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: Budapest

Listen, I'm no TripAdvisor.

Chain Bridge closed for the Air Races (and iPhone photo opportunities)

Please don't expect me to wow here with my review of the veal cutlet served over corn polenta with spicy tomato and roasted red pepper spread, topped with a slice of calf liver done so deliciously to perfection it qualifies as one of the best five dishes my palate has ever experienced. Ever. Or expect me to choose for you the best goulash soup in town, review the intricate layers of the Esterházy torte, recommend the ambiance of Café Pierrot on the Buda side or insist you can't leave without Szeged's Hungarian hot paprika as a souvenir (what's weed for Amsterdam is paprika for Budapest). Nope.

And if I sound a little grumpy to you, there's a reason. Budapest and I - I discovered - have this complicated relationship. You see, this wasn't our first time. It only dawned on me late afternoon on our third day as I was impressing my husband and our boys by navigating like a pro through the city streets on both sides of river Danube, that is not really schönen let alone blauen  showing them the major landmarks, that the previous three visits to this magnificent city had nothing to do with sightseeing. They more resemble a young woman’s shaky journal entries and serve as monuments to my eventful personal history. 

The first visit was in 1990 with my boyfriend - a magical stay in this majestic city that was going through one of its hungry years, just fresh from shedding the communist era and - like a rebellious teenager - having no clue how it all would end. I remember being struck by witnessing old women selling family heirlooms for cash on the pedestrian-only Vaci Utca: art, china, silverware, intricate hand-made lace ornaments. Those forints were food money. We were young and with long-weekend pocket money of about 200 dollars we were beyond wealthy. Caviar for breakfast anyone?

Second visit - 1994 - same boy turned man and husband. My first husband. Atrium Hyatt hotel and a room with the mesmerizing view of the Chain Bridge. After a few days of empty small talk and group sightseeings with his entire family, captured on the photographs I recently happened to have found, there was one evening and a critical conversation with his mighty uncle from America during which we made our first emigration plans that both felt like a breakthrough and a more-than-solid lifeboat out of former Yugoslavia. What a relief! He would re-enrol in university and get a degree. I would license as a pharmacist in Texas. We wouldn’t be sharing a bathroom with all the smokers in his family nor be helplessly waiting in Belgrade for NATO to bomb!

The final visit in 1995 was far less glamorous. Now we were the poor ones, arriving at the TOEFL test with an overnight bus loaded with smugglers. Sausages, toothpaste, laundry detergent and diapers were hot items on Belgrade's black market. When the bus doors closed at midnight at the Central terminal, cigarettes lit, shoes came off and we marinated for 378 point 4 fucken kilometres in odours I can still recall, ears numb from the turbo-folk music that blasted all night through the crackle of worn-out speakers. We took the test at 10:00 a.m. Then we each savoured a Big Mac at the Vaci Street McDonald’s. By then, the city was all done up, facades renovated and posh world brands had moved into Budapest’s prime locations. Everybody had a cellphone. We hung around the river banks and the Chain Bridge for as long as we could then rushed back to board that same bus for the same many-hours-long ordeal back, the experience only enhanced by the mandatory 10 Deutschmarks per person bribe for the customs officer not to open the the trunk to check for possible imported goods.  

     “But we didn’t buy anything, we just went…” we tried to fight the injustice of it all. 

     “You are welcome to walk home" the toothless driver replied with a grin, cigarette dangling off the corner of his mouth. “In my bus we’re all equal: everyone pays the racket!” 

Nevertheless I passed my test of English as a Foreign Language with flying colours (the then-husband did not do as well but still adequately for the mediocre private university in Texas that had accepted his uncle’s tuition cheque) and we were cleared for emigration. 

The jolly never-ending tune playing in between the tourist sights information on channel 2 for English on Budapest’s double decker bus woke me up. Or was it my family alerting me to our final stop - the 5 star Boscolo Hotel. It was day 6 of us gumping* over Europe, I must have dozed off in exhaustion.

So if I sounded crabby - forgive me. It is from the stark contrast of this before and after for me. The life I willingly signed up for as a young, educated woman and this beautiful life I turned out to be living. The many different dead-ends and near-fatal turns that could have occurred has left me vulnerable in retrospect. I wish my happily-ever right now was more than just happenstance -  that I actually had had a say in it.

Somewhat ignorant or simply unaware, Budapest the beautiful has witnessed all of my personal drama that unfolded over the past quarter of a century, seemingly analyzing my life with equal emotion - oh well: here comes the rain, here comes the sun, take a walk, take a seat, sip a coffee, eat a cake, take a long soothing bath - you will most certainly feel better. This too shall pass. 

"The Grand Budapest Hotel" inspiration?

Dobos torte

I did manage to relax, unaware of the PTSD-like 3-day walk down the memory lane which was lodged somewhere in my subconscious, only to resurface during a short bus ride. Like most European cities there are scars and the monuments of real suffering all around Budapest, once home to a vibrant Jewish community. 

Names of Hungarian Jews killed in Holocaust inscribed on each leaf

But it is what we do with these scars that makes the whole difference. We expose them, we honour them. And we are certain they won’t happen ever again. Never again.

Never again

Just below the Buda Castle there is this 3m tall limestone sculpture called the Zero Kilometre Stone. Erected at the Adam Clark square this stone marks the reference point from which all road distances to Budapest are measured in the country. While kids were busy chasing one another around it and my husband waited in a long line-up for the tickets to the Budapest Castle Hill Funicular, I placed my forehead on the warm, rough stone. The symbolism of how far I've got to go from this true zero point in my life made me sigh in gratitude. There was never a need for a helping hand or a rescue boat. We are all capable of doing it all by ourselves.        

            "Hey guys!" I summoned my crew. "Forget the shortcut! Who's with me to climb the hill on foot?" And so we did.  

Here comes the Sun!

*gumping - the Hasson family trademark name and signature activity. While Forrest Gump was aimlessly running, we aimlessly walk. 

How To Spot A Calling

"Are you 226?" - the piercing bark of a short feisty woman jolted me out of my humdrum wait for the bus. She was so loud that a good portion of the crowded bus stop turned to look.

"N... No" I answered shakily, then continued to introduce myself with a bit more confidence: "I am 227" at which the curious stares became more obvious.

"Well, tell 226 she must come see me first thing in the morning, she left her Erlenmeyer flask at her station. You guys can't be irresponsible with your equipment." Then our fierce analytical chemistry technician disappeared behind the many coats so quickly she missed my timid: "Um... I will."

In an Orwellian kind of way, this episode seemed funny to me the sophomore year of becoming a pharmacist. Little did I know that a quarter of a century would pass before I learned how to handle being assigned and considered a number.

These days floods of articles, TED talks and interviews with new world leaders, business coaches & ultra-successful hipsters point out that the old corporate structure is dead. Truly successful companies have replaced their ivory towers and VP-only perks. Wise executives now share open spaces and open minds with their inspired teams.

The essence of their innovation is that it feels like playing rather than working, all the while achieving remarkable results.

Truth be told, for the last few years of my career I've been immersed in all that stuff.

I dug Simon Sinek. Reread Seth Godin. Adored Shawn Achor. Pondered with Dan Ariely. While driving aimlessly on my tedious Mondays-to-Fridays, Warren Buffet kept me company with his famous address tackling productivity and big life's to-do list published by the Harvard Business Review. I also wholeheartedly "joined the circle" and leaned in as seriously as I knew how. You get the point -- when Netflix already knows I only want the stuff on Musk, Jobs, Gates and even Cuban - I mean business.

The result? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Because although the logic is clear, business sense sharp and the stories inspiring, removed by a screen or a print, it failed to sink in. What I realized is that I actually needed someone around me, a warm body I actually would be able to meet and bounce these ideas with - and no, not a bigwig VP on a stage once a year who talks integrity and requests compliance via mandatory signatures on the spread sheet. I wanted a real leader who sticks around but not just at the bar. Who breaths the values herself, then coaches and inspires, unifies teams, solves problems and laughs off obstacles until it does start feeling like play. An intelligent yet fun pastime I'd get to do between 9-5.

Looking at my own professional life these past several months, I'm in awe how things in life work themselves out and not because of meticulous career planning or having a powerful mentor and role model.

So what ended up happening with #227?

Here it is, for the sake of all those currently sporting golden handcuffs afraid or unsure how to make a leap and also those few who have not yet figured out how to troll LinkedIn unnoticed. #hillarious

To start, it's actually enough to know what you don't want - in my case, I could no longer justify to feel like a human equivalent of spam mail. That instead of becoming the prescribed employee of the future, built out of Terminator 2 grade stainless steel, it's OK if you simply keep your own skin albeit at times fragile and sensitive. Anything but thick. In lieu of putting Teflon on to repel the mandatory vermin you put your focus on how you actually want to feel in your professional life. How about empowered and entrepreneurial for a change?

Then you let go. Breathe. Laugh. Train. Travel. All the while keeping focused on your priorities and carefully chosen helpers. Never be afraid to pay for a good advice.

I've been many numbers in my life: The 227 in Analytical Chemistry. The matching 354 around my wrist and my baby's ankle at birth. My immigration file number, I can no longer remember even though it felt seared in my brain at the time. World Wide ID 769 885 007. For some reason I thought that getting the number was a sign of safety. That things would be managed and taken care of because of it, not despite of it.

In truth, there is only one formula to get what you want:

1- Find the cause for which you would gladly volunteer

2 - Form real bonds with real people, including former customers and honorable competitors - these could turn out to be essential 

3 - Never stop learning - stay the course in the chosen field and get to really, really know it. Not for the worthless check mark on the performance review. But to be invited to the big kids' table because of what you know, not who you know.

Then go to work and play. You'll never even think of glancing at the clock. Or loathing when your manager calls. Counting days till your vacation. Or mouth to yourself ever again: "TGIF. TFGIF."

You do deserve better. Much better. When to start? How about right now! 

Or answer Godin's opening question in "The Icarus Deception": How long are you going to wait?

Stuff I Learned About Life From Intense Interval Training

Who am I kidding?
Me the queen of marathon-chatting sessions with girlfriends while holding a hot-caffeinated beverage in hand? The gold-medallist of all things sofa - books and movies and writing and cuddles? Me?! Interval training? When in the past, success was if I crawled uninjured after a Zumba class, for seniors?

Actually - yeah!

This happened to be a winter of deep hibernation for me - and those are dangerous!
For someone who already had one serious encounter with a beast called depression, being as much as even lightly brushed by its wicked whip poses a major threat. When depression approaches obstacles start to appear larger than they actually are. Minor everyday problems acquire a long and dark shadow. The appetite dissapears (which - I agree - for the first little while sounds like a welcome gift).
Wickedly, the bed then starts exerting its gravitational pull, the muscles go sluggish and the duvet is right there to conveniently muffle even the softest of cries. Shame moves in. It's so dangerous because it's so easy. It feels like comfort. Sleep is good. I am just tired. Let me put my head down...

I credit an incredible army of people for making sure I didn't get caught into the treacherous spiralling-down depression web that was so eager, so motivated, so applied to suck me in. Left on my own, I would have surely succumbed to it without a fight. Like a fierce giant insect, depression sucks life juice out of you, than effortlessly crushes the shell. Eats your heart. Then rips your head off.

But what if you - somehow - get dragged to take care of that shell first? Well, thankfully, I was.
He did it very much in a cave-man fashion, as - almost literally - he had to drag me there by my pony tail (thank you husband!).

There is this truly punishing gym in our neighbourhood my sole-mate raves about. They have classes called TreadSanity and ROWster and H.I.I.T. and Gravity, and countless others I am yet to try. Fellow-gym goers for the most part look as if they are all training for the friggin' Iron Man. It is intimidating as hell to step inside, but once you do - regardless of the level of ultimate unpreparedness - pure magic happens.

Here is what I learned about life from sprints and burpees and kettlebells and slamballs and shoulder-presses and push-ups and bands and sumo-squats and bosu balls. And buckets of epsom salt afterwards.


1. You do one hard thing as a break from another hard thing

This is also exactly how my grandfather taught me how to study when I was little. Doing what's hardest first (math) then taking a break with another demanding subject (French) than relaxing with the easiest thing (art project) so I can return to the second hardest (history). Without procrastination all was done right after school and the rest of the day was free for play and friends and writing.

The same rule goes for the gym: running on treadmill under an ever increasing incline is abruptly halted so I can enjoy 20 Mountain Climbers or burpees (oh how much I still hate those), or push ups. Who knew I would learn to rest doing a 60 second plank!?


2. Your weight is all yours - unless you drop it, you've got to carry it

Gravity Gear

This is just like life coaching - you can select to drop the baggage and travel light through life or it is all yours to carry forward. My personal twist is that I learned to quickly start loving my baggage at least for the duration that I have to lift and carry it as a burden. Instant gratification rarely exists when what you want is real, long-lasting and meaningful. I tend to joke about my load - it makes it lighter and I sometimes don't even notice when it disappears! Poof!

It is nowhere more obvious that all my weight was mine than in this workout called Gravity - 60 minutes of having my core, arms and legs pull all of the glorious me I managed to acquire under my own skin, especially since my little kids were born! There are no fairies, helpers or marines descending into the gym to help. One must carry one's own weight until the clock says so, no matter what.

3. You can do anything for 60 seconds

I learned this one night between January 23/24 1996. during the marathon no-epidural-available birth of my first son. As fellow women who attempted natural birth know - a contraction, that minute long WTF?! How did we even survive as species?! intense sensation, a contraction is a perfect example of us being wired to survive anything if it is a minute long. I still have the watch I had on my wrist in labour mesmerizingly envisioning the relief I would feel when the second handle passes the moon.

Some wicked gym guru clearly knew this because when we to this H.I.I.T class staying on each station for a minute with 40 sec of insane intensity and 20 seconds recovery time the body is tricked into a relief that really never arrives while the reward is amazing!

4. Angry music makes for great motivation

I admit. Growing up, I was a total new-wave snob with tunes (and mixed tapes and posters) of Spandau Ballet, Duran Duran, Visage, Ultravox and OMD. I scoffed at people who wore AC/DC and KISS T-shirts while injuring perfectly fine denim jackets by embedding pointy metal beads into them. Listening to heavy metal. Shaking a big head of unwashed hair, tongue sticking out!

But boy can that 'angry' music make for an amazing trip while running or rowing indoors! I close my eyes and transport myself somewhere Mad Max-like and listen to the machine zip under my vigorous steps and pulls. It's rocket fuel. Who knew?!

5. Pick a great crew: Rocky Balboa, Hurricane Carter & moi

If in need of the initial drive to get one started it was so worth re-watching movies that celebrated a man's turn to physical empowerment as a stepping stone to mental strength. The hidden gift of hibernation is that days are really long and Netflix is really generous.

Those moments when the burn would be excruciating (ahem, only for me - the rest of the gym-goers seem to be immensely enjoying themselves) I got silver screen peeps to join me, make it meaningful and even more fierce. Imagination is an amazing gym prop!

6. Never say never

I ❤️my gym!

I know. The king of all clichés. But if I ever feel that it is true, it is right now.
There is no less likely person to enjoy being on a treadmill than me. How many times have friends tried to lure me into the Running Room group or a 5k run? My excuse was always the same: "Oh, I am not a runner!" Then I pull out the data about knees and ankles and running in filthy city air. Sure, I would do a Hawaii marathon, however... I love running on treadmill. Crave it. Just like I do yoga. Super weird.

The point is not to get as fit as to qualify for the Olympics. Or to match/surpass the number the 'treader' next to me seems to be effortlessly blasting through. The point is to look at each day like a marathon I was chosen to run. Then show up. Keep putting one foot in front of the other. Sweat. Hustle. Burn. If I could do it - anyone can do it. And when a whiff of Lysol wipes fills the air, it means 60min expired and it's time to get the equipment ready for the next group of warriors. And that alone feels like gold!

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!

F like Fifty, like Fabulous, like Friends

For the last 24h I totally reverted to being a teenager: I went to a party. I met some incredible new people. I danced. I had a beer. I sang my heart out. I laughed out loud. I was happily squeezed into a slow dance. I totally lost my voice. I slept till noon. And woke up to a delicious and already served lunch!

Our Yoga studio

All because of this one woman...

But let me tell the story from the beginning. 

January 2015 in T.O. was brutal. Deep freeze, grey skies, spring nowhere in sight. In lieu of a regular Saturday 'date-night' my husband and I decided to go to a hot yoga class. There is something undeniably sexy in stretching, sweating & suffering together! Bring it on Virabhadrasana II!

We got out of the 75min class happy yet wrung out. The icy rain was drizzling. As we rushed towards the car I heard a scream. I paused. The street was dark, the parking lot packed and although I looked around I couldn't see a thing. I was just about to enjoy the comfort of heated leather seats that would take me to a deserved long hot shower when I heard a deep moan. 

A woman was lying on the very edge of the parking lot having slipped on the ice that has treacherously formed between the cars. She was crying. She said her knee was badly injured. Afraid to move her, I slid my yoga mat under her head while my husband went inside to alert the studio staff and call 911. He came out with a bunch of dry towels and we covered her the best we could offering comfort between her cries - she was obviously in deep pain. 

She said her name was Tanya and asked if I could call her husband. I asked what his name was. 

"Hello, Tom, hi - you don't know me. I am here with your wife Tanya and she is OK, but she has slipped on the ice in front of the yoga studio and injured her knee. We called 911, but you need to come. Her car is here. I am going to hold the phone now so she can talk to you."

As she started talking my ears registered something unusual. My eyes opened widely. 

"Tomo, pala sam. Dodji odmah, molim te..."

The language and the accent were super familiar to me. Not only was it Serbian, it was 'capital city' Serbian I don't get to hear very often. As Tanya said goodbye to her husband, I went:

"Umm... just so you know, I understood everything you've just said. My name is Marina. I'm from Belgrade."

True friendships can start in the most amazing of places, not just in early childhood or during glorious school days. They start while waiting for kids at the summer camp. While flying to a conference. In a haute-couture boutique. While at work. While volunteering half way across the world. During Life Coach training. Or as I'm becoming a better writer. 

How about a dark January night on a f'n frozen parking lot, under the relentless drizzle of ice rain, while our sweat turned into icicles and her knee and everything below it was lying next to her, looking horrendously detached from the rest of the body? 

I think it was the higher power that chose me in particular to find Tanya that night. Apparently, when dialling 911 if one wants them to come right away words such as: head, bleeding & unconscious need to be used. Just a mere dislocated knee? It took about 35 minutes of lying on the icy concrete under now-soaked frozen towels. 

And what is the way to spend those long minutes of anguish well? Entertain the injured woman to no end, so that her laughter masks the excruciating knee pain. 

"Let's see if this Toma of yours is a keeper... I'm gonna time him!"

"I heard that paramedics are hot. Let's channel some serious 911-beef that will be taking care of you, sister!"

"Trust me - I'm a pharmacist. Percocet is fun."

Toma was a keeper. The split time of just over four minutes was only one of the reasons. When the 6'6" towering man emerged from the cab I knew that was the real superhero moment of the night. He knelt next to her, speaking tender words while caressing her wet hair. He assured her all would be alright. 

The silent 'awwww' filled my soul.

The paramedics were not as hot as we - OK, only I - hoped for, but they did have Percocet. Between the four of us, Tanya was lifted on a stretcher and loaded into a flashing ambulance. Like a true 'Mother Courage' she elected for the dislocated knee to be put in back ASAP and not wait for pills to kick in or the x-ray to become available nor the anesthesiologist on call to wake up. Getting shit done - the Serbian way!

Tanya's 50 & Fabulous Party!

Last night we celebrated Tanya-the-fabulous turning fifty. The atmosphere was electrifying, the tunes those we all grew up with in the Balkans, the food delicious. Tanya burned the floor dancing as if that knee never got yanked out after all! If I hadn't already known she was one of those remarkable women you meet in life, I only had to look at her friends - genuine, affectionate, welcoming, funny as hell, uninhibited, letting loose and letting love connect us all. Here is to the next 50! 

Živeli! L'Chaim! Cheers!

Trust Me, I'd Rather Be Knitting!

There was this kid in my elementary school who was a total, well, loser. 

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Before any anti-bullying crew jumps with all its might to crucify me, let me tell you that I too, today - the mother, the volunteer and myself a member of a ferocious anti-bullying crew - wouldn't have called him that. But in the cruel world of growing up in Serbia in the early 80’s, when my math teacher caught me chewing gum in grade 5 and for punishment made me spit it into her hand (!?) only for her to solidly embed the pink wad into my long hair so close to my skull that a big chunk needed to be cut off, yeah, that kid was a sorry loser. He was mean and feisty, deliberately insulting the other kids yet with nothing to show for it.  He was by far the shortest in our class, tragically non-athletic and also a really poor student. Where is he now? Just wait!

I don't recall the exact chain events that led to it, but one day my favourite teacher Madame C - who had taught us French for the three previous years - the only young and really cool teacher I ever had (she took my BFF and me to a Classics Nouveau concert when their tour went through Belgrade in 1982!!!) mocked the boy. In front of the entire class. To the hilarious roar and approval of all the 7th graders. I remembered that he actually 'deserved' it, but my stomach churned and my mind screamed at the injustice of it. 

Without thinking, I shot up. I asked the teacher why she had taunted him. I told her it was unfair: she was the adult; he was a child. She was the teacher; he was the student. 

If she was surprised at all by the outburst of a red-faced student activist, this teacher didn't show it. She nonchalantly shrugged and forced a short laugh: "Ha! All right - seems like we have a volunteer!" with menacingly careful enunciation.  "As of today, you will share a desk with him!"  N o b o d y  wanted to share a desk with him. I mean - nobody! My BFF looked at me in disbelief as my shaky hands picked up my belongings to prepare for the dreaded move away from our fun table. 

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The aftermath? My mom came home after a subsequent parent-teacher meeting and told me in chosen words: "Kid - you're screwed! You will have to study for this class like no other - your only chance of survival is if your French mark is 100%!" And it was. As for the boy - I wish I could say that my unexpected kindness changed his ways and made him a more social and pleasant being, but that didn't happen. He continued to be a total jerk to everyone around him - especially me - just to make sure I didn't think he was now obligated to treat me any better than the others. Today he is a judge at the highest court in Belgrade. Dial 1-800-SIGMUND!

Throughout my life, despite throwing myself into the study of botanics and chemistry and other noble things, I frequently ended up being that voice. 

If someone's pushing people and cutting the line, you'll hear me. A mother is oblivious to her child being aggressive in the playground, I speak up. A hit and run of a homeless person? I am the one who manages to snap a photo of the license plate, noting the time, day, make and model. My testifying got the poor woman a year of physiotherapy and massage treatments and a luxurious doggy day care for her only companion. If I witness the injustice, no matter how tough or tricky the circumstances are, I will say something. After all, my mother's entire career has been as a successful lawyer who often represented women pro bono. If not by proximity, I would have had to get some of her justice-league gene through breast milk! 

Please don't get me wrong. I do not plan, plot nor enjoy being the designated Joan of Arc. I am fully aware that in centuries past women like me have been burned at the stake. Even today, elsewhere in the world women’s voices are silenced in the worst ways possible. Trust me, I'd rather be knitting! But for some reason, I have often found myself in situations where saying nothing would have made me an accessory and an accomplice. That simply can not happen. Not to me. 

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And that's not all. Somehow, it seems that the whole world conspires to nudge me into this braver version of myself. The non-fiction addict that I am, the right books and articles drop into my lap. And then the right people to discuss those ideas with. 

From Malala Yousafzai  to Cheryl Sandberg and numerous life and business coaches, trailblazers and she-heroes in between, the message has been sinking in at every turn and every milestone. It certainly shows up at every obstacle. The Universe has made sure I hear it. It also made sure I will lose sleep should I attempt to neglect it.

The more popular choice, the safer choice, the boring choice, the keep-your-gaze-down choice, the "this-too-shall-pass" choice, the "It's a Man's World" choice - these have simply never been an option for me. When nagging starts, I am put into places and situations that make it all but impossible to retreat. I am compelled to make sure my voice is heard. Could I simply be born this way?

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What follows also has a pattern. At the exit of the whirlwind I feel elated and glorious yet utterly exhausted. I get thanked and revered and celebrated. I also get silently hated and scoffed at and plotted against - not everybody will be a fan of each outcome. Before the courage is mustered to go deep and face the truth it is convenient to find someone to blame. How about the one with the loudest mouth? Somehow since my grade 7 incident, that loudest mouth has often been, well, mine. 

Do you believe in the infinite wisdom of the Internet? As it happens - I now do! In the past little while, I've randomly seen/received all of the quotes with which I have adorned this blog post. I call them Quotes Internet Wants Me To See #QIWMTS

Just as I was getting ready to press this 'publish' button, the one displayed at the end showed up. All right Universe - challenge accepted! Let's learn how to do this! 

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