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: Amsterdam

I would love to think I'm cool. 

Not necessarily in the super-confident "I've got swag" kind of way. Just a decent every-day brand of ordinary cool. Three days in Amsterdam, Netherlands showed me I am so hopelessly not.

Amsterdam with an iPhone

This summer my family decided to try something new: invade Europe! The planning part was fun - combining West with East, parts known and unknown, authentic foods, a bit of history and a lot of nostalgia. The result: 2 weeks, 4 cities, 268 821 steps made with kids sans stroller (an equivalent of us walking from Toronto, ON to well past Buffalo, NY). Needless to say - we learned a lot about who we are individually and as a family. Hop on, and I'll try to give you a tour!

Here is what I expected of Amsterdam based on stereotypes and stories told by other travellers: bicycles, tulips, canals, cheese and pastry, Anne Frank house, weed, Red Light District.

All in all - expectations were correct and we got to witness them all.

Mokummers aka Amsterdammers (a nickname derived from Hebrew word 'mokum' which means place) love their bicycles and make space for them pretty much everywhere, which is great news when travelling with kids... apparently ringing a million bicycle bells in a day is very rewarding, hence on this first leg of our travels we got away without having to bribe the boys!

Flag of the city of Amsterdam comes with a triple X and is proudly displayed everywhere, from squares and stations to tall ships and five star hotels. That's why I assumed that the XXX probably doesn't have to do with the 'red light district' and all it's R-rated content has to offer to an unsuspecting visitor. Amsterdam's symbol has to do with the three deaths that almost extinguished all life in this city by the sea: fire, flood and plague.

It took only a few steps down the first couple of streets for my un-cool to start showing up in full light. Here's what you get when you travel to Amsterdam with kids:
"Mama, what's that smell? Is it a skunk?!"
The leisurely stroll then turned into a lengthy explanation how it does smell like a skunk but is not a skunk; instead it's marijuana which is a plant people grow and then dry and then roll into cigarettes and then smoke to get high, which doesn't mean grow taller but happier and funnier and allegedly hungrier (and hornier although I didn't share that) and some of them report feeling less pain and possibly even reduction of convulsions... By the time I finished my extensive yet careful-not-to-judge THC ramblings their mouths were all packed with Nutella filled croissants and all I've got in reply was: "Wha'?" Good. Phew.

Reads funny

Does funny

Yes, Amsterdam is all about weed, fully legalized and available in every single breath one takes. It's sold in places called "coffee shop" as in 😉COFFEE. And for weed-virgins like my hubby and I, that came as a shock and then a scoff and also a temptation. Sharing this one 'space cake' (although we've been advised to eat one whole each - but that was way too many carbs!) we happily decided we were immune to whatever hype there has been since the Woodstock year - the year we were both born. We recalled the many times everyone else smoked and we didn't even get the secondary effect most people claim is enough. Ok, I admit, I laughed one night away with friends this past winter after a THC-laden jelly bean but other than having a brilliant idea for a screenplay occur in my mind with lightening speed, everything else was just the same. Oh yes, and I was also very, very sleepy.

After all we are both super responsible parents, each holding one "subject" firmly by the hand so they would not get lost, run over by a bicycle or God forbid plop into a canal - of course we didn't get high! It took about 5h and utter exhaustion from roaming the city for the crazy street names and illegible street signs to start sounding hilarious when we read them aloud to one another. He called me his "Vettewinkel''. I called him 'Verkoopster'.
Nope not high, just really funny. And hungry. Hence the best Malaysian curry we waited in a long line-up for and gobbled way above our spice level after a full dinner. Weed cakes. They work.

But the effect wore-off quickly - or did I just imagine there was an effect? - because the very next sight completely sobered me up. Right around the corner there was a store that sold accessories. As I was trying to see if this was a shell (a fun project we can make next time we are in Florida!) or clay, my little one read the name of the store to me and started laughing because he had finally found a name written in English he could understand. Thankfully, not fully. The Pussy Pendant store. Nice.
I just started contemplating how grateful I actually am that I mothered three boys and at least while parenting don't have to walk the fine line between feminism and liberation, when screams and giggles made me turn.

One Mississippi, Two Mississippi, Three Mississippi on the Amstel river... it took me three seconds to grasp the full view of the scene in front of me. A whole bunch of drunk girls were crowding a boat, shouting and laughing out loud, cheering for the Bride to be. There were balloons and beads and beers and a bachelorette sporting a hairband with dildos on the top of her head.
Again, I wish I was cool. Wish I had a longing of being a younger version of myself on that boat, kicking it up with my bestie. But I just couldn't. I immediately defaulted to their mothers and yet to be born daughters and I somehow - if there had to be a stupid party - preferred the princess theme rather than a slutty one. Then I almost got run over by a BeerBikeBar!

Bicycles+Bar+Beer+Bride2Be

Mansterdam!

As for the guys - they have their fair share of fun in this city; bachelor's parties are overwhelmingly outnumbering the girls. Actually, not just parties - it seemed that men outnumber women on every street, restaurant and bar. No wonder my little one still refers to our first stop as "Mansterdam"! They came in droves, often in the same outfits, jolly and drunk regardless of the time of the day. At night they swarmed the red light district, checking the offerings behind many glass doors as if it was an ordinary shopping day. And again, I thought to my-not-cool-self, thank goodness we live with our boys safely removed by an entire ocean from all this. Although it seems freer than freedom, there is something deeply disturbing and sad in the industry that benefits from the temporary purchase of female bodies.

The "Red Light" district lives up to it's hype. Rows of narrow windows line the streets. During the day the red velvet curtains are down and it seems that regular working people occupy the packed apartments above them. Come 5 o'clock, the women mastering the oldest profession on the planet start showing up to work. They are often very young, in ripped jeans, with a lot of make up and a pimple or two that just couldn't have been covered. I observed them drinking pop, smoking and chatting with their girlfriends as they leisurely strolled down the street and into their workplace. With the first sign of dusk, the neon lights will start flashing promising anything in exchange for Euros. Banana show, S&M show, live sex on stage show. The girls we saw just half an hour earlier will start showing up in the windows, obscurely dressed, puckering their lips, inviting men to come closer.

Dying of curiosity I tried not to look but of course I did, albeit briefly - and I saw images that still haunt me, painfully proving that this is not right - a bruise under the knee; stretch marks over a belly; cellulite on thighs. These are real women, not rubber toys. No one should earn a living on a mattress covered in pleather in a small tiled room just off the street. The rational part of me knows that this is a choice. In Netherlands, they are actually protected, even unionized, have healthcare and all the rights not to do what they don't feel like doing and still - as uncool as I really am it all made me feel sick. Someone's daughter. Someone's sister. Someone's mom.

When you look at virtually any row of houses lining up the canals of Amsterdam, although cute and postcard-like, you might notice that at least one of them is crooked. And no, you are not drunk - they often are. The ancient wooden beams on which they stand have been immersed into the water for centuries and are starting to rot and break, causing this ever so slightly visible lean of one house onto another. Eventually some will collapse and will have to be replaced by new sturdy materials and a more solid foundation. This serves as a somber metaphor for this otherwise delightful city.

And that's what my utterly uncool wish for Amsterdam is: preserve The Night Watch and the Sunflowers, enjoy the beer and the boat ride, grow the tulips, keep the healthy bicycle thing going; yet please replace the rotten, the decadent and the unnecessary. Let's begin:

Yes to growing gardens at the door

No to growing gardens on the head

Yes to Stroopwafel

No to burgers from a vending machine

And so it goes, one predictably safe and uncool choice after another. Oh well, after all I am just a travelling mom.

Whistle While You Work

One thing that people living in the country where their native language is spoken can't possibly appreciate is the ease of understanding the song lyrics. To you it just comes with ease and zero effort. To me - it's a labour intensive experience and unless it's a karaoke night I am reluctant to sing out loud for over a decade now because of - Brian Johnson.

My biggest blooper with language and lyrics happened when my oldest son was 8 or 9 and got introduced to none-other than AC/DC by his "dad" - a wonderful man and a lifelong friend I rarely mention in my writing although he helped a great deal in raising my son. But I feel that the story of love and respect for the man who's on paper my "second ex-husband" deserves way more than just a blog post. No need to worry M, you can keep your anonymity a while longer, the memoir's not quite done yet!

Long story short, the kid got a boom box from his dad and a few CD's and the next thing I know the door to his room is starting to be more and more often shut. The music blaring behind it is angry; bass and drums are fierce seemingly shaking the very foundation of our East York home. I approach the door in order to intervene about the decibels when I hear my otherwise gentle boy's voice growl the most disturbing lyrics. Shocked, stunned and mortified, I run to the backyard where M is fixing their bikes so they can go for some equally savage ride and mistakenly I repeat what I heard, but first - of course - questioning his sanity as a co-parent to provide such disturbing musical content to my child.

AC/DC fan club 

   "Dirty deeds un-der sheets? DIRTY DEEDS UN-DER SHEETS!?"

What ensued was one of those moments that I only remember in slow-motion. M lifting his face towards me, dropping the greased bike chain on the driveway, whole face squinting into a grimace before his 6'5" frame rolled over to the grass patch where he laughed uncontrollably until the kid heard him, paused the music, got told how I understood "Dirty deeds done dirt cheap" , after which they both continued laughing and rolling on the ground - likely until supper time. Which I probably didn't even want to cook for them!

Understandably so, I stayed away from loud singing until this past winter, when my new set of kids (Oops 1 & Oops 2) fell very much in love with the Disney soundtrack. No, not Frozen, thank goodness but an old CD they inherited from their big brother, the AC/DC fan himself: Villain Songs! #boyswillbeboys

And since the best way to motivate the boys to get ready for school in a flash is to make it a competition (the kid that gets his snowsuit, boots, hat, gloves & backpack on first gets 2 songs on our drive to school while the runner up gets only one) I got to hear a lot of that villain music this past winter. Before  e v e r y  drop-off and after  e v e r y  pick-up!

When the lyrics finally managed to sink with my comprehension what stroke me as incredible were the lessons and social queues I totally missed when I used to hear these songs with Filip many years back! Disney Villains offer some seriously good teachings that can turn to be very useful for navigating both personal and professional relationships.

Here are some Disney song gems:

You can sleep safe and sound knowing I am around!

Have you ever been encouraged to trust, to trust so much so that once this convincing someone hears and "takes over" your worries you can actually 'sleep safe and sound' only to find out you've been conned? Well, if you saw the Disney cartoon version of the Jungle Book you have been taught a valuable lesson early on! Be careful who you trust and share your burden with - if you have to be convinced you are safe, it's likely a deception! Trust in me, Kaa is way more than just a pretty name!

Please be careful and say NO!

"I'm not asking much, just a token really, a trifle..."

Along the same lines is the lesson brought by Ursula the Witch. She nonchalantly tells the Little Mermaid it is actually her job to assist her.

"My dear, sweet child, that's what I do
It's what I live for
To help unfortunate merfolk like yourself
Poor souls with no one else to turn to."

The price will become visible only in the end, when it's too late - when the "favour" has already been completed. And when Ursula coldly says: "We haven't discussed the subject of payment" followed by "It won't cost much. Just your VOICE!" I actually had chills! Sometimes in life one is offered a deal at the expense of basic human rights, their voice included. Given my life's experience, I am dying to yell to Ariel each time "Don't do it!" as I listen to her singing naively thinking she made a wise choice by trusting a witch. This is when my sons go in unison, while strapped into their car seats in the back: 

   "Don't worry mama, she'll get her voice back!" 

Thank you boys. True. She WILL get her voice back. Of course she will. Silly me!

The lyrics state: "Whistle loud and long". Please DO!

Good news, it doesn't always take a villain to give sound advice. For all of us locked-up in a Monday to Friday routine sometimes referred to as a rat-race, the Snow White has an easy to follow advice: 

Whistle while you work!

What is more surprising, these exact words are echoed by grown-ass councillors that are trained to career-coach!

"Frozen", just not by fear!

It might sound simple but it is actually quite profound. Whistling can make the time pass quicker. In case the work is dull & done only for the sake of a paycheque, it will remind you there is much more to life than just work. It is also contagious - the more you whistle the more people will join in making for a jolly company that weathers the daily obstacles together. We are never alone in our problems. Taking things lightly is a great strategy!

Ask any little girl and they'll tell you, no they won't tell you, they will sing you one of the most important life lessons we all - me first - need to get better at: Let it go!

The 2013 animated blockbuster "Frozen" offers the best ear-worm ever created and I am sure to be humming it until I fully and totally get it. Life-coaching taught me to never to allow things to be rushed, but rather acknowledged and processed - usually with a group of trustworthy peeps - in order for everything to be understood and closed. It's only then one can fully and completely "Let it go!"

I'll end my Disney-inspired silver screen adventure with an unusual learning. Can an ultimate villain offer a useful advice that actually rings truer than true? Absolutely!

When Daniel wins our little pre-school winter-dressing contest, being a jazzy kind of kid that plays a

Couldn't have said it better myself!

piano, he always chooses: "Cruella de Vil". When Joshua wins - him being a hearty little rascal - it's "Are you in or out" from Aladdin and the Prince of Thieves. When it's my turn, perhaps because of my fondness for choir music - I always pick Lion King's - "Be Prepared". And amazingly enough it is the worst of them all that precisely pinpoints how I feel these days as I enjoy my life, my family and my work while mapping our amazingly fun summer:

"Just listen to teacher:

I know it sounds sordid but you'll be rewarded

When at last I am given my dues!

And injustice deliciously squared.

Be prepared!"

Injustices can be deliciously squared indeed. It just takes a tiny little bit of patience and preparation: know who to trust, whistle while the work is getting done, then simply claim one's voice back. Then it becomes super easy to let it all go!

The Case of the Missing Flip-flop

If you want to hear the truth about something, just ask the kids!  That's exactly what happened upon our return from a nice and relaxing family vacation in Florida - three eager grandparents inquiring: "How was it"?! And to my utmost surprise, rather than bragging that one learned how to swim while the other one lost three baby teeth - earning a whopping $30 from a ridiculously generous southern tooth fairy - the following information was shared: "Mama kicked three women out of the swimming pool and Aba… Aba said the F-word!!!"  Three grandparents looked quizzically straight at me. Was this true? Great. Just  g r e a t. I take zero credit for the idea to actually go on vacation while being on vacation. It was my husband and a scene from his favourite Meet the Fockers coupled with his zest to be on the move introducing us to the southernmost tropical island of Key West.  Key West must do: Cuban Coffee Queen I should have known that booze consumed by other people would have been the deciding factor in this travel experience. A rowdy bachelor party of about 15, all wearing bright pink T-shirts with a guy's stupid face printed on it labelled with the promising "Frank Da Tank" hashtag boarded the early morning fast liner. When the bar opened at 7:30 AM they all promptly and tidily lined up ready to begin the weekend-long liver challenge. Call me a sexist, I don't care - although I think it's more my feminist's outlook - but it's never a drunken man that irritates me the most. Sure he looks stupid as he shouts something illegible making everyone burst into laughter that sounds more like snorts and grunts than anything else. But it was the three drunken women at the hotel pool who were well into their thirties and blatantly begging for the attention of the aforementioned pink-shirted party that really bothered me. I'm a life coach -- if lucky, there will be a few sessions before any of them gets to understand the concept of self-love and self-worth. When high-pitched screams and forced laughter failed to get the attention of the already-plastered bachelors' crew, they resorted to the option B that usually guarantees a double take: girl on girl action!

I was averting a major pool fight between my own boys all the while obsessing that neither of their mouths would come in contact with the pool water (I'm not brave enough to imagine the chemical content of it given the amount of beer cups lining the poolside) when my 7-year-old pointed and yelled loudly: "Look JoJo, BOOBS!"  View from the old Lighthouse And indeed, boobs there were, as two out of three clearly desperate yet not-that-young women engaged in French kissing while grabbing each other's bathing suit tops. And attention they definitely got from a 4 and a 7- year-old and their not-so-amused mother. But alas, no attention from the guys in the bachelor party. The usually-patient me cursed the 5-star hotel's delayed late check-in, which had forced me to take the kids to the pool to spare the lobby patrons the Hunger-Games-worthy battles that usually occur when there is space and sofa pillows and chandeliers.  That's when I noticed that one of the women was under water, while another who had been licking that one's face just a second earlier was attempting to yank on her limp arm in order to lift her up. The third woman was just standing next to them, eyeing the pack of guys from under her mascara-smudged lids while professionally wearing her RBF. I was starting to get nervous when the woman's head finally emerged.  A second later she splashed again face first to the other side.  "You have to get her out of the pool!" - I made eye contact with the woman who was still making no move to help her friend. And while I understood this was likely their attention-grabbing strategy I was becoming increasingly anxious seeing the nose and mouth both still fully immersed even though quite a few seconds passed.  "Get her out! Get her out" - all of a sudden the pink shirts all hopped off their lounge chairs, leaving their booze behind. Clearly, this was serious.  The 'drowning' girl, although pale and dazed, re-emerged sporting a faint smile. I guess she was acting after all. Then the third chick, aware that none of the dudes had actually jumped to the rescue - it wasn't a bottle of Smirnoff being dropped in the pool after all - looked menacingly at me while unleashing a stream of words - Was I crazy??? Didn't I know how to have some fun??!! Why was I creating all this drama?!!! Each of these were laced with a certain word that rhymes with - er... witch?  "Shut up and get out of the pool! And sober up! I'm calling security!" - I growled with so much force I actually surprised myself, never mind stunning the kids. In return, I got two determined and one hesitant middle finger waved at me as they sloppily collected their sunglasses and smart-phones and dripped away to the Key West sunset. Phew! The following day, while playing real tourists, boarding the Conch Train Island Tour, my husband had a chance to show the kids he too knows how to be a - er... witch?  Conch Train on famous Duval St. Three couples and their numerous kids all over the age of 10 were already on the train when we occupied the last four spots, trying to escape the heat. As the driver humorously outlined the tour's safety rules: "keep your arms, legs, little kids and other belongings in at all times as we don't stop for lost arms, legs or little kids..." the group was already getting their party started - drinking coolers wrapped in tacky Key West memorabilia (It’s my Birthday Bitch!) and eating sunflower seeds with such ferocity the shells pretty much rained over everything.  I really wanted to hear why so many roosters are free to roam the island and why each ceiling of the signature Key West porches were painted blue, never mind the countless anecdotes of the island's famous inhabitants like Ernest Blue ceiling on a Key Lime house Hemingway or Tennessee Williams - but the group wouldn't allow it. The constant banter and shrieks had the rest of the tourists, us included, constantly shushing them. The train driver made few unexpected stops in order to make a point - but to no avail. A woman I'll call Shabana (chosen by the most prevalent logo she wore) was particularly determined to have a great time. Every time someone asked for the group to tone it down, things seemed to get exponentially funnier to her. Just as we made a decision to hop off and switch trains on the next stop, Shabana started screaming - "Stoooop, stop, stop the train!!! I dropped my flip flop!!!"  Boy, karma works real fast down South!  Our burly driver - named BJ if we were to believe his name-tag - took real pleasure in repeating the safety regulations we heard prior to the train leaving, enunciating every syllable with painful precision.  In my next life, I'll want to be a rooster on Key West "You are welcome to collect your lost belongings with the understanding you cannot board this train again ma’am”. Ha, a pickle indeed! What Shabana didn't lack in the vocal department she definitely lacked in charm and attitude - she pouted and demanded and threatened while listing all of her requests. It did not work - BJ was rock solid and determined to follow the SOPs to the letter. Shabana was still arguing when my inner - er... witch could not hold it in any more: "I really think you should go get it! All of you, just go get the poor flip flop!”- I was actually sounding friendly yet convincing. But we were a 20-minute walk away in scorching heat from the next stop and there were a dozen of them in their group. The verdict: my Shabana lost her Dolce and Gabbana! At the next stop as they got off the train, she turned to me with evil look in her eyes and yelled her curse: "I hope you lose something you LOVE!" The always practical me looked at her, shrugged and suggested: “...or you just go buy another pair of flip-flops?” I don't know if that answer managed to anger her towering husband but he angrily got right into Ram's face - "You'd better get off here, 'cause we are gonna continue to talk!" unaware he was talking to an Israeli. "Are you threatening me?!" - my otherwise sweet husband suddenly turned the volume up. "F*ck yourself" - the man muttered. "No, YOU FUCK YOURSELF!!!" bellowed my brave hubby taking an unreasonably large step forward, of all directions available. A crowd formed. Our little kids started crying. My hands trembled and I squeezed kids closer to me. Thankfully, BJ broke it off with a single thunder of a command: "EVERYBODY SHUT UP! Especially YOU" turning a huge finger towards a man who had just attempted to hit my husband with a mega bag of sunflower seeds - it looked like a giant piñata broke! "YOU AND YOUR GROUP ARE NOT COMING BACK ON THIS TRAIN." Shabana, in the true fashion of her people, threw a shoe at him. Or should I say her other flip-flop.  The Southernmost Point As the train left, we nestled into the seats the dirty dozen used to occupy. As for them, they were now surrounding the tour supervisor - kicking, screaming and demanding a full refund for all 12 of their tickets. As our train disappeared turning the corner, I took a slim island map folder from underneath me - I had accidentally sat on it as the fresh group of tourists boarded. In it were six adult and seven children's tickets with a neatly-stapled receipt for close to $400 paid in cash. Guess there won’t be a money back guarantee coming after all - the Southernmost recycling bin made sure of that!  DISCLAIMERS: A - I love beer. On a hot summer day, there is nothing I like better than a cold Stella Artois on tap. Or a Corona Light. Or Mill St. Organic. Or Loose Cannon. Or Belgian citrus laced Shock Top.  B - I did make a subtle comment while on that train intended for my husband's ears only: "Jerry Springer Show people are actually  r e a l". So perhaps it wasn't so subtle...

Happy Place

It's a well-known rule amongst bloggers that requests for a specific topic should never be fulfilled -- allegedly it robs the writer of his or her authenticity and voice and ends up looking staged. That is why thus far I haven't subscribed to any ads or other monetization avenues. With a blog name such as “Friend Like Me”, I can only imagine what kind of businesses it would attract – possibly an escort service? Ouch!

However I do have two particular fans who, whenever they see me on my Mac, ask in unison: "Are you writing a blog?" I know they are not reading this blog let alone even really know what a blog is, but they still keep asking. Every photo I've recently taken, especially ones of the two of them, is followed by: "Are you going to put us in your blog?"

Recently, as we lazed away our days in sunny Florida and I kept snapping photos with my phone, my two devoted fans approached me: "Mama, you need to write a blog about how much we love Florida! And put our picture in it! Here!" and they posed for yet another photo on a beautiful balmy afternoon (see the photo AFTER below!).

So I am ready to break the blogging rule and also to put aside paranoia for a second and neglect all that advice that we parents get about limiting the on-line exposure of our offspring. Here and now, for my two most avid fans I call Thing 1 and Thing 2 aka DaDa and JoJo (what they call each other) I will tell the world why South-West Florida is our literal and proverbial HAPPY PLACE. Here you go, "midgets"!

The concept of a Happy Place has always been a part of my life. My parents were big on planning our family vacations: Serbian mountains, Slovenian lakes, Bosnian villages, Croatian coast. Greek islands. 

I became painfully aware of the importance of having a Happy Place in my life one afternoon while in high school. The funniest yet the fiercest of all our professors - Biljana, our physics teacher – had just called my name. This involved me dragging myself from the third row to go stand in front of the blackboard while she dictated a problem I had to solve and would be marked on, in front of some 30+ students. "Multiple choice" has never been a part of my schooling and the 45-year-old me is grateful today: stuff I know - I know. But the 17-year-old me dreaded it. The problem had to do with fluid dynamics - there was a fountain of sorts with various diameters of pipes and water pressures and I was supposed to calculate how high the middle stream of the fountain would reach -- something I have never even attempted to understand. As much I try now to forget the profound discomfort of struggling in front of our otherwise charming teacher and my classmates - most of them hoping I take my sweet time so she wouldn’t have a chance to pick anyone else before the bell rang - I remember standing there, knowing only the first few moves, like in beginners' chess. I wrote some formula I knew kind of applied to a question like this. Then, while my hand was shakily scribbling with a chalk on the dry green painted board (I still get shivers thinking of that scratchy sound!) my mind suddenly jumped a track and I started calculating: it's April 20th... May 20th, June 20th, July 6th... in 77 days I would be in Parga! Double digits! Way under 100! Whoa!

Parga - a little village off the coast of Greece's Ionian Sea had been my personal first and favourite happy place. My parents prepared months in advance both financially and logistically for a 1400km road-trip from Belgrade, via Macedonia, through Thessaloniki (the quick gyros and shopping-laced sleepover) only to continue early the next day over the mighty Pindus mountains, testing the best homemade cheeses in the high altitude village of Metsovo (the memory of one with whole pepper seeds in it still makes my palate tingle) in hope that by 4 pm we would be rolling down the hills towards Ioannina and then pleading with our dad, the second he finished the famous cold Café Frappé, to go full throttle in that non-fancy yet durable LADA Samara so we could get to Parga just in time for a quick shower and a stroll on the boardwalk and an exciting first glimpse of who was there.  Oh, the sweet teenage memories!

The bell rang, jolting me out of my happy place and straight back to the front of the blackboard. Our teacher Biljana looked at me with disappointment yet also with a touch of humour: "I have no clue where you were, but you managed to finish 2/3 of this problem. You can't earn more than a skinny B minus for this work. Do you want to stay in at recess and complete it or take the mark as is?"

"I will take the skinny B minus!!!" - I sounded way too enthusiastic for a very mediocre mark as I shook my head in disbelief that I even got that far!

Welcome to SW Florida!

That is the definition of my happy place. The spot on the map where it is always sunny. Always fun. Always no physics. Or math. Or tests. The place where I get to be the best version of me – and in 1987, that meant me + make-up + getting to go out with her older and very popular sister every night to a disco club! Careless Whispers. Eighties rocked!!!

Growing our brand-new roots in Canada, for the first few years I forgot about the importance of my happy place. Life has been way too intense for me to remember the sweet afternoon siesta time when my only task was to put enough sunscreen on and slurp a Coca-Cola with all its 33g of sugar without a care in the world, and chill out with a group of internationally-assembled friends in the bamboo shade of the Tropicana Bar on the Valtos Beach. 

DaDa @1 With the arrival of Thing 1 and Thing 2, life became much gentler and time stretched more generously. Amazingly, when I least expected it, the happy place ended up finding me. It all started with spending big chunks of my maternity leave in the sunny state. When every street has either a coconut or a flamingo in it, life undoubtedly gets happier. JoJo @2 Bird lines! Seagulls on a popcorn hi-jacking mission Kids learnt how to walk and then swim while living the Florida life. They also experienced the gift of their parents and grandparents being around and enjoying everyone's undivided attention as they got to be kids the way nature intended it - free and naked and occupied with sand and shells and sticks. No fancy toy, electronic gadget or a smartphone app can replace what life in its organic form has to offer.  We build castles and airports and train stations in the sand. We sing silly songs while jumping on waves. We pretend to be speaking 'dolphin' (just like Dori spoke whale in Finding Nemo) as we attempt to attract our favourite mammals. Whether the noble ones understand our calling or dolphins simply feel the purity of two little hearts beating intently, incredibly they almost always come! Coincidentally, we get to attract  other animals too, so we have seen our fair share of turtles.There are protected nests along the beach from April through October and I love how careful my little boys are around them, Dolphin-calling works! understanding the importance of not disturbing the nature's ritual of the past 110 million years! We have seen angry ospreys protecting their nests; manatees travelling in a herd; pelicans' spectacular nosedives and seagulls' feeding frenzies. Back at home, we found a snake at our doorstep and after nudging her to move away into the garden with a water gun, we named her Bella. Both Bella and Gerry provided their fair share of adrenaline rush, so forgive me for not having the photos to share. Gerry is our lizard, dark in colour and neurotic in behaviour, who managed to hitch a ride into our home in a croc-shoe one of the kids had recklessly left outside, only to send me - the responsible parent – into  combat mode with a wooden blood orange crate in one hand and a Swiffer wet jet in another. As tall as JoJo! It took a while, but Gerry finally obliged, darting out the front door a few seconds before I slammed it shut, sliding exhausted onto the cool tile floor. Then while power-walking my favourite trail in order to relax, I met a 4-foot alligator that moved in to our deep lakes full of fish in search of a buffet-style meal. The thing with alligators that I tend to remember is that I am 'on their turf', not vice versa - so I feel privileged that I can witness their jaw-dropping presence and feel close with nature while watching my every step. And it is much the same with many animal sightings: they simply take your breath away, like the one time a whole flock of white pelicans invaded our lake. Albino Pelicans - photo credit P.Watkin

But animals are not the only gem. Just as Elizabeth Gilbert managed to portray the passionate love of botanics in her novel The Signature of All Things, I am in love with Florida's flora.

Ferns, moss' and palm trees

From species effortlessly coexisting to the alluring swamp habitats that are both mesmerizing and intimidating. There is something intrinsically frightening in the very aspect of swamp life.

Babcock Wildernes Park

Just try to imagine what it might look and sound like after the sun goes down should the water-bus break and one is forced to stay the night. Our favourite swamp has been featured in Hollywood - Sean Connery's thriller Just Cause was filmed where these photos were taken. Bone chilling.

Florida's spectacular sunsets are the perfect backdrop for the awe we feel for nature, and the gratitude for everything (other than the mosquitos who start their carnage about a second after the sun disappears behind the horizon!)

Naples Beach

Meditation space

The sunny state is also the only place on earth where I will by-pass my teenage propensity for sleeping in late in order to capture the rare opportunity for an early morning quiet time. My spiritual practice. Intention setting. And exercise!

And no matter how many times I witnessed the same miracle of the sunrise or the brief morning fog lifting off the ground or the dew caught on perfect spider webs, the flawless symmetry of unspoiled nature -- I feel inspired and somehow wealthy in an extraordinarily profound way.

Daily reflection time

Above all, I love what Florida is for my family. A giant playground - no matter the age!

Toddler to Teen

A welcome home-made clown parade even at meal-times and no matter the age!  Yup, that's Grandma'!

Where we have time for fun dates... ... and romantic walks Where kids are unaware these are their "childhood memories"

But we are aware of their BEFORE And their AFTER

And that we are very lucky indeed Lastly I feel relieved to have finally figured out the correct answer for that wretched fluid dynamics' question I sweated over in Grade 11. How tall is the middle stream of the water fountain? Tall enough!