Sunday, 17 July 2022
Sweet-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.
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:
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.
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 light.” 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: Living in the Moment 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.
Friday, 18 June 2021
The Douchebag You Don’t Know
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.
I feel a pang deep in my stomach. Father’s Day will always suck for Filip. 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.
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| Belgrade winter of '96. |
“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.
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.
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| Toronto, 2006 |
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.
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.
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.
“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!”
The Epic Road Trip, Sep 2020
“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.
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| Our last |
“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.”
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.
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.
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| In my mom's wisdom: It's the opposite for douchebags |
Sunday, 11 April 2021
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.”
Monday, 13 April 2020
19 Good Things
How you’re doing these days, amidst panic and pandemic? How’s the Passover-Easter week in confinement?
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| Found on Internet |
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.
In fact, I am happy, likely, happiest I’ve been in years.
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 single parent, in a country with a raging Civil war 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.
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:
1. “No.” 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.
2. No wasting food. 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.
3. Partnership. 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!
4. Home-schooling subject: resilience. 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 “Life is Beautiful” COVID-19 style.
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| Leek & rice pie |
5. Conscious decluttering: 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!
6. Cooking from scratch, 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!
7. Kids in the kitchen—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.
8. Silence diet. 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?
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| One home office slaying mama |
9. The end of multitasking: 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.
10. This is “one day”. 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.
11. Play with kids the games we played as kids: 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.”
12. Kids play their instruments for pleasure. 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.
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| "Me" time |
13. The art of self care. Yoga at home followed by a hot, hot bath with essential oils, lit candles and my Korean Skincare 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, carefully selected items that replenish my skin and soothe my soul. And the heavenly sleep afterwards…
14. Sleep. The 9h are the new normal. I dream every night. I am sane again.
15. Watching my kids watch our favourite movies: 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.
16. Kindness, anonymous. 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.
17. Closure. 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.
18. New skills: I can do 3 perfect male haircuts, using trimmer and scissors. Kids say they’ll never enter a salon again!
19. “I don’t know.” 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.
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 learn to truly support one another. We might be given a chance to make the first wobbly steps again in a much better world than the one we had before.
Saturday, 17 September 2016
"The Amazing Race" Kind of Summer: Prague
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| Karlův most - Charles Bridge |
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.
This is how Prague was for me.
But I'm getting ahead of myself.
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.
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| Signing at the dotted line! |
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 toy store 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.
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.
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| The rooftops of Prague |
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| Prague Castle and St.Vitus Cathedral |
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| Old City (Stare Mesto) |
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| Old Town Square |
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| Astronomical Clock - it works since 1410! |
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| National Theatre on the Vltava river |
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| Bedrich Smetana Museum |
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| Just like in Smetana's Vltava |
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| The oh so Gothic Powder Tower |
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.
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| Jewish Quarter |
But then the questions arose: how come Prague, unlike Belgrade or Budapest or Amsterdam, 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.
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| The Old-New Synagogue clock |
The chilling answer arrived the morning of our visit to Terezin - 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.
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| Terezin gate: 130 000 Jews passed through |
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| The brutal conditions included standing-only sleeping rooms |
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| Prisoners were executed, died of illness' or sent to death camps |
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| The crematorium |
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| 90 000 Jews were sent from Teresienstadt to death camps |
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| 33 000 Jews perished in Terezin |
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 Hemley's! 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!..."
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.
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| Until we travel again! |
Sunday, 11 September 2016
"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!
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| 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
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| 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.
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| 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
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| 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
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| 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!
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| 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.
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.
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| With my Principal |
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
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| 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.
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| Knez Mihajlova Street |
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| New Belgrade |
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| Kalemegdan - Game-of-Thrones-ready since 3rd Century B.C. |
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| Clock Gate |
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| Terazije Square |
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| Tašmajdan park |
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| 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.
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| Marina has sons - in Belgrade |
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| 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.
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| @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:
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