drive in the piton.  This is not unique to North Macedonia.  Though seeing it up close and personal stings.

The last time we visited was 2009.  We went for both of my cousins’ weddings.  Family traveled from every corner of the world from where their migratory path had taken them.  Argentina, Australia, the United States.  We used to visit every year before then, returning each summer like a good emigre family, bringing gifts from the west, which long ago meant Levi’s jeans and today means iPhone, from the land of milk and honey.  We called on our relatives, drank Turkish coffee, spent entire afternoons sipping spritzes and smoking cigarettes, read fortunes, napped after lunch, folk-danced the night away at lakeside resorts, and lived the leisurely European concept of vacation for an entire month.  It was glorious. 

This trip was different.  At the last minute, my dad prompted our return.  “Let’s go to Macedonia next week,” he said at the end of August.  I had nothing important happening the following week since harvest was at least a month away thanks to our rainy, cold year.  I booked us tickets and off we went.  We had seven days to fill that hole of expectation and longing.  Even though I was not born in Macedonia, every cell in my body originates from this place.  My 23andMe profile proves it.  It was my first language.  It is how I understand food, love, humor, rhythm, family, flavor, nuance and independence.  Paired with my Michigan upbringing, it is a sharp lens for navigating the world. 

Today any American would feel very comfortable visiting Macedonia.  Your cell service is sharper in the most remote mountainous area than when driving over the San Marcos Pass in Santa Barbara.  Electric cars, fitness watches and Airbnb are everywhere.  Most everyone speaks English thanks to school language mandates and media exposure.  I welcomed these modern conveniences though I wanted them cloaked in the nostalgia of my past.  I wanted to be wrapped in the intoxicating sweet apple fragrance of my childhood, amidst the trees my grandfather planted and through which my grandmother would drive the cattle home from grazing.  For years, my grandfather would collect the year’s harvest and set out for Belgrade, spending months alone in Yugoslavia’s largest market selling apples before returning with gifts and money, like he was returning from America.  He loved the United States.  I wanted to relive those simple memories of eating the juiciest tomatoes, the crustiest fresh bread, and hunks of my favorite cheese.  I wanted to sleep in the comfort of a Hilton and drink homemade whiskey made by my godmother all at the same time.  Both of which we did.  I know deep down life doesn’t work the way you want it to.  I was different and so was everything else.  One change affects all change.  I just wanted for one moment to experience the authenticity of my memories.  It was all gone, along with my beloved cobblestone street that lined Podmocani.  This last vestige, too, was now covered in black top. 

I should have stated at the top that the trip was incredible, amazing, reinvigorating and fulfilled every itch we imagined.  I am obviously still working through the emotional weight of it all.  We can’t wait to go back.  I’d love to take you all on this next journey, to show you the old vineyard as I see it, with hundreds of vines growing tall from the earth, covered with fruit and possibility.  It seems dreams are harder to forsake than reality.  Though we must plan ahead before we go.  Even in Macedonia wineries require a reservation to go wine tasting.  I learned that the hard way.  If you go without me, try the Temjanika.  It’s delicious.