Dear Diary (Covid-19 Edition)

I miss speaking Serbian. 

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. 

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. 

“Why is this guy on the floor?” I was coming to tuck him in for the night, “I almost tripped.”

“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.”

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: 

“Becoming invisible” typed one.

“Flying” chimed another.

“Scoring more goals” came from the sportiest kid in class.

“Getting 100% on all tests.” There is always a class nerd.

My son wrote: “To bring my grandma back.”

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. 

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… 

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!

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! 

“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.

“This is not your spot, Pal. It’s hers.” 

“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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

“Why did you take a picture of our car?” this time, the wife yelled at me first. 

“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.” 

“Then we will take a picture of your car.” 

“You’re welcome to.”

“You shouldn’t be doing this in front of your son!” the little man shouted. 

“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. 

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. 

“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. 

“More pička tebi materina!” Honestly, this wasn't me. My mouth did it, I swear. I swear. 

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.

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 Anita Moorjani’s book “Dying to be me”. 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. 

“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’

“That… Oh, that, I’m not going to answer.” 

"The Amazing Race" Kind of Summer: Belgrade

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!

Belgrade skyline at dusk

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.

    "Deco, odakle ste vi? Kids, where are you from?"

    "Iz Beograda! From Belgrade!" We replied in unison as there was no other place from which we could have possibly been.

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:

    "Da li jos uvek postoji Cvetkova Mehana? Is Cvetko's Restaurant still there?"

None of us were the right age to know the answer, but the rarely used Turkish word mehana - 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.

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 is home.

The drive from Budapest to Belgrade through harvest-wealthy Vojvodina - where Pannonian Sea 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.

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.

Walk One: The Family Album

My aunt (and second mom) @79!

"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? 

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. 

Filip ❤️ Family ❤️ Filip

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: Шта је бре човече? Где си Шиптару? Џукело једна!

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. 

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. 

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! 

Walk Two: Of Best Men and Besties

Oh the joy!

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. 

Walk Three: Back to School

Belgrade skyline - the Art class project

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! 

OOŠ "Vladislav Ribnikar" Elementary School

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.

With my Principal 

I ask if I could say hi to the principal - she knows who I am because of the blog I once wrote reminiscing about my favourite teacher - 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 - geography. 

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. 

Walk Four: The White City

View from the Kalemegdan fortress

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 keep raving about. 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. 

Knez Mihajlova Street

New Belgrade

Kalemegdan - Game-of-Thrones-ready since 3rd Century B.C.

Clock Gate

Terazije Square

Tašmajdan park

Museum of Nikola Tesla

Walk Five: The Legacy

Ask my husband and he'll tell you I wept pretty much every day in Belgrade. But at least I now understand why:

Because I am grateful for the childhood I got to experience. 

For the pure friendships that are only getting stronger with time. 

For the superior education I received without getting into debt and which still serves me so well. 

For the blessing of a warm, affectionate and honest family. 

For deciding to embrace my nostalgia while creating as much of Belgrade as I can in Toronto.

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.

Marina has sons - in Belgrade

Belgrade coordinates: 44° 48' N, 20° 27' E

For having my husband understand how come I actually got to be this way. 

And for hearing my little Canadian kids cheer while watching the recent Rio's Olympics: 

                                         "Srbija, Srbija, Srbija 🇷🇸🇷🇸🇷🇸! "

For me, Belgrade is not a place. 

@Nikola Tesla International Airport

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 pljeskavica on the go. It warms up like rakija. 

And it sounds just like this:

Dial M for: Marriage, Motherhood, Memoir

On today's date 22 years ago I didn't know it was Mother's Day weekend.

Serbia doesn't do Mother's Day, or Father's Day for that matter.

1994

Twenty two years ago May 7th was "Djurdjevdan" - a big day in Serbian Christian-Orthodox Calendar represented by St.George on the White horse slaying a dragon. 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. 

That daughter happened to be me. 

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  "Marry You" : "It's a beautiful night, We're looking for something dumb to do, hey baby, I think I wanna marry you!"

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: "Never marry in April. April marriage--April joke." May 7th seemed like a perfect and safe day. 

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. 

My mom welcomed me home after a failed marriage. 

My mom went with me for ultrasounds and doctor's appointments.

My mom was at the hospital the night I gave birth to my son. 

My mom assembled (having our friends and neighbours pass down baby items) the most magical nursery for me to enjoy and heal in.

My mom woke up every night to keep me company while I breastfed. 

My mom cooked delicious home-made soups and baked pies.

My mom ironed mountains of cloth diapers each and every day. 

Bajce the Best!

My mom cleaned projectile vomits, soothed the crying baby and readily managed diaper explosions.

My mom patiently fed him his first solid foods. 

My mom assured me there is no rush to potty train. 

My mom...

My mom followed us to Canada at age 60.

My mom was my son's day-care. And a tutor. And a bestie. And a confidant.

My mom saved my sanity. And taught me everything I know about motherhood. 

And if I had to choose between that husband or this mom - I would've gone for this mom every single time!

2016

I'm aware of my incredible good luck to have this mom be my mom. 

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. 

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. 

Here is an excerpt of an early draft:

        It was January. There was no baby formula. No glider chair. No dryer. Only lukewarm radiators. 

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. 

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. 

1996

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.” 

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. 

“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. 

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. 

“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.’” 

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. 

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.

“Filip, how was it growing up with just me… never meeting your biological father?” 

“Oh, mama!” He turns around and gently taps the top of my head. Then he smiles. “It was magical!”

Happy Mother's Day!

Return To Innocence

Navy blue skirt. Crisp white shirt. A red triangular neck scarf. A star-shaped pin with a gold hammer & sickle symbol. All these comprised my uniform on the day in September 1976. when I became Tito’s pioneer with the rest of my Grade 1 class in Belgrade's Pioneer City. 

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 Valerie Giscard d’Estaing or notorious Nicolae Ceausescu. For the infamous visit of Muammar al-Qaddafi I was already a university student and could bail-out of those mandatory moments of waving a miniature flag, red carnation in hand.  

A wide blue rectangular Moskvitch 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!

Not after Rommel because no one wanted a part of a German soldier at play-time. Everyone wanted only to be a partisan. Or even better a secret group of friends fighting Gestapo 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.

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 Goli otok - the barren island - an inhumane and often terminal stop for political prisoners. 

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!

Comrades flash to warn each other of hidden speed radars

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.

The result? The nostalgic and overwhelming feeling I had entered the time capsule. 

Here is why:

Revolution is still a current and hot topic

 The Cuban flag is a point of national pride on many balconies

The red star still a common political and fashion statement

School uniforms ensure all kids are equal

Morro castle proudly reminds of hard fought independence 

And cannons and cannonballs are at every corner. Yey!

The coffee is real and far from the venti skinny vanilla latte craze

Domestic cola and beer reign, blissfully unaware of Pepsis & Buds 

Guys still sweet-talk girls over backgammon

Neighbours unite in common problems

Men and women are equal. Old age is treated with utmost respect

Even though the city is quite uniquely avant-garde

Dryers are obsolete on La Isla

Big work is only being done now because of Obama's impending visit

But as long as all Cubans remember the unfaltering courage  

They are at liberty to smile & salsa, enjoying a rare freedom

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. 

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 really 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.           

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. 

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.

Mi familia explorando Habana

And they are  h a p p y.