tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6650820573600066022024-03-13T10:19:56.092-07:00Friend Like MeI am a writer. I have always been a writer.
I am also a wife of one, divorcee of two, mother of three.
A stand-up comedienne trapped in a body of a Pharmacist. A feminist.
A Life Coach, the 'ass-kicking' kind!
Blogging memoir-ishly about my ridiculously happy right now and how to manifest some for yourself. Marina Hassonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10063153424590548742noreply@blogger.comBlogger57125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-665082057360006602.post-49803784422155106752022-07-17T20:00:00.000-07:002022-07-17T20:00:52.973-07:00Sweet-sweet
I've seen plenty of articles on how to find a great job - titles like: three steps, five tips, culture match, growth check... but I haven't seen many on how to quit a great job, and when, and how. And most importantly, why. Here is my farewell to my Dexcom family.
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFDiKND1ofvGdDIjWqvz9h3rVWZscm3arTg9yiqNRfor1afprOjoHhluaRJBKN-yBFYFXKFtjFCIrkZBQ22sfvBjv1QLCaRhDA91V5094VaZa8ZDSywlBvY-EIB2LASO3f7RSjvP957U5bgXIg5DBcdWavp7YMN98B82u3skzeOvYcGfL2qVyUHZZbEg/s2215/IMG_2655.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; clear: left; float: left;"><img alt="" border="0" height="320" data-original-height="2215" data-original-width="2095" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFDiKND1ofvGdDIjWqvz9h3rVWZscm3arTg9yiqNRfor1afprOjoHhluaRJBKN-yBFYFXKFtjFCIrkZBQ22sfvBjv1QLCaRhDA91V5094VaZa8ZDSywlBvY-EIB2LASO3f7RSjvP957U5bgXIg5DBcdWavp7YMN98B82u3skzeOvYcGfL2qVyUHZZbEg/s320/IMG_2655.jpg"/></a></div>
My Dexcom friends and colleagues -
I joked many times since March 2016, when I started in this role, that my LinkedIn tag-line should read: “The last stop before the beach”, meaning, no need to look further: the empathetic pharmacist in me, has met her calling in promoting Dexcom. It’s a story I will never get tired of telling, because it’s what happens when your most honourable competitor of a decade prior (Ms Robin Dales) gets you to leave a safe yet stale career in order to break new grounds, tap into golden relationships with Endocrinologists and Educators, reignite the power of the T1D community and do meaningful work, together. Helping Dexcom Canada start and grow has been the privilege of my professional life.
But the time has come for that beach to be more than just a proverbial reference. Over the month of July, I will be saying goodbye to my customers and all of you, easing into the role of the Chief Inspiration Officer for the Hasson family. It has been a long dream of ours to gift ourselves a year-long travel sabbatical, with the base camp in Israel, right on the Mediterranean coast. Our kids are fluent in Hebrew so while they’re in school, I will be on the lookout for the best hummus recipe, doing Zumba at 10 AM and finishing my memoir. If loss of my mom and the worldwide pandemic taught me anything, it’s to ask that cliché question: “If not now, when?” and actually mean it. So, it’s now.
As I pack the famed ‘office-box’ after 6+ years at Dexcom, you may wonder what’s in it?
Simple. Just 3 things:<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfb3JPLbpIov-pJhRQBfaQQrwB87eyJ4Gt9TcM0NvRESvckntLtUHin3GiBjIBLl9jdbNsHVeb_1MLdTJK1qtlNNob0BZPT4DJKCFcLOd1I8hIK_ceMdEsTyG76Y-IbGr0K1cQm58_kiK-WAOsUmae7YXOY2aNrEill2WJOPBzZwG7obNcHO2_fLFB3w/s3024/IMG_3547.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; clear: right; float: right;"><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="3024" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfb3JPLbpIov-pJhRQBfaQQrwB87eyJ4Gt9TcM0NvRESvckntLtUHin3GiBjIBLl9jdbNsHVeb_1MLdTJK1qtlNNob0BZPT4DJKCFcLOd1I8hIK_ceMdEsTyG76Y-IbGr0K1cQm58_kiK-WAOsUmae7YXOY2aNrEill2WJOPBzZwG7obNcHO2_fLFB3w/s320/IMG_3547.jpg"/></a></div>
1. Cards. Letters. Text messages from patients who still feel compelled to report their latest A1c to me. Thank you notes from parents that feel I gave their son his childhood back and their daughter to be invited on a sleepover for the first time. An email from a hard-to-see endocrinologist who recognized that allowing me into his practice made him a better clinician. It hasn’t been just me, it’s been Dexcom & me that made this professional fulfillment possible.
2. Photos of both fun and profound times I spent playing in this sandbox. Who’s in those pictures? It’s Robin and Richard and Paul, and Gillian, Anthony, Kirstie, and Sandy, Frank and the order will get messy, but it’s Eileen and Rachelle, JennM and Julie, and Ben East and Ben West… (in the Oscars, this is when the orchestra starts playing, so I will miss someone for sure)… Zach and William and my many IS partners, and my brand new and talented Ontario West crew and my collaborator extraordinaire of the past 2+ years: Alberto.
3. Isn’t there always a plant in one of those office-boxes? This seed germinated for a long time, well before I knew there was Dexcom technology in the making. In my 23 years in Canada, an army of incredible colleagues, mentors and managers added their wisdom, encouragement, light and warmth so when the conditions were ready, the rapid growth started: the stalk grew tall, branched out and blossomed. There had been calamities, oh yes, storms and bug attacks, but that’s how this spine got to be so strong and resilient. Storms are welcome—alas, what else would carry the seeds far and wide? My plant, it turns out, is the sunflower—always looking only where the good can be found.
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgggnYJFRcCGSD_BHcuEq_TMqgcP1W7M0WEYL_QmafE1A3uhZsCHIigTj8MYswjTtCer8T7n_Z48ZQFtoPZCow6AVOwz1EpPSXtq2aASrvVI50sax_SRV0RoGkbwHEMsJADI6shEFTR-EiU11R8npefSlNlhXK7VedyqXJXO5XY-fCq6dyBVteKcXswPQ/s517/Israel.jpeg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; clear: left; float: left;"><img alt="" border="0" width="200" data-original-height="511" data-original-width="517" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgggnYJFRcCGSD_BHcuEq_TMqgcP1W7M0WEYL_QmafE1A3uhZsCHIigTj8MYswjTtCer8T7n_Z48ZQFtoPZCow6AVOwz1EpPSXtq2aASrvVI50sax_SRV0RoGkbwHEMsJADI6shEFTR-EiU11R8npefSlNlhXK7VedyqXJXO5XY-fCq6dyBVteKcXswPQ/s200/Israel.jpeg"/></a></div>
The best compliment I ever received was from someone who, aware of my #Serbian #immigrant #single #mother from a #war-torn-country past, said: “I like how you life. It feels <i>light</i>.” So with this next chapter, we at home refer to as two-summers-and-a-year-in-between, we hope to broaden the light and show (not tell) our three sons how to shred that bitter-sweet ‘work hard - play hard’ stereotype, and playfully blaze our own trail, enjoying (p)retirement while still in early 50’s. And after that? No NEXT-ing allowed. The only plan is to have no plan, but ride on intuition and good energy we’ve been generating as we go, as we grow. If this email had a soundtrack, it would’ve been: <i>Living in the Moment</i> by Jason Mraz
I will be around until the end of July and after that at the same number, just through WhatsApp. I learned something from each and every one of you. Merci. Thank you. Хвала. Todah.Marina Hassonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10063153424590548742noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-665082057360006602.post-23505997386146600712021-06-18T11:20:00.002-07:002021-06-19T17:57:09.832-07:00The Douchebag You Don’t Know<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">My three-year-old son is running around a cramped living room in my sister’s house, manoeuvring between many pairs of knees, circling around the coffee table, roaring. He thinks he’s a T-Rex. In truth, he more resembles a pale and skinny lizard, propped on a pair of toothpicks for legs, his tiny fingers positioned as claws. High on sugar from the birthday cake, he actually looks fierce—a snarl revealing baby teeth, two crimson cheeks, sweaty hair sticking up in spikes. A few amused older adults, my mom especially, try to grab him playfully roaring back, but this only boosts his craze and he nearly knocks down a floor lamp. I’m worrying about the rattling china cups while eyeing a cactus, much taller than him, fearing a collision, when he storms towards a tall shelf with many displayed chachkas and I instinctively close my eyes. Still, nothing happens. When I look at him again I see my boy standing, quiet and curious, examining a framed photo of a newborn with his mom and dad on each side, smiling. My nephew was born the year before, on Father’s Day. </p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 16px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">I feel a pang deep in my stomach. <i>Father’s Day will always suck for Filip</i>. My husband, his biological father, left ten days before I gave birth, a tad prematurely due to stress; he'd left me, my pregnant belly and the troubled country we lived in, trading us for Texas and a mistress and later, another two children. On this joyful summer day, my nephew’s birthday, Father’s Day became my burden. The thought of my fatherless child, noticing for the first time the difference between having a family rather than “just a mom” deal, instantly grew as a chip on my shoulder, the size of Belgrade’s divorce court and its lousy, unenforceable parenting and child support agreement. The rest was no longer a problem: we were safe, having emigrated to Canada, dodging the Civil war and the subsequent NATO bombing. I landed a great job, rented my first apartment, opened a savings account. With all that relief came Father’s Day—not celebrated in Serbia—as a relentless reminder of what we’ve lacked, in flyers and commercials, topped with mandatory card-crafting activities at day care and school.</p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 16px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-65SuPv8dK4c/YMqWW9fV4BI/AAAAAAAACU4/ld1IjLZzLjcAndtSzzjxK5R65eQmi8M7ACLcBGAsYHQ/s373/Tata%2BFilip%2Bja%2B1996.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="255" data-original-width="373" height="137" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-65SuPv8dK4c/YMqWW9fV4BI/AAAAAAAACU4/ld1IjLZzLjcAndtSzzjxK5R65eQmi8M7ACLcBGAsYHQ/w200-h137/Tata%2BFilip%2Bja%2B1996.jpeg" width="200" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Belgrade winter of '96.</td></tr></tbody></table>As a pharmacist, I am well trained in substitutions, so at our home, I framed a photo of my late father holding Filip as a baby, with the young, boyish looking me on the other side. Over the following years, notable father figures found their frames. </p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 16px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">“There’s nothing that the two of us cannot provide for him” had been my mighty mom’s pledge at Filip’s birth and every single day since. Mom had been my rock, my best friend and that sane, wise and reliable other parent. </p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 16px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Traditionally, on Father’s Day, Filip and I would go to the zoo, biking or rollerblading, followed by slaughtering a few pounds of chicken wings. I doubt he’d been aware of the occasion but for my own sake, I tried to make sure no fun was missing when mama was filling in for that other, absent parent. <br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sUmOUyc37Ac/YMzdE0EqXRI/AAAAAAAACVs/pc_UzZ4uWy4e8RWxSjNnldGHCTVRFP8sQCLcBGAsYHQ/s914/Mama%2B%2526%2BKiki%2BEaster.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="914" data-original-width="895" height="200" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sUmOUyc37Ac/YMzdE0EqXRI/AAAAAAAACVs/pc_UzZ4uWy4e8RWxSjNnldGHCTVRFP8sQCLcBGAsYHQ/w196-h200/Mama%2B%2526%2BKiki%2BEaster.jpeg" width="196" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Toronto, 2006</td></tr></tbody></table></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 16px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">A quarter of a century passed. My boy grew up, got really tall and kind and strong, fell in love a few times, graduated from university and settled in another city with a full time dream-job. Meanwhile, I remarried and Filip became a devoted big brother to two little boys who have an incredible father we celebrate not just every year, but each and every day, who is also a praise-worthy stepfather. The absent parent remained absent, never attempting to meet Filip nor talk to him, unless a few tries at cyber-bullying count, back when Filip was becoming a teenager. </p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 16px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 16px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">The shades were pulled all the way down forcing the November sun rays to dim before entering the room 1708 at the Princess Margaret Cancer Centre. </p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">A printed page showing a black butterfly taped to the outside of the door, stating the plea for no interruptions—a gracious end-of-life gesture so that medical and support staff can honour there won’t be needs for food, housekeeping, nor further tests. Crouched on the chair, next to the hospital bed I am holding my mom’s hand. She spent most of the day sleeping, but now she’s awake and alert. </p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1gRoKEJ3p-Y/YMqX1ROh13I/AAAAAAAACVI/EyHd-6OcJmcTfL3JGq4QT7R-jrMqP9kFQCLcBGAsYHQ/s683/image1%2B2.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="511" data-original-width="683" height="149" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1gRoKEJ3p-Y/YMqX1ROh13I/AAAAAAAACVI/EyHd-6OcJmcTfL3JGq4QT7R-jrMqP9kFQCLcBGAsYHQ/w200-h149/image1%2B2.jpeg" width="200" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Epic Road Trip, Sep 2020</td></tr></tbody></table></span><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“I can’t stop thinking of Filip and how beautiful his condo is.” Mom’s voice is crisp and stronger than I expected. The painkiller dose is likely at its peak. “And how he prepared a feast for us, a generous host with that ‘best of everything’ spread!”</p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"> “Yes.“ I creak; my throat is dry, I’m swallowing tears fast, careful not to be caught. “We were so lucky with the timing.” Just six weeks earlier I took mom and my younger sons on a weekend road trip, to visit Filip and see how he’d settled. Mom and I booked a hotel, while kids stayed for what will forever be remembered as 'an epic sleepover'. Few weeks later, the nausea started. The cause labeled: terminal. </p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_zZvcD4P2pI/YMqYByXM6JI/AAAAAAAACVM/0gVRBGmtejAMnFncLra_ZJCThaKRHlK2QCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/image2.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="200" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_zZvcD4P2pI/YMqYByXM6JI/AAAAAAAACVM/0gVRBGmtejAMnFncLra_ZJCThaKRHlK2QCLcBGAsYHQ/w150-h200/image2.jpeg" width="150" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our last</td></tr></tbody></table><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“You have a beautiful life, Marina” mom beams at me, her skin flawless and bright, unusual for the condition ravaging the rest of her body. “Everything ended up working just fine.”</p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“You’ve always promised that, mama. It’s just that I never believed it was possible for me. I feared Filip would’ve ended up scarred for not having a father.”</p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Mom took a breath. “It’s never the abandoned ones that are scarred. They grow up mature and resilient, like Filip has. It’s the children that came afterwards I worry about: like your ex’s kids,” she paused, “like your nephews.” I shuddered, feeling the electricity spread from the nape of my neck and down my spine. Indeed, that framed photo taken right after my nephew’s birth should’ve included a toddler sister. Older than Filip, the young woman had recently attempted to make contact with her biological father. It didn’t go well. “Some day, they will realize their father was the douchebag* capable of abandonment and their mother conspired. It could’ve easily been any one of them.” Mom closed her eyes. </p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 16px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">I adjusted her oxygen mask and gently moved the bangs off her forehead, then sat down took her hand in both of mine, pressing my cheek deep into her palm.</p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-T4Ll2JNHAX8/YMzcAHFXPVI/AAAAAAAACVk/NhOT2OE17d4wLrf6oEQBpRbhnH45VfReQCLcBGAsYHQ/s486/image0.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="248" data-original-width="486" height="204" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-T4Ll2JNHAX8/YMzcAHFXPVI/AAAAAAAACVk/NhOT2OE17d4wLrf6oEQBpRbhnH45VfReQCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h204/image0.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In my mom's wisdom: It's the opposite for douchebags</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div><br /></div>
*This conversation happened in Serbian. The actual word used to describe the characters in question: govno.Marina Hassonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10063153424590548742noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-665082057360006602.post-19499899003010220172021-04-11T08:16:00.008-07:002021-04-14T12:40:46.336-07:00Dear Diary (Covid-19 Edition)<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">I miss speaking Serbian. </p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Since mom died, with a sense of vague unease, I am realizing I might be the last generation in my family to understand this language - anything from jokes and movie quotes to prose, poetry and song lyrics, might be lost for the generation I birthed. At least for the youngest two. My husband’s Israeli, my kids are bilingual, but they speak Hebrew. Ajvar, pita, sarma, kajmak, kobasica and ćevapčići have been the only Serbian words in their vocabulary and I was content with them having at least the Balkan palate if not the palatalization. My homeland lifeline, these past few months, has been my Serbian women walking group. “Šetačice” - socially distanced yet soul-filling, they’ve kept my spirits along with the step count in all weather since the pandemic started. Their presence has been especially soothing to my grieving heart. </p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">But lately, I’ve been missing on our walks — my youngest son, still only 10, has recently realized the meaning of “forever”. Just the other night, I’ve found his giant stuffed toy dog on the floor - it had always been guarding the wall sprawled on his queen sized-bed. </p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Why is this guy on the floor?” I was coming to tuck him in for the night, “I almost tripped.”</p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span> “I wanted… to have some space… in my bed” his voice was quiet and deliberate and I noticed he was stretching his eyes, trying not to cry, “in case… Bajče comes… in my dream… to cuddle with me.”</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tXc5hFvrva0/YHKQt5Sk2eI/AAAAAAAACSA/_ZBwJnjz1XgbNIqDjq_fDknLEZVQyZ6NQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/Bajce%2Band%2BJoJo.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="150" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tXc5hFvrva0/YHKQt5Sk2eI/AAAAAAAACSA/_ZBwJnjz1XgbNIqDjq_fDknLEZVQyZ6NQCLcBGAsYHQ/w200-h150/Bajce%2Band%2BJoJo.jpg" title="The last hug" width="200" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">My heart shattered. It is one thing for me to be dealing with the aftermath of a monumental loss, discovering the “void shaped of exactly her lines, characters and customs, that sits in her place and stares at me”; it’s another to witness my child suffer. So we’ve been going hiking—opening up comes easier when we are in nature, both facing forward. We talk about everything else first. The other day, at school-on-Zoom, fifth graders were discussing which one wish they would choose for themselves if it could come true - the task was to type their answer in chat: </p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Becoming invisible” typed one.</p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Flying” chimed another.</p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Scoring more goals” came from the sportiest kid in class.</p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Getting 100% on all tests.” There is always a class nerd.</p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">My son wrote: “To bring my grandma back.”</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HbGFJhUerbE/YHKQGskGVCI/AAAAAAAACR4/iRYXeDtHhQ8N8LfEWCWN7z7M9ezvdGH6QCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/Bajce%2Band%2BJoJo.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /></a></div><p></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">So today, I opted out of my Cyrillic crowd for another walk with my son. We both need to learn how to find peace and cultivate joy in this new reality, without Bajče. We decided to try a brand new trail - something fresh and unknown, an adventure. </p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9_VNQEYGaE4/YHKUduEZ2-I/AAAAAAAACSQ/mlDweWCVIusFjo2JOXHmJgvDqERP7lyeACLcBGAsYHQ/s3024/IMG_1287.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="3024" height="200" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9_VNQEYGaE4/YHKUduEZ2-I/AAAAAAAACSQ/mlDweWCVIusFjo2JOXHmJgvDqERP7lyeACLcBGAsYHQ/w200-h200/IMG_1287.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br />The parking at the ravine was full, but we were in no big rush. Chicken wings for dinner were ready and marinating, the rest of our crew on a long bike ride… <p></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>HOOOOONK, HOOOONK, HONK, HONK!!! A grey sedan that entered the parking lot behind us, clearly didn’t see that I had to wait for another car to move in order for me to proceed. An elderly woman was taking her time getting into the car in front. HOOOONK!</p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I looked over my shoulder and motioned there was someone ahead. I couldn’t see the driver well other than he had a red baseball cap — my bile stirred, compliments of the former US president. HOOONK! </p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Jesus. Late for a Rally much?” I muttered and Joshua laughed—we still do Trump jokes. My boy was also pleased to have snatched the front seat for this ride. The car ahead moved and I slowly began to drive. I noticed a young woman busying around car seats on both sides of her van. She gestured she was leaving. I signalled, so the Honker would know to pass me, but he stayed behind. At the same time, another car, mere meters away pulled out and I moved towards that spot. As I pulled up, the Trump hat with a grey mullet materialized at my window. It startled me. The man yelled why was I going forward when I already signalled. I cracked the window open: “Umm, first car, first spot rule?” In lieu of an answer, the prickly man ran in front of my car blocking the spot with his outstretched arms--he looked like a cheerleader--so his wife could jump in front of me and pull in. The car that just vacated the spot stopped, the driver came out.</p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“This is not your spot, Pal. It’s hers.” </p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Hey, it’s OK. Thank you." I was relieved. "This lady is leaving too.” Indeed, the mini van left just few seconds later and we’ve backed into a big, wide spot. </p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Professional moms coming out of the car, always make sure we have water, phone, sunscreen etc. As I packed, I noticed the red hat in front of me again. Thankfully, he wore a mask and instead of MAGA, on his hat was written CANADA. </p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>More yelling at me ensued. Why did I signal and why did I move. I attempted to address the parking etiquette. 20+ pre-Covid years, my work life consisted of parking and unparking from tight hospital parking lots, where people don’t park for pleasure nor for free. No help. He yelled some more, then joined his woman, still riled up and fuming. At the end of the parking lot he abruptly turned around and started towards us again. I tensed, expecting altrecation and turned my phone camera on. Luckily, he only went back to his car. They had forgotten their dog. </p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I decided to stay a few minutes behind, not quite rattled but surely not wanting the “trumpers” in sight while Joshua and I have our “important talk” walk. I knew his kind, the perpetually angry and bitter man archetype, young enough to feel he could bully despite being old enough to know much better. From afar, I snapped the photo of his car and license plate — he had already approached us a few times. His is the kind that launches racial or homophobic slurs; he looked like a jerk that enjoys scratching other people’s cars. He’d seen me take a photo. He was expecting it and waited for me as we stepped on the trail. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nEzBIrpX-ns/YHKUKQToOSI/AAAAAAAACSI/bxSme2itndQzvO9ZuNfldRaCCsG1oearACLcBGAsYHQ/s1549/IMG_1421.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1549" data-original-width="1170" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nEzBIrpX-ns/YHKUKQToOSI/AAAAAAAACSI/bxSme2itndQzvO9ZuNfldRaCCsG1oearACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_1421.jpg" /></a></div><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Why did you take a picture of our car?” this time, the wife yelled at me first. </p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“You behave like people that may resort to vandalism.” I was aware that my son was observing me. He had never seen drama like this unfold. “You already showed you’re not respectful of rules, nor my space.” </p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Then we will take a picture of your car.” </p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“You’re welcome to.”</p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“You shouldn’t be doing this in front of your son!” the little man shouted. </p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“On the contrary. I am showing my son how to stand his ground.” A couple that was on the bench looked up from their phones. Other walkers stopped to witness the shouting match. “It’s you who violated the rules.” I continued. “And you’re not a new driver. Shame on you. I’m so disappointed you’re wearing CANADA on your hat!” He shouted something else, but I put my hand up, and told Joshua we’re beginning our walk. </p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">The woman started going back towards the parking lot, yanking the poor dog along, ready with her phone, but paused to wait for her furious husband. </p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Pička joj materina!” she addressed her husband. It’s one of the worst swear expressions in Serbo-Croatian. He agreed, with the F word, again in our native language. </p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“More pička tebi materina!” Honestly, this wasn't me. My mouth did it, I swear. I swear. </p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">I laughed out loud at the irony — I ended up speaking Serbian on this walk after all. Joshi and I crossed the first bridge over the East Don River, as always, stopping at the top to take a selfie. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wxs0CMp_m24/YHKVGMhtsiI/AAAAAAAACSk/vxk2Rh6pxz8nnI7yD1oVt27lP7sdwvFUACLcBGAsYHQ/s2316/IMG_1396.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2316" data-original-width="2316" height="200" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wxs0CMp_m24/YHKVGMhtsiI/AAAAAAAACSk/vxk2Rh6pxz8nnI7yD1oVt27lP7sdwvFUACLcBGAsYHQ/w200-h200/IMG_1396.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br />And we talked. We talked about bullies, and parking rules. We talked about what does expression “walking away with a tail between the legs” means. And we talked about afterlife and near death experiences. I shared what I’ve read in <a href="https://www.google.ca/books/edition/Dying_to_Be_Me/Pmc5wFoi578C?hl=en&gbpv=1&printsec=frontcover" target="_blank">Anita Moorjani’s book “Dying to be me”</a>. Joshua said that he feels better when we talk about these things and I said he can always ask me anything. Then we made plans to watch “Soul” on Disney+ tomorrow, because it will rain. We’ve done 6500 steps. <p></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Mama, what does it mean “materinu”” Joshua asked tonight at bedtime, as I was tucking him in. He dragged the long “e”, it sounded ‘matereeeenoo’</p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“That… Oh, that, I’m not going to answer.” </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></p>Marina Hassonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10063153424590548742noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-665082057360006602.post-77784864351153196962020-04-13T12:33:00.000-07:002021-06-19T17:51:31.969-07:0019 Good Things<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">How you’re doing these days, amidst panic and pandemic? How’s the Passover-Easter week in confinement? </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Our quarantine started early, having been exposed to someone who tested positive on March 8th. With two booked spring trips cancelled and a major, exciting travel project indefinitely postponed, I am finding it hard, really, really hard to be upset. You read that right. It’s hard for me to feel upset at all. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">In fact, I am happy, likely, happiest I’ve been in years. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">And no, it’s not because I grew up as a child of line-ups, rations and shortages: from gas, to flour and sugar, to electricity. It’s also not because just 10 days before I became a first-time parent, I became a <a href="http://friend-like-me.blogspot.com/2014/12/a-series-of-fortunate-events.html" target="_blank">single parent, in a country with a raging Civil war </a>and the impending NATO intervention (21 years ago today, bombs were still falling on my hometown of Belgrade, Serbia). It’s also not because having been a new-immigrant in Canada, for the first couple of years I couldn’t afford to do the Pharmacy Board licensing exam, so I’ve built my career on the corporate side of healthcare, which these days leaves me with a calling that can be done from home, deeming me unqualified to be on the healthcare’s frontline and therefore—safe. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I wondered, myself, where is this surge of joyfulness coming from—not to be mistaken for the lack of concern for everyone that is and could be affected by COVID-19—and there is not one reason. I actually, counted 19: </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><b>1. “No.”</b> If anything, Coronavirus taught me in its early days to say “no”, not feel guilty and not try to justify it. Dinner out? No. Visit? No. Playdate? No. Bat Mitzvah? No. Feel the relief.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><b>2. No wasting food.</b> It’s been 5 weeks that we’ve finished every last bit of food purchased and prepared. The craziness of the waste finally sank in. It feels so good to be food conscious.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><b>3. Partnership.</b> The artist previously known as a single-mother, is doing her first crisis with a responsible, willing and capable spouse: I’m appreciating my skilled hunter-gatherer husband, who—in olden days—never went food shopping (because I didn’t let him!). Now, he dresses up, accepts the gloves, antibacterial wipes and layered bandanas, gets the 4 shopping lists: us + 3 seniors, and off he goes, while me and our boys safely stay behind. This kind of chivalry is kind of hot!</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><b>4. Home-schooling subject: resilience.</b> Our school is amazing and organized: as of Isolation Day 1, they had moved on to Zoom and complete on-line curriculum, which leaves us to teach the most important subject—how do you react in crisis, which promises to be prolonged and riddled with losses of all kinds. Kids are watching and listening as we follow the news, the deaths and the prognosis. Finding a balance between empathy for the world, while keeping our own oasis engaged and upbeat has been a privilege many generations of parents never had. It’s <a href="https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0118799/" target="_blank">“Life is Beautiful”</a> COVID-19 style. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YGPbZYhb4pM/XpSypdvh6eI/AAAAAAAACLo/0Ehzia1568Uc_HH0cMtfGmXtTmpQXmI_wCEwYBhgLKs0DAMBZVoCMJMLr8KZ6wpuTv3-5uS54cl_2O7juXN68vQuOSkxTmA7TRHdZJyIvqCF3Ro_U8b3Vl0XtirNw1iq8oRuFIPCJl3RaPDKVrgty0qOVSUbg40tWePeZYN1pum-Xt5kj3shl6G0HrE1V34PnsHuQ9Vsc753uSwGhNNlYAWvfEdOsj8WWkhl7_m9dv15dxEEngZu5gfJobJ2h47ZP0c-EuSTSNAySEJzlRvc8assl5iNce4fN-b3UHpU8jFG2J765eqH7MhrqpHRsMJhsQERFfbK_NR7JFHkLdt3G6uJWvXqQ122bGw6CQFhtXKHCZMaNzbzZE7rZ_ygGvWNb5iRZIZGycY-TgNdW70V0Js9ae76w-m6PS4DGFfCi1rPzR9LCNmGKU4aCOBfx-5IhbSXugrXs4rXiSR860dAmjRa2ne7viuSskQ_trMlyGGPgc_J8YmabbksG1ac7O5DlfLXmeQDZOHtOB3TRszsQP1KsvvntRZdAstjlN91C3nDanG2eBuTAtKvOEOcqeTrOM-7bVGPFful353mrwoQTmeRDakaBdUpsi-FHPY3ZrsRdrN71LKFXOoj9KI-wTGjbnkL2uA8lpAkv1digSF8w4ezS9AU/s1600/IMG_5884.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="150" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YGPbZYhb4pM/XpSypdvh6eI/AAAAAAAACLo/0Ehzia1568Uc_HH0cMtfGmXtTmpQXmI_wCEwYBhgLKs0DAMBZVoCMJMLr8KZ6wpuTv3-5uS54cl_2O7juXN68vQuOSkxTmA7TRHdZJyIvqCF3Ro_U8b3Vl0XtirNw1iq8oRuFIPCJl3RaPDKVrgty0qOVSUbg40tWePeZYN1pum-Xt5kj3shl6G0HrE1V34PnsHuQ9Vsc753uSwGhNNlYAWvfEdOsj8WWkhl7_m9dv15dxEEngZu5gfJobJ2h47ZP0c-EuSTSNAySEJzlRvc8assl5iNce4fN-b3UHpU8jFG2J765eqH7MhrqpHRsMJhsQERFfbK_NR7JFHkLdt3G6uJWvXqQ122bGw6CQFhtXKHCZMaNzbzZE7rZ_ygGvWNb5iRZIZGycY-TgNdW70V0Js9ae76w-m6PS4DGFfCi1rPzR9LCNmGKU4aCOBfx-5IhbSXugrXs4rXiSR860dAmjRa2ne7viuSskQ_trMlyGGPgc_J8YmabbksG1ac7O5DlfLXmeQDZOHtOB3TRszsQP1KsvvntRZdAstjlN91C3nDanG2eBuTAtKvOEOcqeTrOM-7bVGPFful353mrwoQTmeRDakaBdUpsi-FHPY3ZrsRdrN71LKFXOoj9KI-wTGjbnkL2uA8lpAkv1digSF8w4ezS9AU/s200/IMG_5884.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Leek & rice pie</td></tr>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><b>5. Conscious decluttering:</b> room by room, drawer by drawer, remove everything we no longer need—baby books, art supplies, previously loved clothes, dishes we never used. Bring it to the donation bin or post it on Facebook Marketplace and donate. Sell high end items at a below reasonable price. It’s an energy exchange at it’s best!</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><b>6. Cooking from scratch</b>, baking like a mad woman. I am channeling my great-grandmothers, Milena and Ljubica, and women in our family that came after them, that lived through wars and calamities. It gives me joy to invent, combine and improvise so that our pantry is getting emptied while keeping recipes healthy and delicious. A Quarantine Cookbook already in the making! </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><b>7. Kids in the kitchen</b>—no longer strapped for time between my last work phone call and their math/piano/gym I let our boys make mess and mistakes and eat them too. Our oldest graduated from University, found a job and moved away. He cooks for himself—after swimming, it’s the next must have skill. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><b>8. Silence diet.</b> I am working from home now. Unlike my past life of the back to back meetings, traffic, phone calls and multitasking, it’s time for silence—on—demand. I close the doors to my office and listen to silence. I am focused, I get the work done. Have I only been a situational extrovert? <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One home office slaying mama</td></tr>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><b>9. The end of multitasking:</b> night one of isolation, I happily yapped with my girlfriend while chopping rutabaga for my famous coleslaw, when… horror scene involving a Chef’s knife. Luckily, I keep a fresh stock of first aid and the cut, although vicious, did not need stitching. Lesson learned: one task at the time, forever, not just during the pandemic. Keep the ER for things that can’t be avoided. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><b>10. This is “one day”</b>. The one day when the conditions are ideal for wearing my favourite clothes. For the last squirt of treasured perfume. For projects such as scanning photos from an old album. For reading the pile of saved articles that sounded promising. Everything I like the most, today. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><b>11. Play with kids the games we played as kids</b>: scattegories, Yahtzee, battleship, rummy, charades—we team up or we play solo, we compete, taunt and torment and suddenly, I’m 11 again! So.much.fun. Kids are shocked how mean this mama can be or from my point of view: “I respect you too much to let you win.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><b>12. Kids play their instruments for pleasure.</b> This happened exactly never since they each chose their instrument. The first few notes of either piano or the guitar are my cue to drop everything and unassumingly approach our dining room table where one of the puzzles is spread out to be solved. This is my new therapy and for some reason, they play, and play, and play. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Me" time</td></tr>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Mzup8Ye1y8c/XpSzr1KYevI/AAAAAAAACMI/nwNu6eG3BZ89LC0YXVB3MYCLRa9Wef53QCEwYBhgLKs0DAMBZVoB-Byl49ArAAEzgx-XY_q4JG8BVXWlu5xB0Ezf4D3q2zPpgfYbT_es41_Mo50hECbzXgepF8CDE7V7HP3kcWg6O8JZDKXMfaUmmUbpPQkDpejcYKDc3BN0Y4e3phPR7i5BRHyvQ3lTo2OZpurrSTaPojxNWox1AT86SPJfTUba5vM7XqD2R0tx6qe3dAWIKajOLAhzGH9dFbhlihkcgPRYlWyeBj6lOA29v2k1vsn6171tc1gArXnI-5Yc862194RpDJCCrb4pp18vizi9lKKdbHfJyNOKLBxvyw7TrS9WXaXmKl8lD7I2bqMDf643Ew7-VlomAc7elmx8fZ8fqdJcdkJWUGO9L8zaDFtxiTFVrVsVoo5m1cSjbx0Y1kBbunj8vWP-T6bK1zF1Mozx9Y7z3eRJj9Bo9OsvDYsdqewexBK-_N2tM3eLc0OSn2fIIJ5l6CBVwCYyz90j3bwtDdeKlXX7KpVmzE0NSi0hpfU9uMLQW-wtdNYr9jm9fQ9WytgNbT9wMvIKSdytNfoCYLejpkWI1JS1L8uq9PidKChYF1WmCMTZ0XRhz7C591OyhQ8bDlVJ7eu_nfzOgvNznVdQDi_LBwnRADcww0-3S9AU/s1600/CBABDACD-ADE8-45D6-9DE4-4ADCE8E45ACF.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="467" height="200" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Mzup8Ye1y8c/XpSzr1KYevI/AAAAAAAACMI/nwNu6eG3BZ89LC0YXVB3MYCLRa9Wef53QCEwYBhgLKs0DAMBZVoB-Byl49ArAAEzgx-XY_q4JG8BVXWlu5xB0Ezf4D3q2zPpgfYbT_es41_Mo50hECbzXgepF8CDE7V7HP3kcWg6O8JZDKXMfaUmmUbpPQkDpejcYKDc3BN0Y4e3phPR7i5BRHyvQ3lTo2OZpurrSTaPojxNWox1AT86SPJfTUba5vM7XqD2R0tx6qe3dAWIKajOLAhzGH9dFbhlihkcgPRYlWyeBj6lOA29v2k1vsn6171tc1gArXnI-5Yc862194RpDJCCrb4pp18vizi9lKKdbHfJyNOKLBxvyw7TrS9WXaXmKl8lD7I2bqMDf643Ew7-VlomAc7elmx8fZ8fqdJcdkJWUGO9L8zaDFtxiTFVrVsVoo5m1cSjbx0Y1kBbunj8vWP-T6bK1zF1Mozx9Y7z3eRJj9Bo9OsvDYsdqewexBK-_N2tM3eLc0OSn2fIIJ5l6CBVwCYyz90j3bwtDdeKlXX7KpVmzE0NSi0hpfU9uMLQW-wtdNYr9jm9fQ9WytgNbT9wMvIKSdytNfoCYLejpkWI1JS1L8uq9PidKChYF1WmCMTZ0XRhz7C591OyhQ8bDlVJ7eu_nfzOgvNznVdQDi_LBwnRADcww0-3S9AU/s200/CBABDACD-ADE8-45D6-9DE4-4ADCE8E45ACF.jpeg" width="145" /></a><span style="font-kerning: none;"><b>13. The art of self care.</b> Yoga at home followed by a hot, hot bath with essential oils, lit candles and my <a href="https://shop.proprlifestyle.com/collections/skincare" target="_blank">Korean Skincare </a>routine. I used to rush all of this, in&out of shower, rarely taking the time. It’s a weekly home-spa-me-time-sanctuary now: early evening, <a href="https://shop.proprlifestyle.com/products/dr-hedison-egf-revitalize-serum?variant=31136255869022" target="_blank">carefully selected items</a> that replenish my skin and soothe my soul. And the heavenly sleep afterwards…</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><b>14. Sleep.</b> The 9h are the new normal. I dream every night. I am sane again.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><b>15. Watching my kids watch our favourite movies:</b> School of Rock. Top Gun. Fish Called Wanda. When my husband gets too serious about school assignments, we now call him Mr.Shneebly; both our boys cried when Goose died, and when I teased my youngest one the other day, he replied: K,k,k,Ken is c,c,c,coming to k,k,k,kill you! And that’s p,p,p,priceless. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><b>16. Kindness, anonymous.</b> I am a recovering “gift with purchase” cosmetics junkie. It’s all finally being used now—the fancy toners, hair masks, and eyebrow brushes. All the fancy sachets filled with essentials are dropped off at the women’s shelter. </span></div>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nnGYFCFGFBI/XpS98D7_YKI/AAAAAAAACMs/nGRZ4k2cDM4KpvddlqJq80NeUb4dHy0XwCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/IMG_5363.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1194" data-original-width="1124" height="200" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nnGYFCFGFBI/XpS98D7_YKI/AAAAAAAACMs/nGRZ4k2cDM4KpvddlqJq80NeUb4dHy0XwCLcBGAsYHQ/s200/IMG_5363.jpg" width="188" /></a><span style="font-kerning: none;"><b>17. Closure.</b> Pandemic is a great time for a truth check—are those dismissed from your life still dismissal-worthy? Could a threat bigger than all of us, perhaps mend severed ties? Here is how to check: do something kind for the estranged person, from calling/texting to check on them to physically doing something kind. Wait for the response. Chances are, distance and fear created enough humble energy on both sides for a healthy do-over. It’s always worth a try, especially if it’s a dear friend or a family member. The worst that can happen—a solid closure. Here is my own 4 year do-over attempt. Siri, what is closure? When a loss is no longer a loss. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><b>18. New skills: </b>I can do 3 perfect male haircuts, using trimmer and scissors. Kids say they’ll never enter a salon again! </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><b>19. “I don’t know.”</b> COVID-19 has given us an opportunity to come clean and say it out loud - we don’t have the answers. When is school going to reopen? Are we going to Florida? When are we going to visit family in Serbia and Israel again? Will we ever go to Ninjaz obstacle course? It is wonderful to practice not being all knowing, giving permission to our kids to be free not to be know-it-alls. Instead, we all just wing it, the best we can, one day at a time. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">What I do know however, is that Mother Earth is speaking and we all, while down on our knees, must pay attention. The only way back up and to our feet might be by reaching out and holding hands with our fellow humans until we <a href="https://forge.medium.com/prepare-for-the-ultimate-gaslighting-6a8ce3f0a0e0" target="_blank">learn to truly support one another</a>. We might be given a chance to make the first wobbly steps again in a much better world than the one we had before. </span></div>
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Marina Hassonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10063153424590548742noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-665082057360006602.post-26829592775392292442016-09-17T19:14:00.000-07:002016-09-17T19:14:16.931-07:00"The Amazing Race" Kind of Summer: Prague<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Times; font-size: 16px;">You know that feeling when you see a stunningly beautiful woman right in front of you - and she takes your breath away. Regardless of her age. Or what gender you are. The undeniable beauty of such astronomical proportions that it leaves you weak at knees. </span><i style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Times; font-size: 16px;">How is it even possible to be t h i s perfect?</i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Times; font-size: 16px;"> Then you recover and start looking, searching for even a tiny flaw. But there is none. And you resolve: she's a goddess - a miracle. </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9FyTufpeMTI/V9yhXEne-3I/AAAAAAAACAo/RPiKK6URG1o1QILMIgTVdAmdcv1IH4cRACEw/s1600/IMG_5749.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="161" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9FyTufpeMTI/V9yhXEne-3I/AAAAAAAACAo/RPiKK6URG1o1QILMIgTVdAmdcv1IH4cRACEw/s400/IMG_5749.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; text-align: left;">Karlův most - Charles Bridge</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">But then, you start feeling a tiny nudge, a mere hunch that something's not quite right with this picture but you don't know what it is. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">This is how Prague was for me. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">But I'm getting ahead of myself. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">If truth be told, how we picked destinations for our "Amazing Race" summer didn't have to do much with some grand mapping project, but rather more with the list of Star Alliance partners. All I knew was that I must summon my boy crew to Belgrade. Budapest was a short road trip away. Amsterdam and Prague were convenient Air Canada harbours where we could easily hop off the plane, roam around for a few days and hop back on to the next city. </span><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-D3ybd4jb4wo/V9068zP6GTI/AAAAAAAACBo/Uc6q8hUxOqYGSxFLkhl3lAfQl3ct0zo-QCLcB/s1600/FullSizeRender.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="199" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-D3ybd4jb4wo/V9068zP6GTI/AAAAAAAACBo/Uc6q8hUxOqYGSxFLkhl3lAfQl3ct0zo-QCLcB/s200/FullSizeRender.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Signing at the dotted line! </td></tr>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">By then, our last stop of a four-city tour, the kids finally became restless. No wonder - we had dragged them with us by foot for 12 days, got them to try all sorts of authentic foods and to sleep in many different beds often way, way past their bed time. Clearly, this called for a bribe. But first, having the genius entrepreneurial husband that I have, they needed to sign a contract that listed expectations such as "Love thy brother" and "Listen to thy parents" just to make sure our first stop at the Praha's famous <span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">toy store</span> didn't inadvertently end in a mega double tantrum. It worked: one Disney car track and one LEGO airport later, there was enough to look forward to in order to cooperate with the final ambitious city touring plan.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">And then: BAM! The balmy summer afternoon, the cobblestone streets and wide vast city squares wowed us - first time Czech Republic visitors - and we instantly learned why Prague is actually called "Golden Prague". Not sure if it was the sunset glow or the manicured facades or the myriads of ornate details wherever we looked, but this city is impressive in all its glorious beauty. See for yourself. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-SQqlrN41T_Y/V9yhX_N1_rI/AAAAAAAACAw/7V-YjKH8gvc_cPauIOg858tPvfRDy-dGgCEw/s1600/IMG_5653.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-SQqlrN41T_Y/V9yhX_N1_rI/AAAAAAAACAw/7V-YjKH8gvc_cPauIOg858tPvfRDy-dGgCEw/s400/IMG_5653.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The rooftops of Prague</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Ys1pLJ7LdWk/V9yhblzieuI/AAAAAAAACBI/ar3MC5enB6Y-ZhYQoD1Evu1SeUo6bzWEQCEw/s1600/IMG_5836.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Ys1pLJ7LdWk/V9yhblzieuI/AAAAAAAACBI/ar3MC5enB6Y-ZhYQoD1Evu1SeUo6bzWEQCEw/s400/IMG_5836.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Prague Castle and St.Vitus Cathedral</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XEH2TLRyh_E/V9yhYrNAeWI/AAAAAAAACA0/1b8h9qhOTR8xR8PjEmDhgTtNbYkwN4KYACEw/s1600/IMG_5769.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="195" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XEH2TLRyh_E/V9yhYrNAeWI/AAAAAAAACA0/1b8h9qhOTR8xR8PjEmDhgTtNbYkwN4KYACEw/s400/IMG_5769.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Old City (Stare Mesto) </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-sG76yC8cqdk/V9078B_lh_I/AAAAAAAACB0/oKdlV9yGF6kO7s_NZlBKWzm81nhvZpoAwCEw/s1600/FullSizeRender%2B8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-sG76yC8cqdk/V9078B_lh_I/AAAAAAAACB0/oKdlV9yGF6kO7s_NZlBKWzm81nhvZpoAwCEw/s400/FullSizeRender%2B8.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Old Town Square</td></tr>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cSYeSeWn2vU/V9yhdT5Fo_I/AAAAAAAACBU/udDzeYA3NDwqc02zk0vRQvBvJKYvJ2I8wCEw/s1600/IMG_5882.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="227" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cSYeSeWn2vU/V9yhdT5Fo_I/AAAAAAAACBU/udDzeYA3NDwqc02zk0vRQvBvJKYvJ2I8wCEw/s400/IMG_5882.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-c-UGpQVOVMs/V9yhdVTFGkI/AAAAAAAACBQ/HnFFSsPeRqgFPZLZ2vFUoNOfvh7uSSisQCEw/s1600/IMG_5879.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-c-UGpQVOVMs/V9yhdVTFGkI/AAAAAAAACBQ/HnFFSsPeRqgFPZLZ2vFUoNOfvh7uSSisQCEw/s400/IMG_5879.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Astronomical Clock - it works since 1410!</td></tr>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JQk00flQrhA/V9yhdySivwI/AAAAAAAACBY/615lvOfjR5w-y0EmkYRDnqoAtSFEk-74wCEw/s1600/IMG_5887.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JQk00flQrhA/V9yhdySivwI/AAAAAAAACBY/615lvOfjR5w-y0EmkYRDnqoAtSFEk-74wCEw/s400/IMG_5887.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-cmayAWxkxwQ/V9yhb2IxTRI/AAAAAAAACBM/_lhqRYXp7oodZisCgDfA75tnabtuNoABwCEw/s1600/IMG_5842.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="208" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-cmayAWxkxwQ/V9yhb2IxTRI/AAAAAAAACBM/_lhqRYXp7oodZisCgDfA75tnabtuNoABwCEw/s400/IMG_5842.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">National Theatre on the Vltava river</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZQlWPEcJaEs/V9yhazVN6CI/AAAAAAAACBE/2rbvrL-CpkYxHqq632rWfAh2yy2pkiobwCEw/s1600/IMG_5829.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="190" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZQlWPEcJaEs/V9yhazVN6CI/AAAAAAAACBE/2rbvrL-CpkYxHqq632rWfAh2yy2pkiobwCEw/s400/IMG_5829.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bedrich Smetana Museum</td></tr>
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-NeGpTHxeAt4/V908TjYIoQI/AAAAAAAACB4/KT5uKYPAV-Ay7GZiJ6glZEivY7U4IJWcwCLcB/s1600/FullSizeRender%2B7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-NeGpTHxeAt4/V908TjYIoQI/AAAAAAAACB4/KT5uKYPAV-Ay7GZiJ6glZEivY7U4IJWcwCLcB/s400/FullSizeRender%2B7.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-F6Ul1UXI4KM/V908kis0D-I/AAAAAAAACCE/cW9w5ut6LAEqec0Rxc0GF2zKK8buABMLACEw/s1600/IMG_5395.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-F6Ul1UXI4KM/V908kis0D-I/AAAAAAAACCE/cW9w5ut6LAEqec0Rxc0GF2zKK8buABMLACEw/s400/IMG_5395.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Just like in <a href="https://youtu.be/kdtLuyWuPDs" target="_blank">Smetana's Vltava</a></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-F5dttfEstbo/V9yhafqTbrI/AAAAAAAACBA/NNBGRRnvXhURINxzK_zaPmznRl_H1FdsgCEw/s1600/IMG_5819.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-F5dttfEstbo/V9yhafqTbrI/AAAAAAAACBA/NNBGRRnvXhURINxzK_zaPmznRl_H1FdsgCEw/s400/IMG_5819.jpg" width="323" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The oh so Gothic Powder Tower</td></tr>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Wherever you are in Prague - Mala Strana, Staro Mesto, Vinohrady - wherever you look, you will be overwhelmed with sights that cramp, crowd and overlap both the view and the styles. "The City of a Thousand Spires" is an astonishing display of styles from Romanesque, Gothic, Renaissance and Baroque to Rococo, Art Nouveau, Cubist and ultra-modern. Cast iron fences with intricate ornaments, streetlights that looked like chandeliers, city buildings adorned in frescoes, churches on every corner with golden stars around Saints' heads; roof gargoyles that stare and scare and snarl if you dare lift your gaze in the presence of the god they honour. If Prague were a bride she would be a bridezilla. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-vqU1_PItySc/V908l2sB2wI/AAAAAAAACCc/0FlWES4I8jA3xqb0kCyLtSmd2wK3rZF8QCEw/s1600/IMG_5797.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-vqU1_PItySc/V908l2sB2wI/AAAAAAAACCc/0FlWES4I8jA3xqb0kCyLtSmd2wK3rZF8QCEw/s320/IMG_5797.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jewish Quarter</td></tr>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">But then the questions arose: how come Prague, unlike <a href="http://friend-like-me.blogspot.ca/2016/09/the-amazing-race-kind-of-summer-belgrade.html" target="_blank">Belgrade</a> or <a href="http://friend-like-me.blogspot.ca/2016/08/the-amazing-race-kind-of-summer-budapest.html" target="_blank">Budapest</a> or <a href="http://friend-like-me.blogspot.ca/2016/08/the-amazing-race-kind-of-summer.html" target="_blank">Amsterdam</a>, still has all these treasures preserved having lived through WWII? How is it possible that the old Jewish Cemetery and the Oldest Synagogue are still standing? The other cities don't even have Jewish quarters even though they call a part of the city in that way. New buildings and memorials have been built in the post war era to mark and honour, but there are no original monuments. Everything has been destroyed. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-joLCxPp-v2s/V908l0YJJyI/AAAAAAAACCc/P4k9tQTiPTc1CRp588Or0DLbM9lAAqh2wCEw/s1600/IMG_5800.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-joLCxPp-v2s/V908l0YJJyI/AAAAAAAACCc/P4k9tQTiPTc1CRp588Or0DLbM9lAAqh2wCEw/s320/IMG_5800.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Old-New Synagogue clock</td></tr>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">The chilling answer arrived the morning of our visit to <a href="https://www.ushmm.org/wlc/en/article.php?ModuleId=10005424"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">Terezin</span></a> - the Jewish Ghetto an hour away from Prague that served as a tool for the malicious Nazi propaganda, the smoke screen for the easy-to-fool International Red Cross, the brutal prison and transit camp for Czech Jews before they were sent to death camps of Treblinka, Majdanek and Auschwitz. Hitler had a plan for Prague so he ordered that each synagogue, cemetery and remnant of Jewish life be fully preserved - even though all other European cities suffered complete destruction. Prague was supposed to remain the "museum of the exterminated nation", a sick proof that once there were people of the Jewish sort and now there are none.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-RFDm3vCzPJM/V914UUUWPUI/AAAAAAAACCs/U84uccjVAXIGRLcZJdXk21B5S8Iss9kpgCEw/s1600/IMG_5901.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="203" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-RFDm3vCzPJM/V914UUUWPUI/AAAAAAAACCs/U84uccjVAXIGRLcZJdXk21B5S8Iss9kpgCEw/s400/IMG_5901.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Terezin gate: 130 000 Jews passed through</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-dTC630pe8FQ/V914U7LQ9EI/AAAAAAAACCw/90ZPSfJNzFU8q2R0fReyFV0SUB5oXlD-ACEw/s1600/IMG_5914.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="202" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-dTC630pe8FQ/V914U7LQ9EI/AAAAAAAACCw/90ZPSfJNzFU8q2R0fReyFV0SUB5oXlD-ACEw/s400/IMG_5914.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The brutal conditions included standing-only sleeping rooms</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fjCbN0pIxz0/V914VJrLiHI/AAAAAAAACC0/pHijXB79zsI1Oa4bTq2RHQVyuSnuFotKgCEw/s1600/IMG_5951.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="337" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fjCbN0pIxz0/V914VJrLiHI/AAAAAAAACC0/pHijXB79zsI1Oa4bTq2RHQVyuSnuFotKgCEw/s400/IMG_5951.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Prisoners were executed, died of illness' or sent to death camps</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-J_AgHTr-RsM/V914THSUOyI/AAAAAAAACCo/cU4kHI9_7uonQjR9Vcr3QBNy__pQKLEcQCEw/s1600/FullSizeRender%2B10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-J_AgHTr-RsM/V914THSUOyI/AAAAAAAACCo/cU4kHI9_7uonQjR9Vcr3QBNy__pQKLEcQCEw/s400/FullSizeRender%2B10.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The crematorium</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-NLoBpb9ZlcQ/V93TLicYF-I/AAAAAAAACDs/56CCR7fec1sct-oqMyj7kxi0jDq0G1PBACEw/s1600/FullSizeRender.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-NLoBpb9ZlcQ/V93TLicYF-I/AAAAAAAACDs/56CCR7fec1sct-oqMyj7kxi0jDq0G1PBACEw/s400/FullSizeRender.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">90 000 Jews were sent from Teresienstadt to death camps</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-pIgvXIjDi_c/V914TNR_hII/AAAAAAAACCk/nrT3oRo-TbUUCJam4GBLmOp_dYz-9osLQCEw/s1600/FullSizeRender%2B11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="398" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-pIgvXIjDi_c/V914TNR_hII/AAAAAAAACCk/nrT3oRo-TbUUCJam4GBLmOp_dYz-9osLQCEw/s400/FullSizeRender%2B11.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">33 000 Jews perished in Terezin<br /></td></tr>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Times; font-size: 16px;">So this is why I had this awkward and uncomfortable feeling meeting Prague for the first time. Like a Stepford wife of world capitals it was almost too beautiful to be true. Only 70 years ago these same cobblestone streets and vast city squares were a place of terror, torture and despair. And for me that is still very difficult to comprehend and accept.</span><br />
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">We ended our "Amazing Race" summer by starting a new family tradition. At the end of our last day, thoroughly exhausted, we sat in the café the boys chose (it was called McQueen like the favourite Disney car!) and started listing all the things we loved the most over the past 2 weeks of roaming around Europe. Only one rule applied: no material objects allowed (such as toys, shopping items and such): "Racing the LEGO cars in <a href="http://www.hamleys.com/explore-index.irs" target="_blank">Hemley's</a>! Meeting my aunt! Sleepover at Milan & Nataša! Eating ćevapčići in Belgrade! Boat cruise on the Danube! Going to mama's school! Air races under the Budapest's Chain Bridge! Visiting Anne Frank's house. Sitting on top of the double-decker! Goulash soup! No, waffles with Nutella! Meeting mama's friends! Zooming on the Prague subway! First time on Air Serbia!..."</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Times; font-size: 16px;">And so it went, again way past their bedtime - one remarkable family moment after another. We hugged our family and friends. We crossed rivers: Amstel, Danube, Sava and Vltava. We climbed the hills. We toured the castles. Rode on boats and streetcars, trolleybuses, subways and tall double deckers. Observed languages. Did math with Euros, Forints, Dinars and Crowns. Tasted everything from the crazy space cake and Hungarian veal schnitzel the size of an elephant's ear to Serbian Šopska salad and the pretzels chased with Staropramen beer. We learned the flags, admired our passport stamps and heard flagship songs. The boys can recognize each city's skyline in a heartbeat. And that in and of itself is the best kind of early emotion-and-meaning-loaded education I could possibly wish for. </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-uIS5R31qNX0/V92FT19XrcI/AAAAAAAACDc/cEqGWGoxtRooDaWch9Mhr7gUBX59ewbSwCLcB/s1600/IMG_7177.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-uIS5R31qNX0/V92FT19XrcI/AAAAAAAACDc/cEqGWGoxtRooDaWch9Mhr7gUBX59ewbSwCLcB/s320/IMG_7177.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Until we travel again!</td></tr>
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Marina Hassonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10063153424590548742noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-665082057360006602.post-2015090548524565092016-09-11T21:39:00.003-07:002021-06-19T17:51:56.152-07:00"The Amazing Race" Kind of Summer: Belgrade<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "times";">When I was 10 years old we spent a summer in Loutraki, Greece with my aunt's family. Beautiful beaches, vibrant city life, hibiscus trees in bloom, spa water wells, the fascinating Corinth Canal and the rich history of the Peloponnese peninsula near by. For my two cousins (Milan 12 & Mihajlo 14) and I, summer meant telling jokes, playing cards and laughing all day without a care in the world. If we could only get our parents to shell out some drachmas we could either pick a deliciously cold over-sweetened lemonade from the machine or play one of those games of tossing small and treacherously bouncy rings onto sand-filled beer bottles for a lousy yet tempting little prize: Twenty Drachmas sixteen!</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-M9EATZorEVA/V9DRc1ZYRBI/AAAAAAAAB8Y/K-ap8pOW-GcOTb1c8_Qx3YgUDq6XN1KOgCLcB/s1600/IMG_4279.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-M9EATZorEVA/V9DRc1ZYRBI/AAAAAAAAB8Y/K-ap8pOW-GcOTb1c8_Qx3YgUDq6XN1KOgCLcB/s400/IMG_4279.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Belgrade skyline at dusk</td></tr>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">As we debated where to invest the loose change one particular day, a couple that was sitting on the bench near by slowly got up and approached us.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"> "<i>Deco, odakle ste vi?</i> Kids, where are you from?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"> "<i>Iz Beograda! </i>From Belgrade!" We replied in unison as there was no other place from which we could have possibly been.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Their faces lit up and they beamed at one another. The woman told us they had been living in the USA for over 30 years, never once returning home. She asked with a tremor in her voice:</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><i> "Da li jos uvek postoji </i><a href="https://rentastan.com/kod-cvetka"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><i>Cvetkova Mehana</i></span></a><i>?</i> Is Cvetko's Restaurant still there?"</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">None of us were the right age to know the answer, but the rarely used Turkish word <i>mehana</i> - meaning restaurant - made it sound beyond hilarious. At first dumbfounded we quickly recovered and then burst into laughter as we ran away. I heard the couple behind us call out a faint: "Wait... stop... please" but the boys kept running and so did I. These were the first emigrants I ever met and I still remember them as vividly as ever. They introduced the word NOSTALGIA to me.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">Why am I telling you this? All of Belgrade, the third stop of our family's adventure is a "Cvetkova Mehana" of my emigrant's life. It holds the essence of nostalgia. The flavour of longing. The joy of hugging my dear ones after a really long time. The excitement of introducing my family. The jitters of discovering what has changed. And the relief of realizing - nothing ever changes. I belong here. This <i>is</i> home.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">The drive from Budapest to Belgrade through harvest-wealthy Vojvodina - where <a href="http://www.10000birds.com/birding-the-pannonian-sea-sands.htm?doing_wp_cron=1473304480.2310390472412109375000"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">Pannonian Sea</span></a> once stood - felt surreal. With each kilometre getting closer my breathing became more and more shallow. I have five days. Five days to show, tell, feel, laugh, cry, introduce, eat, hug, cry, visit, experience, re-live, understand and then cry some more.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">This was a summer of walking - our step-counters beeping as we clocked close to 300 000 steps. The five walks we took in Belgrade are essentially five most important walks one can take in life. I hope everyone gets to do it sometime - it is riveting and profound.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><b>Walk One: The Family Album</b></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2o2uxjaT0rI/V9SoS1ybMxI/AAAAAAAAB9s/fjL3x9cnuP425w0jzOY0qX8Ymx696KM8gCEw/s1600/IMG_4399.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2o2uxjaT0rI/V9SoS1ybMxI/AAAAAAAAB9s/fjL3x9cnuP425w0jzOY0qX8Ymx696KM8gCEw/s200/IMG_4399.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My aunt (and second mom) @79!</td></tr>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">"Friends are family we get to choose" goes the saying and I fully agree (see Walk Two), but how lucky am I to actually have family I would have happily chosen too? </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">This most important walk confirms the old cliché 'blood ain't water'. Decades and distances only served to bring us closer. Belly-laughs, long tight hugs, tears of joy and tears of deep sadness, stories of present-day drama, memories of good old days - these all comprise the emotion-packed goodness I'm lucky to experience. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Ln-svvUFXgs/V9S5abHOxKI/AAAAAAAAB-o/E0ExD8ciNog4yKayt0qxSa4lpkUr84JwwCEw/s1600/14102563_10206013997983636_6629814496124308453_n%2B%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="130" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Ln-svvUFXgs/V9S5abHOxKI/AAAAAAAAB-o/E0ExD8ciNog4yKayt0qxSa4lpkUr84JwwCEw/s200/14102563_10206013997983636_6629814496124308453_n%2B%25281%2529.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica";">Filip </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;">❤️ Family </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;">❤️ Filip</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">My kids meeting their uncles for the first time putting all Serbian words they've ever learned - funny slang and light obscenities - into use, just for attention: </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica"; line-height: normal;">Шта је бре човече? Где си Шиптару? Џукело једна!</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">My husband quickly resolved to surrender to the abundance of delicious foods and affectionate people around him to feel just at home. Loud and loving, that's how we Serbians roll. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">My highlight: seeing my oldest son connect to our family and to his roots. It is a mixture of pride and relief to see him form a deep bond with his uncles (Mihajlo and Milan from the beginning of this story!) and grandma who made his early years safe and filled with love. The language he speaks, the culture he knows, the temperament he understands finally all coming together making the tapestry of his past that he had only heard about, became palpable and real. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Our family album is precious - it's full of good memories, dense with love, understanding and respect for one another. A few photos are faded, one whole page is torn out and there are coffee and a few chocolate stains on it - just like our family life itself. And it has many pages yet to be filled. Hooray! </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><b>Walk Two: Of Best Men and Besties</b></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wKYCRUaIXFU/V9TGZSSthRI/AAAAAAAAB_I/Qf4I_id5jIwtCJFriPjXYEZpFPGqPsLXgCEw/s1600/IMG_7109.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wKYCRUaIXFU/V9TGZSSthRI/AAAAAAAAB_I/Qf4I_id5jIwtCJFriPjXYEZpFPGqPsLXgCEw/s400/IMG_7109.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Oh the joy!</td></tr>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">We sat in the same classroom and went on field trips together. Our parents were friends. Their parents were like my parents. We stood witness for each other in love and loss and lots in between. We went on sleepovers. Hitchhiked in the rain. Broke curfew. Wrote tests together. Monkeyed around, big time. This is what it looks like when the meaningful childhood never ends: no comparisons, no jealousy, no envy. To me, this is what it truly means to be wealthy. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><b>Walk Three: Back to School</b></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-K9mEpnjHb60/V9WzJ-y0F1I/AAAAAAAACAI/CagZBZH8f8IrfFi9x_zUCzsemIMbGqMBwCEw/s1600/FullSizeRender%2B11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="201" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-K9mEpnjHb60/V9WzJ-y0F1I/AAAAAAAACAI/CagZBZH8f8IrfFi9x_zUCzsemIMbGqMBwCEw/s320/FullSizeRender%2B11.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Belgrade skyline - the Art class project</td></tr>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">It's a scorching hot July day and I am standing in front of Smiljanićeva 11 with my family. The old house I grew up in is no longer there, but the feel and the smell somehow is. Next door to us #13 still stands - and I become aware of the foolishly superstitious exclusion of this number all over North America. I remember the names of the neighbours who lived on the ground floor and tell the anecdote of two young dogs that once wanted to "play with me" tugging on my knee-high socks with their teeth, making me dog-weary for an entire decade that followed! <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-voFp5PCibi4/V9WzLjFGcxI/AAAAAAAACAI/spieJc2rEHk9aYUf5QCk9AiW4MsUWvgewCEw/s1600/IMG_7111.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-voFp5PCibi4/V9WzLjFGcxI/AAAAAAAACAI/spieJc2rEHk9aYUf5QCk9AiW4MsUWvgewCEw/s400/IMG_7111.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.facebook.com/skolaribnikar/" target="_blank">OOŠ "Vladislav Ribnikar"</a> Elementary School</td></tr>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Then we start the walk - up to Njegoševa St. then left towards the tram-busy Beogradska and a traffic light my parents coached me to obey when I was 8 so that I could start walking to school and back all by myself - unthinkable to our back-to-school present-day routine even though we also have a third grader. One more block and a stroll up King Milutin Street under the thick shade of the chestnut trees and I am in front of the double glass doors. It's middle of the summer but my school is open. The familiar layout and smell of the lobby hi-jacks my senses and all of a sudden I can recall the ring of the recess bell, the stomp down the stairs, the commotion of changing the cabinets between classes. <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZunCjEy3nCw/V9WzMYqP6FI/AAAAAAAACAI/THTCw04dKbg62jN4Cv1b8D6SROBwzH5swCEw/s1600/IMG_5578.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZunCjEy3nCw/V9WzMYqP6FI/AAAAAAAACAI/THTCw04dKbg62jN4Cv1b8D6SROBwzH5swCEw/s200/IMG_5578.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With my Principal </td></tr>
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I ask if I could say hi to the principal - she knows who I am because of the blog I once wrote reminiscing <a href="http://friend-like-me.blogspot.ca/2015/03/an-atlas-full-of-purpose.html" target="_blank">about my favourite teacher</a> - and the smiling Snežana Knežević storms out, arms wide open for the sincere, warm embrace. That's how we Serbs are. We become good friends in a heart beat even though it's cyber-space. What ensued is one of my favourite memories of our time in Belgrade: a full tour of my school, with my husband and boys - starting with the scariest dark hallway leading to the gym to my grade 1 classroom, library, then cabinets for biology - where my grandfather's student Ilija Ilić got to be my own teacher. Then chemistry - lab smell frozen in time under the unblinking watch of Lavoisier, Curie and other chem-celebrities. The physics room where I still feel the presence of the fiercest teacher ever and my all time favourite - <a href="http://friend-like-me.blogspot.ca/2015/03/an-atlas-full-of-purpose.html" target="_blank">geography</a>. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">My kids kept asking why was I crying. I willingly signed up to be the sentimental fool in this lifetime is only part of the answer. Simply put, I enjoy feeling things. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><b>Walk Four: The White City</b></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Aj0XNqbDAys/V9WzJjHMqpI/AAAAAAAACAI/5NB5Kmj_NUsn57mFhn_9TsNbHrvDfnj8ACEw/s1600/FullSizeRender%2B13.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Aj0XNqbDAys/V9WzJjHMqpI/AAAAAAAACAI/5NB5Kmj_NUsn57mFhn_9TsNbHrvDfnj8ACEw/s320/FullSizeRender%2B13.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View from the Kalemegdan fortress</td></tr>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I will try to be objective when I recommend you must put Belgrade (translation: White City) on your travel itinerary: you will feel safe, you will feel welcome, you will be extremely well-fed and you won't want to go to sleep - the night life is one of the gems expert travellers <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2016/08/25/travel/what-to-do-36-hours-in-belgrade.html?_r=0" target="_blank">keep raving about</a>. Belgrade is Europe's feisty teenager, the relentless activist and the avant-garde artist all in one. Check out the history books and you will learn that centuries of attacks, attempts to defeat and conquer as well as bribe into submission never worked. This comes with a price - life could've been easier for Belgrade citizens if they had compromised their sovereignty during the world wars or their integrity if they had endorsed murky Merkel-like politics. There is something utterly proud and borderline stubborn in the attitude of this city - and I deeply love it for that, although I risk being perceived as the "Belgrade snob". Let me clarify: I am happy to be one. For me, this doesn't carry any notion of superiority, rather it is inferiority free. Knowing who you are, where you're from, proudly and loudly showcasing it whenever possible. <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-1moeZVwex-A/V9WzJ5QbL0I/AAAAAAAACAI/eTAizCManSogouRWCJoPVg49SwNvxXDFgCEw/s1600/FullSizeRender%2B12.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-1moeZVwex-A/V9WzJ5QbL0I/AAAAAAAACAI/eTAizCManSogouRWCJoPVg49SwNvxXDFgCEw/s320/FullSizeRender%2B12.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Knez Mihajlova Street</td></tr>
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-hRG2VMEvpFg/V9WzLFJrkHI/AAAAAAAACAI/NaOt4AR-ZvcpbqiSoY4OWPf5iDyeY7-ywCEw/s1600/IMG_4085.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-hRG2VMEvpFg/V9WzLFJrkHI/AAAAAAAACAI/NaOt4AR-ZvcpbqiSoY4OWPf5iDyeY7-ywCEw/s320/IMG_4085.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-89ZU7-9PqNI/V9SvM9ml_NI/AAAAAAAAB-c/IIpgJqlaQawrS9MugFi8c_J0BOdXj_ObwCEw/s1600/IMG_5452.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-89ZU7-9PqNI/V9SvM9ml_NI/AAAAAAAAB-c/IIpgJqlaQawrS9MugFi8c_J0BOdXj_ObwCEw/s320/IMG_5452.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">New Belgrade</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2Amvc85FUkU/V9SvPDjR7TI/AAAAAAAAB-c/1A12LMbuqgAZuqfgO4PZBpAd1yaVMw36ACEw/s1600/IMG_5544.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2Amvc85FUkU/V9SvPDjR7TI/AAAAAAAAB-c/1A12LMbuqgAZuqfgO4PZBpAd1yaVMw36ACEw/s320/IMG_5544.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Belgrade_Fortress" target="_blank">Kalemegdan</a> - Game-of-Thrones-ready since 3rd Century B.C.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Clock Gate</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-9E9yYObl3ns/V9WzKkB5f9I/AAAAAAAACAI/7l0M731rTwkFLLRE_0aaYTnAL7mD1S4LwCEw/s1600/FullSizeRender%2B14.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-9E9yYObl3ns/V9WzKkB5f9I/AAAAAAAACAI/7l0M731rTwkFLLRE_0aaYTnAL7mD1S4LwCEw/s320/FullSizeRender%2B14.jpg" width="249" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Terazije Square</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-puPkKRvwqds/V9WzLYS7rBI/AAAAAAAACAI/y3lPsddPydsSkeMJ__5wV5M5DG84jtZcgCEw/s1600/IMG_4373.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-puPkKRvwqds/V9WzLYS7rBI/AAAAAAAACAI/y3lPsddPydsSkeMJ__5wV5M5DG84jtZcgCEw/s320/IMG_4373.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tašmajdan park</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Xicqh0ngysc/V9WzKy9PUjI/AAAAAAAACAI/3m2uk7cgicQsWPV7KFryixVcHudrcdrGwCEw/s1600/FullSizeRender%2B15.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="256" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Xicqh0ngysc/V9WzKy9PUjI/AAAAAAAACAI/3m2uk7cgicQsWPV7KFryixVcHudrcdrGwCEw/s320/FullSizeRender%2B15.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Museum of Nikola Tesla</td></tr>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><b>Walk Five: The Legacy</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Ask my husband and he'll tell you I wept pretty much every day in Belgrade. But at least I now understand why:</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Because I am grateful for the childhood I got to experience. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">For the pure friendships that are only getting stronger with time. </span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Times; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">For the superior education I received without getting into debt and which still serves me so well. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">For the blessing of a warm, affectionate and honest family. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">For deciding to embrace my nostalgia while creating as much of Belgrade as I can in Toronto.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">For witnessing my eldest boy fall in love with his heritage, standing tall and standing proud, connecting with all the dear people who influenced him growing up.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2bHJP6AVYTU/V9SvKutmrUI/AAAAAAAAB-c/1m-8u6ejVbMkjY62jqB28_g9QMweDoGyACEw/s1600/FullSizeRender%2B5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="190" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2bHJP6AVYTU/V9SvKutmrUI/AAAAAAAAB-c/1m-8u6ejVbMkjY62jqB28_g9QMweDoGyACEw/s320/FullSizeRender%2B5.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Marina has sons - in Belgrade</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-A6SJIyBH3MU/V9W1kxUD7tI/AAAAAAAACAI/Qb0wdFgXSVguSAom622DyPfSGVN-keq_QCEw/s1600/FullSizeRender%2B10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="253" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-A6SJIyBH3MU/V9W1kxUD7tI/AAAAAAAACAI/Qb0wdFgXSVguSAom622DyPfSGVN-keq_QCEw/s320/FullSizeRender%2B10.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , , sans-serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Belgrade coordinates: </span></span><span style="color: #6a6a6a; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-weight: bold; text-align: left;">44°</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #545454; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small; text-align: left;"> 48' N, </span><span style="color: #6a6a6a; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-weight: bold; text-align: left;">20°</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #545454; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small; text-align: left;"> 27' E</span></td></tr>
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<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Times; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">For having my husband understand how come I actually got to be this way. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times";">And for hearing my little Canadian kids cheer while watching the recent Rio's Olympics: </span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "times";"> "Srbija, Srbija, Srbija </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 49px;">🇷🇸</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 49px;">🇷🇸</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 49px;">🇷🇸</span><span style="font-family: "times";">! "</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">For me, Belgrade is not a place. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-S2dbVrEDbpA/V9W1ks_zjRI/AAAAAAAACAI/kJNeSl-LOjAYi4U6BPljIujrhxAJeTbzwCEw/s1600/FullSizeRender%2B9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="161" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-S2dbVrEDbpA/V9W1ks_zjRI/AAAAAAAACAI/kJNeSl-LOjAYi4U6BPljIujrhxAJeTbzwCEw/s400/FullSizeRender%2B9.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">@Nikola Tesla International Airport</td></tr>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">It's an emotion. It feels like nostalgia and it looks a lot like longing. It thuds like a loud heartbeat in my ears. It smells like the time before I knew words such as war and divorce. It tastes like home-made pastries for breakfast and a late night <a href="http://cookingtheglobe.com/pljeskavica-serbian-burger-recipe/" target="_blank">pljeskavica</a> on the go. It warms up like <a href="http://europeupclose.com/article/serbian-rakija-a-strong-drink-with-good-spirit/" target="_blank">rakija</a>. </span></div>
And it sounds <a href="https://youtu.be/pVQz4RpucN4" target="_blank">just like this</a>:<br />
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Marina Hassonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10063153424590548742noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-665082057360006602.post-38785005972599179702016-08-21T09:20:00.001-07:002016-08-22T04:23:42.726-07:00"The Amazing Race" Kind of Summer: Budapest<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Listen, I'm no TripAdvisor.</span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Qiv7QLEqTQQ/V7m--ebj9ZI/AAAAAAAAB6k/GxmIE6lC7C4wclvCHyAmIBlkCFNukn1HgCLcB/s1600/FullSizeRender.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="175" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Qiv7QLEqTQQ/V7m--ebj9ZI/AAAAAAAAB6k/GxmIE6lC7C4wclvCHyAmIBlkCFNukn1HgCLcB/s400/FullSizeRender.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">Chain Bridge closed for the Air Races (and iPhone photo opportunities)</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Please don't expect me to wow here with my review of the veal cutlet served over corn polenta with spicy tomato and roasted red pepper spread, topped with a slice of calf liver done so deliciously to perfection it qualifies as one of the best five dishes my palate has ever experienced. Ever. Or expect me to choose for you the best goulash soup in town, review the intricate layers of the Esterházy torte, recommend the ambiance of Café Pierrot on the Buda side or insist you can't leave without Szeged's Hungarian hot paprika as a souvenir (<a href="http://friend-like-me.blogspot.ca/2016/08/the-amazing-race-kind-of-summer.html" target="_blank">what's weed for Amsterdam</a> is paprika for Budapest). Nope.</span><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">And if I sound a little grumpy to you, there's a reason. Budapest and I - I discovered - have this complicated relationship. You see, this wasn't our first time. It only dawned on me late afternoon on our third day as I was impressing my husband and our boys by navigating like a pro through the city streets on both sides of river Danube, that is not really <a href="https://youtu.be/j6nY7A6UI5Q"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">schönen let alone blauen </span></a> showing them the major landmarks, that the previous three visits to this magnificent city had nothing to do with sightseeing. They more resemble a young woman’s shaky journal entries and serve as monuments to my eventful personal history. </span></span></div>
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-D-MLKgPJq-8/V7m-_9MG2KI/AAAAAAAAB6o/VYvcROYT_cQs8TtTlc55pGgJ0kmzxLPUgCEw/s1600/IMG_5111.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="202" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-D-MLKgPJq-8/V7m-_9MG2KI/AAAAAAAAB6o/VYvcROYT_cQs8TtTlc55pGgJ0kmzxLPUgCEw/s320/IMG_5111.jpg" width="320" /></span></a><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">The first visit was in 1990 with my boyfriend - a magical stay in this majestic city that was going through one of its hungry years, just fresh from shedding the communist era and - like a rebellious teenager - having no clue how it all would end. I remember being struck by witnessing old women selling family heirlooms for cash on the pedestrian-only Vaci Utca: art, china, silverware, intricate hand-made lace ornaments. Those forints were food money. We were young and with long-weekend pocket money of about 200 dollars we were beyond wealthy. Caviar for breakfast anyone?</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Second visit - 1994 - same boy turned man and husband. My first husband. Atrium Hyatt hotel and a room with the mesmerizing view of the Chain Bridge. After a few days of empty small talk and group sightseeings with his entire family, captured on the photographs I recently happened to have found, there was one evening and a critical conversation with his mighty uncle from America during which we made our first emigration plans that both felt like a breakthrough and a more-than-solid lifeboat out of former Yugoslavia. What a relief! He would re-enrol in university and get a degree. I would license as a pharmacist in Texas. We wouldn’t be sharing a bathroom with all the smokers in his family nor be helplessly waiting in Belgrade for <a href="http://friend-like-me.blogspot.ca/2014/12/a-series-of-fortunate-events.html" target="_blank">NATO to bomb</a>!</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">The final visit in 1995 was far less glamorous. Now <i>we</i> were the poor ones, arriving at the TOEFL test with an overnight bus loaded with smugglers. Sausages, toothpaste, laundry detergent and diapers were hot items on Belgrade's black market. When the bus doors closed at midnight at the Central terminal, cigarettes lit, shoes came off and we marinated for 378 point 4 fucken kilometres in odours I can still recall, ears numb from the turbo-folk music that blasted all night through the crackle of worn-out speakers. We took the test at 10:00 a.m. Then we each savoured a Big Mac at the Vaci Street McDonald’s. By then, the city was all done up, facades renovated and posh world brands had moved into Budapest’s prime locations. Everybody had a cellphone. We hung around the river banks and the Chain Bridge for as long as we could then rushed back to board that same bus for the same many-hours-long ordeal back, the experience only enhanced by the mandatory 10 Deutschmarks per person bribe for the customs officer not to open the the trunk to check for possible imported goods. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"> “But we didn’t buy anything, we just went…” we tried to fight the injustice of it all. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"> “You are welcome to walk home" the toothless driver replied with a grin, cigarette dangling off the corner of his mouth. “In my bus we’re all equal: everyone pays the racket!” </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Nevertheless I passed my test of English as a Foreign Language with flying colours (the then-husband did not do as well but still adequately for the mediocre private university in Texas that had accepted his uncle’s tuition cheque) and we were cleared for emigration. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">The <a href="https://youtu.be/VHrLPs3_1Fs" target="_blank">jolly never-ending tune</a> playing in between the tourist sights information on channel 2 for English on Budapest’s double decker bus woke me up. Or was it my family alerting me to our final stop - the 5 star Boscolo Hotel. It was day 6 of us gumping* over Europe, I must have dozed off in exhaustion.</span><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">So if I sounded crabby - forgive me. It is from the stark contrast of this <i>before and after</i> for me. The life I willingly signed up for as a young, educated woman and this beautiful life I turned out to be living. The many different dead-ends and near-fatal turns that could have occurred has left me vulnerable in retrospect. I wish my happily-ever right now was more than just happenstance - that I actually had had a say in it.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Somewhat ignorant or simply unaware, Budapest the beautiful has witnessed all of my personal drama that unfolded over the past quarter of a century, seemingly analyzing my life with equal emotion - oh well: here comes the rain, here comes the sun, take a walk, take a seat, sip a coffee, eat a cake, take a long <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sz%C3%A9chenyi_thermal_bath"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">soothing bath</span></a> - you will most certainly feel better. This too shall pass. </span></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt2278388/" target="_blank">"The Grand Budapest Hotel"</a> inspiration?</span></td></tr>
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-rrwiDdgWsjY/V7m_GAslbbI/AAAAAAAAB7E/J3zk2pNiSmIUVoxE7O4Cd2CsWfGT0187ACEw/s1600/IMG_5135.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-rrwiDdgWsjY/V7m_GAslbbI/AAAAAAAAB7E/J3zk2pNiSmIUVoxE7O4Cd2CsWfGT0187ACEw/s400/IMG_5135.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div>
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-d6wAXCICJ7U/V7nEsTJHoLI/AAAAAAAAB7g/VlFJNPEbkfQu5XrDz2bdOiUq89zP2aWxwCEw/s1600/FullSizeRender%2B8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="158" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-d6wAXCICJ7U/V7nEsTJHoLI/AAAAAAAAB7g/VlFJNPEbkfQu5XrDz2bdOiUq89zP2aWxwCEw/s400/FullSizeRender%2B8.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div>
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-haa-l8lIKOI/V7nEtAWhidI/AAAAAAAAB7o/fQOjdlzvB-keVgcjgFS0S02u_m0YZ-0UACEw/s1600/IMG_3428.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-haa-l8lIKOI/V7nEtAWhidI/AAAAAAAAB7o/fQOjdlzvB-keVgcjgFS0S02u_m0YZ-0UACEw/s400/IMG_3428.JPG" width="400" /></span></a></div>
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ROSMThMHw_A/V7nErmTM8DI/AAAAAAAAB7U/x9qf7pEhHjIrut5Vj2e12TJsQXpDwCM2gCEw/s1600/FullSizeRender%2B10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ROSMThMHw_A/V7nErmTM8DI/AAAAAAAAB7U/x9qf7pEhHjIrut5Vj2e12TJsQXpDwCM2gCEw/s400/FullSizeRender%2B10.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--jCLMe54vbE/V7nEtw1sHwI/AAAAAAAAB7w/Y5QA7aOHCGIopsy5jCS7A_S0VpGTmifKgCEw/s1600/IMG_5136.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="230" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--jCLMe54vbE/V7nEtw1sHwI/AAAAAAAAB7w/Y5QA7aOHCGIopsy5jCS7A_S0VpGTmifKgCEw/s400/IMG_5136.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">Dobos torte</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">I did manage to relax, unaware of the PTSD-like 3-day walk down the memory lane which was lodged somewhere in my subconscious, only to resurface during a short bus ride. Like most European cities there are scars and <a href="http://visitbudapest.travel/guide/budapest-attractions/great-synagogue/" target="_blank">the monuments of real suffering</a> all around Budapest, once home to a vibrant Jewish community. </span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-9tilFq61FnM/V7nEsu7lXsI/AAAAAAAAB7k/F6jK1jc-GasGhzt19CCIf-XfN6ClFTn6QCEw/s1600/FullSizeRender%2B9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-9tilFq61FnM/V7nEsu7lXsI/AAAAAAAAB7k/F6jK1jc-GasGhzt19CCIf-XfN6ClFTn6QCEw/s400/FullSizeRender%2B9.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">Names of Hungarian Jews killed in Holocaust inscribed on each leaf</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">But it is what we do with these scars that makes the whole difference. We expose them, we honour them. And we are certain they won’t happen ever again. Never again.</span><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">Never again</span></td></tr>
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<span style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Just below the Buda Castle there is this 3m tall limestone sculpture called the Zero Kilometre Stone. Erected at the Adam Clark square this stone marks the reference point from which all road distances to Budapest are measured in the country. While kids were busy chasing one another around it and my husband waited in a long line-up for the tickets to the Budapest <a href="http://visitbudapest.travel/activities/fun-things-to-do/castle-hill-funicular/" target="_blank">Castle Hill Funicular</a>, I placed my forehead on the warm, rough stone. The symbolism of how far I've got to go from this true zero point in my life made me sigh in gratitude. There was never a need for a helping hand or a rescue boat. We are all capable of doing it all by ourselves. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"> "Hey guys!" I summoned my crew. "Forget the shortcut! Who's with me to climb the hill on foot?" And so we did. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">Here comes the Sun!</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">*gumping - the Hasson family trademark name and signature activity. While <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0109830/" target="_blank">Forrest Gump</a> was aimlessly running, we aimlessly walk. </span></div>
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Marina Hassonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10063153424590548742noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-665082057360006602.post-84279051915861579282016-08-08T06:43:00.002-07:002016-08-21T10:54:22.624-07:00"The Amazing Race" Kind of Summer: Amsterdam<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="text-align: left;">I would love to think I'm cool. </span></div>
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Not necessarily in the super-confident "I've got swag" kind of way. Just a decent every-day brand of ordinary cool. Three days in Amsterdam, Netherlands showed me I am so hopelessly <i>not</i>.<br />
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This summer my family decided to try something new: invade Europe! The planning part was fun - combining West with East, parts known and unknown, authentic foods, a bit of history and a lot of nostalgia. The result: 2 weeks, 4 cities, 268 821 steps made with kids sans stroller (an equivalent of us walking from Toronto, ON to well past Buffalo, NY). Needless to say - we learned a lot about who we are individually and as a family. Hop on, and I'll try to give you a tour!<br />
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Here is what I expected of Amsterdam based on stereotypes and stories told by other travellers: bicycles, tulips, canals, cheese and pastry, <a href="http://www.annefrank.org/">Anne Frank house</a>, weed, Red Light District.<br />
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All in all - expectations were correct and we got to witness them all.<br />
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Mokummers aka Amsterdammers (a nickname derived from Hebrew word 'mokum' which means place) love their bicycles and make space for them pretty much everywhere, which is great news when travelling with kids... apparently ringing a million bicycle bells in a day is very rewarding, hence on this first leg of our travels we got away without having to bribe the boys!<br />
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Flag of the city of Amsterdam comes with a triple X and is proudly displayed everywhere, from squares and stations to tall ships and five star hotels. That's why I assumed that the XXX probably doesn't have to do with the 'red light district' and all it's R-rated content has to offer to an unsuspecting visitor. Amsterdam's symbol has to do with the three deaths that almost extinguished all life in this city by the sea: fire, flood and plague.<br />
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It took only a few steps down the first couple of streets for my un-cool to start showing up in full light. Here's what you get when you travel to Amsterdam with kids:<br />
"Mama, what's that smell? Is it a skunk?!"<br />
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-v2Zxr87qOLI/V6eAUugnNxI/AAAAAAAAB4g/FWPR5-IYlioANVKUfncAbY4_-QI0ff3cwCEw/s1600/FullSizeRender%2B3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="183" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-v2Zxr87qOLI/V6eAUugnNxI/AAAAAAAAB4g/FWPR5-IYlioANVKUfncAbY4_-QI0ff3cwCEw/s200/FullSizeRender%2B3.jpg" width="200" /></a>The leisurely stroll then turned into a lengthy explanation how it does smell like a skunk but is not a skunk; instead it's marijuana which is a plant people grow and then dry and then roll into cigarettes and then smoke to get high, which doesn't mean grow taller but happier and funnier and allegedly hungrier (and hornier although I didn't share that) and some of them report feeling less pain and possibly even reduction of convulsions... By the time I finished my extensive yet careful-not-to-judge THC ramblings their mouths were all packed with Nutella filled croissants and all I've got in reply was: "Wha'?" Good. Phew.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Reads funny</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KHA8vW8-BUo/V6eAgRgrYDI/AAAAAAAAB4g/vGf9FV0clL0Q3gMSxr5Fu9t-YyRzH3HKgCEw/s1600/IMG_3163.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KHA8vW8-BUo/V6eAgRgrYDI/AAAAAAAAB4g/vGf9FV0clL0Q3gMSxr5Fu9t-YyRzH3HKgCEw/s200/IMG_3163.JPG" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Does funny</td></tr>
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Yes, Amsterdam is all about weed, fully legalized and available in every single breath one takes. It's sold in places called "coffee shop" as in <span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;">😉</span>COFFEE. And for weed-virgins like my hubby and I, that came as a shock and then a scoff and also a temptation. Sharing this one 'space cake' (although we've been advised to eat one whole each - but that was way too many carbs!) we happily decided we were immune to whatever hype there has been since the Woodstock year - the year we were both born. We recalled the many times everyone else smoked and we didn't even get the secondary effect most people claim is enough. Ok, I admit, I laughed one night away with friends this past winter after a THC-laden jelly bean but other than having a brilliant idea for a screenplay occur in my mind with lightening speed, everything else was just the same. Oh yes, and I was also very, very sleepy.<br />
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-OGsipFgEnmY/V6eAf00e6wI/AAAAAAAAB4g/4d4xGgpF9oAaWJwyy5mvVRz0FZJAFcIgwCEw/s1600/FullSizeRender%2B18.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-OGsipFgEnmY/V6eAf00e6wI/AAAAAAAAB4g/4d4xGgpF9oAaWJwyy5mvVRz0FZJAFcIgwCEw/s200/FullSizeRender%2B18.jpg" width="200" /></a>After all we are both super responsible parents, each holding one "subject" firmly by the hand so they would not get lost, run over by a bicycle or God forbid plop into a canal - of course we didn't get high! It took about 5h and utter exhaustion from roaming the city for the crazy street names and illegible street signs to start sounding hilarious when we read them aloud to one another. He called me his <a href="http://www.winiusenco.nl/Historie/Vettewinkel/Vettewinkel.html">"Vettewinkel''</a>. I called him 'Verkoopster'.<br />
Nope not high, just really funny. And hungry. Hence the best Malaysian curry we waited in a long line-up for and gobbled way above our spice level after a full dinner. Weed cakes. They work.<br />
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But the effect wore-off quickly - or did I just imagine there was an effect? - because the very next sight completely sobered me up. Right around the corner there was a store that sold accessories. As I was trying to see if this was a shell (a fun project we can make <a href="http://friend-like-me.blogspot.ca/2015/04/happy-place_24.html">next time we are in Florida</a>!) or clay, my little one read the name of the store to me and started laughing because he had finally found a name written in English he could understand. Thankfully, not fully. The Pussy Pendant store. Nice.<br />
I just started contemplating how grateful I actually am that I mothered three boys and at least while parenting don't have to walk the fine line between feminism and liberation, when screams and giggles made me turn.<br />
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One Mississippi, Two Mississippi, Three Mississippi on the Amstel river... it took me three seconds to grasp the full view of the scene in front of me. A whole bunch of drunk girls were crowding a boat, shouting and laughing out loud, cheering for the Bride to be. There were balloons and beads and beers and a bachelorette sporting a hairband with dildos on the top of her head.<br />
Again, I wish I was cool. Wish I had a longing of being a younger version of myself on that boat, kicking it up with my bestie. But I just couldn't. I immediately defaulted to their mothers and yet to be born daughters and I somehow - if there had to be a stupid party - preferred the princess theme rather than a slutty one. Then I almost got run over by a BeerBikeBar!<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bicycles+Bar+Beer+Bride2Be</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mansterdam!</td></tr>
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As for the guys - they have their fair share of fun in this city; bachelor's parties are overwhelmingly outnumbering the girls. Actually, not just parties - it seemed that men outnumber women on every street, restaurant and bar. No wonder my little one still refers to our first stop as "Mansterdam"! They came in droves, often in the same outfits, jolly and drunk regardless of the time of the day. At night they swarmed the red light district, checking the offerings behind many glass doors as if it was an ordinary shopping day. And again, I thought to my-not-cool-self, thank goodness we live with our boys safely removed by an entire ocean from all this. Although it seems freer than freedom, there is something deeply disturbing and sad in the industry that benefits from the temporary purchase of female bodies.<br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mYkmcAnD_40/V6frW5dN08I/AAAAAAAAB5g/H5FXjAGTUJIysiiERx9cHWVWzT7bFvsBwCLcB/s1600/FullSizeRender%2B20.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mYkmcAnD_40/V6frW5dN08I/AAAAAAAAB5g/H5FXjAGTUJIysiiERx9cHWVWzT7bFvsBwCLcB/s320/FullSizeRender%2B20.jpg" width="320" /></a>The "Red Light" district lives up to it's hype. Rows of narrow windows line the streets. During the day the red velvet curtains are down and it seems that regular working people occupy the packed apartments above them. Come 5 o'clock, the women mastering the oldest profession on the planet start showing up to work. They are often very young, in ripped jeans, with a lot of make up and a pimple or two that just couldn't have been covered. I observed them drinking pop, smoking and chatting with their girlfriends as they leisurely strolled down the street and into their workplace. With the first sign of dusk, the neon lights will start flashing promising anything in exchange for Euros. Banana show, S&M show, live sex on stage show. The girls we saw just half an hour earlier will start showing up in the windows, obscurely dressed, puckering their lips, inviting men to come closer. <br />
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Dying of curiosity I tried not to look but of course I did, albeit briefly - and I saw images that still haunt me, painfully proving that this is not right - a bruise under the knee; stretch marks over a belly; cellulite on thighs. These are <i>real</i> women, not rubber toys. No one should earn a living on a mattress covered in pleather in a small tiled room just off the street. The rational part of me knows that this is a choice. In Netherlands, they are actually protected, even unionized, have healthcare and all the rights not to do what they don't feel like doing and still - as uncool as I really am it all made me feel sick. Someone's daughter. Someone's sister. Someone's mom.<br />
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When you look at virtually any row of houses lining up the canals of Amsterdam, although cute and postcard-like, you might notice that at least one of them is crooked. And no, you are not drunk - they often are. The ancient wooden beams on which they stand have been immersed into the water for centuries and are starting to rot and break, causing this ever so slightly visible lean of one house onto another. Eventually some will collapse and will have to be replaced by new sturdy materials and a more solid foundation. This serves as a somber metaphor for this otherwise delightful city.<br />
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And that's what my utterly uncool wish for Amsterdam is: preserve <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Night_Watch">The Night Watch</a> and the <a href="https://www.vangoghmuseum.nl/en/collection/s0031V1962">Sunflowers</a>, enjoy the beer and the boat ride, grow the tulips, keep the healthy bicycle thing going; yet please replace the rotten, the decadent and the unnecessary. Let's begin:<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yes to growing gardens at the door</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">No to growing gardens on the head</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yes to Stroopwafel</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">No to burgers from a vending machine<br />
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And so it goes, one predictably safe and uncool choice after another. Oh well, after all I am just a travelling mom.<br />
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Marina Hassonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10063153424590548742noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-665082057360006602.post-24368068601831962022016-07-25T19:47:00.000-07:002016-07-25T20:08:58.792-07:00Forty Seven Candles<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Here is the mundane truth about me and my birthday: I never had a <i>thing</i> for it.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">July 25, 2016</td></tr>
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Given I am a true summer baby we were almost never home on the 25th of July so my friends and candles and a cake always arrived belated on a self-selected day in September, once school resumed and my mom would throw me an at-home party -- Serbia in the '70's was far from Jungle gym's and party places. There was also no <a href="http://echoage.com/">Echo Age</a> invites. What a blessing! </div>
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In truth, the long gone yet not forgotten shy version of me (oh yes, there actually was such a thing), always kind of felt embarrassed to be the centre of attention - to use the scientific language I answer my little kids' questions about 'birds and bees' with - just for the sheer fact I plopped out of my mom's woo-woo on this particular day. The mama in question claims she held off the contractions until she witnessed the safe return of the Apollo 11 crew, then rushed to the hospital and well... plopped me.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">July 25, 1969</td></tr>
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But then the Internet and Facebook and SMS and Viber and What'sApp and Messenger came and this all changed. Since the wee hours of this day, starting as far away as Australia and East as India all the way through Asia and the Middle East (shalom mischpacha!) and Europe - with the strong presence on the Balkans of course - and from top to bottom of the African continent only to be swung from Brazil all the way to Colombia arriving via US back home to Canada, you guys changed my relationship with my date of birth.<br />
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So what did the 'Birthday Girl' do on her Birthday and first day back to work after a vacation?<br />
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As a gift from me to me, I started the day early, with my friend Amy kick my Birthday ass over at the <a href="http://friend-like-me.blogspot.ca/2016/03/stuff-i-learned-about-life-from-intense.html">Harmony fitness</a>. Tabata drill. Plank walks, Russian twists and incline of 15. Thanks Amy, I can barely walk!<br />
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Then, in one of the Hospital Diabetes Centres I serve, with the assistance of a translator I started a young mother on <a href="http://www.dexcom.com/en-CA">CGM</a>. As of tonight she will no longer be afraid of hypoglycaemia. There is nothing more rewarding then being a part of the renewed hope for an easier and healthier life of a Type 1 Diabetes patient. This is my life's work and my biggest gift today and every day.<br />
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At day's end, I got to hang out with my crew: my husband and my boys. Got home made cards and hugs and kisses and flowers to wear on my head! We don't do gifts. We do feelings. The whole month of July this year brought fireworks of love with the trip to Europe and back <i>home </i>home.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My B-day gift of LOVE</td></tr>
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Our home is all quiet now and I've just finished listening to and re-reading all your messages.<br />
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Your shower of love and attention ringed and pinged and dinged every hour of today making me giggle and bask in the attention. You sent good wishes and cards and hugs and funny faces and also some profoundly beautiful things you had to say about me. You called and texted and e-mailed. You nudged me to enjoy my day and forget about calories. You sang and even made me sing. And you made me love my birthday.<br />
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Thank you! THANK YOU!</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hey DaDa - I do LOVE my B-day!</td></tr>
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Marina Hassonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10063153424590548742noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-665082057360006602.post-26611990541037036832016-07-25T16:11:00.000-07:002016-08-20T21:53:32.094-07:00How To Spot A Calling<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
"Are you 226?" - the piercing bark of a short feisty woman jolted me out of my humdrum wait for the bus. She was so loud that a good portion of the crowded bus stop turned to look.<br />
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"N... No" I answered shakily, then continued to introduce myself with a bit more confidence: "I am 227" at which the curious stares became more obvious.<br />
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"Well, tell 226 she must come see me first thing in the morning, she left her Erlenmeyer flask at her station. You guys can't be irresponsible with your equipment." Then our fierce analytical chemistry technician disappeared behind the many coats so quickly she missed my timid: "Um... I will."</div>
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In an Orwellian kind of way, this episode seemed funny to me the sophomore year of becoming a pharmacist. Little did I know that a quarter of a century would pass before I learned how to handle being assigned and considered a number.</div>
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These days floods of articles, TED talks and interviews with new world leaders, business coaches & ultra-successful hipsters point out that the old corporate structure is dead. Truly successful companies have replaced their ivory towers and VP-only perks. Wise executives now share open spaces and open minds with their inspired teams.</div>
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The essence of their innovation is that it feels like playing rather than working, all the while achieving remarkable results.</div>
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Truth be told, for the last few years of my career I've been immersed in all that stuff.</div>
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I dug <a href="https://www.startwithwhy.com/">Simon Sinek</a>. Reread Seth Godin. Adored <a href="https://www.ted.com/talks/shawn_achor_the_happy_secret_to_better_work">Shawn Achor</a>. Pondered with <a href="http://danariely.com/">Dan Ariely</a>. While driving aimlessly on my tedious Mondays-to-Fridays, Warren Buffet kept me company with his famous address tackling productivity and big life's to-do list published by the Harvard Business Review. I also wholeheartedly "joined the circle" and <i>leaned</i> <i>in</i> as seriously as I knew how. You get the point -- when Netflix already knows I only want the stuff on Musk, Jobs, Gates and even Cuban - I mean business.</div>
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The result? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Because although the logic is clear, business sense sharp and the stories inspiring, removed by a screen or a print, it failed to sink in. What I realized is that I actually needed someone around me, a warm body I actually would be able to meet and bounce these ideas with - and no, not a bigwig VP on a stage once a year who talks integrity and requests compliance via mandatory signatures on the spread sheet. I wanted a real leader who sticks around but not just at the bar. Who breaths the values herself, then coaches and inspires, unifies teams, solves problems and laughs off obstacles until it does start feeling like play. An intelligent yet fun pastime I'd get to do between 9-5.</div>
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Looking at my own professional life these past several months, I'm in awe how things in life work themselves out and not because of meticulous career planning or having a powerful mentor and role model.</div>
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So what ended up happening with #227?</div>
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Here it is, for the sake of all those currently sporting golden handcuffs afraid or unsure how to make a leap and also those few who have not yet figured out how to troll LinkedIn unnoticed. #hillarious</div>
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To start, it's actually enough to know what you don't want - in my case, I could no longer justify to feel like a human equivalent of spam mail. That instead of becoming the prescribed employee of the future, built out of Terminator 2 grade stainless steel, it's OK if you simply keep your own skin albeit at times fragile and sensitive. Anything but thick. In lieu of putting Teflon on to repel the mandatory vermin you put your focus on how you actually want to feel in your professional life. How about empowered and entrepreneurial for a change?</div>
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Then you let go. Breathe. Laugh. Train. Travel. All the while keeping focused on your priorities and carefully chosen helpers. Never be afraid to pay for a good advice.</div>
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I've been many numbers in my life: The 227 in Analytical Chemistry. The matching 354 around my wrist and my baby's ankle at birth. My immigration file number, I can no longer remember even though it felt seared in my brain at the time. World Wide ID 769 885 007. For some reason I thought that getting the number was a sign of safety. That things would be managed and taken care of because of it, not despite of it.</div>
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In truth, there is only one formula to get what you want:</div>
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1- Find the cause for which you would gladly volunteer</div>
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2 - Form real bonds with real people, including former <span style="font-family: "helvetica neue light" , , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;">customers and honorable competitors - these could turn out to be essential </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue light" , , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;">3 - Never stop learning - stay the course in the chosen field and get to really, really know it. Not for the worthless check mark on the performance review. But to be invited to the big kids' table because of what you know, not who you know.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue light" , , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;">Then go to work and play. You'll never even think of glancing at the clock. Or loathing when your manager calls. Counting days till your vacation. Or mouth to yourself ever again: "TGIF. TFGIF."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue light" , , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;">You do deserve better. Much better. When to start? How about right now! </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue light" , , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;">Or answer Godin's opening question in <a href="https://www.amazon.ca/Icarus-Deception-How-High-Will-ebook/dp/B0090UOLEW">"The Icarus Deception"</a>: How long are you going to wait?</span></div>
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Marina Hassonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10063153424590548742noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-665082057360006602.post-7689059344269945642016-06-16T22:13:00.001-07:002016-06-17T05:09:24.606-07:00"I Don't Want To Be Good"<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">The most epic meltdown as a child that I can remember was when I was about four. Funnily enough I don't remember much about it myself - it was more the numerous recounts of the event as told by my parents, describing the one monumental tantrum they chose to preserve in our family's collective memory.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; text-align: center;">Blogger @4: Not so innocent</td></tr>
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The story goes that I had gotten some money for my birthday; my aunt living far away in Canada always diligently sent her nieces and nephews in Serbia a generous monetary gift each year of our childhood, nestled in a beautiful Hallmark card. The three-figure number (a lot of money for Serbia) precisely outlined by little perforated dots that felt like Braille on the back, the intricate design on the thick stock of the Toronto Dominion bank cheque. </div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">So my parents asked me - likely as a joke - where would I want to invest my money?</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"> "JIK bank - a bank in your home!" - I answered right away and they all burst into laughter.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">There was a radio commercial for Jugoslav Investment Credit bank that aired constantly. Having stayed home with a nanny while all the other family members were in school or at work caused me to hear the marketing message so many times a day that I even said it with the intonation of the voice actor. This had brought on an flurry of giggles. </span></div>
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<span style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "times";"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">However, my own parents didn't bank with the JIK bank and no one was seriously committed to honouring storing my Canadian dollars the way I had personally elected to as a young investor. When I realized there was no call being made on my behalf (JIK bank's pitch promised they would even send a representative to one's home to open an account!) I immediately opted for that meltdown that everyone remembers till today. The story was that I cried for hours, voice hoarse and eyes red and swollen. My mother made an executive decision to send me to bed without dinner - likely a difficult and heart-wrenching move for her given at age four I was skinny as a </span>toothpick<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> - a hopelessly poor eater. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">All these years later, it turns out that as an adult I am equally unprepared to deal with authority that offers me a freedom of choice within well-established rules, only to neglect honouring it when decision time comes. In minor cases I am talking about offers which 'expired' and can't be honoured even though the fine-print is clear and the date is right. That's when I become a relentless warrior of the customer service line until the issue is resolved to my utmost satisfaction. In major cases -- well, I am not going to be talking about major cases. You get the point. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I'm not sure if this childhood incident ignited my moderate yet unfaltering type of righteous-rebelliousness to see each "because I say so" type of injustice through until its very end, but this just might be the case. Don't circumstances usually forge the behaviours? Adamantly forbid something and sure as hell it will be done behind your back: Not staying off the grass. Underage smoking. Experimenting with drugs. Not asking your doctor. Driving over the speed limit. Drinking while at work. Using business hours to browse the internet, write a book, sell shakes, jewelry and even real-estate? </span></div>
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Pretty much every time a parent, a boss or a politician tries to go hard-ass with some safety or productivity or political rule, it backfires. And in case the parent, the boss or the politician showed a smidgen of incongruence with their own rule - the very core of that structure starts to rot, perhaps not visibly at first, but surely leading to an individual if not collective collapse down the road. </div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Bottom line - those making up the rules or making accusations better make them and enforce them carefully - perhaps highlighting guidelines that honour integrity, core values and the big picture; ensuring they themselves first adhere to the very last letter of it. You can't take a 'green day' then expect your teenager to stay off weed. It just doesn't work that way!</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">My guilt-ridden mother tells me she entered my bedroom shortly after she sent me to bed on that day. My breathing was still heavy from all that drama and she wanted to kiss and make nice, thinking I wouldn't be able to fall asleep until we said 'sorry'.</span><br />
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"> "Hey darling, I came to say goodnight. I'm sorry you were disappointed. We will talk about the bank tomorrow." She sat near me and tenderly stroked my hair. "Is there anything you want to say to mama?" </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"> "Yes." My quiet voice answered and my mom smiled. I shakily drew a deep breath: </span><br />
<span style="font-kerning: none;"> "Mama, actually, I don't want to be good!" </span>Then allegedly relieved, I fell asleep. </div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">The way I try to parent my boys is by being fluid. Have the core rules we are proud to honour in our family each and every time no matter our relative rank by age: being kind, honest, hard-working and light-hearted. Light hearted. It is extremely important not to take ourselves too seriously, let alone make comparisons to others. That goes under 'kind': kind to ourselves. Compete today only with who we were yesterday and no one else. </span>And then there are those rules which are welcome to be 'broken' especially when folks with born-into-it status or those with default authority are in question. By example, I often teach my kids "not to be good"-- coaching them to sense and question inauthentic behaviours and one-sided rules, challenging the unfair, exposing the fake and the ridiculous. Like an everyday version of a PG-rated bad-ass, steadfast in being the proverbial 'troublemaker'.<br />
It's my pleasure to be one!<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Proudly raising the next generation of troublemakers! </td></tr>
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Marina Hassonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10063153424590548742noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-665082057360006602.post-32057559733935028482016-06-07T17:17:00.000-07:002016-06-07T19:21:24.545-07:00Whistle While You Work <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
One thing that people living in the country where their native language is spoken can't possibly appreciate is the ease of understanding the song lyrics. To you it just comes with ease and zero effort. To me - it's a labour intensive experience and unless it's a karaoke night I am reluctant to sing out loud for over a decade now because of - <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Brian_Johnson">Brian Johnson</a>.<br />
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My biggest blooper with language and lyrics happened when my oldest son was 8 or 9 and got introduced to none-other than AC/DC by his "dad" - a wonderful man and a lifelong friend I rarely mention in my writing although he helped a great deal in raising my son. But I feel that the story of love and respect for the man who's on paper my "second ex-husband" deserves way more than just a blog post. No need to worry M, you can keep your anonymity a while longer, the memoir's not quite done yet!<br />
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Long story short, the kid got a boom box from his dad and a few CD's and the next thing I know the door to his room is starting to be more and more often shut. The music blaring behind it is angry; bass and drums are fierce seemingly shaking the very foundation of our East York home. I approach the door in order to intervene about the decibels when I hear my otherwise gentle boy's voice growl the most disturbing lyrics. Shocked, stunned and mortified, I run to the backyard where M is fixing their bikes so they can go for some equally savage ride and mistakenly I repeat what I heard, but first - of course - questioning his sanity as a co-parent to provide such disturbing musical content to <i>my</i> child.<br />
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"Dirty deeds un-der sheets? <i>DIRTY DEEDS UN-DER SHEETS!?</i>"<br />
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What ensued was one of those moments that I only remember in slow-motion. M lifting his face towards me, dropping the greased bike chain on the driveway, whole face squinting into a grimace before his 6'5" frame rolled over to the grass patch where he laughed uncontrollably until the kid heard him, paused the music, got told how I understood <a href="http://www.metrolyrics.com/dirty-deeds-done-dirt-cheap-lyrics-acdc.html">"Dirty deeds done dirt cheap"</a> , after which they both continued laughing and rolling on the ground - likely until supper time. Which I probably didn't even want to cook for them!<br />
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Understandably so, I stayed away from loud singing until this past winter, when my new set of kids (<a href="http://friend-like-me.blogspot.ca/2015/04/happy-place_24.html">Oops 1 & Oops 2</a>) fell very much in love with the Disney soundtrack. No, not Frozen, thank goodness but an old CD they inherited from their big brother, the AC/DC fan himself: Villain Songs! #boyswillbeboys<br />
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And since the best way to motivate the boys to get ready for school in a flash is to make it a competition (the kid that gets his snowsuit, boots, hat, gloves & backpack on first gets 2 songs on our drive to school while the runner up gets only one) I got to hear a lot of that villain music this past winter. Before e v e r y drop-off and after e v e r y pick-up!<br />
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When the lyrics finally managed to sink with my comprehension what stroke me as incredible were the lessons and social queues I totally missed when I used to hear these songs with Filip many years back! Disney Villains offer some seriously good teachings that can turn to be very useful for navigating both personal and professional relationships.<br />
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Here are some Disney song gems:<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">You can sleep safe and sound knowing I am around!</td></tr>
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Have you ever been encouraged to trust, to trust so much so that once this convincing someone hears and "takes over" your worries you can actually 'sleep safe and sound' only to find out you've been conned? Well, if you saw the Disney cartoon version of the Jungle Book you have been taught a valuable lesson early on! Be careful who you trust and share your burden with - if you have to be convinced you are safe, it's likely a deception! <i><a href="https://youtu.be/F1ILPl5FQaM">Trust in me</a></i>, Kaa is way more than just a pretty name!<br />
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Please be careful and say NO!<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"I'm not asking much, just a token really, a trifle..."</td></tr>
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Along the same lines is the lesson brought by Ursula the Witch. She nonchalantly tells the Little Mermaid it is actually<i> her</i> <i>job to assist</i> her. <br />
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"My dear, sweet child, that's what I do<br />
It's what I live for<br />
To help unfortunate merfolk like yourself<br />
Poor souls with no one else to turn to."<br />
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The price will become visible only in the end, when it's too late - when the "favour" has already been completed. And when Ursula coldly says: "We haven't discussed the subject of payment" followed by "It won't cost much. <a href="https://youtu.be/E6Du48Nty_U">Just your VOICE</a>!" <span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">I actually had chills! Sometimes in life one is offered a deal at the expense of basic human rights, their voice included. Given my life's experience</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">, I am dying to yell to Ariel each time </span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">"</span><i style="font-family: inherit;">Don't do it!"</i><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> as I listen to her singing naively thinking she made a wise choice by trusting a witch. This is when my sons go in unison, while strapped into their car seats in the back: </span></span><br />
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> "Don't worry mama, she'll get her voice back!" </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Thank you boys. </span></span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">True. She WILL get her voice back. Of course she will. Silly me!</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The lyrics state: "Whistle loud and long". Please DO!</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Good news,</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> it doesn't always take a villain to give sound advice. For all of us locked-up in a Monday to Friday routine sometimes referred to as a rat-race, the Snow White has an easy to follow advice: </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://youtu.be/mIwa9sPFT5I">Whistle while you work!</a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">What is more surprising, these exact words are echoed by grown-ass councillors that are trained to career-coach!</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Frozen", just not by fear!</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">It might sound simple but it is actually quite profound. Whistling can make the time pass quicker. In case the work is dull & done only for the sake of a paycheque, it will remind you there is much more to life than just work. It is also contagious - the more you whistle the more people will join in making for a jolly company that weathers the daily obstacles together. We are never alone in our problems. Taking things lightly is a great strategy!</span></div>
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Ask any little girl and they'll tell you, no they won't tell you, they will sing you one of the most important life lessons we all - me first - need to get better at: Let it go!</div>
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The 2013 animated blockbuster "Frozen" offers the best ear-worm ever created and I am sure to be humming it until I fully and totally get it. Life-coaching taught me to never to allow things to be rushed, but rather acknowledged and processed - usually with a group of trustworthy peeps - in order for everything to be understood and closed. It's only then one can fully and completely <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L0MK7qz13bU">"Let it go!"</a></div>
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I'll end my Disney-inspired silver screen adventure with an unusual learning. Can an ultimate villain offer a useful advice that actually rings truer than true? Absolutely!<br />
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When Daniel wins our little pre-school winter-dressing contest, being a jazzy kind of kid that plays a </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Couldn't have said it better myself!</td></tr>
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piano, he always chooses: <a href="https://youtu.be/KcdQk7JBPzQ?list=RDKcdQk7JBPzQ">"Cruella de Vil"</a>. When Joshua wins - him being a hearty little rascal - it's <a href="https://youtu.be/9g-6RkMpknQ">"Are you in or out"</a> from Aladdin and the Prince of Thieves. When it's my turn, perhaps because of my fondness for choir music - I always pick Lion King's - <a href="https://youtu.be/Dmt45BF5SOM">"Be Prepared"</a>. And amazingly enough it is the worst of them all that precisely pinpoints how I feel these days as I enjoy my life, my family and my work while mapping our amazingly fun summer:<br />
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"Just listen to teacher:</div>
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I know it sounds sordid but you'll be rewarded</div>
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When at last I am given my dues!</div>
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And injustice deliciously squared.</div>
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Be prepared!"</div>
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Injustices can be deliciously squared indeed. It just takes a tiny little bit of patience and preparation: know who to trust, whistle while the work is getting done, then simply claim one's voice back. Then it becomes super easy to let it all go!</div>
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Marina Hassonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10063153424590548742noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-665082057360006602.post-11179502720280636472016-05-31T21:18:00.000-07:002016-06-03T16:25:33.263-07:00Live If Lies Let You<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Some ten years ago, on an impromptu party in a beautiful home in Forest Hill (Toronto’s posh neighbourhood), three ‘privileged’ teenagers decided to get drunk, raid the fully loaded bar and even steal some cash. They were caught as soon as my friends - parents of the boy who thought he could throw a party then get away with it - returned from a weekend abroad. The perpetrators were all in Grade 12. They were 18 years old. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">The debate ensued: what should be the correct course of action? Legally they were all adults. Calling police would earn them a permanent record. Telling teachers might ruin the reputation of otherwise decent boys, a reputation essential to the second last report card - the one that goes to desired universities. Telling their wealthy parents… Ouch!</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">My friend, one of the wisest and kindest people I know, decided to try a new approach. After the boys replenished everything they had drunk and stolen they sat remorsefully in front of her, fully owning up to their stupidity and awaiting the verdict: </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Each boy was assigned to do some volunteer work at three of her friends who needed help. This happened to be the fall of my slow recovery from the West Nile Virus so one of the young men, Andy, was assigned to me. Andy’s job was to help rake our backyard which was filled beyond recognition with leaves that two giant sycamore trees from the neighbouring schoolyard would mercilessly dump each October.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Andy arrived on time and knocked at the door. He tried to act cool although I felt a shadow of the shame a culprit would wear to a mandatory Saturday work session. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“Hey dude! Thanks for coming. We need you!” were the words that did the magic. Andy realized there would be no mentioning of the mishap. His shoulders relaxed and a faint smile crossed his face. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">For a while, the three of us worked together - Andy and I raking and my son Filip, who was ten at the time, packing the leaves in paper bags. When given a rake Filip had a tendency of regressing to a ninja warrior, fighting the piles of leaves, destroying the already packed bags and then claiming exhaustion. No rake for Filip! </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Once my limited energy had expired, I went inside to make hot cocoa while the boys worked. By the time I brought the second round of treats out, they were buddies. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">What stayed with me a decade later from that crisp fall day was not the ease of redemption. Or how strangers—a teen and a tween—could bond in an instant over a chore. It was Andy’s father. When he came to pick him up he shook my hand with both of his and said:</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"> "Thank you for helping Andrew co-create his experience surrounding this incident. It is people like your friend and yourself who allowed Andy to grow into his learning and restore his integrity. I am very grateful to you for creating a safe space for him.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Until then, I had never heard such terminology used in parenting: co-create, grow into learning, safe space, integrity. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“Excuse me for asking, but what do you do for a living?” I asked, expecting to hear he was a family therapist.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“I’m a Life Coach” he said, nodding slightly. “I work with corporate VPs and executives. For sure it’s making me a way more effective and sane parent.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Later that evening, I called the friend who had sent Andy to me to tell her of this profound parenting experience and also to share that after talking to the dad for an hour I had decided to become a life coach myself and attend the <a href="http://www.thecoaches.com/">same school</a> where he had trained.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“Oh, I am so happy for you!” she said “because, you see, the other two boys never showed up at their volunteer assignments. Their parents bailed them out.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Often in life the ‘parent’ will not know <a href="http://friend-like-me.blogspot.ca/2015/03/parenting-parenteeng.html">how to parent</a>. There will be rulebooks to read, papers to sign, curfews to obey. And still, when it comes to enforcing the rules and living the values that are the very fibre of the family more often than not the parent will decide to do nothing.The drunk teen will keep driving dad’s car. Steal smaller bills from the wallet. Harass his younger sister. I am never sure if the parent is so oblivious that she believes it’s just a phase or is it sheer ignorance? Could it be that someone told her to shut up!? </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Thank goodness - we all get to choose what we do in our own home, with the ones we are responsible for! </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">The true gift of my decade of single parenting enhanced by life coach training and an unwavering set of core values, not much different from those my parents and grandparents held - is that I see things with laser-sharp clarity as they unfold in real time. And I am unwilling to lie to myself. And since my parenting is not a job but a calling, it is with 100% probability that my kids know: if I do this, mama will do that. It is exactly that predictability - no matter how un-cool or boring it sounds - that is the backbone of our family and the real deal behind the unconditional love. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I love you so much that I will never lie for you. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I respect you so much that I will help you learn to live with integrity. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">It always starts with me. </span></div>
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Thankfully, it doesn't end with me. New generations of knowledge-empowered, empathetic and passionate truth-seekers is conquering what's left of the stale, corrupted and complacent world. In the following 'viral' five and half minutes, <a href="https://www.facebook.com/HarvardEducation/videos/10153893399331387/?pnref=story.unseen-section">Donovan Livingston </a>will inspire our children to become the "thorn in the side of injustice".<br />
Perhaps it's time for "parents" to unlearn the art of lying. <br />
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Marina Hassonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10063153424590548742noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-665082057360006602.post-34187546448946060392016-05-07T20:57:00.002-07:002016-05-08T06:27:40.503-07:00Dial M for: Marriage, Motherhood, Memoir<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">On today's date 22 years ago I didn't know it was Mother's Day weekend.</span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Serbia doesn't do Mother's Day, or <a href="http://friend-like-me.blogspot.ca/2015/06/good-dad-bad-dad-no-dad.html">Father's Day</a> for that matter.</span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-W9xXu-bjpTY/Vy6jRza32dI/AAAAAAAAB0E/wp_RMD1OXLkBq8ItB0eVw0uEGsKGaB5wACKgB/s1600/FullSizeRender%2B3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-W9xXu-bjpTY/Vy6jRza32dI/AAAAAAAAB0E/wp_RMD1OXLkBq8ItB0eVw0uEGsKGaB5wACKgB/s200/FullSizeRender%2B3.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">1994</td></tr>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Twenty two years ago May 7th was "Djurdjevdan" - a big day in Serbian Christian-Orthodox Calendar represented by <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/%C4%90ur%C4%91evdan">St.George on the White horse slaying a dragon</a>. It's a patron saint day of many families in Belgrade, though not mine. On Saturday, May 7, 1994 my family was celebrating something completely different: their daughter's wedding. </span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">That daughter happened to be me. </span></span></div>
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-m6plZkVv8IQ/Vy6jR5cCyQI/AAAAAAAAB0E/vm53MDaOZ0IaKyyfJRVR8BTBJFzSMwQ_gCKgB/s1600/FullSizeRender%2B4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-m6plZkVv8IQ/Vy6jR5cCyQI/AAAAAAAAB0E/vm53MDaOZ0IaKyyfJRVR8BTBJFzSMwQ_gCKgB/s200/FullSizeRender%2B4.jpg" width="150" /></a><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">The decision to marry my boyfriend, once I had dated him for a few years, while diligently completing all the checkmarks my parents had insisted on (graduate from university, license as a pharmacist, find a good job, not get pregnant etc.) - well, the talented Bruno Mars perfectly sums it all up in the very first verse of <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ykgxgmd0moM">"Marry You"</a> : <b>"It's a beautiful night, We're looking for something dumb to do, hey baby, I think I wanna marry you!</b>"</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: inherit;">The initial wedding date was supposed to be in early April since my sister was emigrating to Canada in mid May and I wanted to give my parents a breather between these two monumental events in our family life. However, my pharmacy technician Mira, who was much older and wiser and also hypnotically persuasive - all that gypsy blood flowing through her veins - told me as we were manning a heavy afternoon shift in the pharmacy wholesale warehouse: </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: inherit;">"Never marry in April. April marriage--April joke." May 7th seemed like a perfect and safe day. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Mother's Day 1996 was on May 12th. I wish I knew Mother's Day existed, not because by then I was a mom for the whole 110 days. I wish I knew because by then I learned how much I needed a mom, how much my mom meant to me and how at peace I was with everything that happened as if I wasn't doing my motherhood all by myself. If there is anything that touches the essence of my mom's motherhood it is the first few months of me being a mom - in my case, a single mom. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">My mom welcomed me home after a failed marriage. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">My mom went with me for ultrasounds and doctor's appointments.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">My mom was at the hospital <a href="http://friend-like-me.blogspot.ca/2015/01/marina-has-son.html">the night I gave birth</a> to my son. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">My mom assembled (having our friends and neighbours pass down baby items) the most magical nursery for me to enjoy and heal in.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">My mom woke up every night to keep me company while I breastfed. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">My mom cooked delicious home-made soups and baked pies.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">My mom ironed mountains of cloth diapers each and every day. </span></span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-NWuc0DeZllE/Vy6fXV__Y5I/AAAAAAAABz4/WOKl_SVqzTMtyw6mGTxg7uSDcSLrTJoEACKgB/s1600/968992_10201516206137119_842034282_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-NWuc0DeZllE/Vy6fXV__Y5I/AAAAAAAABz4/WOKl_SVqzTMtyw6mGTxg7uSDcSLrTJoEACKgB/s320/968992_10201516206137119_842034282_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bajce the Best!</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">My mom cleaned projectile vomits, soothed the crying baby and readily managed diaper explosions.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">My mom patiently fed him his first solid foods. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">My mom assured me there is no rush to potty train. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">My mom...</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">My mom followed us to Canada at age 60.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">My mom was my son's day-care. And a tutor. And a bestie. And a confidant.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">My mom saved my sanity. And taught me everything I know about motherhood. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">And if I had to choose between <i>that</i> husband or <b>this</b> mom - I would've gone for this mom every single time!</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Gu8PKdVW4aE/Vy6fO7EK7wI/AAAAAAAABzw/UQyTxmX-X144DIVRSh97o48fEaKvo685ACKgB/s1600/IMG_5320.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Gu8PKdVW4aE/Vy6fO7EK7wI/AAAAAAAABzw/UQyTxmX-X144DIVRSh97o48fEaKvo685ACKgB/s200/IMG_5320.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">2016</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I'm aware of my incredible good luck to have this mom be<i> my</i> mom. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I measure my great luck for being a mother of three boys myself, while still having my mom around - fun and wise and full of life. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">And to make sure my boys will know how to carry our good fortune and extraordinary parenting forward, I'm researching, interviewing and capturing it all in a memoir. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Here is an excerpt of an early draft:</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: inherit;"> It was January. There was no baby formula. No glider chair. No dryer. Only lukewarm radiators. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I am sitting on a sturdy orange kitchen chair in what used to be the bedroom my sister and I shared as teenagers. My leg is propped on a ledge, my whole body coiled uncomfortably on one side trying to avoid—sitting. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The newborn in my arms is crying. His mouth gaping open, like in cartoons. Red toothless gums framing a miniature paper-thin tongue. It’s a hungry, frustrated cry. </span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Qq7C6zN82c4/Vy6fOrzpUuI/AAAAAAAABzg/YXfdJ9JMuDEoeeE7Ef3JtoxNNqkyrQnPQCKgB/s1600/19498_10200373438568644_1616290347_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="136" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Qq7C6zN82c4/Vy6fOrzpUuI/AAAAAAAABzg/YXfdJ9JMuDEoeeE7Ef3JtoxNNqkyrQnPQCKgB/s200/19498_10200373438568644_1616290347_n.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">1996</td></tr>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I’m crying. Mine is an exhausted, desperate cry. Manual for new moms was clear about breastfeeding. “Offer the breast whenever the baby cries. Mother’s milk is perfectly nutritious, served at the ideal temperature and always bacteriologically safe.” </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Mother’s breasts, the book failed to mention, were swollen and tender, chestnuts tightly packed into a balloon, hard from the milk that started pouring out all at once through the utterly unprepared ducts. The yellowish, greasy colostrum was everywhere, soaking and staining my bra and my PJs, spraying baby’s eyelashes, getting into his nostrils, sticking in his tiny soft golden hairs. It went everywhere but into his mouth. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Crying, chanting, I rocked myself front and back then stopped jolted by the sharp pain. The tiny mouth managed to latch and started sucking, sounding big gulps, almost choking at times, gnawing the nipple until it bled, yet never letting it go. I was nursing a wolf, not a boy. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>It was January. There was no maternity-leave pay for a retail pharmacy manager. Equal opportunity anything hadn't arrived in Serbia. No food in the supermarkets. No gas at the stations. Pampers for newborns sourced on the black market, too big for the skinny 6-pound body. One diaper, one Deutsch mark. </span></span></div>
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Nc4jetQ3u48/Vy6alHnu9CI/AAAAAAAABzQ/fDSa-wktarYnNkymqWoRHFa83LhMyCWNwCKgB/s1600/IMG_0091.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Nc4jetQ3u48/Vy6alHnu9CI/AAAAAAAABzQ/fDSa-wktarYnNkymqWoRHFa83LhMyCWNwCKgB/s320/IMG_0091.jpg" width="240" /></a><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><i>“You WILL grow to hate me. You will look at me one day and ask ‘how could someone fail so profoundly at basically everything? At motherhood. At breastfeeding. At providing you with a warm room to sleep in. A clean diaper. A safe childhood. A normal family. A country with no war.’” </i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The father-to-be handed me an envelope with neatly signed, stacked and stapled divorce papers ten days before the baby was born. “In case the child is born alive (for still birth please see below), the mother has the right to give the name and make sole decisions regarding medical, religious, educational and all other needs.” Then he disappeared. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Twenty years later, I am sitting on a chair watching a 6’4”, broad-shouldered man with a hipster beard pack the last few items he’ll need in his sophomore year. Laptop—check. Guitar—check.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="font-family: inherit; white-space: pre;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">“Filip, how was it growing up with just me… never meeting your </span>biological <span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">father?” </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Oh, mama!” He turns around and gently taps the top of my head. Then he smiles. “It was magical!”<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LMrK_nw-AWM/Vy64QoTCBSI/AAAAAAAAB0Q/kr0UY0wJe5MR44SMzRokTR2NhYeJUy1UACKgB/s1600/FullSizeRender%2B5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LMrK_nw-AWM/Vy64QoTCBSI/AAAAAAAAB0Q/kr0UY0wJe5MR44SMzRokTR2NhYeJUy1UACKgB/s320/FullSizeRender%2B5.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Happy Mother's Day!</td></tr>
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Marina Hassonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10063153424590548742noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-665082057360006602.post-14771522417538347132016-04-26T20:24:00.002-07:002016-04-27T19:16:27.312-07:00Return To Innocence<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "times";"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Navy blue skirt. Crisp white shirt. A red triangular neck scarf. A star-shaped pin with a gold hammer & sickle symbol. All these </span>comprised </span><span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 16px;">my uniform on the day in September 1976. when I became </span><a href="https://www.marxists.org/archive/tito/" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Times; font-size: 16px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; color: #551a8b;">Tito</span></a><span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 16px;">’s pioneer with the rest of my Grade 1 class in Belgrade's </span><a href="http://www.pionirskigrad.org.rs/en/Foto-galerija/Nostalgija/" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Times; font-size: 16px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; color: #551a8b;">Pioneer City</span></a><span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 16px;">. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 16px;">We wore that uniform every time we had a special assembly or whenever a foreign politician decided to pay my school or city a visit, be it philandering </span><a href="http://www.britannica.com/biography/Valery-Giscard-dEstaing" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Times; font-size: 16px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; color: #551a8b;">Valerie Giscard d’Estaing</span></a><span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 16px;"> or notorious </span><a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/alan-elsner/trial-and-execution-the-d_b_401497.html" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Times; font-size: 16px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; color: #551a8b;">Nicolae Ceausescu</span></a><span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 16px;">. For the infamous visit of </span><a href="http://www.thedailybeast.com/articles/2011/02/23/libyan-leader-muammar-gaddafis-25-strangest-moments.html" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Times; font-size: 16px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; color: #551a8b;">Muammar al-Qaddafi</span></a><span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 16px;"> I was already a university student and could bail-out of those mandatory moments of waving a miniature flag, red carnation in hand. </span></div>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cNrPSiTuekU/Vx70mWL1gcI/AAAAAAAABwY/Iewlxvk8BMMPIvTFb0u1wfNV4eQe6DdgACLcB/s1600/580356_10209041314380122_4659889180505566818_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cNrPSiTuekU/Vx70mWL1gcI/AAAAAAAABwY/Iewlxvk8BMMPIvTFb0u1wfNV4eQe6DdgACLcB/s320/580356_10209041314380122_4659889180505566818_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">A wide blue rectangular <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Moskvitch"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; -webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(4, 46, 238); color: #551a8b;">Moskvitch</span></a> was parallel-parked on the Smiljanićeva street, my dad periodically sliding underneath it on a home made dolly (my sister and I called it for some meaningless reason "lek-lor", remember Mina? It was one of our favourite outdoor toys!). I remember our father’s pharmacist hands often being black on weekends, smelling of motor-oil from changing it himself or replacing a part he managed to source. There was also mom’s red Fiat 126P, the size of a Costco shopping cart, and displaying the licence plate BG 159-19. For a good period of time - we had a near fluorescent lemon-yellow Citroen GS with black stripes racing along the bottom of each side of it. And in the last few years we could afford a car it was the sand coloured Lada Samara, BG 360-340. We loved this car so much we named it "the desert fox". But not after Rommel!</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Not after <a href="http://www.biography.com/people/erwin-rommel-39971"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; -webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(4, 46, 238); color: #551a8b;">Rommel</span></a> because no one wanted a part of a German soldier at play-time. Everyone wanted only to be a <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yugoslav_Partisans"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; color: #551a8b;">partisan</span></a>. Or even better a secret group of friends fighting <a href="http://www.historylearningsite.co.uk/nazi-germany/the-gestapo/"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; color: #551a8b;">Gestapo</span></a> on the streets of Belgrade as seen in the favourite TV series of my childhood “Otpisani”. Because in school, on TV and at the cinema, it was all about the WW2 and how - despite all odds - with Tito’s leadership we beat the Nazi's and became the ‘modern’ Yugoslavia.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">And then they were parents like mine who refused to belong to the communist party. They did well as pharmacist and a lawyer, but never really as well as their peers who opted for the membership. Career advancements, free corporate apartments and posts overseas were reserved only for those who attended meetings and proclaimed themselves as communists. Instead, my parents would shut the windows, draw the curtains, explain to us kids the utmost importance of secrecy and keeping topics from home at home, then proceed to gather and entertain their free-minded friends, generously criticizing the government, exchanging passionate commentaries and telling jokes that could earn each adult significant time at the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Goli_otok"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; color: #551a8b;">Goli otok</span></a> - the barren island - an inhumane and often terminal stop for political prisoners. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">In essence, this is the fabric of my childhood. And as incredible as it might sound to you and the by-now fully North-Americanized me: we had the best time of our lives living in Yugoslavia!</span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-AmsermrtyoY/Vx70nYAouQI/AAAAAAAABxg/fesEfuYi-DkVWjFU8NlgKEVeFWM2SmgVgCKgB/s1600/FullSizeRender%2B14.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="232" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-AmsermrtyoY/Vx70nYAouQI/AAAAAAAABxg/fesEfuYi-DkVWjFU8NlgKEVeFWM2SmgVgCKgB/s320/FullSizeRender%2B14.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Comrades flash to warn each other of hidden speed radars</td></tr>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Perhaps that is why this past winter I fell in love with Cuba. I had been to Cuba many times before - the favourite (read: inexpensive) winter getaway location for a single mom and her son snatched on a last minute website often just in time to tell my boss and his teacher. This winter, we made it our mission to let go of the all-inclusive circus (more on that soon) and explore Havana for a couple of days. Our mission: Havana before Obama.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">The result? The nostalgic and overwhelming feeling I had entered the time capsule. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Here is why:</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-LaP3GxeMT9w/Vx70l0AE6OI/AAAAAAAABxg/glMPaScvBdMfNNykAKzuXaRg7das2gLdwCKgB/s1600/12718150_10209041306539926_2886087074183272752_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="311" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-LaP3GxeMT9w/Vx70l0AE6OI/AAAAAAAABxg/glMPaScvBdMfNNykAKzuXaRg7das2gLdwCKgB/s400/12718150_10209041306539926_2886087074183272752_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Revolution is still a current and hot topic</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-iSPJSYV3MSY/Vx70oBUT67I/AAAAAAAABxE/_v39xQUhNpMZS1GJbL21ifbaCDdMosT6QCKgB/s1600/FullSizeRender%2B7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-iSPJSYV3MSY/Vx70oBUT67I/AAAAAAAABxE/_v39xQUhNpMZS1GJbL21ifbaCDdMosT6QCKgB/s400/FullSizeRender%2B7.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> The Cuban flag is a point of national pride on many balconies</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-1s-f0W_DZt8/Vx71ERSxCNI/AAAAAAAABxc/NSpBGWpioEQDLdRUBnusxBdRXez5YjOYwCLcB/s1600/FullSizeRender%2B6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-1s-f0W_DZt8/Vx71ERSxCNI/AAAAAAAABxc/NSpBGWpioEQDLdRUBnusxBdRXez5YjOYwCLcB/s400/FullSizeRender%2B6.jpg" width="398" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The red star still a common political and fashion statement</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-OzewTbdOxvI/Vx70lwhcR-I/AAAAAAAABxg/QMls9Er-eQM2ldvYrpnY1214PCMsWJVSQCKgB/s1600/12809626_10209041303739856_6448992612697286944_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="322" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-OzewTbdOxvI/Vx70lwhcR-I/AAAAAAAABxg/QMls9Er-eQM2ldvYrpnY1214PCMsWJVSQCKgB/s400/12809626_10209041303739856_6448992612697286944_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">School uniforms ensure all kids are equal</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-_oWMHcb6XM0/Vx70osfnKvI/AAAAAAAABxQ/MoeZdunPu384wkt16tPg8sppFcbw42jhwCKgB/s1600/FullSizeRender.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-_oWMHcb6XM0/Vx70osfnKvI/AAAAAAAABxQ/MoeZdunPu384wkt16tPg8sppFcbw42jhwCKgB/s400/FullSizeRender.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Morro castle proudly reminds of hard fought independence </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BU5ZahHPlAI/Vx70nQX1I7I/AAAAAAAABxk/dbu3VovHa_w8_AGSwZ-EOGcOCrzBdNrfACKgB/s1600/FullSizeRender%2B3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BU5ZahHPlAI/Vx70nQX1I7I/AAAAAAAABxk/dbu3VovHa_w8_AGSwZ-EOGcOCrzBdNrfACKgB/s400/FullSizeRender%2B3.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And cannons and cannonballs are at every corner. Yey!</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-cdfSGSWWpiY/Vx70mlPrYtI/AAAAAAAABxg/hY4o3f9pmAMMaN-9ZVuRem3nIHZ9Lh4AQCKgB/s1600/64970_10209041310980037_2316655351210569518_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-cdfSGSWWpiY/Vx70mlPrYtI/AAAAAAAABxg/hY4o3f9pmAMMaN-9ZVuRem3nIHZ9Lh4AQCKgB/s400/64970_10209041310980037_2316655351210569518_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The coffee is real and far from the venti skinny vanilla latte craze</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-34dLhyPWUMo/Vx70mk7fRpI/AAAAAAAABxg/XmPR7RejNHwFCEAqZcQm-a7IVrxMPQUwwCKgB/s1600/988748_10209041310580027_4618878092420871200_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-34dLhyPWUMo/Vx70mk7fRpI/AAAAAAAABxg/XmPR7RejNHwFCEAqZcQm-a7IVrxMPQUwwCKgB/s400/988748_10209041310580027_4618878092420871200_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Domestic cola and beer reign, blissfully unaware of Pepsis & Buds </td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-kg_aGN-j0ds/Vx70mWDfhPI/AAAAAAAABxg/GsM7NHsqUwcIE4QFSNcncuvh1gJ1_MXPwCKgB/s1600/580361_10209041302419823_1000629214749425786_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="331" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-kg_aGN-j0ds/Vx70mWDfhPI/AAAAAAAABxg/GsM7NHsqUwcIE4QFSNcncuvh1gJ1_MXPwCKgB/s400/580361_10209041302419823_1000629214749425786_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Guys still sweet-talk girls over backgammon</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-C3zUZ4g9aAg/Vx70l4IcvlI/AAAAAAAABxg/nYKL5zdXNWAvs90ib006mDbETfTlqgLNgCKgB/s1600/12279059_10209041302739831_6746216268779843277_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-C3zUZ4g9aAg/Vx70l4IcvlI/AAAAAAAABxg/nYKL5zdXNWAvs90ib006mDbETfTlqgLNgCKgB/s400/12279059_10209041302739831_6746216268779843277_n.jpg" width="297" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Neighbours unite in common problems</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-AxTSIosq2XQ/Vx70nMXzQqI/AAAAAAAABxg/I1p9KhtXOC4wjUpPMRrOsW_tn4bGRUlvwCKgB/s1600/FullSizeRender%2B13.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="355" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-AxTSIosq2XQ/Vx70nMXzQqI/AAAAAAAABxg/I1p9KhtXOC4wjUpPMRrOsW_tn4bGRUlvwCKgB/s400/FullSizeRender%2B13.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Men and women are equal. Old age is treated with utmost respect</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aOR4MFmDX7s/Vx70ntEMdHI/AAAAAAAABxk/MrlgTrjkU_gPnZkusZxgrSq8zDdYoT64wCKgB/s1600/FullSizeRender%2B4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aOR4MFmDX7s/Vx70ntEMdHI/AAAAAAAABxk/MrlgTrjkU_gPnZkusZxgrSq8zDdYoT64wCKgB/s400/FullSizeRender%2B4.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Even though the city is quite uniquely avant-garde</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-upiob74TtM0/Vx70m4Cl6TI/AAAAAAAABxg/VOnQCQ34iJcUZ4okMJYOMrZ6WwSwWrDhACKgB/s1600/FullSizeRender%2B11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="376" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-upiob74TtM0/Vx70m4Cl6TI/AAAAAAAABxg/VOnQCQ34iJcUZ4okMJYOMrZ6WwSwWrDhACKgB/s400/FullSizeRender%2B11.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dryers are obsolete on La Isla</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-i0vbo31EBOI/Vx70ogorZbI/AAAAAAAABxg/NDXgoGt2MPMWfpiZsAh_S6-uJk8CBLLLACKgB/s1600/IMG_9941.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-i0vbo31EBOI/Vx70ogorZbI/AAAAAAAABxg/NDXgoGt2MPMWfpiZsAh_S6-uJk8CBLLLACKgB/s400/IMG_9941.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Big work is only being done now because of Obama's impending visit</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-CNdTQvlm4og/Vx70oB2bzlI/AAAAAAAABxg/Ua4H77W9NC4HTI-tymSE_p1tUNzk5idwgCKgB/s1600/FullSizeRender%2B8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="273" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-CNdTQvlm4og/Vx70oB2bzlI/AAAAAAAABxg/Ua4H77W9NC4HTI-tymSE_p1tUNzk5idwgCKgB/s400/FullSizeRender%2B8.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">But as long as all Cubans remember the unfaltering courage </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-JVyO05Gud1E/Vx75K3JAuuI/AAAAAAAABxs/y6tSYk70AUIMnXUaZ6O69A-wX5_n2_DBgCKgB/s1600/12400667_10209041302899835_4597590147613314187_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-JVyO05Gud1E/Vx75K3JAuuI/AAAAAAAABxs/y6tSYk70AUIMnXUaZ6O69A-wX5_n2_DBgCKgB/s400/12400667_10209041302899835_4597590147613314187_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">They are at liberty to smile & salsa, enjoying a rare freedom</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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There is something seductively naïve in the collective demeanour of Cubans. They are kind, they are proud and their streets are safe for everyone even in the wee hours of the night. They know the world has moved on. And the Internet exists. The globe is suddenly much smaller. But they also recognize that the deep western unhappiness, cancerous corporate greed and modern-day enslavement is nothing to strive for. They really haven't missed much. </div>
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When the taxi windows and doors closed and we departed for Havana, our driver Miguel (not his real name) told us - just like my parents did back in the days of former Yugoslavia - how things <i>really</i> are. Then he got careful to end all such conversations as we passed the toll booth. Cubans are anxious to see what will happen with the physical end of the Castros. Anxious yet calm. And hopeful. </div>
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By day they work, considering themselves successful if they get anywhere near the Canadian and European tourists, taking any job even though they might have a medical, engineering or teaching degree already completed. Unlike their real professions, this allows them to earn in convertible pesos, needed for everything other than the government determined rations of food. </div>
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By night they dance. The new generations of world-class musicians stemming from the original Buena Vista Social Club wizards does not allow for sitting not even a minute out. It is in their every step, smile and swing.</div>
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Marina Hassonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10063153424590548742noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-665082057360006602.post-12413917131634800142016-04-11T06:07:00.001-07:002016-04-11T11:47:38.843-07:00Five People You Meet On... Facebook<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "times";">It's spring. Far from spring-like weather in Toronto but spring nonetheless. And what comes with spring aside from the bombardment of boot-camps, colonic cleanses and restrictive diets promising a beach-ready body in a jiffy? Spring cleaning!</span><br />
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Being the daughter of my particular mother (sorry mama!) growing up, I loathed spring cleaning, mainly because this energetic, capable and cheerful excellent lawyer parent was no joke when it came to anything. Especially cleaning. In a home where on any given day we would've been safe to eat off the floor, spring cleaning meant a bat-shit-crazy level of intensity. Mattresses were lifted, carpets rolled, curtain rods dismembered; cashmere sweaters washed by hand in a mild shampoo then dried flat and carefully folded so they could survive the summer and potential moth attacks high up in the lavender-infused closets. Every goddamn Murano glass figurine and delicate crystal piece was carefully removed from its place, washed, and the shelf dusted until it squeaked with surgical-grade cleanliness. Silverware, a special cloth and drops of some German-made liquid were sure to take hours of rubbing and shining of the cutlery we got to use only once a year. Unless I were to get married again. All to the never-ending droning of the eager vacuum-cleaner - an orange-coloured beast made in Slovenia with an always-empty dust bag - as per orders of my drill sergeant mom. Mama, sorry again, but I </span><i style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">loathed</i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> spring cleaning!</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">These days I live like a princess. My only task this time of the year is to stuff the clothes I no longer want or fit into the bag and call the <a href="http://www.diabetes.ca/how-you-can-help/clothesline"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">CDA Clothesline</span></a> donation program. Hand down the books I won't re-read. Scoop all the cosmetic sample packs - Gift With Purchase junkie that I am - into a shoebox so I can drop it off in a women's shelter together with the 'babyish' toys my boys reluctantly decided to part ways with. And voilà! It's done!</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Could this be it? Do I feel 'clean' and ready to spring forward into new adventures the way we did when my mom was in command? Umm, not quite...</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I recently got reminded that there is more to de-cluttering than just the stuff that no longer serves my family. What about the energy that surrounds me? What about people who proved toxic or ill-meaning?</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">So I sat last night and sifted through my expansive Facebook friend list. Do I really know everybody? Between <a href="http://friend-like-me.blogspot.ca/2015/06/in-beautiful-land-far-far-away-u-svetu.html" target="_blank">my early Belgrade</a> years, the high school, the <a href="http://friend-like-me.blogspot.ca/2015/02/next-year-in-jerusalem.html" target="_blank">Jewish Choir</a> and <a href="http://friend-like-me.blogspot.ca/2015/05/since-i-met-you-baby.html" target="_blank">neighbours</a> and university and then my early Canada days and <a href="http://friend-like-me.blogspot.ca/2015/09/always-bride-never-bridesmaid.html" target="_blank">brand-new friends</a> and colleagues and my big kid's friends and their moms by now multiplied by another two kids's moms, plus <a href="http://friend-like-me.blogspot.ca/2015/09/so-you-think-you-can-volunteer.html" target="_blank">fellow volunteers</a> and travellers and coaches and writers... amazingly, there are very few people I actually haven't met in person! For the most part, the energy they emit is so pure and so good that I can bask in it for hours.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Here are the five people I stumbled upon last night while Facebook-cleansing (for anonymity reasons gender references might have been deliberately altered).</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><b>Cyber-Crush: </b>There is this guy I've actually never met. But some time ago a friend of a friend must have shared some of his writing and I was hooked. Became a fan and a follower and a 'friend'. It's the kind of stuff I forgot could be put in words, especially in somewhat cumbersome Serbian. That Balkan men tend to be rough and jock-like has been my greatest misconception. This guy muses about the complicated in us women, adoring it for all the havoc we wreak upon his big sensitive heart. This guy understands the music and lyrics and the wicked way in which a song can make us weep or chill or rejoice and everything in between. This guy sees the political turmoil of my homeland of the crooked and corrupted while finding the threads of unspoiled and normal and optimistic. It is fair to say that he is a must-have in life even if only on the screen, removed by the ocean and a few vast corn-fields. <b>The Verdict: </b>label him with that 'favourite' star so I make sure I get my dose of awesome every time I check in.</span></div>
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<b style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Cluster-Fuck:</b><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> Everything the Cyber-Crush is not. Stupid. Misogynist. Inappropriate. His signature dumb grin always next to a tall beer someone bought him, tongue sticking out in proof: "Booze = Fun". Sheepish bro-smile on sports event. Horrendously hollow. Universally unwise. Should not procreate. Don't ask how we ended up being Facebook friends. </span><b style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">The Verdict:</b><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> delete the bastard. Nothing good/smart or remarkable will ever come out of this. Block!</span><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><b>Fart-Mountain:</b> This one came in a package with a whole bunch of great people and ended on my list by mere proximity. It didn't take long to distill the theme: with indignant irony he comments on a world that never does him right. Not enough money. Not enough attention. Not enough respect. Not enough opportunity. Food is too expensive. Selection not up to the expectation. And you are guessing right - not enough sex - so there is always this raunchy undertone that might come across as charming to the people just looking to speed up the mandatory minutes. Otherwise everyone just sees one giant wuss. <b>The Verdict:</b> Un-friend fart-mountain. There has never been a friend there anyway.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><b>Anti-Aphrodite:</b> This is a tricky one. Because of some vague biographical details you are led to believe you share a common spirit. You could be friends. You give. You open up. You trust. You wonder... why are the tiny eyes tirelessly darting left and right as if constantly scanning the terrain for terrorist traps? Why are the lips always tightly pursed and instead of an opinion you only get: “Mhmm"? Was that "Mhmm good" or "Mhmm bad"? You never find out. There are whispers in someone else's ears. Silent nods. Elbow pokes. And there's the rampant paranoia the gossip queen suffers from - is it true this person said/thinks/heard...? </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">My forties brought with them an abundance of unbelievably-generous, wise, insightful, beautiful and resourceful women-friends. I have no need for a patsavoura in my life. But then I'm a Life Coach. And a feminist. <b>The Verdict:</b> I'll let her delete me. Or by cyber-osmosis she will learn a thing or two about grace. It's her choice. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><b>Everyone Else: </b>As of this writing, yes, all 718 of you. Thank you for being in my life. The articles you share make me think. Your travel destinations make me plan. Your music choices make me way cooler than I am. The books you recommend make me spend. Your political views... with Donald still rambling around, let's for now leave the political views. Your baby's pictures make my ovaries tingle! Your recipes make me eager to strap on my apron. Your photography inspires me. Your choice of words make me envious. Your fitness levels make me push harder. Your funny pet videos make me melt. Your quotes make me reflect. </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Your milestones make me rejoice.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Above all, seeing you often crowding together, right here on my computer screen - mere strangers from around the globe - makes me hopeful. Hopeful we are becoming an army of good. The crowd that understands there is nothing to compete for. Just to generously share everything there is that is good. And no matter what the haters tell you, it really can all start with a “Like”. </span></div>
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Marina Hassonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10063153424590548742noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-665082057360006602.post-71683351452267845872016-03-28T18:52:00.003-07:002016-04-07T03:06:19.452-07:00Oh Cartagena, You Had Me At "Ceviche"! <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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There is a time in everyone's life when a decision needs to be made on a whim. On a whim and based on the "me first" kind of philosophy. Sprinkled with a bit of carelessness - the good kind - just to prevent overthinking. Carelessness that simply must include some form of hedonism.<br />
Sounds interesting?<br />
Well, let me tell you about my most recent <i>"Hell YES!" </i>decision I am sure to revel in for the rest of my life!<br />
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Towards the end of this winter - <a href="http://friend-like-me.blogspot.ca/2016/03/stuff-i-learned-about-life-from-intense.html" target="_blank">the weirdest winter of wars and worries</a> - my phone rang and I heard a: "Would you travel to Cartagena with me?!"<br />
As one of my best friends rattled on with her contagious zest and elaborate plans listing fast approaching dates I got lost for a second. My young life flashed in front of me: I was 15 and back in <a href="http://friend-like-me.blogspot.ca/2015/03/an-atlas-full-of-purpose.html" target="_blank">my favourite geography class</a>. South America. A strategically important port. Chocolate. Coffee. And of course, narco mafia, cocaine. Pablo Escobar. Thank you movie/TV stereotypes! The soundtrack playing in my subliminal cortex: <a href="https://youtu.be/WQQttfZllOg" target="_blank">Romancing The Stone</a>!<br />
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There was no time to Google anything. Just pack the cabin luggage, grab my passport, kiss the kids and get ready to experience the very essence of the word: <i>AVENTURAS!</i><br />
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I don't know what made me fall in love with Cartagena the most, but here it all is and not in any particular order. In fact, it was more like a tsunami - everything hitting me at the same time - the warmth, the tastes, the smells, the sights, the sounds making me feel enchanted from <i>SEGUNDO UNO! </i><br />
<b>- Caribbean Sea breeze</b> that hugs you as soon as you step out of the Rafael Nùñez International Airport whispering: <i>"Life Is Good"</i><br />
<b>- Coffee</b> - thick and powerful, nutty with the hint of caramel that removed in a single sip all remnants of our red-eye flight tiredness; <a href="https://www.facebook.com/PrisPriCoffeeShop/" target="_blank">Se Volvió Prispri </a>- a little, elegant, home-made, cool piece of heaven<br />
<b>- Cobblestone streets</b> - close to 500 years of history polished into the stones lining town squares and corners. From the Inquisition (the <a href="http://www.atlasobscura.com/places/the-palace-of-the-inquisition" target="_blank">Museum of Inquisition</a> serves as a somber reminder of atrocities done in the name of the cross - too bad CNN wasn't around to report on it) to Inspiration - street-art, performers, entertainers, ladies selling fruit in traditional costumes and an explosion of colours at street vendor offerings<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-i12Z1qTSpMY/VvhbgPa6itI/AAAAAAAABrg/LU2DzuttmkoHt8YOS5Qa8KQba9HFULdrQ/s1600/tumblr_mopto2v7921qlupc7o1_1280.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="209" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-i12Z1qTSpMY/VvhbgPa6itI/AAAAAAAABrg/LU2DzuttmkoHt8YOS5Qa8KQba9HFULdrQ/s320/tumblr_mopto2v7921qlupc7o1_1280.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Colombian tote bags</td></tr>
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<b>- Spanish colonial architecture</b> - colourful facades, balconies adorned with cascades of bougainvillea, magnificent entrances and door knockers that totally deserve to be in their own coffee-table book<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-OGtl2VKN-hc/VvdtCrTFGnI/AAAAAAAABrU/yipSP3K8MjkHNGFJ7TD9Gi98He35SUARw/s1600/FullSizeRender%2B3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-OGtl2VKN-hc/VvdtCrTFGnI/AAAAAAAABrU/yipSP3K8MjkHNGFJ7TD9Gi98He35SUARw/s320/FullSizeRender%2B3.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Breakfast is ready!</td></tr>
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<b>- Fruits </b>- mango, maracuyá, papaya, pitahaya, passion fruit, pineapple, guava and guanoabana and my all-fruits-favourite <a href="http://off2colombia.com/destination-colombia/colombian-food-and-drinks/fruits-in-colombia" target="_blank">lulo</a>. How to describe the divinity of exotic flavours? Simple: you bite into a banana and at once understand <i>that</i> is how God intended it to taste. Not how we get to buy it in North America - yanked off the tree while still seriously green then shocked into hibernation by cruel, unnatural cold in some giant cargo crate only to be stunned by the neon lights of the mega-grocery-store, presented to us in a pale-shy-yellow... Blasphemy!<br />
<b>- People</b> - with learning English still being considered a privilege reserved mostly for well-to-do families it is amazing to experience how easy it is to connect with people while knowing only a few Spanish words (note to self: learn Spanish!). Thank you Google translate App! There is something so unbelievably easy and generous in the collective demeanour of Colombians. They simply love life. They get it. Minutes are not rushed. Meals are not gobbled. Steps are taken in a leisurely way.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wxTGNrgqWj8/VvhkhWgKZII/AAAAAAAABso/1gRZ7yF5-Hoo-YvHBagyq7fGE-4JtfP0A/s1600/IMG_6769.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wxTGNrgqWj8/VvhkhWgKZII/AAAAAAAABso/1gRZ7yF5-Hoo-YvHBagyq7fGE-4JtfP0A/s320/IMG_6769.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fernando Botero at Plaza de Santo Domingo</td></tr>
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<b>- Celebration of the feminine</b> curvature - imagine a place where Spanx is a mythical term. Where tight clothes are welcome, busts carried with pride and behinds ready to move at the first beat of salsa. And although South America is notorious for their ultra-high plastic surgery rates (the unspoken rule is: nose-job for sweet 15 and silicones for coming out of age), I have never seen more beautiful women of all ages wearing whatever they God-damn-well please without a care what the fashion police is saying is a faux-pas for their age group. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0r-mOQ6Snys/Vvh_YDaK39I/AAAAAAAABs4/Kdt2AY28OJsCjarBvAn4B9vVVUeDiF0Bw/s1600/FullSizeRender%2B9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0r-mOQ6Snys/Vvh_YDaK39I/AAAAAAAABs4/Kdt2AY28OJsCjarBvAn4B9vVVUeDiF0Bw/s320/FullSizeRender%2B9.jpg" width="236" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">New friends!</td></tr>
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<b> - Book-lover's & writer's playground</b> - I have finally discovered the ultimate happy place: <b>ábaco libros y cafe</b> - a small corner coffee-shop and independent bookstore that is as enchanted as the books that stack far up to the ceiling. It didn't matter that most books are in Spanish although there indeed is an English shelf. Just browsing the spines, recognizing the writers and titles, and smelling the print felt like home. Sipping coffee. People watching. Meeting new glorious friends. <i>HERMOSA!</i><br />
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-N3JKvdYvQBE/Vvhki2OE6kI/AAAAAAAABso/nINeKl4tM7sN5nPkBXlGokqJOoQJcXNHg/s1600/IMG_7527.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-N3JKvdYvQBE/Vvhki2OE6kI/AAAAAAAABso/nINeKl4tM7sN5nPkBXlGokqJOoQJcXNHg/s200/IMG_7527.JPG" width="200" /></a>Cartagena was also a home of South America's most famous writer and one of the greatest Colombians.<br />
Gabriel José de la Concordia García Márquez. The Nobel Prize for Literature laureate was a journalist, short-story writer, novelist and screen-writer who studied at Cartagena's local university and made home within the old city walls.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-df_YKBDofCo/VviMEV-i_QI/AAAAAAAABtI/Pnx32YMHiE0wi2gB1y1DpM4ZI4hgFGABQ/s1600/IMG_7057%2B%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="187" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-df_YKBDofCo/VviMEV-i_QI/AAAAAAAABtI/Pnx32YMHiE0wi2gB1y1DpM4ZI4hgFGABQ/s320/IMG_7057%2B%25281%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mmmm... Arepa con queso</td></tr>
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<b>- Street foods</b> - from freshest fruit juices squeezed right before your eyes, to calorie-loaded-yet-oh-so-worthy empanadas to my all time favourite <a href="http://thelatinkitchen.com/r/recipe/arepas-de-queso-colombianos" target="_blank">arepa con queso</a>. There was this street vendor just on the side of the park at <a href="https://www.google.ca/search?q=plaza+bolivar+cartagena&client=safari&rls=en&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwi8zNDuneLLAhUGtYMKHbntDq0Q_AUICCgC&biw=1309&bih=616" target="_blank">Plaza Bolivar</a> (if you follow the Amazing Race - this was the pit stop of the first leg contestants ran in Cartagena that aired this month). No matter what kind of self control my gal-pal and I resolved to follow, just seeing the crispy golden tops made us line-up, morning after morning, patiently waiting to spend the fifteen-thousand pesos the best way possible. 75 cents!<br />
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- And now that I've opened the Pandora's box of all <b>Foods irresistible</b>, here it is:<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-g1nXne6myFQ/VviXDAxuM_I/AAAAAAAABtY/U-Skw3ivwpsZ4jjuQlNNIW2F7yLiiGmaQ/s1600/FullSizeRender%2B10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="161" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-g1nXne6myFQ/VviXDAxuM_I/AAAAAAAABtY/U-Skw3ivwpsZ4jjuQlNNIW2F7yLiiGmaQ/s320/FullSizeRender%2B10.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Devil's shrimps and Mango octopus ceviche</td></tr>
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In the Cartagena restaurant Olympics there would have been two winners: <a href="https://www.tripadvisor.ca/Restaurant_Review-g297476-d3858935-Reviews-Restaurante_Cuzco-Cartagena_Cartagena_District_Bolivar_Department.html" target="_blank">Cuzco</a> which is likely one of my best dining experiences ever - the food and the company! And then there is <a href="http://lacevicheriacartagena.com/en/" target="_blank">La Cervicheria</a> where the entire menu is fresh sea-food that has been cured in lemon and lime juice, sprinkled with aji (chili peppers) and garnished with cilantro and red onion and spices. The varieties are endless and delicious and refreshing and light and totally guilt free!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MwPfM09QlWw/Vvhkf2xcRbI/AAAAAAAABso/bblDbTEt7C4697pp7zPna26GL9ggMW-SA/s1600/FullSizeRender%2B7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MwPfM09QlWw/Vvhkf2xcRbI/AAAAAAAABso/bblDbTEt7C4697pp7zPna26GL9ggMW-SA/s320/FullSizeRender%2B7.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ultimate favorite: Ceviche</td></tr>
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There is also Montesacro - where delicious foods and full bodied wines are served on the terrace overlooking Plaza Bolivar while the band plays bossanova seducing you into thinking life should always come at +26 C and a best friend laughing out loud with you.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Q1BiWYjWWmA/VvhkgvWbGaI/AAAAAAAABso/F-NZQ4pw89c-PnpoZ1wrfiXLPjit0z6Yg/s1600/IMG_6725.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Q1BiWYjWWmA/VvhkgvWbGaI/AAAAAAAABso/F-NZQ4pw89c-PnpoZ1wrfiXLPjit0z6Yg/s320/IMG_6725.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Seafood coconut curry</td></tr>
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The winner of Cartagena's desserts... and we explored decadent stuff like coconut crème brûlée and the likes (aka coconut dulce de leche) is...<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-aEKbtNq5mOc/VvhkgHBtE1I/AAAAAAAABso/VNrvOo4Ehtg2ISxo73U-z8l6Y2o3jevqQ/s1600/FullSizeRender%2B8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-aEKbtNq5mOc/VvhkgHBtE1I/AAAAAAAABso/VNrvOo4Ehtg2ISxo73U-z8l6Y2o3jevqQ/s320/FullSizeRender%2B8.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Everything at <a href="https://www.tripadvisor.ca/Restaurant_Review-g297476-d3649836-Reviews-La_Paletteria-Cartagena_Cartagena_District_Bolivar_Department.html" target="_blank">La Paletteria</a></td></tr>
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...and I am not even an ice-cream person!!! Tamarind and kiwi-like lulo are absolute must-tries!<br />
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Tough battle between the best beverage - alcohol free and kid-proof!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-TGe9fWvJXRA/Vvhkhpq58WI/AAAAAAAABso/uQDmLrwZ394EY41T1qv_Wh3YdFwI3BFqA/s1600/IMG_7277.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-TGe9fWvJXRA/Vvhkhpq58WI/AAAAAAAABso/uQDmLrwZ394EY41T1qv_Wh3YdFwI3BFqA/s320/IMG_7277.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mango-2-go @ <a href="http://www.mila.com.co/mila-pasteleria/" target="_blank">Mila</a> Vargas, the Queen of brunch</td></tr>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-cLFNFL4fI4g/VvhkgAUf0CI/AAAAAAAABso/67WGw2-H5Ws3J8cF2634vHH8PyCL3IjlA/s1600/FullSizeRender%2B6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-cLFNFL4fI4g/VvhkgAUf0CI/AAAAAAAABso/67WGw2-H5Ws3J8cF2634vHH8PyCL3IjlA/s320/FullSizeRender%2B6.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Coconut-lime smoothie (for Juan with mint!)</td></tr>
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All this and I haven't even touched on the Argentinian steak-house or many non-food experiences such as Castillo de San Felipe, the origin and faith of the natives, Convento de la Popa, historical term: <i>vomito negro </i>- I am sure to use not as a medical diagnosis but a character description; the dark muds of the near-by volcano, the pink sands of unspoiled beaches and coral-reefs of Rosario islands. The Havana club with authentic jazz or the cool of <a href="http://www.kettytinoco.com/boutiques.html" target="_blank">finest linen fashion</a> the Clinton's have already discovered. Witnessing the full moon during the horse-carriage ride through the narrow cobblestone streets. Experiencing Colombian authentic <b>chocolate</b> making process from start to finish making my own truffles to go at <a href="http://www.chocomuseo.com/espa%C3%B1ol/nuestras-tiendas/cartagena-col/" target="_blank">museum of chocolate</a>. Dear TripAdvisor, I owe you so many 5-star reviews!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-H75W5iw7uyM/VvikexiKTUI/AAAAAAAABto/mW-XptNeIREcV7LhhGJkCdTCZj_B_N5OA/s1600/FullSizeRender%2B11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-H75W5iw7uyM/VvikexiKTUI/AAAAAAAABto/mW-XptNeIREcV7LhhGJkCdTCZj_B_N5OA/s320/FullSizeRender%2B11.jpg" width="314" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A 5-star experience with dear friends @ CHOCO museo</td></tr>
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And one last thing... Cartagena is way more than a sophisticated, safe and sizzling travel destination. For me personally, it is the port into the new world and the new era. The one where my fort <a href="http://friend-like-me.blogspot.ca/2016/03/stuff-i-learned-about-life-from-intense.html" target="_blank">withstood the attacks</a> and my ships earned their smooth sailing with my flag proudly waving in the wind. Which brings me to <a href="http://friend-like-me.blogspot.ca/2016/03/when-first-we-met.html" target="_blank">my friend Vesna</a>. The commandant, the confidante and the fellow conspirator of all things fun. Because the truth is, although I loved every second of my Colombian adventure, the best part of it all was experiencing it with a kindred spirit, an extraordinary woman, mother, sister, daughter, friend, fashion-expert, home-chef, vine-connaiseur. Fifteen hour flight there + 7 days + 15 hour flight back of the best friendship, pure and uninterrupted joy! </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-l_Q9FOdS6ew/VvimgzDAP-I/AAAAAAAABt4/WLftydrBTJQVU7St-66vu2MNsgHgibNsA/s1600/IMG_6584.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-l_Q9FOdS6ew/VvimgzDAP-I/AAAAAAAABt4/WLftydrBTJQVU7St-66vu2MNsgHgibNsA/s320/IMG_6584.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Flight there: well hello <a href="http://friend-like-me.blogspot.ca/2014/12/what-if-ho-ho-ho-stands-for-horrendous.html" target="_blank">Houston, TX of all places, HA, HA!</a><br />
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<tr><td><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-dlOYzCsoFwI/VvimgoCYloI/AAAAAAAABt8/3O0SljXekN46pHu7VlSb313q8auu_iysw/s1600/FullSizeRender%2B12.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-dlOYzCsoFwI/VvimgoCYloI/AAAAAAAABt8/3O0SljXekN46pHu7VlSb313q8auu_iysw/s320/FullSizeRender%2B12.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption">Flight back: #cantstoplaughing</td></tr>
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My favourite word I learned in Spanish is the word for 'jewelry' - as in emeralds, gold. After all the yellow half of the Colombian flag represents natural resources.</div>
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<span style="font-family: "apple color emoji" , "segoe ui emoji" , "notocoloremoji" , "segoe ui symbol" , "android emoji" , "emojisymbols"; font-size: 28px;"> 🇨🇴</span><span style="font-family: "apple color emoji" , "segoe ui emoji" , "notocoloremoji" , "segoe ui symbol" , "android emoji" , "emojisymbols"; font-size: 28px;">🇨🇴</span><span style="font-family: "apple color emoji" , "segoe ui emoji" , "notocoloremoji" , "segoe ui symbol" , "android emoji" , "emojisymbols"; font-size: 28px;">🇨🇴</span></div>
And although I always preferred Swarovski-like bling rather then the real thing which I have to be responsible for, this word is now my absolute favourite and I am using it to describe my 2016 - my friendship, my trip, my life: </div>
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<i><span style="font-size: large;">JOYERÍA! </span></i></div>
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Marina Hassonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10063153424590548742noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-665082057360006602.post-86755853361288982022016-03-17T11:11:00.000-07:002016-06-22T21:15:03.162-07:00Stuff I Learned About Life From Intense Interval Training<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Who am I kidding?<br />
Me the queen of marathon-chatting sessions with girlfriends while holding a hot-caffeinated beverage in hand? The gold-medallist of all things sofa - books and movies and writing and cuddles? Me?! Interval training? When in the past, success was if I crawled uninjured after a Zumba class, for seniors?<br />
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Actually - yeah!<br />
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This happened to be a winter of deep hibernation for me - and those are dangerous!<br />
For someone who already had one serious encounter with a beast called depression, being as much as even lightly brushed by its wicked whip poses a major threat. When depression approaches obstacles start to appear larger than they actually are. Minor everyday problems acquire a long and dark shadow. The appetite dissapears (which - I agree - for the first little while sounds like a welcome gift).<br />
Wickedly, the bed then starts exerting its gravitational pull, the muscles go sluggish and the duvet is right there to conveniently muffle even the softest of cries. Shame moves in. It's so dangerous because it's so easy. It feels like comfort. Sleep is good. I am just tired. Let me put my head down...<br />
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I credit an incredible army of people for making sure I didn't get caught into the treacherous spiralling-down depression web that was so eager, so motivated, so applied to suck me in. Left on my own, I would have surely succumbed to it without a fight. Like a fierce giant insect, depression sucks life juice out of you, than effortlessly crushes the shell. Eats your heart. Then rips your head off.<br />
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But what if you - somehow - get dragged to take care of that shell first? Well, thankfully, I was.<br />
He did it very much in a cave-man fashion, as - almost literally - he had to drag me there by my pony tail (thank you husband!).<br />
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There is this truly punishing <a href="http://harmony fitness">gym</a> in our neighbourhood <a href="http://friend-like-me.blogspot.ca/2015/09/always-bride-never-bridesmaid.html" target="_blank">my sole-mate</a> raves about. They have classes called TreadSanity and ROWster and H.I.I.T. and Gravity, and countless others I am yet to try. Fellow-gym goers for the most part look as if they are all training for the friggin' Iron Man. It is intimidating as hell to step inside, but once you do - regardless of the level of ultimate unpreparedness - pure magic happens.<br />
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Here is what I learned about life from sprints and burpees and kettlebells and slamballs and shoulder-presses and push-ups and bands and sumo-squats and bosu balls. And buckets of epsom salt afterwards.<br />
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1. You do one hard thing as a break from another hard thing <br />
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This is also exactly how my grandfather taught me how to study when I was little. Doing what's hardest first (math) then taking a break with another demanding subject (French) than relaxing with the easiest thing (art project) so I can return to the second hardest (history). Without procrastination all was done right after school and the rest of the day was free for play and friends and writing.<br />
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The same rule goes for the gym: running on treadmill under an ever increasing incline is abruptly halted so I can enjoy 20 Mountain Climbers or burpees (oh how much I still hate those), or push ups. Who knew I would learn to rest doing a 60 second plank!?<br />
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2. Your weight is all yours - unless you drop it, you've got to carry it<br />
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This is just like life coaching - you can select to drop the baggage and travel light through life or it is all yours to carry forward. My personal twist is that I learned to quickly start loving my baggage at least for the duration that I have to lift and carry it as a burden. Instant gratification rarely exists when what you want is real, long-lasting and meaningful. I tend to joke about my load - it makes it lighter and I sometimes don't even notice when it disappears! Poof!<br />
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It is nowhere more obvious that all my weight was mine than in this workout called Gravity - 60 minutes of having my core, arms and legs pull all of the glorious me I managed to acquire under my own skin, especially since my little kids were born! There are no fairies, helpers or marines descending into the gym to help. One must carry one's own weight until the clock says so, no matter what.<br />
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3. You can do anything for 60 seconds<br />
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I learned this one night between January 23/24 1996. during the marathon no-epidural-available birth of my first son. As fellow women who attempted natural birth know - a contraction, that minute long <i>WTF?! How did we even survive as species?!</i> intense sensation, a contraction is a perfect example of us being wired to survive anything if it is a minute long. I still have the watch I had on my wrist in labour mesmerizingly envisioning the relief I would feel when the second handle passes the moon.<br />
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Some wicked gym guru clearly knew this because when we to this H.I.I.T class staying on each station for a minute with 40 sec of insane intensity and 20 seconds recovery time the body is tricked into a relief that really never arrives while the reward is amazing!<br />
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4. Angry music makes for great motivation<br />
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I admit. Growing up, I was a total new-wave snob with tunes (and mixed tapes and posters) of <a href="https://youtu.be/ntG50eXbBtc" target="_blank">Spandau Ballet</a>, <a href="https://youtu.be/M43wsiNBwmo?list=RDM43wsiNBwmo" target="_blank">Duran Duran</a>, <a href="https://youtu.be/DZiJQL9OLqI" target="_blank">Visage</a>, <a href="https://youtu.be/dQ--ibEYB0s" target="_blank">Ultravox</a> and <a href="https://youtu.be/fWXxjlvGByM?list=RDfWXxjlvGByM" target="_blank">OMD</a>. I scoffed at people who wore <a href="http://friend-like-me.blogspot.ca/2016/06/whistle-while-you-work.html">AC/DC</a> and KISS T-shirts while injuring perfectly fine denim jackets by embedding pointy metal beads into them. Listening to heavy metal. Shaking a big head of unwashed hair, tongue sticking out!<br />
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But boy can that 'angry' music make for an amazing trip while running or rowing indoors! I close my eyes and transport myself somewhere Mad Max-like and listen to the machine zip under my vigorous steps and pulls. It's rocket fuel. Who knew?!<br />
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5. Pick a great crew: Rocky Balboa, <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0174856/" target="_blank">Hurricane</a> Carter & moi<br />
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If in need of the initial drive to get one started it was so worth re-watching movies that celebrated a man's turn to physical empowerment as a stepping stone to mental strength. The hidden gift of hibernation is that days are really long and Netflix is really generous.<br />
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Those moments when the burn would be excruciating (ahem, only for me - the rest of the gym-goers seem to be immensely enjoying themselves) I got silver screen peeps to join me, make it meaningful and even more fierce. Imagination is an amazing <a href="http://harmony fitness">gym</a> prop!<br />
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6. Never say never<br />
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I know. The king of all clichés. But if I ever feel that it is true, it is right now.<br />
There is no less likely person to enjoy being on a treadmill than me. How many times have friends tried to lure me into the Running Room group or a 5k run? My excuse was always the same: "Oh, I am not a runner!" Then I pull out the data about knees and ankles and running in filthy city air. Sure, I would do a Hawaii marathon, however... I love running on treadmill. Crave it. Just like I do yoga. Super weird.<br />
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The point is not to get as fit as to qualify for the Olympics. Or to match/surpass the number the 'treader' next to me seems to be effortlessly blasting through. The point is to look at each day like a marathon I was chosen to run. Then show up. Keep putting one foot in front of the other. Sweat. Hustle. Burn. If I could do it - anyone can do it. And when a whiff of Lysol wipes fills the air, it means 60min expired and it's time to get the equipment ready for the next group of warriors. And that alone feels like gold!<br />
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Marina Hassonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10063153424590548742noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-665082057360006602.post-45320650812862849492016-03-02T20:24:00.000-08:002016-03-02T20:24:36.636-08:00When First We Met<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I pulled the boutique's glass doors and the cool air mixed with posh perfume scent welcomed my face. The decor was dark and glossy and sexy and it spelled the language the Kardashians are fluent in. Silly me! When first we met Kardashians weren't a thing yet. </div>
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<i>"OMG, YOU ARE MARINA!!!" </i>- she said with enthusiasm I thought was only reserved for Cher or Madonna. Or other one-name celebrities. Neither Rihanna nor Adele have been discovered when first we met. </div>
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"Let's do coffee!" - became our mantra. Not talking Starbucks or Tim's, God forbid! With Vesna, the sacred ritual of coffee meant the sophisticated roast, finest China and delicate pastry. A dark chocolate treat glistening at the edge of the saucer. </div>
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"I was waiting to meet you" - were her first words when we sat down, coffee cups clinging - "my husband came back from that New Orleans conference and said <i>'I finally met someone who talks more than you! You should be friends." </i></div>
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And friends we became. We never really talked when first we met - it was more like an avalanche of words mixed with girly giggles. We chatted about everything, jumbling high fashion with pharmaceuticals and making men out of our boys; we deciphered divorces - first mine, then years later - hers. And we've changed our personal outcome of the Balkan war - Serbia and Croatia could coexist just great!</div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Tonight at </span><a href="http://lacevicheriacartagena.com/en/" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;" target="_blank">La Cervicheria</a><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> in Cartagena Vesna and I remembered all this. Was it the high of girlfriends' first escape to South America or the </span><a href="http://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/bobby-flay/caipirinha-recipe.html" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;" target="_blank">caipirinha</a><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> on repeat matters not: our laughter is loud, our hopes are high, our bond is deep - just like when first we met. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Going 3G - Glorious Girlfriends Getaway!</td></tr>
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Marina Hassonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10063153424590548742noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-665082057360006602.post-85865018967678319402016-02-26T07:41:00.000-08:002016-02-26T07:53:14.011-08:00Longest Flight South<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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A few days ago I stumbled upon a Facebook post talking about the <a href="https://oceanwide-expeditions.com/contest/">Oceanwide Expedition Antartica Contest</a> and an ornithologist's quest to be the winner of the one spot being given away. He is currently sitting in position number three and with the voting deadline looming in just a few days, every second and every click counts. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The man and his binoculars</td></tr>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">And I react to any talent coming from Serbia - yes, I am one of those going nuts every time </span><a href="http://www.atpworldtour.com/en/players/novak-djokovic/d643/overview" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Novak Djokovic</a><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> wins a grand slam. I was also the new immigrant single mom dragging my kid to each game the Toronto Raptors played at home vs. Sacramento Kings so he could feel some national pride watching </span><a href="http://www.basketball-reference.com/players/d/divacvl01.html" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Divac </a><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">and </span><a href="http://www.basketball-reference.com/players/s/stojape01.html" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Stojakovic</a><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">. I even smile each time I see a Tesla car on the street just because... So yeah, it didn't take me much to go to the page and </span><a href="https://oceanwide-expeditions.com/contest/show/5317" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;" target="_blank">submit my vote for Dragan Simic. </a></div>
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But then I got reading about Dragan's passion and how he started as an ornithologist and the story felt oddly familiar. </div>
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Well of course! My mother has been telling me about this boy since I was a teenager. He was the son of her colleague at work and only a few years older than me. When mom got home she would tell me about this boy's adventures and canoe trips to Ratno ostrvo - "Big War Island" - the wilderness zone located in Belgrade, right at the confluence of Sava and Danube river. The island is uninhabited and the only way to access it is by boat. I never knew anyone who would even attempt such a thing, let alone a teenager. Over the years stories of his adventures rolled in. The continents got conquered. Books got written. With the background in journalism and environmental sciences, the world of conservation, ornithology and <a href="http://10000birds.com/how-i-become-a-birder.htm">nature blogging</a> got a best friend.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Journey to India</td></tr>
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What always fascinated me when listening about Dragan Simic is that he has never stopped loving, observing and understanding nature. He is one of those fully-dedicated and immersed people who discovered his passion, had a major set-back and never even thought to use it as an excuse. If anything he has focused even more intently on his quests and these fuelled his constant endeavours which brought him as far as India and South Africa. </div>
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The Antartica Expedition will be by far the furthest and the wildest of all Dragan's adventures. There are three more days to <a href="https://oceanwide-expeditions.com/contest/show/5317">cast a vote</a> and boost his standing on the score-board. It is so alluringly close it is tantalizing. The trip is to set sails in Feb 2017 and he is already ready! </div>
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Dragan's big dream is to observe 7 species of penguins and actually take us on this adventure with him through a book with the working title <i>The Only Planet </i>- "which will be about this "voyage of the Beagle", about Antarctica and its wildlife in light of climate changes, the travellers on board the Ortelius and us, mankind on board our only planet."</div>
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I feel thrilled and privileged to be a part of Dragan's wings-assembly team. Voting takes a second and it ends February 29th. <a href="https://oceanwide-expeditions.com/contest/show/5317">Join me! </a></div>
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Marina Hassonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10063153424590548742noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-665082057360006602.post-60536890360013222422016-02-21T18:54:00.002-08:002016-02-22T08:57:59.844-08:00F like Fifty, like Fabulous, like Friends <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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For the last 24h I totally reverted to being a teenager: I went to a party. I met some incredible new people. I <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CfI3eGXkZH8" target="_blank">danced</a>. I had a beer. I <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E0gLk-yvWME" target="_blank">sang my heart out.</a> I laughed out loud. I was happily squeezed into a <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OmalLf3RbnI" target="_blank">slow dance</a>. I totally lost my voice. I slept till noon. And woke up to a delicious and already served lunch!<br />
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All because of this <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YprrwH867N0" target="_blank">one woman</a>...</div>
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But let me tell the story from the beginning. </div>
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January 2015 in T.O. was brutal. Deep freeze, grey skies, spring nowhere in sight. In lieu of a regular Saturday 'date-night' my husband and I decided to go to a hot yoga class. There is something undeniably sexy in stretching, sweating & suffering together! Bring it on <a href="http://yoga.about.com/od/yogaposes/a/warrior2.htm" target="_blank">Virabhadrasana II</a>!</div>
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We got out of the 75min class happy yet wrung out. The icy rain was drizzling. As we rushed towards the car I heard a scream. I paused. The street was dark, the parking lot packed and although I looked around I couldn't see a thing. I was just about to enjoy the comfort of heated leather seats that would take me to a deserved long hot shower when I heard a deep moan. </div>
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A woman was lying on the very edge of the parking lot having slipped on the ice that has treacherously formed between the cars. She was crying. She said her knee was badly injured. Afraid to move her, I slid my yoga mat under her head while my husband went inside to alert the studio staff and call 911. He came out with a bunch of dry towels and we covered her the best we could offering comfort between her cries - she was obviously in deep pain. </div>
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She said her name was Tanya and asked if I could call her husband. I asked what his name was. </div>
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-QVa3FcmvGYo/VspGGT65IPI/AAAAAAAABnY/nU4YWORAgvc/s1600/IMG_8225.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-QVa3FcmvGYo/VspGGT65IPI/AAAAAAAABnY/nU4YWORAgvc/s320/IMG_8225.JPG" width="320" /></a>"Hello, Tom, hi - you don't know me. I am here with your wife Tanya and she is OK, but she has slipped on the ice in front of the yoga studio and injured her knee. We called 911, but you need to come. Her car is here. I am going to hold the phone now so she can talk to you."</div>
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As she started talking my ears registered something unusual. My eyes opened widely. </div>
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"Tomo, pala sam. Dodji odmah, molim te..."</div>
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The language and the accent were super familiar to me. Not only was it Serbian, it was 'capital city' Serbian I don't get to hear very often. As Tanya said goodbye to her husband, I went:</div>
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"Umm... just so you know, I understood everything you've just said. My name is Marina. I'm from Belgrade."</div>
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True friendships can start in the most amazing of places, not just in early childhood or during glorious school days. They start while waiting for kids at the summer camp. While flying to a conference. In a haute-couture boutique. While at work. While volunteering half way across the world. During Life Coach training. Or as I'm becoming a better writer. </div>
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-9mfAPFh23G4/VspGGi5q0nI/AAAAAAAABnY/QUuzY8mkozo/s1600/IMG_8291.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-9mfAPFh23G4/VspGGi5q0nI/AAAAAAAABnY/QUuzY8mkozo/s320/IMG_8291.JPG" width="228" /></a>How about a dark January night on a f'n frozen parking lot, under the relentless drizzle of ice rain, while our sweat turned into icicles and her knee and everything below it was lying next to her, looking horrendously detached from the rest of the body? </div>
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I think it was the higher power that chose me in particular to find Tanya that night. Apparently, when dialling 911 if one wants them to come right away words such as: head, bleeding & unconscious need to be used. Just a mere dislocated knee? It took about 35 minutes of lying on the icy concrete under now-soaked frozen towels. </div>
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And what is the way to spend those long minutes of anguish well? Entertain the injured woman to no end, so that her laughter masks the excruciating knee pain. </div>
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"Let's see if this Toma of yours is a keeper... I'm gonna time him!"</div>
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"I heard that paramedics are hot. Let's channel some serious 911-beef that will be taking care of you, sister!"</div>
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"Trust me - I'm a pharmacist. Percocet <i>is</i> fun."</div>
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Toma was a keeper. The split time of just over four minutes was only one of the reasons. When the 6'6" towering man emerged from the cab I knew that was the real superhero moment of the night. He knelt next to her, speaking tender words while caressing her wet hair. He assured her all would be alright. </div>
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The silent 'awwww' filled my soul.</div>
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The paramedics were not as hot as we - OK, only I - hoped for, but they did have Percocet. Between the four of us, Tanya was lifted on a stretcher and loaded into a flashing ambulance. Like a true 'Mother Courage' she elected for the dislocated knee to be put in back ASAP and not wait for pills to kick in or the x-ray to become available nor the anesthesiologist on call to wake up. Getting shit done - the Serbian way!</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tanya's 50 & Fabulous Party!</td></tr>
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Last night we celebrated Tanya-the-fabulous turning fifty. The atmosphere was electrifying, the tunes those we all grew up with in the Balkans, the food delicious. Tanya burned the floor dancing as if that knee never got yanked out after all! If I hadn't already known she was one of those remarkable women you meet in life, I only had to look at her friends - genuine, affectionate, welcoming, funny as hell, uninhibited, letting loose and letting love connect us all. Here is to the next 50! </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Živeli! L'Chaim! Cheers!</td></tr>
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Marina Hassonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10063153424590548742noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-665082057360006602.post-90688013549118899622015-12-30T23:26:00.000-08:002015-12-30T23:26:08.109-08:00My Own Personal Guardian Angel<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Do you believe in Guardian Angels (G.A.)? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Trust me, if you had one your entire life you would!</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hello my 9-yrs old self!</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Take a look at this kid with pig tails. It is1978 and bell bottoms and pointy collars is so much the raging fashion that my mom thought that only a flower-hat pin was needed in order to make me look picture perfect! We were vacationing in Greece, the Island of Thassos (where my father taught me <a href="http://friend-like-me.blogspot.com/2015/06/good-dad-bad-dad-no-dad.html" target="_blank">how to swim</a>!) It might have been my birthday; I'm a summer baby.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It took me a good thirty years to look this girl in the eyes and see what my life's guardian angel always saw: PERFECTION.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My only uncle, the favourite person of my childhood, peacefully fell asleep on December 6th. He had a great family and a great life and although I would have bargained with the heavens to keep him with us just a tad longer, I am grateful he didn't suffer. And I'm thankful we're 'departing in birth order' as my wise ancestors described lucky families. And I am richer for every minute I got to have him. This story is about him.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Imagine a giant teddy bear. Then imagine that he is real, he is funny, he is handy (a mechanical engineer who knew how to fix everything!) Imagine that he has a body-guard streak. And that he possesses the sensitivity rarely found even in mothers of daughters, let alone a father of two boys. And then imagine my luck - that the daughter he never had but always wished for happened to be me!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My Teddy Bear's name was Zoran - a common Serbian name - but for me he was Koka. His lap was my safe zone! As a fairly mouthy child - alas, not much has changed - I used it very often. It was "Geneva" - offering full protection from being disciplined no matter the offence.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Remember that <a href="http://friend-like-me.blogspot.com/2015/11/trust-me-id-rather-be-knitting.html" target="_blank">school chewing gum incident</a>? I never told how that ended, did I? I went home and told my parents. They empathized as my mom cut a chunk of my hair while hoping I 'learned a lesson'. Chewing gum was no good for my teeth anyway. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Then I called Koka. A minute later he was already sitting in our living room sipping coffee. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"What did you say the teacher's name was?" - he whispered in my ear as I found my shelter right away, retelling the school drama. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"And this week you go to school in the afternoon? A-hmmm" - his acknowledgment sounded more like he was engineering a project. The eyes behind the thick-rimmed glasses suddenly looked as if they had a powerful calculator at work. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Is she doing this to other kids?" </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"You have math tomorrow?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I was running down the stairs with friends after the class, eager to get the best spot under the tree for our magical recess games, when I saw two men in trench coats in the school lobby, looking serious. The somewhat surreal recognition turned into wonder as his barely-visible wink signalled me to keep going to the yard. From under the shade my eyes were glued to the glass door. Like in a silent movie, I saw our fierce math teacher pause as someone introduced her to the two gentlemen. Her blank stare was replaced by a red face, her head vigorously shaking as if she was a child being scolded. Our game started, I got distracted and by the time the bell rang and we rushed back in, the trench coats were already gone. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My body-guard, my G.A., my Koka was a man of both justice and action. It took him 24h to show up at my school with his much fiercer colleague Miško, the two of them looking all FBI-like demanding the teacher to never, ever punish another child again if she didn't want them to return. Not only did it work, this big mouth here managed to never tell a soul about it - up until right now! </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">My entire life Koka has been my safe harbour, my mischief buddy and my confidant. When he caught me crying - <a href="http://friend-like-me.blogspot.com/2014/12/new-years-revolution.html" target="_blank">mean girls at school</a> were calling me names for my protruding ears (you are welcome to scroll back to the photo above) despite my parents' finding that I actually looked </span><i style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">charming, </i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">he took me to his plastic surgeon friend who agreed to perform the first aesthetic surgery in Belgrade's Children's Hospital in exchange for a before and after photo for her office. Dr.Gordana Janjić - I have never forgotten your gift! I was 10 years old and coming back to school with my ears beautifully fixed gave me a quantitative confidence boost that ensured the survival of my late starting puberty. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Still, the real treasure was enjoying Koka as my G.A. long into my adulthood. He was my back-up parent of the best kind. He was the one who taught me how to let go of failed man and marriage. He was the well-needed second </span>grandpa<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> to my son; the kid felt like a </span>little<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> king in his care! He was the favourite teddy bear I never grew too old to hug. And he was my only bank - the one that loaned me the money needed for immigration, even though those years were tough on everyone and that was rainy-day fund. </span></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My Teddy Bear - Belgrade 2013</td></tr>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The unexpected gift of immigration, after we all survived the initial grief of being separated, is that our forever began right there. As in true life-long friendships, dimensions of distance and time mean nothing. We stayed close and grew closer even though a decade and a half passed before we would see each other again. And when that day arrived and I saw my G.A. waiting for me at the Nikola Tesla International Airport, my heart exploded and rejoiced as I threw myself into the best embrace on Earth. That week in Belgrade my life got prolonged. Endless hours of talking, laughing, drinking coffee, reminiscing our fun times, analyzing tough moments - that week will forever stay preciously stored in my heart. Yes - for the unbelievable abundant love and optimism and energy I'm still kindling inside of me. It will never expire. But more so for regressing into being their 'baby', the youngest of all kids in the family, the one with special privileges and my own personal guardian angel.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The night my Koka fell asleep I woke with an answer to a pressing question I've had for a while. The answer was so crystal clear it brought instant relief that helped me fall sound asleep right away. A few hours later tears streamed down my face as I read the message from my cousin - my loss will always be immense. But somehow I know Koka hung around as long as he could to have this one last real lesson sink in and see the tide change. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">What I feel is true is that there is no departure - we were already pros at long distance! The absence of the physical only means that Koka is so much closer to me now - riding along with me. I'm safe, comfortably nestled in for what's to come, his lap wide as heaven itself.</span></div>
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Marina Hassonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10063153424590548742noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-665082057360006602.post-64723585749705366502015-12-06T21:07:00.001-08:002015-12-10T11:57:13.899-08:00Rats! or The Best Love Story Ever Told?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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The receiver of our beige rotary dial phone seemed unusually heavy in my hand. The porcelain felt cold on my ear. My heart was beating hard with fear and excitement. <i>What if I don't understand him?</i></div>
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As if she heard my thoughts, my sister said from across the ocean - "Listen, you don't have this in Serbia. It's three-way calling.” She went on describing this ‘advanced’ technology. “So worry not, if you don't understand something I will translate it for you. OK?"</div>
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What ensued was a clear and concise conversation that changed the course of our lives. The third person calling in was a famed immigration lawyer whose fees I would only be able to afford to pay many years later. But my payment was never necessary. The bill for the consult was paid in full by my sister's employer. </div>
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The information learned on that call led to a day that resembled a spy movie. At the wee morning hours I was to line up in front of the <a href="http://www.canadainternational.gc.ca/serbia-serbie/index.aspx?lang=eng" target="_blank">Canadian Embassy in Belgrade</a> which was rumoured to have already started packing for evacuation. It was imperative that I was amongst the first in line - they accepted only a select few ‘consults'. The trouble was, the embassy was located directly across from the home where I had lived with my in-laws and first husband - <a href="http://friend-like-me.blogspot.ca/2015/05/since-i-met-you-baby.html" target="_blank">the one who had left me for his mistress</a> 10 days before our baby was born. The one who refused to sign the document allowing my son to immigrate without going through... Well, you can read that in the memoir when it comes out! </div>
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When the doors opened, my task was to recite my immigration file number and change the profession registered on my file from 'retail pharmacist' to 'industrial pharmacist'. Both of these were listed on the degree I had earned with honours 5 years previously, however the allocated space on the visa application form only allowed for a single entry. Bureaucracy the Beautiful!</div>
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This power-house lawyer in Ontario's Immigration Law office taught me on this most important three-way call of my life that the vocation of retail pharmacist that I had listed two years earlier at the time I started the process now carried zero (0) points in contrast to the previous ten (10). The designation of industrial pharmacist however now carried ten points as opposed to zero previously. The math was simple: 0 points for previously-listed vocation x 10 points for fluent in English x 10 points for fluent in French x 10 points for having a close relative in Canada x10 points for having a child under the age of 3 still equals = ZERO. In that way my visa application had been suspended indefinitely due to insufficient points. After two years of waiting, I no longer qualified to be granted landed immigrant status. </div>
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And just as in a good spy movie, the time was ticking. I was cold, a bit hungry, dead tired, and very apprehensive that the ex's parents - he himself having been long gone to the Lone Star state - would perhaps be standing on the balcony smoking and drinking the world's worst coffee and would see me line up for immigration thereby jeopardizing my whole chance of getting out. Damp with adrenaline, I was still able to remember my file number and the vocation code when a woman named Jacynthe asked me for it in French. Soon after I emerged back onto the street, my step swift, gaze focused on the ground, clutching a little yellow slip as proof my file was again deemed active. </div>
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A chapter of my memoir-in-the-making "Marina Has Son" has the precise account of our heart-stopping exit from a war-torn Serbia whose borders were becoming tighter in the months and weeks that led to the <a href="http://friend-like-me.blogspot.ca/2014/12/a-series-of-fortunate-events.html" target="_blank">78 days of NATO bombing</a>. My son and I and my parents narrowly managed to escape, courtesy of a North American corporate employer that had met me only twice before during interviews.</div>
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The day my visa arrived was a Friday and I worked the afternoon shift at the pharmacy. I hugged my colleagues Daca and Sneža tightly at the end of the work day, feeling I would never see them again. My three closest friends Tanja, Vladimir and another Vladimir were the only people other than my family who knew of my plan to leave. "Defectors" were not viewed with sympathy even if the reason was survival. On Saturday while Tanja played with Filip, the two boys helped me pack, duct taping shut all of my worldly possessions. Our flight left the following day and not counting the brief stop-over in Paris, the journey was 17 hours.</div>
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We arrived in Canada on a crisp and cold grey Monday morning. My not-yet three-year-old son was cranky, disoriented and confused - where were we? Where was grandma and grandpa? Why was it so cold? Where were his toys? Who was this woman? </div>
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My visibly-shaken sister, who was in disbelief that we were really standing in front of her having actually made it out of the war zone, was a total stranger to him. After all, she had only seen him once at 6 months old when she had visited. He cried inconsolably as I left him with his aunt and went - jaw tensed and white-knuckled - to my first day of work. With 6h jet-lag and a new pair of glasses that somehow made the ground look farther away.</div>
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This was the day I signed my first contract with the employer that had invested in me through care and that hefty celebrity immigration lawyer's fee before I had even earned enough to buy a bottle of water. The date was December 7. It was a Monday. Alongside my children's birthdays, it has been the most significant date of my existence. Because it <i>meant</i> existence. </div>
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North American corporations are often viewed as greedy, ruthless and impersonal. The career ladder is expected to be treacherous, infested with master-liars, manipulators and backstabbers. Commonly it's referred to as a <i>rat race</i>. </div>
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Well, not for me and mine. Because this particular rat is genetically predisposed to outlast. It is fully infused with inspiration. Roaring with resilience. Leaping into learnings. Wired for wonder. And bound to blog about it.</div>
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Today is Monday, December 7 and we are celebrating a crystal anniversary together. I wonder why is it called <i>crystal</i>? Perhaps because by now one's vision is crystal clear? Or because it is so fragile it can break into smithereens with the slightest blow?</div>
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Looking back, it's been just like a real relationship - fulfilling and rewarding for the most part, yet sometimes turbulent. One brief break-up followed by a sweet make-up! Nothing that a few sessions of couple's counselling can't fix - which actually comes as part of the offering under the heading of 'resilience training'. I'm in, so sign me up! </div>
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Malcolm X said: "The future belongs to those who prepare for it today" - and I couldn't have been more prepared. </div>
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But for today, it is still the best (career)love-story ever told.</div>
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Marina Hassonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10063153424590548742noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-665082057360006602.post-51038526236882210252015-11-12T20:14:00.001-08:002015-11-12T20:41:29.375-08:00Trust Me, I'd Rather Be Knitting!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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There was this kid in my elementary school who was a total, well, loser. </div>
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Before any anti-bullying crew jumps with all its might to crucify me, let me tell you that I too, today - the mother, the volunteer and myself a member of a ferocious anti-bullying crew - wouldn't have called him that. But in the cruel world of growing up in Serbia in the early 80’s, when my math teacher caught me chewing gum in grade 5 and for punishment made me spit it into her hand (!?) only for her to solidly embed the pink wad into my long hair so close to my skull that a big chunk needed to be cut off, yeah, that kid was a sorry loser. He was mean and feisty, deliberately insulting the other kids yet with nothing to show for it. He was by far the shortest in our class, tragically non-athletic and also a really poor student. Where is he now? Just wait!</div>
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I don't recall the exact chain events that led to it, but one day my favourite teacher Madame C - who had taught us French for the three previous years - the only young and really cool teacher I ever had (she took my BFF and me to a <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ngXPnHaWuMI" target="_blank">Classics Nouveau</a> concert when their tour went through Belgrade in 1982!!!) mocked the boy. In front of the entire class. To the hilarious roar and approval of all the 7th graders. I remembered that he actually 'deserved' it, but my stomach churned and my mind screamed at the injustice of it. </div>
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Without thinking, I shot up. I asked the teacher why she had taunted him. I told her it was unfair: she was the adult; he was a child. She was the teacher; he was the student. </div>
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If she was surprised at all by the outburst of a red-faced student activist, this teacher didn't show it. She nonchalantly shrugged and forced a short laugh: "Ha! All right - seems like we have a <i>volunteer</i>!" with menacingly careful enunciation. "As of today, <i>you </i>will share a desk with him!" N o b o d y wanted to share a desk with him. I mean - nobody! My BFF looked at me in disbelief as my shaky hands picked up my belongings to prepare for the dreaded move away from our fun table. </div>
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The aftermath? My mom came home after a subsequent parent-teacher meeting and told me in chosen words: "Kid - you're screwed! You will have to study for this class like no other - your only chance of survival is if your French mark is 100%!" And it was. As for the boy - I wish I could say that my unexpected kindness changed his ways and made him a more social and pleasant being, but that didn't happen. He continued to be a total jerk to everyone around him - especially me - just to make sure I didn't think he was now obligated to treat me any better than the others. Today he is a judge at the highest court in Belgrade. Dial 1-800-SIGMUND!</div>
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Throughout my life, despite throwing myself into the study of botanics and chemistry and other noble things, I frequently ended up being <i>that </i>voice. </div>
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If someone's pushing people and cutting the line, you'll hear me. A mother is oblivious to her child being aggressive in the playground, I speak up. A hit and run of a homeless person? I am the one who manages to snap a photo of the license plate, noting the time, day, make and model. My testifying got the poor woman a year of physiotherapy and massage treatments and a luxurious doggy day care for her only companion. If I witness the injustice, no matter how tough or tricky the circumstances are, I will say something. After all, my mother's entire career has been as a successful lawyer who often represented women pro bono. If not by proximity, I would have had to get some of her justice-league gene through breast milk! </div>
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Please don't get me wrong. I do not plan, plot nor enjoy being the designated Joan of Arc. I am fully aware that in centuries past women like me have been burned at the stake. Even today, elsewhere in the world women’s voices are silenced in the worst ways possible. Trust me, I'd rather be knitting! But for some reason, I have often found myself in situations where saying nothing would have made me an accessory and an accomplice. That simply <i>can not</i> happen. Not to me. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">QIWMTS - 3</td></tr>
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And that's not all. Somehow, it seems that the whole world conspires to nudge me into this braver version of myself. The non-fiction addict that I am, the right books and <a href="http://www.elephantjournal.com/2015/07/for-the-women-with-balls-who-do-give-a-fck-adult/" target="_blank">articles</a> drop into my lap. And then the right people to discuss those ideas with. </div>
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From <a href="https://www.malala.org/malalas-story">Malala Yousafzai </a> to <a href="http://leanin.org/">Cheryl Sandberg</a> and numerous life and business coaches, trailblazers and she-heroes in between, the message has been sinking in at every turn and every milestone. It certainly shows up at every obstacle. The Universe has made sure I hear it. It also made sure I will lose sleep should I attempt to neglect it.</div>
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The more popular choice, the safer choice, the boring choice, the keep-your-gaze-down choice, the "this-too-shall-pass" choice, the "It's a Man's World" choice - these have simply never been an option for me. When nagging starts, I am put into places and situations that make it all but impossible to retreat. I am compelled to make sure my voice is heard. Could I simply be <a href="http://www.elephantjournal.com/2015/07/for-the-women-with-balls-who-do-give-a-fck-adult/" target="_blank">born this way</a>?</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">QIWMTS - 4</td></tr>
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What follows also has a pattern. At the exit of the whirlwind I feel elated and glorious yet utterly exhausted. I get thanked and revered and celebrated. I also get silently hated and scoffed at and plotted against - not everybody will be a fan of each outcome. Before the courage is mustered to go deep and face the truth it is convenient to find someone to blame. How about <a href="http://www.elephantjournal.com/2015/07/for-the-women-with-balls-who-do-give-a-fck-adult/" target="_blank">the one</a> with the loudest mouth? Somehow since my grade 7 incident, that loudest mouth has often been, well, mine. </div>
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Do you believe in the infinite wisdom of the Internet? As it happens - I now do! In the past little while, I've randomly seen/received all of the quotes with which I have adorned this blog post. I call them Quotes Internet Wants Me To See #QIWMTS<br />
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Just as I was getting ready to press this 'publish' button, the one displayed at the end showed up. All right Universe - challenge accepted! Let's learn how to do this! </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">QIWMTS - 5</td></tr>
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Marina Hassonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10063153424590548742noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-665082057360006602.post-92081850578494369762015-10-05T20:29:00.001-07:002015-10-05T20:29:31.129-07:00In Defence of a Selfie<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Article upon article <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2015/09/24/magazine/motherhood-screened-off.html?_r=1">accusing parents</a> of neglecting their children. Working people losing productivity at the office. Fingers pointed at teenagers for taking selfies, calling them egotistic and self-obsessed. And never mind all those clinical studies showing decline in cognitive function and disruption of the circadian rhythm due to the radio frequency and glare of the screen!</div>
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I dread it mostly because I am compelled to read it all, fearful that one of these days I might be found guilty of some or even all of the above. But I dread it more because I waste time reading the stuff that does not really interest me - I am a kick ass parent. I read it solely because of the potential guilt of which I'm afraid I might be currently oblivious. Note to self: please don’t give a damn who says what! </div>
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So it's been on my mind for a while now - life coach that I am - to look for what is <a href="https://www.distractify.com/mustafagatollari-fb-glitch-matchmaker-1389118264.html">good</a> in having my mighty iPhone be my constant companion for the last several years. And although I can often point to a text message or a quick call that made me come alive, feel loved and appreciated in that very <i>present</i> <i>moment</i> we are accused of wasting away while staring at the phone, I still somehow fail to find a strong case in defence of my sleek Disney <i>"Cars"</i> stickers-adorned phone being near me so often.</div>
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Just this past week I dared post a selfie on Facebook taken right upon checking into the <a href="https://www.trumphotelcollection.com/en/toronto/toronto-specials.php?_vsrefdom=trumptoronto-ppc&rt=google%7Ccpc%7CTTO01-Trump-Toronto-2015-Brand-Drive%7Ctrump%20tower%20toronto&gclid=CjwKEAjwv8iwBRC35-_e8aPqwCESJAB8khP9xN9kCbf5c6aEpFsK4C2Cktvs6-zbzQgsIr88peFQchoCBx7w_wcB">Trump Tower</a> hotel. It was that moment when I closed the door of the suite on the 22nd floor behind me and leaped to explore the bathroom (don't ask - the bathroom is absolutely the very first place I check out every single time) only then glancing at my king-sized bed. <span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">A flirty pink orchid on the desk. A full selection pillow menu. I mean pillow menu! Automatic blinds. A single standing bathtub overlooking Toronto's downtown. Heated floors. Sunflower shower. A built-in TV in the bathroom mirror (I turned on only once just to experience the insanity of that innovation in hotel offerings and question the sanity of the market that bought into it!).</span></div>
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This is home for the next five days? - <i>Hell YES!</i> </div>
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The only thing I had to do was drop my bags and throw myself - with all the might of a yoga aficionado - backwards on the silky white bedding. Snap a selfie and - voilà! This shot garnered a lot of praise and 'Facebook love' but also some comments that made me think:</div>
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- "I am not good at taking selfies"</div>
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- "I feel awkward taking pictures of myself"</div>
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- "Am I becoming some self-obsessed lunatic?" </div>
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As of this writing I am not aware of any articles defending a selfie. All I have ever come across has been negative. So please search for the science of it someplace else - I am no scientist. Instead, I am a storyteller. Here is the story: </div>
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Take as many goddamn selfies as you please, please! No justifying and no apologies. </div>
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Why wouldn't you? Especially if you are a <b>woman</b>. </div>
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Are we not always the ones who are hidden behind the camera and later missing on all major life event photos?! You make the cake, decorate it and then stand as far as you can from your child blowing the birthday candles? </div>
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Last time someone took photographs of you was at your wedding. An attempt to have a say how you wanted to be captured risked putting you in the bridezilla category. So you pursed your lips. </div>
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Then came pregnancy and although glowing, you felt too big to take too many photos other than the growing belly ones - they are justified. Your face with those <a href="http://americanpregnancy.org/pregnancy-health/skin-changes-during-pregnancy/">dark splotchy spots</a> and the double-chin - not so much. </div>
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For the following several years you used all the kids you have delivered to hide your body at the beach. So - conveniently - you became a family photographer of your own family. </div>
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Then kids entered the phase when they just make silly faces followed by a phase where they want nothing to do with you, let alone take a photo. </div>
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The next time you look - if you did life right - you will have a few deep wrinkles and a myriad of those only visible to you, making you conscious of how to choose the angle, the light, the hair toss... </div>
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You know where I am going with this? </div>
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When you glance at your watch next time, kids will be gone and you will finally have the time to arrange those photo albums - one of life's most taunting mega projects I am intimidated to even think about. And guess what? You will notice, with sadness, that your vibrant and younger self, missed out on too many of those hug and squeeze and "cheese" moments. </div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">I have met many refugees over the past decade and a half of living as an immigrant in Canada - some have lost everything prior to safely landing here. The very lucky ones have only lost material possessions. When I ask them - what one thing do they miss the most - the answer is always the same. The photographs. The account they were younger once. More innocent. Still dreaming. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">I will happily be labeled egotistic and self-obsessed. But to me, selfie is 'dope'. It is my proof </span><i style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Marina was here</i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">, in my beautiful, busy and complicated life, rightiously taking my space under the sun. </span></div>
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You are welcome to take a loo<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">k!</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That time I was a double divorcee with a child</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That time I got my plane ticket for Belgrade</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qgWZweKaflg/VhHvd1O1NeI/AAAAAAAABQw/pPWx7BX2ywQ/s1600/IMG_1513.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qgWZweKaflg/VhHvd1O1NeI/AAAAAAAABQw/pPWx7BX2ywQ/s320/IMG_1513.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That time I discovered the joys of hot yoga</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4qqijg2hixA/VhHvdGExLhI/AAAAAAAABQ8/7HgBtfcA5zE/s1600/IMG_1511.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4qqijg2hixA/VhHvdGExLhI/AAAAAAAABQ8/7HgBtfcA5zE/s320/IMG_1511.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That time I discovered the sadness of an empty nester</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-fWiTBY5w1dQ/VhHverhz9vI/AAAAAAAABPs/pyvRBXmFTO8/s1600/IMG_1516.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="319" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-fWiTBY5w1dQ/VhHverhz9vI/AAAAAAAABPs/pyvRBXmFTO8/s320/IMG_1516.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That time I remembered I have two more kids to go ;-)</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZsUZo70bYf4/VhHve9xWPFI/AAAAAAAABQk/zCONvqxdpIU/s1600/IMG_1517.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZsUZo70bYf4/VhHve9xWPFI/AAAAAAAABQk/zCONvqxdpIU/s320/IMG_1517.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That time I finally summoned my crew</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HSfPhr4tBmA/VhHvdMu6tZI/AAAAAAAABQ4/Y4hn8MPtriU/s1600/IMG_1510.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HSfPhr4tBmA/VhHvdMu6tZI/AAAAAAAABQ4/Y4hn8MPtriU/s320/IMG_1510.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That time we attempted a family photo</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-6b1dn9nTbmk/VhHvcdh0XeI/AAAAAAAABRI/CnzXGBQlZmw/s1600/IMG_1508.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-6b1dn9nTbmk/VhHvcdh0XeI/AAAAAAAABRI/CnzXGBQlZmw/s320/IMG_1508.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That time we had three generations together</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tyTl184XuPI/VhHvbXzBXtI/AAAAAAAABOo/mKmZIfmwm3o/s1600/IMG_1504.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tyTl184XuPI/VhHvbXzBXtI/AAAAAAAABOo/mKmZIfmwm3o/s320/IMG_1504.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That time I felt the call of the wild</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-G3fIEWbGFp4/VhHvbyWVgnI/AAAAAAAABPA/G_8Ho0t8IN4/s1600/IMG_1506.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-G3fIEWbGFp4/VhHvbyWVgnI/AAAAAAAABPA/G_8Ho0t8IN4/s320/IMG_1506.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That time the call of the domesticated came a bit too close</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-VTOzkeHxbVg/VhHvckUhpFI/AAAAAAAABPI/06QgbqZiX6o/s1600/IMG_1509.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-VTOzkeHxbVg/VhHvckUhpFI/AAAAAAAABPI/06QgbqZiX6o/s320/IMG_1509.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That time I witnessed beginning of Shabbat in Jerusalem</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-zkDbOWW9ixc/VhH9baRot5I/AAAAAAAABRY/RidG30bpBgY/s1600/IMG_6440%2B%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="254" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-zkDbOWW9ixc/VhH9baRot5I/AAAAAAAABRY/RidG30bpBgY/s320/IMG_6440%2B%25281%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That time I witnessed sunrise at Taj Mahal</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-LLEO0GKfNow/VhHvgNOZeoI/AAAAAAAABQM/CjeYN_5-waQ/s1600/IMG_6236.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-LLEO0GKfNow/VhHvgNOZeoI/AAAAAAAABQM/CjeYN_5-waQ/s320/IMG_6236.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That time car-crazy replaced car-sick</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-D305-NgN7IE/VhHvdrbi6_I/AAAAAAAABPg/54TW2ukEePA/s1600/IMG_1512.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-D305-NgN7IE/VhHvdrbi6_I/AAAAAAAABPg/54TW2ukEePA/s320/IMG_1512.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That time I walked to help End Women's Cancer</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-kkDx4EEj4Jk/VhHvbScLg6I/AAAAAAAABO0/nZdMjBfjTUQ/s1600/IMG_1288.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-kkDx4EEj4Jk/VhHvbScLg6I/AAAAAAAABO0/nZdMjBfjTUQ/s320/IMG_1288.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That time I drank to celebrate amazing woman's birthday</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-xkzOm-_e63I/VhHvfHCJj6I/AAAAAAAABP8/DwWLjXcwSq8/s1600/IMG_5028.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-xkzOm-_e63I/VhHvfHCJj6I/AAAAAAAABP8/DwWLjXcwSq8/s320/IMG_5028.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That time I got photobombed</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iIvkf89t0xw/VhHvcOmcM6I/AAAAAAAABRA/7ehO9L7bVac/s1600/IMG_1507.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iIvkf89t0xw/VhHvcOmcM6I/AAAAAAAABRA/7ehO9L7bVac/s320/IMG_1507.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That time I almost went deaf</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0TPO-m3OCAY/VhIDxj_qSGI/AAAAAAAABRw/6gjwbFGDN0g/s1600/IMG_8922.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0TPO-m3OCAY/VhIDxj_qSGI/AAAAAAAABRw/6gjwbFGDN0g/s320/IMG_8922.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That time I surrendered and played along</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5LlLNwrgl-U/VhIDxYt7W6I/AAAAAAAABR0/BJ7bQVXoPic/s1600/IMG_1066.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5LlLNwrgl-U/VhIDxYt7W6I/AAAAAAAABR0/BJ7bQVXoPic/s320/IMG_1066.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That time I really loved my outfit</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Ze66p3qsDxw/VhH9bDUOUDI/AAAAAAAABRc/jz-dYK3KaI8/s1600/IMG_1114.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Ze66p3qsDxw/VhH9bDUOUDI/AAAAAAAABRc/jz-dYK3KaI8/s320/IMG_1114.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That time I really loved myself</td></tr>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It is all well worth it. You are well worth it. Now - you go do it!<br />
Take as many selfies as you please. Take them even if you don't please. Give it a try. Just like the <a href="http://www.hayhouse.com/loving-yourself-online-video-course">mirror work</a> it will help you get to know and love the beautiful you inside of you.<br />
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Your ten-years-older self will love you for it!</div>
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Marina Hassonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10063153424590548742noreply@blogger.com2