"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:

Oh Cartagena, You Had Me At "Ceviche"!

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.
Sounds interesting?
Well, let me tell you about my most recent "Hell YES!" decision I am sure to revel in for the rest of my life!

Next thing I know: I'm in Colombia!

Towards the end of this winter - the weirdest winter of wars and worries - my phone rang and I heard a: "Would you travel to Cartagena with me?!"
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 my favourite geography class. 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: Romancing The Stone!

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: AVENTURAS!

Fav coffee place

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 SEGUNDO UNO! 
 - Caribbean Sea breeze that hugs you as soon as you step out of the Rafael Nùñez International Airport whispering: "Life Is Good"
 - Coffee - thick and powerful, nutty with the hint of caramel that removed in a single sip all remnants of our red-eye flight tiredness; Se Volvió Prispri - a little, elegant, home-made, cool piece of heaven
 - Cobblestone streets - close to 500 years of history polished into the stones lining town squares and corners. From the Inquisition (the Museum of Inquisition 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

Colombian tote bags

 - Spanish colonial architecture - colourful facades, balconies adorned with cascades of bougainvillea, magnificent entrances and door knockers that totally deserve to be in their own coffee-table book

Breakfast is ready!

- Fruits - mango, maracuyá, papaya, pitahaya, passion fruit, pineapple, guava and guanoabana and my all-fruits-favourite lulo. How to describe the divinity of exotic flavours? Simple: you bite into a banana and at once understand that 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!
 - People - 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.

Fernando Botero at Plaza de Santo Domingo

- Celebration of the feminine 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.

New friends!

 - Book-lover's & writer's playground - I have finally discovered the ultimate happy place: ábaco libros y cafe - 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. HERMOSA!

Cartagena was also a home of South America's most famous writer and one of the greatest Colombians.
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.

Mmmm... Arepa con queso

- Street foods - from freshest fruit juices squeezed right before your eyes, to calorie-loaded-yet-oh-so-worthy empanadas to my all time favourite arepa con queso. There was this street vendor just on the side of the park at Plaza Bolivar (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!

- And now that I've opened the Pandora's box of all Foods irresistible, here it is:

Devil's shrimps and Mango octopus ceviche

In the Cartagena restaurant Olympics there would have been two winners: Cuzco which is likely one of my best dining experiences ever - the food and the company! And then there is La Cervicheria 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!

Ultimate favorite: Ceviche

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.

Seafood coconut curry

The winner of Cartagena's desserts... and we explored decadent stuff like coconut crème brûlée and the likes (aka coconut dulce de leche) is...

Everything at La Paletteria

...and I am not even an ice-cream person!!! Tamarind and kiwi-like lulo are absolute must-tries!

Tough battle between the best beverage - alcohol free and kid-proof!

Mango-2-go @ Mila Vargas, the Queen of brunch

Coconut-lime smoothie (for Juan with mint!)

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: vomito negro - 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 finest linen fashion the Clinton's have already discovered. Witnessing the full moon during the horse-carriage ride through the narrow cobblestone streets. Experiencing Colombian authentic chocolate making process from start to finish making my own truffles to go at museum of chocolate. Dear TripAdvisor, I owe you so many 5-star reviews!

A 5-star experience with dear friends @ CHOCO museo

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 withstood the attacks and my ships earned their smooth sailing with my flag proudly waving in the wind. Which brings me to my friend Vesna. 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! 

Flight there: well hello Houston, TX of all places, HA, HA!

Flight back: #cantstoplaughing

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.

    🇨🇴🇨🇴🇨🇴

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: 

JOYERÍA! 

When First We Met

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. 

  "OMG, YOU ARE MARINA!!!" - 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. 

  "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. 

  "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 finally met someone who talks more than you! You should be friends." 

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!

Tonight at La Cervicheria in Cartagena Vesna and I remembered all this. Was it the high of girlfriends' first escape to South America or the caipirinha on repeat matters not: our laughter is loud, our hopes are high, our bond is deep - just like when first we met. 

Going 3G - Glorious Girlfriends Getaway!

Rats! or The Best Love Story Ever Told?

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. What if I don't understand him?

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?"

Once prestigious red passport

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. 

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 Canadian Embassy in Belgrade 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  - the one who had left me for his mistress 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! 

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!

This is Inflation

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. 

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.  

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 78 days of NATO bombing. 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.

Passport photo - Attempt #9 

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.

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? 

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.

1st day of work: Fresh off the boat 

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 meant existence. 

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 rat race. 

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.

Today is Monday, December 7 and we are celebrating a crystal anniversary together. I wonder why is it called crystal?  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?

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! 

Malcolm X said: "The future belongs to those who prepare for it today" - and I couldn't have been more prepared. 

But for today, it is still the best (career)love-story ever told.

Always a bride, never a bridesmaid!

The first wedding I ever attended in North America was that of my friend Mary, whom I knew from work. She was the right hand of one of the specialists I worked a lot with in those early years. When she invited me to their wedding I was elated! Firstly, she and John are a great couple. Secondly, they're Scottish and Scottish people I had heard knew how to chill. Thirdly - ok, firstly - there would be bachelors wearing kilts and I was very single back then. I was looking forward to checking out the offerings, if you know what I mean!

[Public notice: Kilt-wearing men and firefighters in uniforms - yes, women often have a thing for that sort of attire, just so you know!]

There was no 'plus one' on my invitation and I pretty much didn't know anyone at the wedding other than the bride, so after an hour or so of people watching I felt compelled to talk to someone. It's moi after all! 

The easiest target was the jolly-looking father of the bride. With his rosy cheeks and cute outfit I was sure I would find something to talk to him about.

"Hi - my name is Marina. I work with Mary." I leaned into him so that he could hear me over the background noise of the talking people and clinking glasses.

 "Congratulations! It must be exciting to be at your daughter's wedding!?" - I said that both as a statement and a question thinking it might propel him into telling me of the many suitors she had turned down while still overseas, finally settling for John in Canada.

"Ayeeee... Weddings!" - he screeched a thick Scottish accent - it sounded like "weedings". He put his arm on my shoulder as if he were about to reveal some rare truth - "It's all rubbish!"  His rough rolling "r" is still ringing in my ears, making me laugh all these years later!

Credit: Black Lamb Photography

And although I too once thought that weddings and marriage were rubbish, this third and last time I tend to love the idea of a marriage. But not the one I grew up with - with the expectation and pressure to find a soul mate slash equally-educated slash gainfully-employed slash 'good genetic material' (ha, ha, ha #youknowwhoyouare) slash no-baggage kind of deal while the biological clock is ticking.

My perfect marriage is the one with the sole-mate, s.o.l.e. - someone with whom you walk effortlessly through this lifetime. Soul-mates are everywhere - most of my girl-friends are my soul mates – but there is only one sole-mate. The one with whom you will aimlessly walk the world's cities. The one who will go with you to the parent-teacher meetings and paediatrician's appointments. The one with whom you will look at funny silly videos on YouTube. The one who will tell me the hotel is booked and so is the car rental and now we just have to hunt for flights. The one who convinces me it's time for an All-You-Can-Eat sushi dinner. The one who appreciates what I do for our family. The one who surprises me with how much he does for our family. And the one who is happy for me go to places like India to fulfill my desire to experience something raw and intrinsically important only to myself.

Tomorrow, one of my dearest and closest friends will say yes to her man. Linda was the very first person I met on my very first day at work in Canada almost seventeen years ago. Let's just say we've been through a lot together. The ups and downs and heartbreaks and real scary moments and hope and courage and joy and infinite love and gratitude. Linda is a soul-mate of mine!

I guess it must be a good thing that Linda and her man decided to have a relaxed ceremony followed by a night of dancing and debauchery (the actual words on the invite!). This means no formal uptight stuff. Just heart and soul and fun stuff. But alas, this also means no bridesmaids. Which consequently means no war with a certain Jen I'm about to meet tomorrow as well as an army of her childhood friends aka "beach-getaway-girl-crew" I was always so jealous of. That's good, because I don't take rejection very well and one clearly can't have 10+ bridesmaids, can one? But I have never been a bridesmaid!!!

And I really wanted to be one for once, dammit!

I can't fall asleep tonight in the sweet anticipation of seeing my friend standing tomorrow gloriously happy. And, oh, happy she is! Congratulations! Félicitations! Čestitamo! Mazel Tov, you guys!

Let me now go to my sole-mate and watch this for the umpteenth time... The supreme court and the slice of lasagna part! OMG!!!

Matt Bellassai - The Worst Things About Weddings