Since I met you baby...

A King died last Thursday night. Not just any king. B.B. King. He was 89.

That same morning in Belgrade, Duda - a decade younger than him, my favourite "komšinica" [kom-she-nee-tza] - neighbour, also died. How extraordinary!? There are no mistakes in the universe!

B.B. King came to Belgrade to do a concert on July 6, the summer I grew up.

B.B. King in Belgrade - 1991

The then-still-glamorous Sava Centre Concert Hall was completely full. Four thousand people came out night after balmy night to enjoy Belgrade's Summertime Jazz & Blues & World Music Festival. Luckily, my boyfriend and I had tickets for every single performance – he being the son of the conductor of Belgrade's Jazz Orchestra. They were really good seats - right in the middle of the hall.

Half-way through one of the most memorable jazz experiences of my life, B.B.King started jamming the opening notes to his famous:  "Since I Met You Baby".  Suddenly he stopped, and flashing his mischievous smile at the audience, said he would play, but he "wanna see some kissin' goin' on"! Who else could create a small-club atmosphere from a giant auditorium other than B.B.?!  He started playing, lazily caressing his guitar, but significantly slowing the beat from its original version: “Since I met you baby, my whole life has changed...”  he mused. As the next instrumental kicked in, he announced: "Let’s see if there is any kissing going on - bring up the lights!"

Two powerful beams began their crawl from the far left and right ends of the concert hall. My boyfriend and I were sitting in the very middle of the room and we quickly understood that the lights would inevitably cross over each other right on us.

"We should totally get up and French kiss when the lights get here - you game?" - he whispered in my ear excitedly. Adrenaline was rushing and my heart was beating wildly, but I shoved my normally-shy self aside and took the plunge:

"Let's do it" - I agreed, falling in love - that very second - even more deeply.

The mighty lights arrived a second later and we got up right as they crossed over, giving B.B. King what he asked for. The deafening roar of the audience was followed by a loud applause. B.B. let his guitar hang as he lifted both arms in the air, sending us a giant kiss and then bowing in our direction:

"That's how you do it! This lady knows how to kiss!”

Although Radio Television Belgrade aired the concert just about a million times and I had it taped on VHS, the clip didn't make it with us as we immigrated over the Atlantic ocean. And although YouTube generously provides the slow and lazy version for your pleasure, it is not the one from Belgrade. Not the one with my most famous kiss.

The doorbell rang furiously and the front door of my parent's Belgrade apartment swung wide open just as I was watching again that taped clip. It was January 30th, 1996. I was holding my newborn son. Komšinica Duda -- our neighbour from two floors above, stormed into our living room, pale-faced, curlers dangling, asking questions. "Is it true?!!!"

My mom appeared, smiling and in an amazingly calm voice confirmed that yes, that boyfriend - turned husband - the one I kissed at the B.B.King concert 4.5 years earlier – had indeed left me, ten days prior to the birth of our son. No, we don't know "now what?“. But all is well. All is perfect. The baby is perfect.

"Ma nek se goni u pičku materinu!" - Duda hissed passionately, cursing him then and again every single time his name came up in the next three years that we lived in Belgrade. No, I will not translate it. It is one of those common-place obscenities my non-Balkan friends can not begin to understand. It kind of has to do with sending him, rushing him rather, back into his mother's vagina. There. I said it. The underlying meaning is absolutely untranslatable.

But it did bring relief. So did the endless supply of platters filled with the most delicious hand-made baked goods and decadent cakes - intended to soothe and comfort the new nursing mom. Love on a plate. My favourite treat of all of Duda’s masterful creations: "Muška Torta". Masculine cake. How appropriate!

What also brought relief was listening to B.B.King and yes, watching and watching again that three

Photo credit Kamenko Pajic

minute clip of my past life. I saw two kids in love, who mere days after that concert witnessed the beginning of the Balkan War, the "voluntary" gathering of the special parachute brigade he belonged to and the not-so-voluntary deportation straight into the war in Slovenia. The 21-year-old us trembling in front of those same front doors of my parents’ apartment facing real fear for the first time, consoling each other, making promises, kissing goodbye. And at the same time, together and very rapidly, growing up.

"Since I met you baby my whole life has changed" became my soothing hymn. Sure, since I met you baby, my whole life has changed. For the better. Then for the worse. Then for the much, much better.

I last saw Duda just about two years ago. It was my first and only brief visit back to Belgrade.

Neighbours are family

I will always remember it as the fireworks of love - me approaching the entrance of Blagajska 10 street, pressing almost every button on the intercom, surprising my darling neighbours telling them all to come down. Screams, cheerful shouts, hugs, kisses, holding hands long and hard with the people who were not my family but became family. Fellow tenants who saw me grow up, get the school done, get married, get pregnant, then come back home with the little bundle in tow. Looking now at the pictures of a grown man they helped me raise those three first fragile years. The enormous amount of love made me humble and speechless and I choke up with tears even now. I now fully understand the concept of "Love thy neighbour".

There is a crazy good jam session going on in heaven right now. Sachmo and Ella and Miles and Etta and countless others gathered around microphones and with guitars and trumpets. And Duda is there wearing a fancy silk dress - her slender figure swaying to the beat, red lipstick and hair all done up - she is beautiful and free of all of her earthly worries. Boy, those curlers did a great job!

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!

50 Shades of Purple

A confession from well before the time I was this angelic (wink!). It connects a pharmacist, a former Secretary of State and a beloved actress – spill da beans!

I love when I change my mind about someone - for the better of course. This is exactly what happened in the case of Monica Lewinsky. While lazing away my days in sunny Florida, I got to catch up on a mounting list of saved articles to read and videos to view and cartoons to laugh at. Along the way an interesting TED talk I had in queue finally got its turn.

For anyone who holds an opinion about her affair - funny how all references to certain Oval office events of '96 - '98 calling it "Monicagate" or the "Lewinsky Scandal" fail to acknowledge there actually was a he, the owner of the infamous pair of unzipped pants - or for those of us who have had similar calamities of our own to work through, it is 22 minutes well worth your time.

So as not to spoil your viewing experience, I will only say that what I loved about it is not necessarily how brave Monica Lewinsky is today to openly talk about her affair or how poised her presentation skills are (although I did enjoy seeing the wise and vulnerable woman who grew into her strength right in front of our eyes. Despite of all of our eyes. And our clicks.) What I actually loved the most is that she gave a blueprint for earning/deserving forgiveness. A simple two step process that can be used as a bounce-back from any mistake.

Step 1: I'm truly sorry.

Step 2: How may I serve others?

But then Monica is "lucky" - despite the fact she was the "index case of the news going viral" which resulted in years of cruelty, cyber-bullying and subsequent depression. She is lucky because her redemption at age 41 can be heard and her bounce-back witnessed. And although it's far from smooth sailing - apparently, the admin of the TED page still has to deal with an avalanche of hatred as a backlash of her appearance - there are many people, perhaps just like myself, who will decide to let her tell them about her struggle and recognize something positive in it. And it was worth it - Monica is now serving a purpose far greater than her grief as a result of a mistake she made at age 22.

But what happens to mistresses who are not Monicas should they decide to apologize and redeem themselves through serving others? Is anyone even listening? Do they matter?

Furthermore, what happens to those mistresses who decide to hold on to their sense of righteousness for going after a douche who was clearly infidelity-ready?

Welcome to Serbia of the '90s

While I was still living in Belgrade, freshly suffering with the wrecked emotions from my own infidelity-ready douche and our mistress, a glamorous-looking woman entered the pharmacy where I worked. She wasn't looking for any medications but rather for an extremely high-end and expensive line of face creams that we just managed to import from Germany. We had it standing in the well-lit locked glass cabinet at the top of the counter to prevent theft yet to attract the more sophisticated buyers if there were any. This was 1996, the year of the 95.6% inflation rate... not many people coming to my pharmacy bought anything that wasn't a bare necessity.

So when a heavily-perfumed fur coat with that dazzling woman in it walked in, I took notice. She wanted only what was in the well-lit locked glass cabinet. She didn't ask for the price. And she took it all: day cream, night cream, anti-wrinkle, neck cream, serum and toner. I was familiar with the high-quality ingredients we had in our own lab and so I managed to convince her to also try our matching store-made products which cost just a fraction of the prestigious brand. She was sceptical, but I was so sure of how I had made it only a day earlier that she stood no chance - she shelled out a credit card that covered a bill that was almost equal to everything else we sold that day. All of that happened while I, as the only employee in the store, was still serving other patients - answering questions and not skipping the small talk my local community heavily relied on. Courtesy and kindness matter more when all else is lacking, especially health and money. When the last patient left, she turned around to face me, her fur coat swirling, while my brain subliminally registered she looked like a pretty version of Cruella Del Vil. In a confident and convincing voice she said:

"You have to come work for me. I am opening a new store on the Slavija Square early next year. The carpenters are now working on state-of-the-art shelving and counters. The marble floors are already in. You have to say yes. I've been watching you work. You are so good with patients and boy, you can sell! I need you! C'mon, it will be fun! We will do this together - two single moms!"

Her big spiel was unnecessary. The owner of the pharmacy I worked for had already started to neglect giving us our salaries. What that meant was that only a fraction of our salaries went into our accounts, the legitimate way. The rest was paid to us in cash so as to save on taxes and future pension obligations. Given the messy Civil War/Bosnian refugee situation, we all agreed to whatever we had been offered. There was zero room for negotiation. That cash portion arrived at first, on the 1st of the month. Then it was more like the 4th or 5th and then the 9th and then the 15th. The last salary I received at that time was over 3 weeks late and it was only handed to me begrudgingly after I timidly asked for it, blushing with discomfort as I justified that I needed it to buy Pampers for my son in their very store - at the full retail price, of course. The Slavija location was also only one bus line away, cutting my commute by a good 45 minutes in each direction. Hell yes - I was IN! 

Cruella Del Vil

Things changed for me the very first week in that new and posh looking pharmacy - when she walked in late one day, just before the closing, with an older looking gentleman in a trench coat. He looked unattractive to me - kind of tired, with a grey stubble and an air of a smoker around him. Her otherwise composed and confident demeanour was now unusually girly and flirty and overly cheerful. It was cheap. It was sad. And it was infuriating.

"She is a mistress" - the thought lodged in my mind and would never leave me, no matter how hard I tried to re-muster respect for her. Even though I was in dire financial circumstances and I absolutely needed this work I could not look at her the same way. Every comment and conversation from that moment on went down as a piece of a puzzle that sealed and confirmed my opinion. She was a mistress - he was paying for all this. Somewhere in this city there was a wife and perhaps kids whose lives were collapsing because of this woman who was nothing like the single mother I was - she was a Cruella indeed. And of course - there was an infidelity-ready douche of a man.

Never receiving an explanation let alone a confession, I dealt those years with the gnawing suspicion of who my own mistress might be as my ex-husband had already physically and legally disappeared from our lives. I would discover the truth two years later in the funniest way possible (I promise a blog post!) right at the time Bill Clinton's impeachment trial was about to start. Hillary and I, who would have thought?!

Either she sensed that I knew and fiercely protested of her behaviour or I have zero actress material, nonetheless my work-life quickly turned into a nightmare. Cruella was changing my hours; prolonging them daily. Scheduling me in each Saturday doubling my weekend shift. Never paying me overtime. Cancelling on the cleaner that used to come every second day, making me mop the floors after 10h of standing at the counter. I took great pride in my work so I accepted all chores - my patients followed me from the other location, I couldn't let them enter the sacred space and see smudged marble floors. Then the verbal abuse and screaming started. Then my salary - again - failed to come on time.

I feverishly looked through the newspapers searching for another job. Hopefully closer to home. The day after I got a verbal confirmation that a pharmacist was leaving a dark and dingy store neighbouring a graveyard, Cruella walked into the store and lashed out at me:

"You are nothing I thought you were going to be! Why do you look at me like that every day? I don't have to tolerate this behaviour! Guess what - You're fired! Today is your last day! And even better - I will not pay you this month, so you can learn the lesson of how not to treat the hand that feeds you!"

Sadly, I learned much later that only deeply unhappy people spill hostility when feeling pressured. Dr.Wayne Dyer gives a wonderful example of orange juice always coming out of the orange whichever way we squeeze it. Trouble in "mistress-land" is the only thing I can divulge when seeing hate-mail my Mr.&Mrs. Ex send on occasion. But I didn't know that then.

What I did know however was chemistry. So just as I shut all but a few lights, ready to leave this pharmacy for the last time, I got an idea. I took a several 10g boxes of potassium permanganate out of a 50 I had just measured, packed and labeled myself in the absence of a hired pharmacy tech. I left a few dinars on the counter with a  note to Olga - a lovely senior pharmacist who had come out of retirement so that she and her sick husband could survive - telling her to ring them through the cash register when she arrived in the morning. Then, as seen in spy movies, I opened the Condy's crystals, box by box, gently "salting" the pale grey marble floors as I walked backwards towards the door. I have to admit, I was shaking - my hands trembled in frustration and anger. I felt overwhelmed with a suffocating helplessness. Granted, this also helped to spread the shiny little dark crystals perfectly and unevenly. Then I left, locking the door and sliding the key underneath it.

"I lived long enough to see that all those who did wrong got wrong done to them" - were words of wisdom my great-grandmother used to say to my mom and my aunt when they were young and protesting why some injustice happened with no fairness in sight. Perhaps I am still 'young' if I feel that sometimes we can help that karma get to the right place a bit sooner?

My favourite Serbian author Mirjana Bobic Mojsilovic recently visited Toronto with the theatre play she wrote the screenplay for: Свлачење (Stripping). One word describes both the plot and the cast: delicious! A theatrical version of my KMnO4. A fun and funny reminder to mistresses that mistress business is monkey business. Eventually everyone will know everything. Plays, memoirs, songs and blogs will be written about it. The only wise way is the Lewinsky way.

I suppose it took ten days for the pharmacy floor to get real messy and for the Magistra Cruella to order an elderly woman to clean it at the end of her shift. It was way past 10 pm when darling Olga called - she was whispering, apologizing she might be waking up my baby, but she needed to tell me:

"I usually don't believe in miracles. Cruella just fired me -- she said that if I didn't clean the floors not to return tomorrow. Child, I am 69 years old and very tired. It is hard to stand all day. So I apologized and said no. She screamed at me - the worst insults I ever heard. She grabbed the mop and kicked the bucket of water spilling it just as I was leaving, holding back my tears. Child, the moment I stepped out all the marble turned purple - big blotches of many different shades. I have never seen that! I was out on the street and at the corner and I could still hear her screaming. Tell me if you don't believe in miracles after this??!!!"

OMG, OMG, OMG, OMG, OMG, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA!!!!! Deep breath. Calm down. 

"Olga, I do believe in miracles!" Mistress Miracles.

An Atlas Full of Purpose

Hands down the most common thing friendly strangers tend to ask me since immigrating to Canada is: "Where are you from? Oh... let me guess! Are you Polish?"

And for more than a decade and a half I have been trying to explain that no, I am not Polish. 
I only  s o u n d  Polish. "I am Serbian" - I would say proudly - "but I sound Polish because all Slavic languages are related..." which is too long of a conversation for a stranger who never wanted to learn about the origin of European languages from a pharmacist.

Then about two years ago, I flew with LOT - the Polish Airline flight - en route: Toronto - Warsaw - Belgrade. I settled into my seat looking around with a bit of nervous anticipation. You see, I have a history of attracting people who migrate into a third of my seat while sociably chatting me up (not too difficult a task!) only to eventually collapse without warning into a deep sleep, using me as a neck-pillow. As the plane started taxiing I broke that one on-board rule about switching off all electronics and I called my mom, whispering: "Am I adopted?" Apparently I don't look Serbian at all!!! Needless to say, I felt cloned. 

The strangers I get to meet for the second time often ask out of courtesy: "Have you ever been back home... In Siberia?" And then with as much compassion as I can muster for the lack of elementary education they haven't been provided, I start that slow motion wording, that annoys me to no end when other people do it, mouthing S-E-R-B-I-A, not S-I-B-E-R-I-A. Shaking my head - No, No. Not the same thing. And then sometimes, I still have to clearly stipulate that when I did go back to Serbia, one time 15 years after immigrating, I did not stay in a gulag... I only ate goulash. Which is my favourite Hungarian dish. But I'm digressing. 

Forget Waldo! Where is Serbia?

I think I got hooked on geography at the age of 10 because of the "forbidden fruit" principle. You see, we entered grade 5 grasping the new expansion of our world -- we no longer had a home-classroom. We were moving, period after period into a different part of the bigger kids' school which housed grades 5-8. Even the big kids’ schoolyard was elevated by a few stairs and we would look with nostalgia - while hoping we looked disdainful - at the running and screaming kids we left behind in lower grades and the lower school yard. Serbo-Croatian, Math, French, Biology, Physics, Chemistry, History, Geography, Art, English, Tech-Shop, Phys-ed... each subject except gym had its own classroom which was now fancily called a "cabinet", and every 45 minutes we would engage in a crazed and hectic migration, dragging all our possessions with us while munching on snacks and eyeing the boys and enjoying our tender and silly girlhood. No lockers. Ever. Sulk.

The first time our geography teacher entered the classroom I detected the faintest whiff of a fine flowery perfume. This went well with her "Clan Campbell" patterned plaid skirt. Ружица Гранић, our teacher whose first and last name have the words "rose" and "branch" in them, was an elegant Old Belgrade-style lady. I don't remember anymore what I liked best - that her voice had a refined ring to it, that she had an elegant hairdo worthy of 10 Downing Street, that a silk scarf would often be accompanying her sophisticated yet discreet look or that for those forty-five minutes she would effortlessly transport us into every corner of the world, training our brains to recognize, to connect, to memorize – spinning a web that is 35 years later still stitched solidly in my brain. Every day new facts, people and places were embedded precisely on the correct longitude and latitude. What a gift!

Name the longest rivers in Asia:

Ind, Gang, Bramaputra, Yang Tseng Yang, Hoang Ho (Yellow River), Volga...

What are the names of Soviet Union Republics? (This was 1980, collapse of all our countries was too far in the future for us to see):

Azerbejdžan,  Belorusija,  Estonija,  Gruzija,  Jermenija,  Kazahstan,  Kirgistan,  Letonija,  Litvanija,  Moldavija,  Rusija,  Tadžikistan,  Turkmenistan,  Ukrajina,  Uzbekistan (for the record, I recited these names known by heart into my keyboard in one breath, so forgive me for saying them in Serbian - that's how they have stayed in my long-term memory).

Myself, my friends Ana, Dubravka and Mirko (the famous eye surgeon!) and many others would then start shouting, competing... delighting our teacher.

Which mountain has a nickname "Roof of The World"? - Pamir!!!

What is the desert with a highest altitude in the world? - Atakama!!!

What are the grasslands called in Eurasia? - Stepa (steppes)!!! In Sudan? - Savana (savannah)!!!

This knowledge certainly comes in handy for crossword puzzles or in that QuizApp game that I sometimes play on my smartphone for fun, burning some serious world-wide-nerds with my photographic memory and everything I learned in Ms.Granić's class.

The alluring raised-relief map There was only one thing that was a major offence in Ms. Granić’s cabinet: walking too close to her precious raised-relief map. On an occasion when one of the snowy mountain peaks had been accidentally obliterated by an unwitting backpack our good teacher almost suffered a heart attack. She was passionate that the map would stay intact for the next generations to learn to be "Citizens of the World". Fact that my seat was located in the row next to the wall and right in front of that map - not the flat boring ones - was always too tempting for me. So, during some lessons, when the tectonic movements or geo-politics would take over the conversation, I would stare at the tiniest details, getting fully immersed in its peaks and valleys, the blue depths of the oceans and the archipelagos that stretched so remotely I was sure this must be what they called the 'end of the world'. The strict classroom rule was never to touch the map. I still vividly remember once being brave and stretching my hand, while facing the front of the classroom pretending to listen intently. With my heart pounding as I felt the smooth plastic surface of the map, I traced the raised and wrinkled shape of the mountains. As if it were Braille, I tried to use my tactile senses to orientate myself. The area was raised and wrinkled on the top, then formed a triangle of sorts with a wide circle just off its right side.

"India!" - I whispered to myself, glowing with enthusiasm that I recognized the Himalayas and Sri Lanka and the triangular shaped subcontinent in between!

"MARINA?!!!" was the astonished shriek that even her A student was breaking the rule - "DON'T TOUCH THE MAP!!!"

"I... I just wanted to try and guess which part of the world it was, without looking..." - I explained sheepishly.

"What are the largest cities in India?" - "New Delhi, Bombay (again my "old" world geography), Bangalore and Kolkata!" - I answered breathlessly.

What is the former name of Sri Lanka? -"Ceylon!" Capital? - "Colombo!"
Name the guerilla-group fighting against Sri Lankan government? - "Tamil Tigers!"

"You are forgiven!"

And you have never been forgotten Ms.Ružica Granić!

Exactly three weeks ago, I received unbelievable and unexpected news. The reputable international company I work for has selected me to be one of 100 ambassadors who will be volunteering for two weeks in one of ten camps around the world in their "Connecting Hearts Abroad" project. This very summer, I will be heading to India to be serving in a Diabetes Camp, putting to work everything I have learned so far as a pharmacist, a life coach, a volunteer, a writer, a friend, a mom and a human.

"Hey there, I heard you guys went on a trip to Israel to meet your hubby's family! How exciting!!!" - a very young and very friendly mom addressed me as we were waiting for our kids' swimming lessons to end.

"Did you, like, also go see your family in Syria?"

I am happy to report that the stand-up-comedienne in me managed to bite her tongue!

"No, not this time."

PaRENTing, ParenTEENg...

One of the first nice spring days last year an unusual thing happened to me: as I was backing out of the garage in my Toyota Rav 4, in the rearview mirror I spotted a man sitting in the very middle of our driveway. A bit startled, I immediately cut the engine and stepped out of the car to find a young fellow sitting on the ground picking loose stones out of our driveway. It was only then that I remembered my husband telling me that someone would be coming to fix those stones for us.

I introduced myself.  He had a broad smile and seemed to be in his late twenties. I made a little joke - something along the lines of a blonde driving an SUV – and then asked him not to risk his life by letting me manoeuvre around him. Unexpectedly, he scooted sideways and picked up two crutches that were lying on the grass. He then swiftly arose using only his impressive upper body strength and smiling all the while spoke a cheerful: "Here you go, Miss!"

I have to admit that although I have completed all sorts of disability and sensitivity-training modules, I thought about him that whole day, and I felt sad.

Karen Salmansohn wisdom

And now, this spring, in a seemingly-unrelated turn of events, I have found myself over and over again on the receiving end of what quite a few concerned parents have been telling me about their teenagers. The sheer volume and variety of feedback from both the "strangers" I coach as well as the people much closer to me has resolved itself in my head as the most prominent current topic.

Kids are talking back. Kids are failing school. Kids are hooked on gaming. Kids are having sex.

What did she say to you? How did the teacher react? How many hours was he playing that game?  Have you approached the topic of safe sex?

Forget about my coaching skills: the parent of a confident and well-balanced 19-year old immediately offered a silent prayer and a thank you to her first-born. Parenting him was a breeze. Or was it really? The beautiful thing is - I don't remember. Long ago I heard my favourite parenting quote - in Serbian - from a beautiful and wise woman who single-handedly dealt with some of the toughest life's problems while parenting. I am happy this wisdom has found its place in Gretchen Rubin's book, The Happiness Project. It goes: "Days are long but years are short". 

Simultaneously, that same parent of a 4 and a 6-year-old nearly freaked out as I calculate that by the time these 'midgets' have reached that same trying age, I will likely be right in the eye of the hormonal hurricane called menopause. I remember my own good mother urging me to work on finally checking out of puberty - the late bloomer that I was - as she felt she was riding on a speed-train headed straight to hot flashes and night sweats. It was not advisable that the two of us cross paths as crash would have been inevitable. Casualties guaranteed.

Life is busy and messy by default for those who have children. What do you do when these former little darlings start exploring life with no warning and at full speed "21st-century style": noise-cancelling earphones on, a smartphone glued to the palm of their hand, the screen lighting up every few seconds and an occasional photo disappearing as soon as it appears?!

I won't pretend I am a parenting expert who understands the psychology of adolescents and family dynamics - for all I know, my parenting style all those years while being a single mother was called "winging it". Miraculously though, it worked. It worked mostly – or perhaps because - my child was very clear he should not mess with the one parent he actually had. The sweet fact about single-parenting is that there is no struggle between different parenting styles. There is no good cop/bad cop. The little negotiators (read: manipulators) can't strike a deal behind your back. For every problem, guess what? You still have to come to me. And me only. And if I am any good, very soon you will be able to guess my response with near 100% predictability. Predictability was my best ally raising that kid on my own.

For the last few weeks I've been mulling over what would be the most effective advice I could give to all the concerned and loving parents, the future me included, who have been hijacked against their will into the mess of "big kids' problems".

From a personal trainer

The best way to narrow it down is a two-step process: fast forward and take care.

First: fast forward a decade. What does life look like?

What would the future you tell you about you as a parent from this sensitive time?

Were you a gong-show parent who exploded with each new 'undesired' event? Were you disintegrating into smithereens mourning 'what could have been' should your child have obeyed all the rules you laid out? Were you the human equivalent of a drone hovering above your kids attempting to prevent ‘bad’ things from happening, even at those times when their decisions should start being considered personal and theirs alone? Were your kids altering the truth to protect you from you while sombrely facing their real issues?

Or were you a parent who knew how to listen; how to say - "Wow, hold on darling, are you sure that was safe?" A parent who received all the facts with "help me understand" as the only reaction. A parent who, no matter the news, could take a deep breath and say: "This did take me by surprise - but I am here, no matter what. And I love you. Always.”

Second: take care of yourself first. You’ll need all your strength, sanity and humour to be able to push through this and every other part of life. Equally important, your child needs to see (not hear) that all of life doesn’t orbit around them. No matter how loud or defiant they get, right now they do feel lost - the last thing they need is all the attention while figuring their stuff out.

That’s right: They have to figure out their choices. They have to ‘rescue’ themselves. You can stand by or listen or strategize if it’s welcome. Most of all just love them through it, seeing them a few years from now as solid, on their feet and well on their way to the life that serves them best - and much wiser for this rough patch.

One of my biggest epiphanies, coming from the Serbian culture of mothers who love to sacrifice, was to put myself first. Then came my son. Many methods describe this principle through the attendant’s safety instruction recited at the beginning of each flight: “put your oxygen mask first before assisting other passengers”.

I saw myself as a tree trunk that needed to be strongly rooted and nourished in order to provide for that light green, fresh little new branch with a tiny leaf on it. It took some serious work but I did achieve a zero sacrifice/zero guilt equation. This served my son really well.

Now that my big kid is on his own, making decisions about what to study, what course to drop, with whom to move off campus, how to spend his free time, etc., it may sound dry, but I see the past 19 years as "renting" the time and space with him. I paid in unconditional love, effort to figure out a better way, time (as in buckets of patience) and then some money too, to have the opportunity to grow this young life. To be a part of his journey. At first, just to love, nourish and sustain him. Then slowly to teach and empower him, while modelling the healthy behaviours myself. Then finally, to trust him, to see him start to self-direct and let him go explore life on his own. And then to tell me about it when he is in the city or when I'm in town or when we are both on-line and he is done Skype-ing someone very important to him ;-). I am no longer 'renting'. He having me in his life this much is completely optional. And I'm grateful.

I love the line Hal Edward Runkel, a licensed marriage and family therapist, wrote in his book Scream-Free Parenting: "The truth about children (and the stock market) is that past performance is never a guarantee of future results." This can help us to see all children, no matter what headache they may be causing their parents this very moment, as whole and capable of great things.  Perhaps this hardship is their best education to date, the lesson that had to come in this exact shape and form. Envisioning best-case scenarios and meditating on them perhaps the last five minutes before falling asleep is a great use of our parenting time. Worrying about potential even worse-case scenarios just seems like choosing a very sinister energy to marinate in thinking it will help. Perhaps a part of our 'rented' time with our soon-to-be grown-up children is to learn and apply that alluring unconditional love coupled with the absolute absence of judgement. They need this lesson. It’s all good.

Just as the sun was setting a year ago and I was coming back home from work, I met a woman who was parked in front of our home, MADD sticker on the back of her car, blocking the now neat and repaired cobblestone driveway. She opened her window and cheerfully waved at me saying: "Sorry, I am just picking up my son, he will be out in a minute."

I turned off the engine and stepped out, intrigued: "I met your son this morning... he left quite an impression on me!"

"Oh, he is stellar! I am so proud of him.” Then I learned it wasn't always easy:  “At 17 he got caught up with the wrong crowd and was in a motorcycle accident while driving drunk." Thankfully, no one else got hurt.  “He speaks in schools now about safe driving and works full time, loves masonry.” She laughed a little: “He is now my rock!”

Israel: Eat, Pray, Love

Not quite 40 days and 40 nights but rather 4 hours and 40 photos to tell the tale via the Blogger App and a smartphone!

Israel: Eat, Pray, Love

Eat...

Put a Serbian anywhere in the world and I bet you the first place she will gravitate to is the Market. After all, I am my father's daughter - Belgrade's green market "Каленић" was the greatest passion of his. So no wonder that the first day in Tel Aviv-Yafo and Jerusalem and Tiberia and Akko, I found myself at the Market. 

My first mission, given I've been told Israel's dairy products are exceptionally good: find the cheese most similar to the one I grew up on. White, moist, just salty enough to find its place between the Bulgarian feta and bocconcini. Add sesame rich Jerusalem bagels sprinkled with za'atar spice, few kinds of olives followed by amazingly flavourful dried fruits and a cup of hot sahlab sprinkled with cinnamon and toasted coconut and by the time I leave the marketI have had one of the most delicious meals all while walking around, pushing a stroller and of course - bargaining. At the market, you buy nothing without the bargaining. It's the mandatory part of the shopping experience!

 

The best liked choices for our sit-down meal affairs came as a surprise - for the most part they were vegetarian! Hummus, tahini, falafel, pita breads and our new favourite egg dish, which now replaces the omelette as our savoury 'emergency' meal - eggplant and black olive shakshuka.

Lastly - the guilty pleasures. Beware of temptations, they are on every corner (for the taste of heaven, do travel to the Arab village of Abu Gosh) - it is well worth the climb and the calories!

Pray...

One doesn't have to belong to an organized religion to feel 'elevated' in Jerusalem. The drive alone up from Tel Aviv with our ears popping as we were reaching an altitude of 2474 feet or 754 meters suggested there must be a reason why this city was founded in this exact location in the 4th millennium BCE. I will never forget that first sight of a high hill behind a hill behind a hill, deep green tall cypress trees and "Jerusalem stone" houses glowing on its tops. This city had me at 'shalom'!

Jerusalem's Arab quarter

One also doesn't have to know much of  ancient history to understand why every square millimetre of this sacred real estate matters so much. Blood still spills on its cobblestones just for wearing the Magen David symbol on a necklace. The insider's warning is to avoid the Arab quarter when the Mosques are finishing with one of the five daily prayers. Although the local Arab shop owners appeal for this location to be spared the occasional fanatic will still carry a knife. One such incident occurred just two days prior to our somewhat-rushed stroll through the Arab market on our way to the Kotel. Thankfully, both victims survived. For once it was beneficial to look like a stupid tourist (more specifically: a stupid tourist with a double espresso in hand to trick the 7h time difference!).

Jerusalem is an equivalent of 'all you can pray buffet' where every religion and every stream has its place. 

And then there is the Kotel. The Wailing Wall. For something as universal as tears and hope and something as powerful as the ask and the intention. I am a believer that one need not know how to pray in order to have a profound and meaningful experience at the only remaining wall of the twice-destroyed Jewish Temple.

The Wailing Wall

My first time at the Wall - I nervously clutched a piece of paper I had ripped from a journal and on which I wrote in Serbian Cyrillic my greatest wishes for each family member and close friend. I folded it many times, pressing the edges so they were neat and sharp and able to get into a crack in the wall in between thousands of other notes. Why in my original language? Firstly, I do believe that the great spirit understands everything. But to tell the truth, I also kind of felt that should some faithful soul were to  'clean up' after the last of us retires for the night and just so happens to read my plea a bit before God does, I wanted to trick her and protect my deeply intimate whisper to the divine and therefore earn the consideration for all my wishes to be fulfilled. 

I approached the feminine side of the wall with the jitters, yet that didn't surprise me. I've been waiting for this moment for the last 27 years (as described in my previous blog). What did surprise me is that when my forehead touched the cool, smooth surface of the wall for the first time, the flattened paper still in my hand, my eyes closed and my lips parted reciting slowly and with deep care every word of the Shehecheyanu prayer in Hebrew that my heart felt like it was on fire. Warm tears streamed down my cheeks. Just like the moment of giving birth to each of my children, this moment will stay extraordinarily vivid in my memory. There was something intensely clear in this experience. 

Just as I was falling asleep that night I had another goose-bump reaction - I had  forgotten to include myself - my own personal hopes and wishes for my life.  So the next day, feeling it might be a tad too late, I jotted it all down, this time in English because it's faster, and I rushed down to the wall. Not sure if God would even bother to consider it, partly because I was 'unreasonably greedy' in what I asked and partly because, being an ambitious beginner blogger, I figured my readers might appreciate a visual of the wall and notes and... hence the profile selfie. Judge me all you want - it won't be worse than how I have already judged myself!

 

Love...

Other than for politics and the politicians I neither understand nor care about regardless of the country I'm in (the elections are in only two weeks from today and Bibi Netanyahu is confidently smiling from billboards all over Israel) I pretty much loved everything else. 

Here is my top ten list:

1. I loved meeting my warm and welcoming and ginormous extended family. Hasson's and Hanan's - Thank you! I felt at home.

2. I loved seeing a glimpse of the complex map of the Middle East and sensing, going through the peaceful and prosperous Arab villages on our way to Tiberia with its unique architecture and tall minarets, that peace on this land is possible and in many cases already here. And not only peace in the geopolitical way but seeing Arab women living in Israel being protected from domestic abuse, equal and educated and having careers that matter. Girl power regardless of head-covering.

Mosque in Akko

3. I loved standing on the grounds of history's great yet often tragic tales. Being Serbian I understand the importance of defending the nation's historical and cultural cradle and the cost of failing to do so. This made me wonder: why do we know about the Las Vegas strip and not about Masada? This is Masada. Please Google it. Your breath will be taken away. I promise. 

Masada

4. I loved awakening my taste buds, unlearning the bland dangers of omnipresent North American GMO foods. 

I also loved seeing people shopping for Shabbat on foot, buying only how much they could carry and that could sustain them until things opened again on Sunday morning  (good luck trying to park anywhere near the Jerusalem Shuk - market, on a Friday!). Witnessing this made me feel ashamed of my atrociously large SUV/Costco runs - after all a lion kills only one antelope to feed his pride, not ten.

Jerusalem Shuk

5. I loved the blend of new and hip Tel Aviv (watch out Miami!) with the ancient and ethnic Yafo (think Scheherezade and 1001 nights) as one same city!

Tel Aviv

Yafo

6. I loved standing in awe of natural wonders - 1300 feet below the Sea Level

Judean desert

and feeling the silky, almost oily feel of Dead Sea water on my skin.

Dead Sea and the view of Jordan

7. I loved being in the presence of true devotion...

An hour before beginning of Shabbat

Me'a She'arim - ultra-orthodox community

...and our family's lighter version of honouring our religious roots.

8. I loved getting messy with the Dead Sea mineral mud...

... and realizing I just publicly posted a photo of me in a bathing suit - a big No-No-PUHLEASE-No of the last decade!

9. I love Israeli music and I'm grateful for the serendipitous occasion of attending the "Eyal Golan & Sarit Hadad" concert in Yerushalaim - of all places!

10. I am choosing to end with the least romantic-looking of all my impressions of Israel - but likely the most important one. Wherever one looks, in whichever direction, whether in the city or the side of the road, on the beach or top of the hill, at any given hour of the day or night: cranes, diggers and front loaders are building a stronger and better Israel. Even more impressive - all of this is done with only 20% of the budget - the whopping remainder MUST be spent on defence. In only two generations the desert has been transformed into an oasis - shepherd villages into hi-tech genius hubs. Soon the serpentine highway connecting Jerusalem and Tel Aviv will be replaced by a flat and straight elevated highway; the fast railroad will bring the same two cities even closer through the mountain-tunnel speed rail. 

This is the dedication, the gift and the legacy the future generations need from us. Israel is already well ahead!

As I drifted off to sleep on our last night in Israel, it seemed to me that the last twelve days had been barely twelve minutes long - it had felt alive and meaningful and spontaneous and - surprisingly - safe.

So perhaps the next time you start contemplating that 'been there / done that' Caribbean vacation, you might decide instead to explore life from its very cradle and venture into the Holy Land. I quite certainly will!

From your blogging correspondent from the Middle-East: Laila Tov! Goodnight!