The very best of Shopska salad is to be found in Skopje - or at least that's what the waiter tries to convince me in Macedonia Square on one of the city-centre terraces. At first glance it looks like a Greek salad topped with cheese, but it includes Serbian style slices of grilled paprika with extra-hot red peppers and two half-eggs. This version of the Bulgarian salad is a real Skopje invention: a little bit Greek, a little bit Turkish, a little bit south Slav, but still with something individual and unique.
Skopje lies at the crossroads of various cultures but has its own, individual flavour. Opposite the terrace, in the middle of the square, a black plaque commemorates the most famous daughter of the of the city, Agnes Gondxha Bojaxhiura, whom the world was to know simply as Mother Theresa. She was often asked whether she regarded herself as Albanian, Macedonian, Serbian, Turkish or Vlach. She answered, like many young people in Skopje do today:
"I regard myself as a citizen of Skopje, who belongs to the whole world." Mother Theresa was born in 1910 at the beginning of a troubled century, with storms sweeping through the region again and again leaving their indelible mark on the city. In this crossroads of nation there is just one construction that has survived every onslaught of history: the stone bridge that connects the square with the district known as the "Turkish town" on the other side of the Vardar river.
On sunny afternoons the bridge belongs to the occasional couple taking a stroll by the river, but by evening the place really comes alive with locals who emerge to enjoy the cool air by the Vradar. The first bridge was built in the sixth century, although its present appearance took shape under Sultan Murat II in the fifteenth century. The so-called White Road, named after the white cotton that fell from the camel caravans that used it, ran across the bridge (the last camel in Skopje is supposed to have been taken in 1937 by a Czech circus...) As late as 1911 the bridge was used by a Turkish sultan: as 520 years of Turkish rule came to an end Sultan Mohamed V drove across the bridge in his carriage to visit the Field of Blackbirds. He took a last glance at the sites of pars Turkish glory and disappeared from Skopje, along with his Turkish soldiers.
But not without trace. From the bridge one has a view over the hillside dotted with the crescents that top the spires of the mosques and minarets used by Albanian-speaking Muslims. There are Turkish bakeries, and from the river can be heard loud Turkish music coming from the teeming marketplace. Despite fires, wars, and the devastating earthquake of 1963, the Turkish quarter has managed to preserve its original character. Kebab shops run by Albanian or Slav speakers stand next-door to the dark workshops of traditional Balkan artisans. There are stall selling vegetables, counterfeit designer sportswear, Japanese electronic goods, and sickly-sweet Turkish Delight. In one multicultural café a Swedish tourist decides to try every type of coffee on offer. He gives up at the Albanian, but by that time he has downed a Greek iced coffee, a muddy Turkish coffee, an Italian cappuccino, a syrupy Macedonian coffee and a Serbian coffee that you could stand your spoon up in.
From the hill above the gigantic fifteenth-century baths of Daut Pasha there is a wonderful view over the modern city on the other side of the Vardar. On 26 July 1963 Skopje was devastated by two major and several dozen minor earthquakes. Half of the city's buildings were destroyed: of the thirty-seven thousand houses that existed at the time sixteen thousand collapsed and the entire downtown area was devastated. Viewed from above, the city centre today is a showcase of modern architecture. In the flattened area glass places and concrete buildings emerged from the earth, along with modern orthodox churches, from the dark doorways of which one can hear Gregorian chants. Nevertheless, the narrow streets and cafes found between the new buildings preserve the genuine Balkan atmosphere that has survived the centuries of turmoil.
By evening the centre of the town is teeming and the silent stone bridge continues, as it has done for centuries, to bear the stampede of the crowds who are drawn there to walk, gossip, argue and kiss.
Újvári Miklós