"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. 

Forty Seven Candles

Here is the mundane truth about me and my birthday: I never had a thing for it.

July 25, 2016

Given I am a true summer baby we were almost never home on the 25th of July so my friends and candles and a cake always arrived belated on a self-selected day in September, once school resumed and my mom would throw me an at-home party -- Serbia in the '70's was far from Jungle gym's and party places. There was also no Echo Age invites. What a blessing! 

In truth, the long gone yet not forgotten shy version of me (oh yes, there actually was such a thing), always kind of felt embarrassed to be the centre of attention - to use the scientific language I answer my little kids' questions about 'birds and bees' with - just for the sheer fact I plopped out of my mom's woo-woo on this particular day. The mama in question claims she held off the contractions until she witnessed the safe return of the Apollo 11 crew, then rushed to the hospital and well... plopped me.

July 25, 1969

But then the Internet and Facebook and SMS and Viber and What'sApp and Messenger came and this all changed. Since the wee hours of this day, starting as far away as Australia and East as India all the way through Asia and the Middle East (shalom mischpacha!) and Europe - with the strong presence on the Balkans of course - and from top to bottom of the African continent only to be swung from Brazil all the way to Colombia arriving via US back home to Canada, you guys changed my relationship with my date of birth.

So what did the 'Birthday Girl' do on her Birthday and first day back to work after a vacation?

As a gift from me to me, I started the day early, with my friend Amy kick my Birthday ass over at the Harmony fitness. Tabata drill. Plank walks, Russian twists and incline of 15. Thanks Amy, I can barely walk!

Then, in one of the Hospital Diabetes Centres I serve, with the assistance of a translator I started a young mother on CGM. As of tonight she will no longer be afraid of hypoglycaemia. There is nothing more rewarding then being a part of the renewed hope for an easier and healthier life of a Type 1 Diabetes patient. This is my life's work and my biggest gift today and every day.

At day's end, I got to hang out with my crew: my husband and my boys. Got home made cards and hugs and kisses and flowers to wear on my head! We don't do gifts. We do feelings. The whole month of July this year brought fireworks of love with the trip to Europe and back home home.

My B-day gift of LOVE

Our home is all quiet now and I've just finished listening to and re-reading all your messages.

Your shower of love and attention ringed and pinged and dinged every hour of today making me giggle and bask in the attention. You sent good wishes and cards and hugs and funny faces and also some profoundly beautiful things you had to say about me. You called and texted and e-mailed. You nudged me to enjoy my day and forget about calories. You sang and even made me sing. And you made me love my birthday.

Thank you! THANK YOU!

Hey DaDa - I do LOVE my B-day!

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!

My Own Personal Guardian Angel

Do you believe in Guardian Angels (G.A.)? 

Trust me, if you had one your entire life you would!

Hello my 9-yrs old self!

Take a look at this kid with pig tails. It is1978 and bell bottoms and pointy collars is so much the raging fashion that my mom thought that only a flower-hat pin was needed in order to make me look picture perfect! We were vacationing in Greece, the Island of Thassos (where my father taught me how to swim!) It might have been my birthday; I'm a summer baby.

It took me a good thirty years to look this girl in the eyes and see what my life's guardian angel always saw: PERFECTION.

My only uncle, the favourite person of my childhood, peacefully fell asleep on December 6th. He had a great family and a great life and although I would have bargained with the heavens to keep him with us just a tad longer, I am grateful he didn't suffer. And I'm thankful we're 'departing in birth order' as my wise ancestors described lucky families. And I am richer for every minute I got to have him. This story is about him.

Imagine a giant teddy bear. Then imagine that he is real, he is funny, he is handy (a mechanical engineer who knew how to fix everything!) Imagine that he has a body-guard streak. And that he possesses the sensitivity rarely found even in mothers of daughters, let alone a father of two boys. And then imagine my luck - that the daughter he never had but always wished for happened to be me!

My Teddy Bear's name was Zoran - a common Serbian name - but for me he was Koka. His lap was my safe zone! As a fairly mouthy child - alas, not much has changed - I used it very often. It was "Geneva" - offering full protection from being disciplined no matter the offence.

Remember that school chewing gum incident? I never told how that ended, did I? I went home and told my parents. They empathized as my mom cut a chunk of my hair while hoping I 'learned a lesson'. Chewing gum was no good for my teeth anyway. 

Then I called Koka. A minute later he was already sitting in our living room sipping coffee.  

"What did you say the teacher's name was?" - he whispered in my ear as I found my shelter right away, retelling the school drama. 

"And this week you go to school in the afternoon? A-hmmm" - his acknowledgment sounded more like he was engineering a project. The eyes behind the thick-rimmed glasses suddenly looked as if they had a powerful calculator at work. 

      "Is she doing this to other kids?" 

      "You have math tomorrow?"

I was running down the stairs with friends after the class, eager to get the best spot under the tree for our magical recess games, when I saw two men in trench coats in the school lobby, looking serious. The somewhat surreal recognition turned into wonder as his barely-visible wink signalled me to keep going to the yard. From under the shade my eyes were glued to the glass door. Like in a silent movie, I saw our fierce math teacher pause as someone introduced her to the two gentlemen. Her blank stare was replaced by a red face, her head vigorously shaking as if she was a child being scolded. Our game started, I got distracted and by the time the bell rang and we rushed back in, the trench coats were already gone. 

My body-guard, my G.A., my Koka was a man of both justice and action. It took him 24h to show up at my school with his much fiercer colleague Miško, the two of them looking all FBI-like demanding the teacher to never, ever punish another child again if she didn't want them to return. Not only did it work, this big mouth here managed to never tell a soul about it - up until right now! 

My entire life Koka has been my safe harbour, my mischief buddy and my confidant. When he caught me crying - mean girls at school were calling me names for my protruding ears (you are welcome to scroll back to the photo above) despite my parents' finding that I actually looked charming, he took me to his plastic surgeon friend who agreed to perform the first aesthetic surgery in Belgrade's Children's Hospital in exchange for a before and after photo for her office. Dr.Gordana Janjić - I have never forgotten your gift! I was 10 years old and coming back to school with my ears beautifully fixed gave me a quantitative confidence boost that ensured the survival of my late starting puberty.  

Still, the real treasure was enjoying Koka as my G.A. long into my adulthood. He was my back-up parent of the best kind. He was the one who taught me how to let go of failed man and marriage. He was the well-needed second grandpa to my son; the kid felt like a little king in his care! He was the favourite teddy bear I never grew too old to hug. And he was my only bank - the one that loaned me the money needed for immigration, even though those years were tough on everyone and that was rainy-day fund. 

My Teddy Bear - Belgrade 2013

The unexpected gift of immigration, after we all survived the initial grief of being separated, is that our forever began right there. As in true life-long friendships, dimensions of distance and time mean nothing. We stayed close and grew closer even though a decade and a half passed before we would see each other again. And when that day arrived and I saw my G.A. waiting for me at the Nikola Tesla International Airport, my heart exploded and rejoiced as I threw myself into the best embrace on Earth. That week in Belgrade my life got prolonged. Endless hours of talking, laughing, drinking coffee, reminiscing our fun times, analyzing tough moments - that week will forever stay preciously stored in my heart. Yes - for the unbelievable abundant love and optimism and energy I'm still kindling inside of me. It will never expire. But more so for regressing into being their 'baby', the youngest of all kids in the family, the one with special privileges and my own personal guardian angel.

The night my Koka fell asleep I woke with an answer to a pressing question I've had for a while. The answer was so crystal clear it brought instant relief that helped me fall sound asleep right away. A few hours later tears streamed down my face as I read the message from my cousin - my loss will always be immense. But somehow I know Koka hung around as long as he could to have this one last real lesson sink in and see the tide change. 

What I feel is true is that there is no departure - we were already pros at long distance! The absence of the physical only means that Koka is so much closer to me now - riding along with me. I'm safe, comfortably nestled in for what's to come, his lap wide as heaven itself.

It's "Oh, Canada!" not "Ouch, Canada!"

July 1st is a big deal to me.

Yes, I certainly know how to roll my eyeballs while checking the weather app before clutching my morning coffee mug and pressing ON on the blue-light lamp that wonderfully dispels my Seasonal Affective Disorder nearly half the mornings of the year when a deep freeze decides to couple with gloomy grey clouds. But really, I do love living in Canada.

I vividly remember the day when the thought of “leaving one day” nested into my conscious, never to leave again. I was 16 and in Grade 10 in one of Belgrade's elite high-schools. The teacher for our last period called in sick and the school dismissed us ahead of schedule for not having a substitute teacher. A sunny spring day at noon meant rushing home, kicking off my shoes, blasting the stereo and enjoying our two-bedroom condo all to myself until the rest of my family started gathering in the early afternoon. WOO-HOO! The Serbian working hours of 7 AM - 3 PM worked for everyone other than moody teenagers in search of some privacy. At 3:30 PM when my parents arrived from work we would prepare a family lunch, the biggest meal of the day. Since working for many years in the field of diabetes, I have come to believe that having the biggest meal of the day so early played a big part in Serbia’s being a lean and healthy nation, superior in many sports. The day was also young for doing homework and chores but also socializing; we were beautifully oblivious to which day of the week it was – TGIF did not exist.  The social life went on regardless of how many school/work days were left in the week, for both kids and adults.

I flew up 2-3 stairs at once, rushing home to my uninterrupted “me time” when I heard someone call my name. Ignoring this, I continued climbing.  Who could be there to call me? My neighbourhood friends were all still in school and my sister in university. 

“Marina!” - I heard it again!

Annoyed to no end, I noticed my father waving at me, gesturing for me to come closer. He was standing in front of the grocery store.

Our "big deal" day in 2002

He was beaming and said with relief:  “Excellent timing!”  - “Sine (Serbian fathers tend to endearingly call their daughters “Son”), stand here in this line, so we can hold the spot - I will just run home to get the tickets. The truck is on its way!”  he half-whispered excitedly. A friend of our neighbour’s, the grocery store clerk, had tipped him off to the imminent arrival of a flour truck so he had left his work early. 80kg bags would be distributed in exchange for ‘flour tickets’ and money this afternoon. My father was a resourceful man, a true provider – just this past month, he had managed to get the maximum allotted amount of both sunflower oil and sugar, cashing in all our tickets. Coupons, tickets and schedules were a normal part of growing up in Serbia. Something was always lacking - electricity, gas, food. Becoming resilient and street-smart, über connected, was mandatory and part of the very fibre of my being long before the takeover by social networks.

I observed that the line-up in front of me was comprised mostly of elderly people and a few moms with young children. People stood and conversed, bending the line so they could all get some relief from the sun under the shade of a tree. Someone brought a tray of Turkish coffee; a few women sipped from the small china cups while they chatted and laughed. A few people read the daily newspaper, Politika, commenting on the crooks that were leading our country.  Two old men played magnetic chess while smoking and enduring the comments and teasing from the onlookers.

Rascal, made in Canada

My father returned, coupons in hand: OK, we are ready. I glanced at my watch. I had been there 35 min. Thirty-five minutes I will never get back. Arghhh! But I was a polite kid. So I stayed with my father waiting. 80kg bag of flour is not something that could easily be carried upstairs. Not with his health. I chatted with our neighbours. Played with a few babies, making them giggle. Made faces at a toddler who was sticking his tongue out at me, hiding behind his mother’s skirt. This made him shy. Then much bolder and obnoxious, the little rascal! 

A sudden commotion announced the arrival of the truck at the bottom of our street. With clinks and clanks, the china was put away. The newspapers folded. The chess crew, too engrossed in the crucial next move, kept playing, oblivious to the anticipated arrival of the white cargo. Starting tonight, smells of rising yeast and homemade breads, simple vanilla cookies, apple pies, cheese bourekas, croissants and crepes, would fill the kitchens of the neighbourhood of Konjarnik for the next several weeks. Plates with treats covered with white starched kitchen towels would travel from floor to floor, from door to door, treating each other with the taste of the latest recipe. I sometimes forget how amazing it was when we knew ALL of our neighbours, sharing our lives with them.

The line-up was moving up slowly, with 3-4 people in each row, fumbling through their pockets and wallets, then each dragging a giant brown paper sack, trying to awkwardly hug it and lift it to one arm. In one of many attempts, one bag slid off a shoulder and splattered in the middle of the street. A cloud of white powder engulfed the man who stood there helplessly as his newly-acquired treasure literally disappeared into thin air. Then a few people from the side of the road came, lifted it all up and helped the poor man to his home, a line of flour marking their trail.

The person in front of us had a 20-something year old son, so he effortlessly lifted the bag as his mother was paying.

My father and I moved up one step as soon as they left.

“That’s it for today!” - “We should have a shipment sometimes next week or so - if the government approves opening the federal reserve.”

The sheer horror of understanding that all of this, ALL of these 97 minutes of standing and waiting were for nothing, started pounding in my brain.  A few swear words and loud grumbles chimed in behind us. I actually didn't even like bread - I couldn't have cared less for the 80kg of stupid flour not coming home with us. But I felt used and stupid and cheated out of my fun few hours of freedom. I wanted my ME time, dammit!

Then I looked at my father. He hadn’t been one of the men who swore or grumbled. The look of utter defeat lasted for only a moment - then he put his hand on my shoulder and said - “Let’s go home, Sine. I know who to call to find out exactly where the truck will be next week.”

There is a group of social media users I call ‘awfulizers’. Yes, they are friends or acquaintances, and they are nice folks, but they tend to announce when things do not go in the desired direction. A lot. With the 2015 Pan Am games just debuting in Toronto this summer, these are the people already criticizing the temporary HOV lanes on the GTA highways. We find out about the atrocity of every TTC and GO train delay. And the endless injustices done by the parking service.

Canada flag breakfast crepes

I have days too, I admit, when I would rather be driving down Coconut Rd and not Confederation Parkway. Because nothing beats the breeze of Florida life!

But we do have it good. We have it so good. In Canada, we all have it so good, we should feel very privileged and very chosen. And perhaps just today we could also feel greatful and festive. In a few hours, I will do a little mini ritual of the past 16 years - throw some steaks and veggies on the b-b-q, pop a cold beer open, wink and whisper to myself: I AM CANADIAN! Happy Canada Day! Živeli! Cheers!

In a beautiful land far, far away... (U svetu postoji jedno carstvo)

There is a beautiful land far far away. It is so far away that most people forget it even exists. 

AE Atelier

Only the oldest of maps show its true location. But almost all the maps have faded or long been lost.

The last explorers who went there say that one needs to go over seven seas...

AE Atelier

And over seven hills.

AE Atelier

Be ready to tackle any weather...

AE Atelier

And face the strangest of nights -

AE Atelier

Dreaming tangled dreams.

AE Atelier

Then take the long and winding road...

AE Atelier

That leads through an enchanted forest...

AE Atelier

All the way until the end of the world.

AE Atelier

There board a magical ship...

AE Atelier

And find an entirely new land...

AE Atelier

And a well-hidden secret bay...

AE Atelier

And only when the moon is full a bright road will appear...

AE Atelier

Leading to the top of the mountain...

AE Atelier

With a lighthouse high at its very top.

Shining a light on a world so magical...

AE Atelier

That in its reflection, one learns what is one of life's greatest treasures:

AE Atelier

F r i e n d s h i p.

The long-lost art of real and true friendship. Where no matter the miles nor the years that separate us, nothing ever changes. We are still the 7-year-old girls inventing games. Making maps. Drawing with chalk and water-colours, charcoal and pastels. Writing notes and letters. Celebrating our birthdays together in the fall when school starts because we both happen to be summer babies. We are still 11 and whispering to each other our most sacred secrets in the school yard. Confiding to one another our first crushes (who just happened to also be best friends!). We shared our hopes and our dreams. We made plans so elaborate we had maps and designs for them and we even knew what our homes and beds and pillows would look like one day. We have never fought. Or compared. Or competed. Or gossiped. Or lied. Simply. Never.

The beautiful land far, far away is the land of true friendship - the one that has almost been lost and forgotten in today's world. Its true essence has faded and been hidden behind the mundane, the meaningless and the materialistic, threatened by the insignificant and insecure. Shadowed by "The Bachelor". Tainted by the Kardashian. Convinced that there is not enough for all of us, so that we have to resort to claws and comparisons and competitions. Or adopt being hurtful or mean or conniving. 

Where in the world is your childhood's bestie? How long has it been since you told her how much she meant to you and how sacred your friendship is? How wealthy do you feel that you still have her in your life to talk future, to talk today, and to giggle while reminiscing the past?

Today, I chatted the whole afternoon with my childhood's bestie, just as we did last week. We live on two different continents. I live in a bustling city. She lives in the picturesque countryside. I have sons. She has a daughter. I am a pharmacist. She is an artist. An artist whose art leaves me speechless. Feeling goosebumps. Feeling inspired. And grateful.

And in awe - because somehow we knew this would be a lifelong friendship almost three decades ago. 1976. Grade 1. Special. Beautiful. And like all true and pure female friendships: it is life-prolonging. Best friends forever!  

I love you Aleksandra Erić!

 Priceless!

Aleksandra's entry in my journal 1978

Next year in Jerusalem

Israel and I are a classical example of beshert. About three decades ago a fellow nerd and my best guy-friend (turned world-renowned eye-surgeon who gave me the gift of 20/20 vision last year) came to me all excited: he had found a way for us to be out several evenings a week without any of our parents objecting - namely my mom and his dad. We would join a choir! And there was more good news - it was a Jewish choir so we would be spared singing revolutionary songs! Funnily, all these years later I feel nostalgic for my long-dead and disintegrated 6-in-1 home country of Yugoslavia. I even miss songs about Tito - I catch myself humming them sometimes... while shovelling!

The Baruch Brothers Choir LP  My newly-found freedom seemed like the next best thing to living the TV show "Friends" in real life. Three evenings a week plus every Sunday morning we would attend rehearsals. What that meant was, we high-schoolers would be hanging around 'older' people such as students as well as really cool folks of all ages and backgrounds who found time and reason to dedicate themselves to music. My social life instantly improved. My somewhat raspy-sounding second alto suddenly became a part of something beautiful. My spirituality - though not in a religious sense - awoke. I didn't understand it at the time but I felt alive and connected to something divine and much greater than myself. The Jewish City Hall where the Baruch Brothers choir held their rehearsals also smelled divine. Out of a tiny kitchen, a little old lady - I forget her name - was baking the best pretzels I had ever tasted. Always piping hot with coarse salt on top, they were such a ridiculously low price that even my modest pocket money could easily absorb the expense.

The best times with the choir were concerts - especially if travel was involved. This not only meant escaping school and chores at home, it meant packing onto a bus, over-using make-up, losing sleep and sharing snacks. Several guitars would pop up every evening and we would easily be surprised by the arrival of dawn, night after night. No regrets. "I'll sleep when I'm dead" became my battle cry. I was having the time of my life! So when the concert tour of Israel was announced, I was beside myself with excitement. A whole month on a trip, visiting Jerusalem, Tel Aviv, Haifa... lodging in kibbutzim! Witnessing this land in the most authentic way - not just as an ordinary tourist. And to travel with friends?! Oh man - Yes!!!

Jerusalem of Gold

My mom and dad said "NO" in unison that evening leaving no room for argument. They had to sign the parent approval form in early July when I was still 17 - 17 and devastated. I didn't care if they thought it was too dangerous because the tour bus was scheduled to pass through some villages close to the Gaza strip and the West Bank. This was supposed to be my best summer, the one between finishing high-school and starting university. "But, in three weeks I am an adult!!!" To no avail. I had to return my lavender-coloured 100% polyester dress. And oh, how I loved wearing that dress!

So what does the Hebrew word "beshert" mean? It's a somewhat fatalistic way of saying "it's meant to be". In Arabic it's "maktub". It is written. It was always meant to happen. It was no surprise to me that day, several years ago, when I was browsing the travel section in Bayview Village's "Chapters" that I opened a book on Jerusalem to the page of the holiest site - Kotel, the Wailing Wall. And no surprise that when the man with the smiling eyes asked me from the other side of the table if I had ever been there and I offered numerous explanations of how my parents had wronged me, "ruining the summer I turned 18" that we ended up having coffee for hours in Starbucks talking travel and life. No surprise that soon after that, we were planning travel and making a life together. And no surprise - he is a "sabra" - born in Israel. A Jerusalem boy.

For the record, the summer I turned 18 that my parents "ruined", our family travelled to my favourite place in Greece for a month and afterwards they sent me to visit our amazingly fun relatives in Hamburg Germany for two weeks. These were no longer 'the good years' under Tito. And even those good years were never as good nor easy for my parents as they had refused to be members of the Communist party and so had to paddle upstream for the the entire length of their professional careers. This was a major sacrifice they made for me. Belatedly, thank you Mama and Tata. Hvala. I'm sorry I was such a spoiled brat. Good reason to buy a turntable If you look really carefully at the photo at the back of the LP, you can see me in the form of the few pixels located in the middle 'girl' row second from the right - I participated in this recording in 1988 at Gallery Of The Frescoes. Or check out the YouTube clip of the Sephardic song we taped for Spanish television at the Belgrade's beautiful old fortress of Kalemegdan. You might recognize me as of the very first frame. The one with short spiky hair and a facial expression depicting a burden that only puberty that was nowhere close to being over could display. Gosh I am grateful that social media was not there to make more of the timeless memories of the moody and awkward teenage me! Nevertheless, at the time of this writing, that bratty and disappointed girl is no more. Why? Because in about an hour I will be boarding an EL AL non-stop flight to Tel Aviv for my first-ever trip to the Holy Land - my sabra and kids in tow. Some things in life simply need to be waited out. Some delays are necessary for the experience to be full. There is no such a thing as denial. Just one already written and required step, after another, after another. If you have to fight it, either the time is not right or this is not your story. Or, as so eloquently put by Elizabeth Gilbert: Trust the timing of your life.

Jewish Belgrade

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qX0SPbr6guo

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SbjHjAuOhoo&list=PLE52675D3B42BCE29&index=32