Explaining Baseball to Serbians: a how not-to guide
Image source: East Coast Baseball Academy
Last night, Muž and I entertained some of his Serbian colleagues who were visiting Washington, D.C. It was their first trip to America, and we were excited to return some of the hospitality we received abroad. However, this was an organized bunch. In the few days before we saw them, they experienced much of what DC has to offer: they had seen the monuments, gone to the museums, been ripped off by a taxi driver. What else was there? We were stumped.
Then it hit us like a fly ball: what’s more American than a baseball game?
We bought some nosebleed, er, “scenic” Nationals tickets, sat down, and started discussing the rules. I always thought baseball was a pretty simple game. Until I tried to explain it.
“Three strikes is an out. Unless it’s a foul ball, because you can’t strike out on a foul ball. Unless it’s a foul tip …” You get the idea. Muž was better at explaining the basics. We bought hot dogs and beer (naturally) but we did not have Cracker Jacks, because let’s face it: Cracker Jacks are vile.
After a few innings, we settled into that special baseball lull that comes with processed meat, beer, and prolonged sitting. “It’s a peaceful game,” one guest remarked. Compared to a European soccer game? Apsolutno.
Euro football is more...heated
Until the fourth inning, that is. Serbian soccer might have flares and ultrafans, but D.C. baseball has the President’s Race. Plush costumes of four iconic presidents race each other around the field. The crowd goes wild, chanting for President (Teddy) Roosevelt, who has never won a race.
Image: blog.letteddywin.com
When you think about it–much less try to explain it–this is pretty weird. Stuffed replicas of dead presidents compete in a foot race for our general amusement. I can’t imagine this happening in other countries. Our guests were bewildered. Then they were amused. Then, of course, they posed for a photo with Teddy.
We sang “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” and celebrated a Nationals win. Though it was a most American evening, we ended it Serbian-style: by piling our five guests in a compact car to drive them to their hotel. I think we left them confused about the game, but without a doubt that we were happy to show them a bit of our home.
Fake it ’til you make it: an American ajvar experience
Longtime readers already know about my love for ajvar, so you may not be surprised to learn that one of my most treasured departing gifts was a jar of the ruby goodness from my friend Anja. “My grandmother makes the best ajvar,” she said. “I hope you like it.”
“I love it already,” I said. I eyed the big glass jar and felt my mouth water a little. “I’ll bring it back to America and eat it when I’m homesick for Belgrade.” I imagined gently packing the jar in Politika newspapers and taping it in a Pekara Aca bag to make sure it would be with me on a cold, gray day in America.
Instead, Muz and I ate it two days later. All of it.
Readers, I couldn’t help it. I thought, “I should eat this with Serbian bread. I should enjoy this with Zlatiborski prsut and young cheese. What if the jar broke on the way over? What if–GASP–Muz ate all of it first?” (He does this. Frequently.)
Any Serbian lady over the age of 40 would just look at me and say, “RHOB, make your own ajvar!” But that seems…really hard. And time consuming. And I don’t know where to get roga peppers. So imagine my happy surprise to see this at a Trader Joe’s a few weeks ago: fake ajvar!
Sure, it says “Red Pepper Spread,” but we all know that just means, “ajvar for people who don’t know what ajvar is.” The ingredients were the same. The color….ok, the color was not the same, but I could get past that. When I was ready to try it, I had to force myself to spread it on bread and not eat it straight out of the jar. I popped the bread in my mouth and…immediately frowned.
It’s bad, readers. There’s no other way to phrase it. If you’ve never had ajvar it’s fine, but it lacks the smokiness and velvety texture I was used to. It had a slightly bitter aftertaste that (I think) was due to either using bell peppers or not skinning the peppers properly. Balkan bake (grandmothers) will not be happy about this. And I was increasingly disturbed by the neon orange color. Trader Joe’s “fake ajvar” is, well, fakakta.
Which leads me to a new quest for roga peppers in the D.C. area and a time machine. Or a Serbian grandmother looking to adopt. Any ideas?
A beogradjanka no more
A year of adventure ended in one final voyage: a walk to Kalemegdan Park.
Though I was sad to end my time in Belgrade, the finite time frame had helped me make the most of it. We arrived in Serbia knowing that 365 days would not be enough to learn a new language, experience different cultures, and explore Europe. Still, we tried.
We spent hours conjugating verbs, looking at maps, and speaking with our hands. We listened to haunting guslas and ear-blasting horns. We got lost; we found adventure. We ate anything put before us–including pihtije. We drank rakija, to forget the taste of pihtije.
I spent my last weeks in Belgrade trying to remember all these memories and more. My last day in the city, I tried to cement a favorite memory: the walk up Knez Mihailova and through Kalemegdan Park.
Kalemegdan isn’t part of the hidden Belgrade I liked to explore. It doesn’t have the dusty, odd shops of Sarajevska. It doesn’t sprout funky alleys like Kralja Aleksandra, or offer the charm of Skadarlija. There are plenty of other parks to wander in. But none of them, in my opinion, top Kalemegdan.
Kalemegdan embodies Belgrade. It’s where the city’s Celtic, Austrian, Hungarian, and Turkish footprints collide. It sits at the rivers that brought those footprints to Serbia, creating the subtle diversity of Serbian culture. Kalemegdan is the Muslim Turbe and the Roman Well, Mestrovic statues and military relics, nuzzling couples and lone dogs. It was where I went to say goodbye to a city—and year—that I would always cherish.
My last morning in Belgrade, I strolled past people waiting at Trg Republike and turned right on Knez Mihailova.
The walking street was quiet that morning. No accordions or violins, just unhurried people buying popcorn and window-shopping. I passed Kralja Petra, resisting the urge to walk down its cobblestone path flanked by perfumeries and expensive boutiques. Instead, I continued to Kalemegdan’s tree-lined entrance.
Leaves crunched under my feet as I passed silent chess players and babbling toddlers. Pigeons gobbled up popcorn as I admired the river and turned back to the main path lined with vendors. I had walked through this gauntlet many times to look at the unchanging array of hats, sweaters and cheap souvenirs.
I stopped short of an Italian tourist group shopping for gifts. One tried on a šajkača (traditional hat) as his friends laughed. Their guide stood off to the side with a bored expression, scrolling his cell phone for new text messages.
I slipped in with the group and shook an overpriced snow globe. A crude rendition of The Victor become fuzzy with white flakes. As I listened to the Italians chatter I realized that soon, I would be like them: just another tourist in Belgrade.
When I return to Serbia, I won’t know the names of clerks at the Mini Maxi. I won’t find the best pijace stall, the shortcut through the underpass, or the new “secret” bar. But I will see Kalemegdan, and admire her timeless grace all over again.
It will have to be enough.
A Dog’s Day in Belgrade
If a dog could talk, what would it say? Most dogs would probably have some variation of “Hi! I love you! Give me food. Is that a ball? Give me the ball, give me the ball, ball ball ball…” Not exactly something I’d like to hear on a daily basis.
Milos, of course, is different. He’s possessed with a superior intellect–okay, he only knows how to sit–but an even more superior life story. In one year, he’s seen nine countries, learned commands in two languages, and made friends everywhere he goes. What would he say if he could talk? I think he’d explain why he misses Belgrade.
Everyone asks my owners about life in Belgrade, but no one asks me. It’s probably for the best. My owners put a good spin on our new life, but I know better. They talk about spicy foods and how nice it is to see old friends. I’m eating the same dry kibble and sniffing new dogs. I was even bitten my first month here–how’s that for a welcome?
Thanks for nothing, lab
Pablo
In Belgrade, I had a daily ritual. I would go to Pionirski or Tasmajdan dog park and play with my pals while RHOB practiced Serbian with the other dog owners. Sometimes I’d see my friend Pablo, an 11-year old Frenchie. He looks pretty good for an old guy.
He also had pretty good moves for an old guy. Pablo liked to remind me that he was in charge. A lot. 
Sometimes, the pretty bank teller would help him out. Now THAT’s living, folks. Have you seen Serbian women? If these ladies had beagle ears I would have never left.
Speaking of leaving, everyone in town asked if I was going to stay in Belgrade. About ten people I barely knew offered to take me if RHOB had trouble bringing me to the States. I’d like to attribute that to my charm and good looks, but it’s also because Serbians are serious dog lovers. I could barely walk down the street without someone giving me a scratch or two. I guess that’s to be expected in a city where dogs “work” in shops and are in murals all over town.
Americans are more reserved. Their dogs aren’t as social, and only a few strangers play with me. I miss the days of finding burek on the ground, being invited into coffee shops, and people telling RHOB that I should be unleashed. Of course, the one time she finally unhooked me, I ran into my bank to find the guard. The leash went back on.
Afternoons in Belgrade, I’d curl up in my chair and help RHOB write her blog posts. Now that she’s busy looking for work and housing, my blogging expertise is rarely needed. Fortunately, I’ve come up with a new hobby here: playing in the nearby tennis courts. Maybe this place isn’t so bad after all.
Nole might be the most famous Serbian tennis player, but I’m aiming to be the best Serbian tennis fan. Watch out, America. There’s a new dog in town. Now, give me that ball! Ball ball ball ball ball ball ball…..
The beauty, tragedy, and lessons of Venice
Readers, sorry for the delay in posts. I went from being a Housewife of Belgrade to a Jobseeker in Washington, which is twice as busy and isn’t half as fun. Still, I thought I would share one of my last trips while I was a Beogradjanka: Venice, Italy.
Early on, I asked Muz to take me to Venice. We’d heard it was only a six-hour drive from Belgrade (seven hours if you don’t drive Serbian/Muz/Italian-style) and I wanted to see it with the man I love. Cheesy, but true.
I first went to Venice with a girlfriend from college. It was a lovely trip, but we kept looking around the impossibly romantic city and asking, “What am I doing here with YOU?” Also, she had no interest in food and kept demanding that we eat cold pizza margherita off the street. It killed me.
So when our last group of guests (FK Milos) was visiting, we drove to Venice for one night so they could make their return flight out of Italy, and Muz could avoid hearing me say “I can’t believe you never took me to Venice,” for the rest of his life. Clever.
We took the vaporetto (ferry) into Venice just as the sun was setting. It was just as lovely as I remembered it, if not more so.
It’s often said that Venice is one of the most beautiful cities in the world, and I have to agree. The buildings are beautiful, the waterways are calming, and there is a distinct sense of stepping back in time. Though Venice is almost entirely tourists, it doesn’t detract from the atmosphere. Venice is a living museum, and tourists are part of the tableau.
Venetian glassmaker tools
I love the buildings, churches and museums, but the true beauty of Venice is its sense of tragedy. The entire city is sinking an average 7 centimeters (2.75 inches) a year. Every November, floods erode buildings. There is a doomed urgency to see it, feel it, drink it in before it becomes the next Atlantis. Walking around its famed canals, I wondered if the next generation–or even next year’s visitors–will get to see it the same way I did.
I try to remember this feeling wherever I travel. Most places aren’t sinking, but they change in other small ways, millimeter by millimeter. Customs fade away, global food chains dominate the marketplace, and villages empty. Travel allows me to be a mini-historian; I can witness and enjoy how places differ from each other and in time. The differences can be good, bad, or simply different. It doesn’t always matter. What matters is what I can learn from a new, or revisited, adventure.
In Venice, I remembered that history is important, the future is uncertain, and the present is meant to be enjoyed with pastries. As I start this new chapter in the States, it’s a lesson I’ll try to keep close to my heart.
A mildly successful, slightly silent, re-entry
Expats warned us that it is harder to go back home than it is to move abroad. I suppose that’s because moving somewhere new is usually exciting, even more so when it’s a foreign country. Adjusting to new languages, sights and sounds is time-consuming and (hopefully) interesting. Moving back to a known city, however, can seem like a bit of a letdown. Oh, there’s my old apartment building. Yep, that’s the coffee shop I went to for five years. Here’s the shoe repair store that ripped me off one time. And so on.
Yet so far, I don’t feel let down. Everything is familiar, but a find myself being confused or tongue tied at the simplest things. It’s almost like my first weeks in Belgrade all over again.
Here’s an example. I went to Starbucks yesterday and when it was my turn to order, I was unable to speak for twenty seconds. I wanted to order a grande green tea. Simple, right? But there were two or three kinds of green tea, and I couldn’t figure out the difference. Then I tried to remember how to say “medium” in Serbian but (1) I was not in Serbia and (2) if we had a Starbucks in Serbia it would still be called a grande. (Also, they don’t really have “medium” portions of things in Serbia. Go big or go home.) I stood there, mute, for about 20 seconds while I tried to figure this all out. Finally, I just sputtered “Tea. Green. Medium,” like a robot that barely spoke English (or Serbian, for that matter.)
Green tea in hand, I walked to my dentist’s office. I went into the restroom before my appointment and hit the light switch just outside the door. The hallway went dark. I thought the power went out for about five seconds before I remembered that U.S. light switches are inside the restroom, not outside. Someone poked their head out into the hallway but I managed to flip the light and dash into the restroom before anyone could see me. Probably.
My dentist, a man of Iranian heritage, asked what I was doing these days. I said I had just returned from a year in Serbia. I wondered if he’d respond: “Where’s Serbia?” I figured at best he’d say “sounds interesting” and at worst he’d say, “How bad was it?” What he said made me, once again, completely dumbfounded: “Govorite li Srpski?”
That’s right, readers. My Iranian-born dentist lived in Belgrade and Nis for two years. He went to University there before coming to America. I had no idea. We chatted and laughed, until he told me I had a cavity. (Thanks, krempite.) Then I was silent again, but for entirely different and more painful reasons.
Happy (Srpski) Halloween!
Today is my first full day back in the United States, and the celebration of Halloween in the U.S. and Canada. I’ve always thought of Halloween as a very American Holiday (sorry, Cannucks) and this one does not disappoint. My “barista” was dressed as a cat with a cape, I saw one woman in a suit wearing Minnie Mouse ears, and another 60-something year-old woman wearing fairy wings. America is known as the land of reinvention; it only seems right that people here should celebrate becoming someone else, if only for one day.
As a brand-new American citizen, Miloš decided to get into the Halloween spirit. He didn’t want to abandon his ex-Yugolavia roots though, and a costume was born.
Miloš is wearing the Yugoslavian Pioneer uniform. The pioneers were developed under Tito in 1942, though socialist and communist countries around the world had similar programs. The pioneers had a pledge, uniform (see above) and attended a camp at certain points in their Pionirski career. It’s a bit like the Scouts, with a political twist.
Technically Miloš should be wearing a white shirt and navy pants, but I hope you’ll give me a little lattitude. Have you ever tried to put a hat on a dog? It’s not easy. Still, I like to think Miloš would have fit in perfectly with this batch of youngsters.
Image source HERE.
Happy halloween, Serbian and American readers!
RHOB has a Facebook page! (And yes, I know it’s not 2007.)
It’s ironic that I’ve written a blog for over a year. Previously, I thought blogs, twitter and Facebook were for people with superior technology skills or way too much free time. Actually, I still think that. (I fall into the latter category.)
Now that I’m leaving Serbia, I’m not sure what I’ll do with the blog. It seems better to end it on a certain date than to have inconsistent posts. But readers, it’s hard to quit you. You’ve provided great insight and humor, and I’d love to keep the conversation going even if I don’t have time to share my deep thoughts on dogs and alcohol and food.
With that in mind, I’ve made a Facebook page. I figured it’s fitting for Belgrade, since 41% of Serbians have a Facebook page, and I estimate 65% of Beogradjani have one. It’s practically empty, and the next two weeks are crazy in RHOB land, but I’ll be sure to post photos, etc, soon. Stay tuned for my adventures finding domaca kafa in the States and explaining the name Milos to lots of Americans…
http://www.facebook.com/pages/Real-Housewife-of-Belgrade/244093148970415
Tomorrow is packing day, so no post unless I go positively insane and need to rant.
Happy anniversary to me
Should I have set out on this long journey? I went almost unthinkingly, without any special desire or need, for the sake of another. And perhaps I’d gain from seeing this strange Frankish world. I say perhaps, because I didn’t believe it. Apart from merchants, traveling was only for those disturbed people unable to remain alone with themselves, who chased after the new sights that an unknown world offered to their eyes while their hearts remained empty.
-Meša Selimović, The Fortress.
I’ve always loved this quote, but I find it especially fitting today. I arrived in Belgrade one year ago. When we landed I was tired, confused, and practically ignorant about this part of the world. I moved here for the sake of another, but also because I hoped to gain a greater understanding about the world and even my own country. But let’s be honest, too–I also hoped to see new sights.
I’ve accomplished some of these goals, but the “must-see, must-do, must-read” list goes on and on. Maybe that’s the way it should be. Or maybe I’m one of the “disturbed” people Selimovic talks about. That’s ok. I’ve been called worse. Should I have set out on this long journey? Sigorno. With certainty.
Check out the works of Selimović and other Balkan (and Portugese) authors this year at the Belgrade Book Fair–it continues until Sunday.
The Rapper’s Guide to Learning Serbian
What does hip hop and Serbian have in common? More than you might think. Throughout my struggles learning the langauge, I’ve recalled the wisdom (or at least the lyrics) of rappers to remember key words. Here’s a three word guide to the RHOB/Rapper’s Way to Srpski-speak.
Lesson one: hvala (thank you). This is one of the first words visitors ask to learn. It’s not easy for Americans to pronounce an H and a V next to each other, or to semi-slur the remaining letters together. Luckily, Missy Elliott gets us most of the way there. Just listen to her Holla! and merge a “v” after the H. Hvala indeed, Missy.
Lesson two: čeka (wait). Useful when you have a fast-walking Muz, a dog that pulls at his leash, or a ringing phone that you can’t locate. Thanks to DMX, it’s as simple as remembering a microphone…checka. Forward to the 12 second mark to see what I mean.
Lesson three: omiljen (favorite). This word eluded me for months. I would struggle to remember it, stick a d or a z in there somewhere, and utterly confuse the people I was trying to compliment. (Think, Oh, krempita! My favorzheutz…hud.) I needed to remember one little trick: more accurately, one Lil’ Wayne. Omiljen sounds almost exactly like the background chant to “A Millie.” Especially if you misheard it as “uh million” for years. The first ten seconds should suffice. Then you’ll either go crazy or start dancing, depending on your musical taste.
Thanks for the tips, rappers! Maybe Kanye and Jay-Z will come out with a version of The Mountain Wreath and take my Serbian to the next level. A domaćica can dream…
Ya feel me?
Final Churches, Turbes and Monasteries on Sunday
A peek of Crkva Ruzica
Churches, turbes, and monasteries–I’m overpacking today’s post like a family of eight in a Budva-destined Lada. Yet I must. After 52 Sundays of writing about churches, I am officially retiring CoS posts. Next Sunday I will be flying back to the U.S. and it seems fitting to end my Sunday posts where they began: in Belgrade.
I wanted to write about Kalemedgan’s Sveta Petka and Ružica Churches, but could not get permission to photograph their interiors. These churches are jewels of Belgrade–precious, tiny, and historic–but you’ll have to take my word for it. Alternatively, you can check out this video highlighting Petka church, but beware of bad angles and the need for a tripod.
The doors of Crkve Ružica.
Sveti Petka
Instead, I’ll focus on the former Dervish Monastery in Belgrade. It’s part of the scant evidence of 500 years of Ottoman rule in Belgrade. After Serbian independence, people either destroyed the mosques and buildings of their Ottoman oppressors or left the structures to rot. However, two turbes (Islamic mausoleums) testify to the time of fezzes, carpets, and apple tea.
Just past Studenski Park lies the turbe of Sheik Mustafa. It was built in 1784 in the center of a Dervish Monastery. The monastery is long gone, but the turbe still stands. People still tie twine to the eye-shaped window; perhaps it’s a sign that what is gone is not forgotten.
The second turbe stands in the middle of Kalemegdan on the west side of the Military museum. It’s dedicated to Damad Ali Pasha, the “Great Vizier of Sultan Ahmed III.” (I just love titles from this era.) This turbe appears to have less dedicated visitors, but it’s an impressive sight in an already impressive fortress. I’ve read that turbes often stand near mosques or monasteries, but I don’t have evidence of a monastery here. However, Turks lived in the fortress during their reign, and it would make sense that there was a mosque there at one time.
Belgrade’s long and colorful history is reflected everywhere: buildings, streets, and even first names testify to a history of Slavic/Roman/Austrian/Ottoman/Serbian rule. Balkan churches are no different; they offer as much history as any museum. Many thanks to the priests, imams, rabbis, readers and others who have recommended and explained places of worship over the past year. I wouldn’t have learned nearly as much about this region without you.
The time I talk about the thing I’m not sure how to talk about
“Odakle Ste?” Where are you from?
“Ja sam iz America.” I’m from America.
It’s a conversation I have on a daily basis. This time I was on Skadarljia, negotiating a bulk price for copper votives on behalf of our latest guests. My accent is decent, but I don’t sound Serbian. The question wasn’t surprising. His response was.
“I have…a problem with Americans.”
He said it apologetically, almost conspiratorially. I wasn’t sure if he didn’t want to upset me or if he was thinking about the sale. After missing a beat, I shrugged my shoulders and said, “Razumem.” I understand, ok.
During almost a full year here, I haven’t personally encountered anti-Americanism. However, a cab driver once cheerfully noted, “these are the buildings you bombed,” as we drove down Kneza Milosa. These buildings—crumbling, weedy, and imposing—are the remnants of the Building of Internal Affairs bombed by NATO on April 2, 1999. It stands there in tatters: a faded, handwritten letter that’s difficult to decipher. Who is it for? What does it mean?
Image source HERE.
People don’t always like American policy, but they tend to like Americans. I once joined a group of Serbians as a woman started ranting about American presidents and politics in Serbian. I fidgeted in silence until someone said, “You know, RHOB is from America.” She said “I know—I like RHOB. I just don’t like Bill Clinton!” She smiled and moved on. I knew her well enough—but I didn’t know the votive seller, and he didn’t know me.
He turned his attention back toward the votives. “This is Studenica Monastery,” he began to explain. “I’ve been there!” I replied. We spoke about various churches, their history, and my travels. As friends selected their votives, he showed me another one and said, “This is Gračanica Monastery.”
- www.balkantravellers.com
I nodded, feeling a bit solemn. Gračanica is one of the most historically important Serbian Orthodox monasteries. It’s located outside of Pristina, Kosovo. I would love to see it, but it’s not a safe passage at this time. Gračanica is listed on UNESCO’s World Heritage Sites in Danger, partly due to its politically precarious location. He wasn’t just showing me a votive; he was telling me his own history. As we looked at it, he said quietly, “My grandfather is buried near there. We had a house there. Now…I cannot even visit.”
I didn’t know what to say. I hear stories, from all sides, about heartbreak, loss, anger, violence. My response is simply to listen. War is difficult for me to comprehend, let alone discuss. What I do know for certain is that makes me very, very fortunate.
My friends chose their votives and he placed them in the flimsy red plastic bags I will always associate with Belgrade. “Something for you?” he asked, and when I shook my head, he plucked the Gračanica one from the display. “I give this to you,” he said, and pressed it into my hand before I could say no.
A conversation doesn’t change the world. It doesn’t mean that a stranger will suddenly like Americans, American policy, or decide that the shell of a building is an icon of a former era. But learning, and above all, listening—can change so much.
***
This may be a contentious post to some people. I seem to have a some new readers—hello!—and I welcome comments. I only ask that you read some of my other posts before you comment, to get an idea of who I am and where this sentiment comes from. Hvala.
You Live in Belgrade When…
you can buy flowers to match your new brassiere.
Taken in Zeleni Venac market in downtown Belgrade.
Longer post tomorrow, I swear. In the meanwhile check out #youliveinbelgrade on Twitter!
Walk a Balkan Mile in My Shoes
Some people think that living in Serbia requires sacrifice. They think it’s nothing but mangy surroundings (wrong), eating potatoes and cabbage (double wrong) and living among people who don’t speak English or like Americans (super wrong.) Yet I have made a couple of “soleful” sacrifices here: namely, the shoes I’ve loved and lost on the great streets of Belgrade.
Brown flat boots, I was so glad I brought you in my suitcase. Everyone was wearing some version of you and I managed to fit right in. Except for that whole I’m-not-tall or look-like-a-supermodel thing. But still. You helped—so much that the actual boots are at an obucar and could not be photographed.
Galoshes, every woman asked if I brought you along. I had no idea why they were so concerned. Then the fall rain arrived, followed by snow and constant slush. You became essential. Lesson learned.
Diesel sneakers on the left, you are gotovo. You were already old when we arrived, but then I wore you all over the streets of Belgrade and back again. (I used to get lost here. A lot.) When Milos arrived, you also became my dog-walking sneaker. Now you are ripped and have no tread. Thanks for the memories.
Shower shoe on the right, you were a casualty of a young Milos. At least you were cheap and I never wore you outside. Sorry.
Yellow heels, I love you. I thought you were perfect for Belgrade summer—everyone wears colorful heels here—but then Muz announced that we should walk everywhere, even if it took 45 minutes. Maybe next summer?
Shorter black heels, you replaced the yellow ones. One pair has already been resoled; patent leather ones, you’re next. Obucar, you can thank me for your vikendica later.
Flats…what can I say? I’ve worn you everywhere. You’ve been to 15 countries outside of Serbia this year. I’ve worn you on Barcelona’s beaches, Croatian caves, and Italian hillsides. (Of course I would find places where flats were inappropriate.) Sandals and brown flats, you’re shot, but the black ones miraculously live on. The moral of this story? When you see Geox at DSW Shoes, buy them.
Finally, my dear, dear running shoes. Do you miss me? Remember when I was going to train really hard for a marathon? I know, that WAS pretty funny. Ha! Okay, stop laughing. I mean it. Stop.
Thanks for all your support, shoes. I couldn’t have gotten through Belgrade without you.
You can take the girl out of Chipotle, but you can’t take Chipotle out of the girl: American expats and Mexican food
Two years ago, I briefly joined friends who were taking a year-long trip around the world. We met in Thailand while they were eight months into their adventure. Over Chang beer and fiery noodles, I asked them what they missed about America.
I thought they would say “knowing the language,” “fabric softener,” or “hot showers and air conditioning.” The answer was none of the above. They missed Mexican food.
Now that I have an extra appreciation for how our friends felt, I’m even happier that we tried Mexican food in Thailand. It was a mad experiment in international food relations. Our burrito was more of a spring roll, with thoughtfully applied ketchup in place of salsa. Mexican food in Siem Reap, Cambodia was a little better. The “guacamole” was bright green and appeared to be made of peas, but at least the consistency was right. The chips were made of crispy rice paper and the salsa was edible. I watched my friends savor each bite and thought, these poor souls. They simply don’t remember what it tastes like.
Mexican food is a uniquely American experience. You’d think it would be a uniquely Mexican experience, but no. Unless you live in Texas, the Southwest, or Southern California, “Mexican food” is a bizarre hybrid of American, Latin American, Caribbean and South American cuisine. It’s massive burritos with sour cream AND guacamole, margaritas from a machine, Cuban black beans, and deep-fried taco bowls with salad inside (you know, so it’s healthy). It’s kind of disgusting, and I totally miss it.
This year, I can relate to my worldly friends more than ever. Belgrade doesn’t really do Mexican food. Serbians are generally not fond of anything spicy. Mexican ingredients are rarer than an empty seat on the 41 bus line. Black beans? Forget it. Hot sauce? Ha! Cilantro is the Bigfoot of Belgrade markets–people claim they’ve seen it, but they can’t remember where. If they do find it, they paid a huge price and then never see it again. Maybe that’s how I should have spent my time here–forming a black market for cilantro and picante sauce.
There are Mexican restaurants in Belgrade–just not any good ones. Beans are canned and bland. phyllo dough is used instead of tortillas. Some grocery stores do sell flour tortillas (how are Serbians using these?) so at least I can make my own fajitas and tacos. It’s not quite the same.
Fortunately, we found authentic American-Mexican food at Iguana. Unfortunately, Iguana is in…Budapest. Yes, that’s three hours away, but we travel there pretty frequently and three hours is a lot closer than Texas. When the craving gets too bad, Muz and I count down the days until we’re back in Budapest so we can get the best quesadillas this side of the Atlantic. On our last visit, we even ordered jalepeno poppers.
I wouldn’t order these in the States if you paid me, but here they were good. Actual jalepenos, lightly battered, served with a local cheese that was a better replacement for cheddar and sour cream. What’s that on the side? Why, it’s a Michelada: a delicious concoction of lime juice and beer with a salt rim. Technically there should be some tomato juice too, but I’m not complaining.
We’ve been to Iguana five or six times this year, and it never failed to make us happy. It’s a little slice of home in a part of the world where “run for the border” has an entirely different connotation. But now that we’re leaving, I can’t help but wonder if I even remember what it should taste like. I guess I’ll find out soon.
When it comes to shoe repair, Belgrade dwarfs the competition
Should you wake up in a foreign city with no recollection of where you are, look out the window. If there’s a lingerie shop, obucar (cobbler), and hairdresser on your street, congratulations! You’re in Belgrade.
Belgrade has the highest obucar-to-person ratio in the world.* If these numbers are any indication, it’s a pretty good business. Like most other cities, Belgrade obucar also provide key-cutting services. (Begging the eternal question, what does shoe repair and metal filing have in common?) I’m not surprised that there are so many obucar here. Everyone walks in Belgrade and shoes are expensive to replace. But I am surprised that every single obucar has one of these in the window.
Where do these come from? Is one given with every cobbler license? “Congratulations Milan, here is your obucar certificate and cermonial troll to put in the window.” Whatever the reason, no obucar seems complete without one. Belgrade shoe repair is not for the pediophobic.
This is my obucar of choice. He’s reasonable, fast, and has FOUR trolls in his window. That’s got to mean something, right?
*Completely invented fact
Church (signs) on Sunday
Readers, it has been a very busy day, so forgive me for not doing my usual research and posting about a European church. Instead, I’d like to introduce my Balkan readers to an American church phenomenon: bizarre signs. In many towns throughout the southern and middle United States, Christian churches (usually Protestant denominations) have bulletin boards for announcements. Occasionally, churches use the board to grab the attention of passerby. Some are funny;
some are corny;
and some are just…dumb.
I can’t imagine seeing these in front of an Orthodox church. What would the signs say? Possible ideas:
- Come for the service, stay for the rakija.
- Being 45 minutes late isn’t a sin, but stop doing it anyway.
- Is a latex micromini really appropriate to wear to your aunt’s second wedding? (Answer: yes.)
Serbians are funnier than I am, and I’m sure readers can do better in the comments. Until then, you can see more weird American church signs HERE.
I’ll bet people had fun explaining this one to their kids…
Fall for Belgrade
Belgrade fall comes in with a bang. Last Friday I wore a skirt and t-shirt; the next day I grumpily wore a wool coat. I’ve always resented fall weather. Spring is a time of hope. Summer is a time of ease. After long days of outdoor dining and tiny sandals, autumn arrives as an unwelcome guest. It shows up at the front door with a garbage bag of shorter, colder days. It brings the ghosts of back-to-school dismay and laughs when last year’s favorite sweater reveals a moth hole. It sleeps on the couch for a couple of weeks and leaves behind slushy streets and sore throats. It’s almost as bad as my freshman year roommate.
I truly resent fall now, since it also signifies the end of my time in Belgrade. Yet even a curmudgeon like me can’t deny that it’s a special time here. The leaves are changing in Kalemegdan, but everything still looks green and leafy. Cafes keep their outdoor tables but now offer blankets. Gangly school children show off their new sneakers. Mothers ignore the midday warmth and insist on down coats and thick scarves. There’s also a most unexpected delight: the smell of fall in Belgrade.
Some days I wake up to the smell of burning wood from a chimney or rakija still. I walk through the sweet, charcoal aroma of roga peppers roasting for ajvar. I savor Knez Mihailova’s bouquet of grilled corn, charred chestnuts, and fresh popcorn. When the rain stops, I catch a whiff of clean grass and barely rotting leaves. Fall may be an unwanted visitor, but at least he doesn’t stink.
Fall is better than the next guest, Old Man Winter. His bouquet will be sour. Before the municipal heat turns on, some people will burn refuse for warmth. The odor of melted wood varnish and tires will trudge into the city, float on air particulates, and tickle noses in the middle of the night. Fall might be a nuisance, but winter is simply rude. So I’ll enjoy the fall smells—and sights, and sounds—of Belgrade for as long as I can. I’ll miss this city more than all my strappy sandals combined.
Photo credit: Marcus Agar (aka W!ldRooster) instagram via twitter. Check out his website at http://wildrooster.blogspot.com/
Top 10 Signs You May Live in Belgrade
I’ve been compiling a “You know you’re in Belgrade when…” list for a while, but it never seemed finished. Now I realize it will probably never be finished; there are too many observations and too many missed opportunities for one person to do it in one year.
I also realize that many of these things aren’t unique to Belgrade, but hey, that’s where I live. Enlighten me if you’d like and add your own thoughts in the comments!
(P.S. This photo is a bit misleading…it was taken in Subotica, not Belgrade.)
Top 10 Signs You May Live in Belgrade
1. You park on the sidewalk and walk in the street.
2. You know 8 Pedjas, 6 Dragans/Draganas, and 3 Zorans/Zoranas. Let’s not even talk about the Milicas, Anjas and Minas.
3. Your favorite bar has no food, but an extensive cigarette menu.
4. You’ve bought 15 “orphanage” cards from strangers on the street…who never give you envelopes.
5. Grocery shopping involves a pijaca, at least one Mini Maxi, and a stop at Stampa for smokes.
6. Elderly women are far stronger than you are. (That’s what happens when you carry 30 pounds of vegetables around every other day.)
7. If you’re a woman, your closet is full of galoshes and stilettos. If you’re a man, you have five pairs of pristine sneakers.
8. You’re more loyal to your bakery than your church.
9. The pharmacies are full of medicine, but none are as strong as rakija.
10. Everyone laughs at superstitions…and then follows them.
Welcome to the Jungle: A Guns n’ Roses Tribute in Zemun
We recently hosted our last (and ninth!) group of American visitors last week, aka FK Milos. They saw the usual sights: Kalemegdan, Knez Mihailova, and… Jailbreak, a local Guns n’ Roses tribute band.
An FK Milos member spotted this poster on the right. After serious consideration (about ten seconds) we decided to see how Serbia did Slash, Axl, and the less memorable members of the band.
Jailbreak was playing at Klub Fest, a local music venue in Zemun. It would appear that Klub Fest is the equivalent of an American “18-and-over” club, which in Belgrade means “13 and over.” I felt like I was babysitting. In 1989. I haven’t seen that many GnR shirts since I was at the Jersey Shore in middle school.
Other than the tots, the Klub was a nice venue. It’s small, smoky, and even has reserved tables for those mysterious Beogradjani who schedule things in advance. We made ourselves comfortable by the bar and wondered when the band would come on stage.
Around midnight, the lights dimmed and the show went on. “Axl” had the requisite long red hair and lanky figure. “Slash” had a long curly wig and was, um, less lanky.
Okay, so maybe they didn’t exactly look like the real thing. But have you seen Axl lately? I think this is a major improvement.
The band started off with an acoustic set, then got the house rocking with an electric set after intermission. The acoustics of Klub Fest were decent, the beer was cold, and the crowd was awesome. Zemun may not be Paradise City, but it was close enough for our own band of Belgrade-loving, fist-pumping Americans. Rock on, Zemun.
Jailbreak plays clubs around Belgrade and throughout the Balkans. For the Klub Fest schedule, click HERE. Jailbreak’s Facebook page can be found HERE.
Bizarre Belgrade: the urban outdoor shower
After last week’s “Bizarre Budapest” posts, I thought that Hungary shouldn’t have all the weird, I mean, fun. So here’s a photo of what Muz claims is an outdoor shower on an urban terrace by Oslobedenja, a major road/highway leading out of town. Hint: it’s the corner terrace that is open to the elements.
I still refuse to believe that this is used as a shower (wouldn’t you want an outdoor shower to be more enclosed?), but it’s hard to argue with these photos.
Maybe it’s used for gardening? Washing laundry? Hosing off a slaughtered slava feast pig? Inspiring Seinfeld episodes about Serbian shower heads? These uses seem more plausible than an exposed outdoor shower–but a little bizarre nonetheless.
Balkan beats banned from Macedonian buses
Okay, so it’s not Serbia, but I thought this article was too good to pass up. From the Associated Foreign Press:
SKOPJE — Public transport bus drivers in Macedonia’s capital have been asked to replace turbo folk melodies popular throughout the Balkans with classical tunes and easy listening music, officials said Friday.
After numerous passenger complaints, managers of Skopje’s public transport company JSP decided to equip new Chinese-made double-decker buses with about 400 song-playlists prepared by Macedonia’s prominent DJs.
“Our passengers complained demanding the music be changed. I know that we cannot satisfy everyone’s taste, but I believe most of them will be happy with the choice,” manager Miso Nikolov said.
No turbo folk? I can’t imagine this in Belgrade. Listening to turbo folk is a god-given right here, like smoking and nursing coffee for two hours. For those who don’t know what turbo folk is, it’s traditional Serbian (or Balkan) music set to a techno beat. There are tons of examples, but here’s one from Ceca, Belgrade’s arguably most famous turbofolk singer.
I don’t know whether I’m proud, embarrassed or indifferent that I (1) know this song and (2) no longer consider turbofolk a “change the station” moment. I’m pretty sure that we don’t have any music on Belgrade buses, but if we do, I’m very sure that there’s some turbofolk and that it’s here to stay.
You can read the full AFP article HERE.
Church on Sunday: A rocky afternoon at Sziklatemplom Church, Budapest
On a previous trip to Budapest with friends, someone asked me about the cross on top of a rock near Gellért Baths. A quick peek at the guidebook revealed that it was Sziklatemplom, a church built in a natural cave. While my companions decided to relax in Gellert’s thermal baths, I explored the cave church. Dedicated blogger or poor decision-maker? You decide.
Church admission comes with a free audio guide. The church chapels were created from a natural cave system. The caves were first inhabited by a hermit monk who used the hill’s thermal waters to help cure the sick. (If he was a hermit, how was he meeting and treating people? Just a thought.) The cave turned into an official Paulite church in 1926 and it was later expanded. The Paulite order is the only native Hungarian order. According to random internet sources (only the best for you guys!) it was founded in 1256, ended in 1773, and was re-instated in 1923; the monks of the order were once confessors to Hugarian Kings.
Oddly, the audio guide didn’t detail some of the church’s more interesting–and tragic–history. In 1951, during Hungary’s Communist era, the police sentenced Sziklatemplom’s chief Bishop to treason and death. Other monks were given prison sentences, and the church was sealed. After the fall of Communism in 1989, the Paulite order reopened the church for service.
The audio guide also featured a surprising amount of proselytizing. I skipped over some of this to focus on the discussion of the church, but to be honest, the architecture isn’t that interesting. It’s a simple church but not quite humble and not quite quaint. If you don’t have a lot of time in Budapest, I’d advise you to follow the lead of my friends and check out Gellért instead. Or go to a jewelry store on Vaci Utca and check out the best kind of rocks: sparkly.
To reach the church, go to Gellért hotel, face outside of the doors. Look for the big white cross; the church is below the cross and next to a statue of St. Istvan.
