Category: Skopje

Posted on

Skopje: Goodbye, my dear

Dear readers, this is an unusual post. Probably the last one I will write from Skopje, as I am getting ready to move to Sarajevo by the end of the month of July. As I was preparing the newsletter for the subscribers of this blog, I thought it could also very well be the last post. So I wrote a little longer version of it.

Before leaving a city, you want to grasp and engrave all the places, moments, habits that you appreciate and bring you joy. Nostalgia is overwhelming at the sheer idea that some places, strolls or actions could be the last in a place I have passed by a hundred times during 3 years. All that will remain are echoes and snapshots, that will surface every once and then to draw a smile on my face.

What image will I take with me from my three-year stay in the city?  Many come bumping into my mind, but probably two are the most illustrative.

Postcard 1: Poppies & Cherries

I am leaving Skopje in the loveliest season, in the same one when I first met her; under a glittering summer sun, lush with flowers and abundant green. This is also the time of the year where the cherry tree, our silent neighbour, is sluggishly waving its branches. Heavy with deep red cherries, the branches sway playfully, casting shades across our dining room. After three years of co-living, we come to exchange conniving glances.

Each year, after a long winter of stretching out squalid hands, the cherry tree stoutness dazzles me once again in springtime. Exuberance after fasting. Is this the standard procedure of a creative process? A crossing of the desert before reaching an abundant water spring? I ask myself.

I have this feeling of “fasting” with the blog lately. Almost half a year passed without writing a new post.  It is not intentional. As you know, the pandemic situation we are immersed in changed the course of our usual activities, or the way we realize them; apart from adding a dose of uncertainty regarding their actual relevance.

Being locked down at home, with my three-year-old daughter shifted all the energies towards taking care of her and sharing more time with the family. Although this slow life rhythm is a good pacifier when confronted with such a dystopic situation; I felt disconcerted by this sudden change of routine. Eventually, having less space and time to go on with my practice, made me prioritize on the important things to do. It astonished me how many “intruding” petty tasks were superfluous and time-consuming. The spatial restrictions probably became time optimizers for a lot of us.

But in Črnice, the pandemic keeps far at bay, so it seems. The pace of ordinary life and the spring revival of nature put the neighbourhood under an isolation bubble. No shops, no cafes, no consumption spaces along the calm streets; only the children on their bikes and somebody taking a walk with his dog. Keeping the distance seems to be a tacit agreement, allowing everybody to have a relaxing stroll. The enchantment Črnice casts on you uses the simplest of artifice: A table with tilted chairs under a tree, a sea of poppies under a warm sunlight, the worn out steps of a stair leading to this haven. This is my Črnice, the one to be lost in my memoir’s maze, the snapshot that will furtively come to my mind when I think of Skopje.

Postcard 2: Urban (e) swings

Along with the poppies haven of Črnice, I cannot but carry with me the cheerful swings in Karposh IV, filled with my daughter’s laughter, and resonating with the ones of imaginary children. These simple swings sum up the politics of community life in a neighbourhood like Karposh IV, of high and mid-rise buildings among green open spaces. Scattered along the pathways that cut through the buildings and green fields, the swings loom suddenly after a bench, under a gigantic tree, sometimes keeping company to a slide or seesaw. The planner catered to the needs of all, even the smallest. These are the treasured urban spaces, scarce even in cities famous for their exemplary urban design, like Barcelona. The wide sidewalks, the infinite shades of green foliage, benches, swings and housing stairways reaching the open lawn: for once, the protagonist isn’t the fancy architecture but free public space.

If you look up urbane in the dictionary, the meaning is: “notably polite and polished in manners”. “The word traces back to Latin urbs, meaning “city,” and in its earliest English uses urbane was synonymous with its close relative urban “of, relating to, characteristic of, or constituting a city. Urbane developed its modern sense of savoir faire from the belief (no doubt fostered by city dwellers) that living in the city made one more suave and polished than did leading a rural life.”( www.merriam-webster.com).

This is of course controversial. But anyway, it is interesting to come back to this original belief that urban environments, referring to city configurations, are designed with the purpose of cultivating social conviviality based on a certain sophisticated culture of the urban dweller. This doesn’t mean, of course, to sit on a bench designed by Escofet, but not to consider public spaces and furniture as a mere stage décor where urban life is rolled out; instead as essential extensions of the urban dwelling.

Here in Karposh IV, you could only feel loved by the city, embraced and respected by the planners. A lection for any urbanist.

Still lingering...

The pandemic made a brutal stop on my ongoing project of Skopje’s old railway station. This is my personal attachment to the city, and this building has been the key to look at the city differently. I am taking this last month to “wrap” the distinct parts of the project, to unwrap it once in Sarajevo. I hope then I will finally give it its final “shape”.

I am once again adding a piece to my travelling memoir’s puzzle. I cannot help but feel sad.  The thrill of the new will probably take over once in Sarajevo. Goodbye, my dear Skopje.

Posted on

Skopje: The old railway station

The trains were lying on the railways waiting for the dawn, the platforms where still empty, soon to be filled with the passengers and the agitation of early morning. But this wasn’t to be an ordinary day for the station. The land roared and shook and the dawn lingered forever on the station clock. The trains were never to depart, the passengers to travel. The left wing of the station and its central dome fell apart under the earth’s rage, leaving the building devastated. This landscape of ruins was ubiquitous in the city on that day. The disaster was bewildering. In the archive pictures, distressed citizens are seen finding their way through the rubbles and looking astray for disappeared family members and friends. Disfigured buildings stood fragile. The sky weighed heavy over the ravaged cityscape, filled with dust and thick with the souls of the departed citizens. Skopje’s weeping was heard worldwide.

5:17 am, 26 of july 1963, is a date that marked the city of Skopje and its future development. The sight of the amputated station, and the ravaged city are premonitory. A page in the city’s history is turned, and a new chapter is announced. It is a farewell to the city of Uskub, as was Skopje known under the Ottoman rule; when the station was first built in 1873. It was the first railway station to link Skopje to Thessaloniki, thus bringing the Aegean sea within the reach of western Europe.

In 1918, Yugoslavia is established ending the ottoman rule in western Europe. In 1937, the train station is demolished and a new building was designed by Serbian architect Velimir Gavrilović. The station, in neo-byzantine style, with travertine stone facades boasting the clock’s dials and hands over the central entrance, stood proudly on the same site. It was one of the biggest in the Balkans. The building comprised a central part, the main hall with an impressive gallery on the upper floor, and a central dome. The two wings on each side had separate entrances. The interior walls and floors of this transport temple at the beginning of the 2oth century were paved in marble and adorned with frescoes by the Macedonian artist Borko Lazeski.

In the actual city museum, there isn’t any archive to consult on the train station; neither as a building nor on its architect, nor on Borko Lazeski’s work. I had to pull up the pieces of the station story from a variety of sources to reconstitute its narrative.
A long and complex story lies behind the construction of the railway networks at the end of the 19th century. A geopolitical weapon and a strategic feature of territorial control, the outline of the railway networks materialized the aspirations of the powers in control. This is a turbulent epoch in the Balkans under a weakened Ottoman empire after the rising of nationalist tendencies (Serbian revolution 1804-1815, Greek war of independence 1821-1832, Bosnian uprising 1831-32) and the Crimean war 1853-1856. The Ottoman empire occupies the whole Balkan territory at the exception of Serbia and Montenegro, and around 1860, not a single railway line is laid out in the territory. The reluctance of the Ottomans to establish railway lines, apart from economic difficulties, is the fear of a connection with Europe, its political adversary. At the same time, the militaries knew of the importance of the railways to quickly control rebellions on the territory. In 1867, Sultan Abdul Aziz, after a visit to the Exposition Universelle of 1867 in Paris, and probably inspired, gives the instructions to construct a railway line connecting Istanbul to Europe. It is Baron Hirsch, the founder of the Société Générale pour l’Exploitation des Chemins de Fer de la Turquie D’Europe that obtained the concession for the construction of the railway from the ottoman government. One of its lines links Uskub (Skopje) and Thessaloniki. But in 1871, the project comes to a halt, the predecessor of Sutlan Abdel Aziz, Mahmoud Pacha, opposes the connection with Europe and privileges the one with Rumania and Russia. A new convention is signed with Baron Hirsh’s society in 1872: to complete the line in construction and achieve new connections. Among the new connections is the one linking Skopje with Mitrovica (actually the north of Kosovo). Between 1872-74 the line connecting Thessaloniki, Uskub and Mitrovica (362,890km) is achieved.

The Chemins de Fer Orientaux is the first company to exploit the Thessaloniki-Skopje line. But the project was once again stopped: the Ottoman Empire is bankrupted in 1876 and facing war with Russia and other Balkan territories. The belligerences ended with the San Stefano agreement in 1878 and a new territorial division achieved in the Berlin Conference of the same year. The railway lines are an issue in this conference, since segments of it were scattered on the Balkan territory achieving no connection between the restructured geography of power. It is the convention of the 9th of May 1883 that will outline the railway connections between the Austro-Hungarian and Ottoman empire, Serbia and Bulgaria. In the articles 3 and 4 of the convention, a junction is to relate the two railway segments Niš-Vranje and Thessaloniki-Mitrovica. Skopje became the point of junction. On the 19th of may 1888, the official opening of this line announced the connection of Europe to the Aegean sea. The segment relating Skopje to Vranje, on the Serbian frontier is 85,109km long and crosses the Preševo valley which separates the Morava and Vardar bassins. The Italian company Vitali had the concession to construct it and the works started in 1885. This line still operates today. It takes 2h30 to reach Vranje from Skopje, with 2 stops in Kumanovo and Tabanovce. The crossing of the Preševo valley must be amazing, as the history that lies behind the valley.

The Oriental Express, inaugurated in 1883 will gradually integrate segments of these lines in its railway exploitation network. Skopje will soon become part of some of the routes of the famous train: of the Simplon-Orient-Express from 1919 to 1962 and of the Arlberg-Orient-Express from 1932 to 1962, one of the routes connecting: Budapest, Kelebia, Szabadka (Subotica), Belgrade, Niš, Skopje, Devdelija (Guevgueliya), Idomeni, Thessaloniki, Amfiklia, Athens, Piraeus. And then from 1962-77 of the Direct-Orient-Express connecting the United Kingdom, France, Switzerland, Italy, Sloveny, Croacia, Serbia, Macedonia, Greece, Bulgary and Turkey. Isn’t a dream story for the station, a golden age?

As the city of Skopje itself, the station passed from hand to hand during the 20thcentury. Its railway lines were successively under the exploitation of the Serbian State Railways in 1913, the Yugoslavian State Railways in 1929, the Bulgarian State Railways in 1941, the Macedonian State Railways in 1944/1945, the Macedonian Federal Railways in 1945, the Yugoslav Railways in 1945, the Directorate of State Railways in Skopje in 1945, the Rail transport company-Skopje in 1963 until it was destroyed by the earthquake.

But the past splendour is long gone and the station’s destiny was to be the immortal witness of a tragic event, a reminiscence of an epoch. It is converted into the City Museum of Skopje. Located on the boulevard Kiril i Metodij, you approach the old railway station on a wide sidewalk. A strip of grass marks the beginning of the station area and is scattered with steles and sarcophaguses from Scupi, the archeological roman settlement. The big park that laid in front of the station has disappeared, probably no longer needed as a buffer zone for the hustle and bustle that usually surrounds railway stations. It is replaced by a far lesser charming neo-classical building from the 2014 Skopje project. The damages caused by earthquake are intentionally left visible on the building’s façades, while the interior has been rearranged for exhibitions and artistic venues by Croatian architect Gjuka Kavurić.

“Walk through the past” is a permanent exhibition of the museum. It narrates the history of the city of Skopje from the prehistory to the beginning of the 20th century. A special feature of the exhibit is the one that narrates the episode of the earthquake. It features big panels of black and white photographs, international press releases where Skopje made the front page, vestiges of abandoned children toys, an interior of a damaged house, aid boxes from different countries. Near the entrance to the museum, you can read the words Tito said in the disaster’s aftermath, engraved on a commemorative plaque. They were later reproduced on one of the remaining exterior walls of the west wing. But for a visitor looking for some memories still lingering in the space, it is a disappointment. The space has been stripped of its “time” patina and no hints to its past usage are found: not a timetable of the ghost trains, not a trace of the thousand steps that crossed la salle des pas perdus of the station’s main hall, no sign of the heroic frescos… all has vanished, and one is left surrounded by the white and grey walls of the exhibit space.

The museum dedicated two of its exhibit galleries to Ljubomir Belogaski and to Justina and Rodoljub Anastasov. But unfortunately not a permanent exhibit or expository material is seen of the many works donated by both artists to the city museum already functioning in 1974. Wondering inside the building, I saw an open door leading to a staircase to the upper floor. To my big surprise, the walls are covered with beautifully framed posters of the artist Rodoljub Anastasov. I thought it was a pity to have them isolated as they already give an insight of the artist whose name appears poorly on a signage with no further information.

Unfortunately, the adaptation of the station leaves little chance for storytelling, for tracing the station’s past life along the orient express lines. For the visitor, the remaining platforms are not accessible. I went up the terrace of a nearby mall to have a look on the station’s rear side. The fringe of leftover platforms was clinging desperately to the station to avoid drifting on a land ravaged by the excavators, trucks and cranes of the project developing on the extended plot behind the station. The station will soon be immersed in the weave of this new building complex, Diamond Skopje. In the project perspectives, a garden is designed in front of the remaining right wing of the station, the steles and sarcophagus bordering the sidewalk have disappeared and an elongated building stands where the old platforms once stood, lurking behind the station. Again, no space, literally, is left for memory which is now embedded in leisure consumption. But there is a story to tell, if property developers, investors and cultural organisations decide to give this place a voice.

In the earthquake’s aftermath, a new railway station was built; it was an architectural stunt achieving at the scale of the city almost the same effect as the old railway station in its times. Built by Kenzo Tange, the new railway station is one of the architectural pieces of his reconstruction plan for the city designed in 1965. Here is a glimpse at this new station, as a souvenir of my walk on a sunny day from the old railway station until the new, mythical one…

Links and article that have been the support for this article:

  • Sultan Abdul Hamid Photo Collection, Istanbul University Library.https://marh.mk/стара-железничка-станица-скопје-вели/.
  • Snappy goat.com.
  • The Macedonian railways webpage: http://mz-rail.atwebpages.com/history/history_en.html.
  • Henry Jacolin, “L’établissement de la première voie ferrée entre l’Europe et la Turquie. Chemins de fer et diplomatie dans les Balkans”, Revue d’histoire des chemins de fer [En ligne], 35| 2006, mis en ligne le 25 août 2011, consulté le 09 avril 2019. URL: http://journals.openedition.org/rhcf/414; DOI: 10.4000/rhcf.414
Posted on

Crniče: The Neighborhood

I usually go from my house in Crniče to the city’s center walking. Sometimes I take one of the shortcuts that weave their way down the hill, cutting through the dense tree foliage in summer. We commonly say we live in Vodno; it directly positions our home on the lower folds of the Vodno mountain, where our neighborhood Crniče, is. Skopje is a relatively flat city; it stretches over a plain surrounded by two mountains, the Vodno mountain in the southwest and the Skopska Crna Gora mountain range in the north. While the Skopska Crna crosses the boundaries of the city and country and is shared with the neighboring Kosovo, it remains distant in the consciousness of Skopje’s inhabitants; whereas Vodno is the natural backdrop of the city. It gives a sense of orientation and is a symbolic landmark. It reminds us of the Tibidabo hill in Barcelona. The latter is topped with the Temple Expiatori del Sagrat Cor de Jesús, whereas Vodno boasts the Millennium Cross, built in 2002. It is one of the highest crosses in the world and was built where a previous and smaller cross existed. The spot was called the Krstovar. In the night, the cross’s bright lit arms embrace the sleeping city on its feet. Vodno is the green feature integrated in the cityscape and urban life. On the weekends, hikers and bikers, alone or in small groups, are seen undertaking the long route from the city until the cross or to some lookouts scattered on the hill.

Many neighborhoods are nestled in the folds of the Vodno mountain in the direct vicinity of the urbanized plain. Our neighborhood, while 15 minutes walking from the center yet remains like a small village. People would greet you in the street, children play outside, neighbors know each other, and even if you barely speak macedonian some kind old lady would insist on inviting you for coffee or heating your toddler’s lunch during an electricity blackout, the baker in the small grocery bakes his own bread and pastries daily, even the snow lingers longer on the trees and houses and the air is fresher during the hot days.
When we arrived in the summer of 2017 with our baby daughter, we were happy to go out for long walks with the stroller without the fuss of the city traffic. The fruit trees were full with pears and peaches, the vines with raisins. And then, with the coming of the fall, the trees were heavy with quince and apples. Crniče reminds me of my lebanese village and of my childhood summer days; of the swing hanging from the vine, of picking up wild mulberries and playing hide and seek on the street behind our house.

It is also quite clear that despite preserving its village like appearance, Crniče’s house composition reveals how the neighborhood evolved during the last decades. Variegated architectural styles and typologies build a narrative of the neighborhood’s story. Single houses with a garden, two or three floors family buildings, some recent apartment blocks, ostentatious villas à la Meir with large bay windows glittering glamorously at night, and a fan-shaped hotel still in construction, overhanging the neighborhood from its highest vantage point. New constructions colonized this initially small neighborhood, on one of the Vodno’s hills, over the last three decades. The phenomenon started in the 90s, after the end of the Yugoslav period, and hence socialism. Although, as far back as 1914, Dimitrijie T.Leko, the Serbian urbanist in charge of elaborating the urban plan of the city, had included the Vodno folds in his spatial compositions. It was the time when the city beautiful visions of Camillo Sitte and the viennese Ringstrasse model largely influenced urban planning. Leko projected big scale ensemble in the periphery of the city’s old core, where he had enough space to implement them. To locate the big and small exposition park and university campus, he chose one of Vodno’s slopes. The only trace left of this ensemble is on the original plan. Instead, residential houses sprawled up Vodno’s hill slowly configuring the actual neighborhoods.

A few of the initial houses of the neighborhood remain until today. Some are inhabited, most often by old people, others are abandoned in a rundown state. Undoubtedly, Crniče got overcrowded because of the citizen’s preference for some nature and panorama, so they traded the plain and its wide boulevards for the hilltop and winding streets. The narrow and sloppy terrain of the hill is getting filled up with overridden houses, and little free space is left to build. This probably explains the recent multiple storeys houses and also some new buildings of 4 floors, as a desperate attempt to better take advantage of the precious lot of land and a glimpse of the panorama. But mainly the streets remain charming in their way; with the gardens in the forefront, amorously taken care of by the inhabitants. A typical profile of a street in Crniče consists of modest but charming low rise houses, picturesque gardens blooming with tulips and roses in spring, some chairs under a sun umbrella on a terrace, a child’s bicycle lying on the grass. Everyday life traces scattered on the loans and house facades. It warms the heart of a disillusioned architect, deceived by the city’s getting every time more overexposed, swept in the commodified imagery and lacking every day’s life candor and complexity at the same time. That’s why I will omit the pictures of Crniče’s street in an act of avoiding their absorption in this wave of commodification. I leave it to your imagination or as an invitation to come and have a walk in Vodno.

I am fascinated by two houses. If I were bolder and richer, I would probably have installed a restaurant in each one. But…I am not. One would have a long balcony hanging between tall trees; the other, an elegant art deco terrace facing the Skopska Crna panorama. Eventually, I have resigned myself to taking some photos. Nevertheless, if someone is willing to make this endeavor, I would be glad to share some ideas and recipes.

Anyway, somebody already thought about it and established a very nice and warm restaurant in Crniče in the 34th of Partenija Zografski street. Be it winter or summer, inside the old-fashioned decorated house or on the flowered terraces, Baba Cana offers a very agreeable stay. Established on the 17th of December 2014, the restaurant serves typical food from Kumanovo a town in the northeast of North Macedonia. A special attention is given to the quality of even the simplest of food served, such as a salad or a filo pie. In summer, live music, the jingle of glasses and the smell of barbecue spring out from the restaurant, cheerfully inviting you in.

It makes me, the frustrated restaurateur, jealous. A harmless jealousy that is. To sweep away my sorrows, I brought my table to one of my favorite terraces in Crniče, the art déco terrace facing Skopska Crna. The owner of the house, Kiro Popvoski, was born here, and his family is the fourth one to occupy the house. He was busy working in the garden but was kind enough to let me position my table on the terrace of my dream restaurant; for a consoling picture. Thank you Kiro.

Posted on

Crniče: The garden

Winter is already here. The trees have lost their leaves, slowly, in constant but irreversible change of browning shades, until they totally fell and vanished. Nested between two gardens: one its siamese brother and the other its luscious free spirited neighbor; our garden is a clear square of grass surrounded by tall trees. In front, disseminated houses and gardens, along a straight street below, frame our view.

One of these houses is fascinating. I call it the solitary spaceship. At night, its blemish windows, two squares of neon lights seem floating in the damp air of the cold evening. I am very fond of our garden; its placidity is its great charm: this square lawn witnesses all the seasonal changes while remaining intact in its shape.

The construction of the house and the garden was achieved in 2012. Our house is one part of what consists of a twin house building. Two houses, identical, on each side of a separating wall were intended to lodge two brothers side by side. But life has decided otherwise. One of the houses is occupied by our family, and the other is sporadically occupied by different visitors. They leave sonorous souvenirs and most of the times remain unseen. This is the most changing aspect of our street; the rest of the neighbors are longtime residents and bless the street with every day’s normality: familiar faces and the same children playing with a ball or bike. The house is four stories, has narrow floors, and the space is distributed vertically. It reminds me of the Yemenis tower houses; only that in this house, some services are duplicated for more convenience. I think it is due to the narrowness of the plot, the existing slope and the need to make a garden, leaving lesser surface for the floors. The house projects itself towards the city from his promontory; all the floors have a wide vista at the skyline surrounded by the mountains. Apart from the vista, a neighbor’s old and bold sherry tree keeps us company along the 4 stories. It is our quietest and most beautiful companion.

Fruit trees abound in our street, like in the rest of the neighborhood: apple, pears and plum trees, also sherry and quince, and of course vines…The other day, our neighbor, a woman of a certain age, always dressed in mourning black, offered me persimmons from her own tree. It was a big bag and I left them to ripe. When they became extremely soft and sweet I made a “gâteau aux kakis” from one of my favorite food blogs, David Lebovitz. I just put some dried apricots with the raisins and Spanish moscatel instead of rum or whisky, which gave it an extra sweet twist. A winter cake, I offered my neighbor in exchange for her superb persimmons.

There is an easy going relation between the neighbors, especially the one’s of a certain age that still conserve the old ways of greeting and exchanging some nice words; especially if they see you with a small child. In Crniče, our neighborhood, you don’t seem to be living in a capital which is Skopje. The city spreads on the foothill of mount Vodno where our neighborhood lies; with its curvy maze of narrow streets, adjusting to the hilly topography. Our street is no exception, narrow and irregular, the space is constantly negotiated between children playing, passersby, car drivers, truck drivers and wandering cats. Its name, Hristo Chernopeev, gives already an avant-goût of the layers of history lying in this city and country, some of which we will reveal along the posts during our stay here.

Et voilà, here is the first post from a table with a view. I am an architect, with my folding table, keen and sometimes competing interests in city culture, books and some amateur cooking, and I invite you to join me on some picnics with a table with a view now based in Skopje. For now, my table’s baptism, in our Crniče garden bathed in the last shades of the day.