Some language and photo highlights

I promised you my molasses story. I have heard from some people (one person commenting here, and from friends in Sarajevo) that it is possible to find molasses in the region. Maybe that's true, maybe they were just teasing me, but this is what happened when I tried to buy it.

Maggie, having already invited several Serbian friends over for a gingerbread house making party, needs to find molasses to make said gingerbread. She goes to the biggest grocery store she knows, the one where she can find fresh ginger and mangoes, and has this conversation (in Serbian):
Maggie: Hello, I have a question.
Store clerk: OK, go ahead.
M: OK. I need to buy something, but I don't know if you have it, and I don't know how to say it in Serbian.
SC: OK... well, what is it?
M: I don't know. In English we call it molasses.
SC: I don't know what that is. What's it like?
M: It's like honey, but it's black.
SC: Black honey? We have that.
M: No, it's not honey. But it's LIKE honey. But it's not honey. It's black and sweet and... like honey. You cook with it. You can't eat it. I mean, you can eat it, but you can't eat it alone. I mean, you can, but that is gross.
SC: ...OK. Follow me. (Shows Maggie to the honey shelf. Hands her a jar of black honey).
M: This is honey.
SC: Yes, this is black honey.
M: No, what I want is not honey. But it is like honey (wishes desperately that she knew the word for "sticky" or "thick").
SC: I don't think we have what you want.
M: OK. Thanks anyway. (walks away, and accepts defeat).

Not all is lost, however. I free-hand cut house pieces from sugar cookie dough, baked those, and we put them together with homemade butter cream frosting. It worked pretty well!

The materials....



The process...





The finished products!



My friends had never made cookie houses before and were eager to try. They kept asking at what point we eat them... I think the concept of cookies just for decoration is pretty American (both showy AND wasteful! Yay!)

Otherwise, though, the winter has been progressing nicely, and by "nicely" I mean with a shit ton of snow, and then a warm front to melt it all. We did have fun with the kids at work in the snow, though, while it was here.

In conclusion, here are a few more examples of me making an ass out of myself in a foreign language (since apparently these are popular).

Buying cheese in the market:
Cheese guy: Would you like to buy some of this cheese, too? It's very good.
Maggie: No thanks, it's my first time.
Cheese guy: (concerned face) OK... well... enjoy....
(I mixed up "first time" and "another time". Earlier that day I had told someone that it was my first time in Europe, and apparently I can only use one phrase a day.)

While sitting (alone) at a bus station waiting to be picked up by friends for the weekend:
Stranger: Miss, do you need some help?
Maggie: No, thanks, I'm waiting with friends.
Stranger: (looks around deserted bus station) OK....
(za prijatelje (for friends) vs. sa prijateljima (with friends)... I guess I need to study the cases again).

At home, listening to music:
Friend: Is this on youtube or do you have it on your computer?
Maggie: It's mine. I bought this song because I love you.
*crickets chirping*
Maggie: OH! OH! I mean, I bought this song because I love IT! I mean, I like you, but, this song... I.... um....

It's beginning to look a [little] like [something sort of resembling] Christmas...

Everyone has problems. The secret is not looking for a life without problems, but finding creative ways to meet your problems; notice I said meet... not necessarily solve. Thus, I give you:

The Lone American Volunteer in Serbia's Guide to Christmas

PROBLEM: You are a protestant living in an Orthodox country. What you have always celebrated as Christmas (December 25th) is not a holiday where you live.

SOLUTION: Make work special that day. Make your students balloon animals and give them candy canes sent from the US. Invite orthodox friends over for a special dinner; after all, it's not like they're doing anything that night!

PROBLEM: Nativity scenes are a big part of the holiday season for you, both because you're a Christian, and because they are a family/cultural tradition. You miss the nativity sets in your parents' house: the one your grandpa carved by hand from wood, the ceramic one you spent hours playing with as a child, the one your sister brought back from Ghana.

SOLUTION: Buy a nativity set in Serbia.

PROBLEM: You can't find a nativity set that costs less than $30, which is half your monthly income.

SOLUTION: Make your own nativity set out of salt dough.

PROBLEM: You had to bake your nativity set figures on their backs because the salt dough wouldn't allow them to stand up on the cookie sheet. Now Mary, Joseph, the wise men, the shepherd, and the angel can't stand up at all. Only Jesus in the manger and the sheep, who is lying down, look normal.

SOLUTION: Throw everyone but Jesus and the sheep away. Paint them, put them on display, and claim it is a visual reference to Jesus as the Good Shepherd.

PROBLEM: Almost all Christmas songs with any sort of deep or personal meaning make you burst into tears, especially ones involving the words "family", "friends", or "home".

SOLUTION: Listen to Santa Baby and Baby It's Cold Outside on repeat. Sing along. Declare "Serbian Sexy" as the theme for this year's Christmas.

PROBLEM: Making gingerbread houses from scratch with the mold your grandmother gave you is a tradition, but that mold is now in Virginia and your mother refuses to spend the $80 to ship it to you.

SOLUTION: Throw a gingerbread house making party for your Serbian friends, using hand cut gingerbread pieces instead of the mold. They won't really know what you're talking about, but will be interested. It helps if you claim it will be like the house in Hansel and Gretel and tell them they can eat the candy.

PROBLEM: There is no molasses in Serbia [see future post for Maggie Makes an Idiot of Herself While Trying to Buy Molasses story] and you can't make gingerbread without molasses.

SOLUTION: Make sugar cookie houses. Decorate with (homemade) colored frosting, sprinkles, gummi bears and gummi dinosaurs.

PROBLEM: Everyone you love and everyone who loves you live on another continent.

SOLUTION: Skype with family and friends. Use your time to work on new relationships where you are. Count your blessings. After all, the first Christmas took place when Joseph, Mary, and Jesus were away from home, too. At least you're not in a barn.

"[Maybe next year] we all will be together,
If the fates allow,
Until then we'll have to muddle through somehow...
So have yourself a merry little Christmas now."

"but WHERE is the MONKEY??"

Language differences continue to be both the most difficult and most amusing part of my time in Serbia.

It almost feels like I am making more mistakes the more I learn, because now I understand just enough of what people are saying to THINK I understand what they mean. A popular one to mention with my friends here is kofa vs. kafa. Kofa is a bucket, and kafa is coffee. A few weeks ago a girl was in our apartment and feeling sick. She put her head between her knees... and then threw up between her knees, onto the floor. Repeatedly. We all jumped into action, and I, of course, wanted to be as helpful as possible. I understood that one person was saying (in Sebian) "Go get the kofa! Bring the kofa!" I didn't know the word 'kofa', so I heard it as 'kafa' (a word I know and love). I thought it was a bit odd that they wanted to give the puking girl coffee, but Serbs LOVE coffee, and also have many "home remedies" for ailments that I find perplexing. They want coffee, I thought. Great. I can do that. So I made coffee, and I got some REALLY funny looks when I brought it into the room.

The language barrier really goes both ways, though. Like I've said before, people in Belgrade, especially people my age, tend to speak excellent English. That being said, some things just don't translate. My first gut-busting laughter since coming back from the funeral was shared with my roommate in our kitchen. I was washing dishes, and she was using a laptop I had borrowed from work at the kitchen table. She went to log in to facebook and couldn't find the "@" symbol, since international keyboards vary. She looked up and, with all seriousness, asked me in English, "Where is the monkey?". We hadn't been living together very long at this point, so I didn't want to freak her out or accuse her of smoking crack, so I did my best to maintain a straight face and said, "Milana, we don't HAVE a monkey." After several "what?"s, "WHAT??"s, and "What do you MEAN??"s, we figured it out. In Serbian, the "@" is called "majmunce", or "the little monkey". Since it doesn't make sense, she assumed it was a term they had borrowed from English. Needless to say to the native English speakers reading this blog... it's not.

There have been some fun times with people who are learning English as well. One of my colleagues at the kindergarten told me the day we met that he doesn't speak English. He said it in excellent English, though, which was confusing. I believe his exact words were: "Hi! I'm Kolja. I'm sorry, I don't speak English. I only know some English from watching TV". That boy must have watched a LOT of TV, though, because we have had several long conversations in English. I think what he, and a lot of Serbs, meant by "I don't speak English" was really "my English isn't perfect." That is true. Multiple times now he has asked me, "Maggie, do you want to go to bed with me?". The first time this was especially confusing (and I should mention here that this particular colleague is very handsome, wears funny shirts, is great with kids, and smells like fabric softener [in a good way]). The first time he asked, I think I just looked at him for a while, and then he motioned for me to follow him to the basement. WELL, who am I to argue? I'm a great cross cultural ambassador, I would ever be culturally insensitive and turn down a social invitation, and I love fabric softener, so I followed him to the basement... where we set up the little beds where the younger kids take naps. I should maybe tell him what he is implying with the way he says this, but I enjoy being propositioned too much to correct him.

Finally, there are the different ways Serbian and English are difficult. English grammar, compared to nearly any other language, is ridiculously easy. I laugh, you laugh, (s)he laughs, we laugh, y'all laugh, they laugh. No cases for nouns (with the possible exception of pronouns) and no genders. Serbian grammar is NUTS, with 7 cases for nouns, genders, confusing accents, and letters I can't pronounce. Serbian, however, is completely phonetic. "Write as you speak, and read as it's written" (Thanks, Vuk Karadžić!). Every letter in Serbian has ONE sound, and the sound can't be changed by the order of the surrounding letters. There are no silent letters, no Is before Es except after Cs or when sounding like A as in neighbor or weigh. It is pure, honest, and straightforward, and once you learn the rules, they don't change. This is why I can read books to my students. I usually have no idea what I'm saying, but I can read, and they understand what I'm saying. Thus, the most difficult thing for Serbs learning English is the crazy way things are written and pronounced. One of my friends from work speaks English well, but has never learned to read or write it, so she just writes it like it's Serbian, leading to things like this (actual text message I received): "Ajm lejt bikoz aj vejt bas. Aj bi der for 10min." That's in English... um, kind of. If you read it with Serbian rules of pronunciation (and grammar) it says "I'm late because I wait bus. I be there for 10 min", or, with English grammar, "I'm late because I'm waiting for the bus. I will be there in 10 min." I have this message saved in my phone, and will keep it forever. It is the most endearing text I've ever gotten.

I have a new Serbian teacher now, so I making faster progress on more practical things. I have also gotten over a lot of my anxieties about practicing what little I do know, because I've realized people think my accent and inability to hear the difference between "Č" and "Ć" or say "Lj" is cute, and it's a good way to make friends (and be kissed... somehow it's a fairly common occurance for me to say something in Serbian and for someone to laugh, put thier hands on my head, and kiss my cheek.) Dosta mi je težak, ALI, snalazim se... nekako. :o)

I spent this past weekend in Sarajevo visiting with my region representatives and another service worker in the region. We went on a hike through the mountains near Sarajevo and went to this waterfall, which was one of the most beautiful places I have ever been. I don't think I even realized how sad I have been until I was standing on this bridge, feeling the spray of the waterfall on my face... it sounds stupid, I'm sure, but there was something healing about it.






"...let justice roll down like waters, and righteousness like an everflowing stream." Amos 5:24

Ne razumem...

I haven't written anything for a while, and I apologize to those of you who have been waiting on the edge of your seats. I would love to tell you that I have been too busy learning Serbian to write anything, but then you might ask me to say something, and I would have to admit that I still know next to nothing.

In theory I work at the kindergarten from 8 until 1, and then have Serbian lessons from 4- 5:30 during the week. I also have about an hour and a half of homework every day. So, that means I am spending about five hours a day working, and three hours a day learning the language. In truth, however, I learn much more Serbian at the kindergarten than I do in my lessons. At work learn things like "Don't put that in your mouth!" "Sit down!" "Eat your cabbage!" and "Don't open the bunny cage!". In my lessons I learn things like "There is a shift and change of stress in many Class I disyllabic masculine nouns with the short-rising accent on the first, and the length on the second syllable. The accent shifts to the middle syllable and changes into the long rising one in all cases except the vocative singular." Incidentally, I always thought I was good at learning languages before I tried to learn Serbian. It turns out I happen to have studded easy languages.

People in Belgrade tend to speak very good English. In fact, the only people I have met who ACTUALLY don't speak English are either elderly or under 10. Many people between those two groups will claim they don't speak English, but they usually do and are just being modest (or don't want to talk to me). There seems to be an attitude here that everyone *should* know English, and when people think their English isn't very good, they're embarrassed. I have even been asked by more than one person why I am trying to learn Serbian, because it is "such a small language", and "only relevant here." I hardly know what to say to those people. I am learning Serbian because I LIVE here, because I look like an idiot in the grocery store, because I can't talk to my students, because I respect you enough to try to address you in your native tongue... the list for THAT goes on and on.

Despite my genuine efforts to progress, I still fail at most things most days with this language. Some fun examples:

(At work):
Kindergartner: Maggie, you are American?
Maggie: Yes I am.
Kindergartner: Do you LIVE in America??
Maggie: (confusing the verb "to live" with the verb "to come from") Yes, I do!
Kindergartner: WHOAAAAA!!!!!!
(Several hours later)
Maggie: (to self) Why was she so shocked that I am from the US?? OH CRAP she asked if I lived there NOW... she thinks I am commuting every day to Belgrade from DC... oh dear.


(With friends)
Friend: (sneezes)
Maggie: (literal translation) Shhh, kitty!
Friends: HAHAHAHAHAHAHA
Maggie: What!? Isn't that what you say when someone sneezes??
Friend: That is what you say when you are 6 and someone sneezes.
(guess where I learned it?)

(At the grocery store)
Maggie: (struggles to figure out how to get the little scale to print the sticker so she can buy her lemons. Motions to the clerk for help).
Clerk: (points at lemons) Lemons?
Maggie: (conditioned response) I don't speak Serbian.

(At home)
Doorbell rings. Maggie is home alone and answers it. A large, very scary looking man is standing there.
Man: Hello.
Maggie: Hello.
Man: Is your TV working?
Maggie: (WTF? Did Milana call someone to fix the TV? Shouldn't he have some kind of uniform on if he works for the TV company? Maybe they don't have uniforms for TV guys in Serbia. If I let him in, he will probably kill me, but it might be culturally insensitive to not let him in. It's raining, maybe he wants coffee. Maybe if I make him coffee he won't kill me...)
Man: IS... YOUR... TV.... WORKING?
Maggie: (what the hell) No, it is not working.
Man: OK. (enters house. Messes with TV.) (bunch of stuff in Serbian)
Maggie: (nods)
Man: (bunch of stuff in Serbian), understand?
Maggie: yes.
Man: (bunch of stuff in Serbian) TV not works (something in Serbian) understand?
Maggie: Yes.
Man: (Bunch of stuff in Serbian) understand? (Messes with TV. Bunch of stuff in Serbian that sounds like a question.)
Maggie: Yes?
Man: Yes??
Maggie: No?
Man: Good. (bunch of stuff in Serbian. TV starts working. Bunch more stuff in Serbian.) You speak Serbian well.
Maggie: Thank you. I am learning the language.

So it goes.

Another MCC worker in the region had some really interesting things to say about learning the language. He will be serving in Sanski Most, Bosnia and Herzegovina, but is living in Sarajevo for a few months to study language. You can read his thoughts here: http://matthewharms.wordpress.com/2009/10/25/what-exactly-am-i-speaking/ (it isn't letting me put it in as a link and my computer skills are as limited as my language skills, so you can cut and paste. I trust you).

If you can't tell from that post, he knows a LOT more of the language than I do. I bet if asked if he was buying lemons, he would say, yes, I am buying lemons. The he would probably proceed to have a conversation in the local language about Yugoslavian literature. Not that I am bitter. I am learning the language, too... polako, i malo po malo.

Cute fuzzy kittens

Yesterday night as I was coming home from a cafe I saw a kitten on the corner of my street. He looked like he was about 6 weeks old and was black and white. It was a very cold night, and he looked so cute, and I have really wanted a cat lately, so I seriously considered picking him up and taking him home. I wasn't sure how my roommate feels about cats, though, and I don't really have enough money to buy cat food, so I left him there.

Today on my way home from work I saw him again a little further up the street. This time he was lying dead on the sidewalk with his throat ripped open. It looked like one of the stray dogs got him.

Some days are harder than others. I guess that's true no matter who and where you are, though.

Concrete Phoenix

The careful observers among you may have noticed the title change to this blog. "like a concrete phoenix" is a reference to Belgrade in the Bradt guidebook to Belgrade by Laurence Mitchell that the previous SALTer gave me. The full description is this:

Belgrade has the dubious distinction of the only European city to have been bombed on five separate occasions in the same century: during WWI (twice), followed by Nazi bombers in 1941, Allied bombers in 1944 and NATO bombers in 1999. Somehow, Belgrade always manages to rebuild and resurface like a concrete phoenix, only too aware that, lying as it does on a geopolitical, religious and cultural fault line, 'inconveniences' such as war, invasions and air raids inevitably go with the territory.

If it is not clear from this paragraph, the description- and the entire book- is clearly written with love by someone who deeply admires the beauty and strength and limitless character of this city. And I don't just say that to make up for loving on Sarajevo in the last post.

Anyway, that description always interested me, and now it has taken on special meaning. I am going to take a cue from beautiful Beograd and bear my own burdens with grace and strength. If Belgrade can survive- and, dare I say, thrive- through and despite all that it has, I can certainly spend this year (or years) in this place growing and learning through and despite my own circumstance of loss and pain and sorrow. I don't dare claim to be a concrete phoenix myself, but I aim to be at least worthy to live in one.

Further encouragement to stick it out came today in two wonderful letters, one from my grandmother and one from a dear childhood friend. They were both written before my father died, but could not have come at a better time or with more appropriate words. My grandmother writes "...think only of what is being added to your life, not what you miss," and my friend writes, "dig your toes in deep, love, do not let go."

I can't promise either of those things, but I will do my best... like a concrete phoenix.

Home again, home again.

Ask me how my trip back to Serbia was. I dare you.

I knew it would be a long day of travel. We decided it would be best for me to spend a few days with other MCC people in Sarajevo, Bosnia before returning to Belgrade, so I was supposed to fly from Washington DC to London, London to Belgrade, and then Belgrade to Sarajevo (it was cheaper to fly into Belgrade and then to Sarajevo than it was to change my destination from Belgrade to Sarajevo). That is a lot of flying, and with connections on top of it, I knew to expect a lot of movement and perhaps some stress. I did not know to expect the Spanish Inquisition.

My flight from DC into London was a bit late, and I missed my connecting flight by about 45 seconds. The plane wasn't at the gate, the passengers had to take a little bus out to the plane on the runway, and I literally saw it pull away. The people at the desk said it couldn't come back for me, and that I should go to the information desk to sort out how to get to Belgrade. That seemed reasonable enough, so I went to the desk and explained the situation. I asked when the next flight to Belgrade was, and the woman said, "same time tomorrow." This was about 7:30 AM in London, 2:30 AM body time, and I hadn't slept at all on the plane. I was tired and confused and did NOT want to stay overnight in London, so I did something I'm not super proud of. My voice wavered a little bit and my eyes (conveniently!) filled with tears as I explained, "I'm not sure if tomorrow will work... I'm actually traveling for a funeral." Please notice that I didn't lie, per se. I didn't say I was GOING to a funeral, I said I was TRAVELING for one, which I was. The funeral is why I was traveling right then... I just happened to be traveling HOME from it... four weeks later. The woman's face changed, and she said she would "see what she could do." I said thank you, and fought back tears, which were about 50% genuine and 50% to get me on a quicker flight. She was able to get me on a 2:30 PM flight to Belgrade with JAT airlines. She got very serious and said I needed to be quite quick, as I would need to go to another terminal to catch that flight. I said that was fine, and the plan was set.

In Washington or Chicago or New York or ANY OTHER AIRPORT I have EVER been in, going to another terminal involves walking a bit, maybe getting on a little tram or bus, and walking a bit more. At Hethrow, however, going to another terminal involves 4 times zones and requires a sherpa. First, I had to be escorted out of the current terminal BY SECURITY. So that was fun. Then I had to go through immigration, fill out the little card thing, and even got a UK stamp on my passport (which was actually pretty exciting, I'll take all the stamps I can get!). Then I had to go collect my luggage. I should point out now that I had a LOT of luggage. I kept thinking of more and more things at my mom's house that I could use in Serbia, and I was bringing gifts for the other service workers and a few Serbian friends, and I had bought a lot of clothes in the US because I had done such a terrible job packing. As a result, I had two giant 50 pound suitcases, one of which was mostly full of maple syrup. Thankfully my luggage hadn't made it onto the flight either, so I was able to collect it, go through customs (thankfully they didn't ask why I had 4 bottles of vanilla extract...)and was off to find terminal 2!

Terminal 2 is, apparently, in northern Africa. After officially entering the UK, I have to get on a subway system- WITH my 100 pounds of syrup and 30 pounds of carry-on luggage- and ride to the next train stop. I finally lugged all the bags onto the train and found a seat. Then I watched the informational video of the TV in front of me about the on board showers, wireless internet, sleeping cars, and- hold up. SHOWERS? Where the hell was this TAKING me?

The train ride really wasn't that long, maybe 10 minutes. True to their word, the Brits had put helpful signs directing me from the train platform to terminal 2. What the neglected to put on the signs was that it is about 400 miles, uphill, while- again- carrying about 130 pounds of things that I suddenly could not remember why I ever wanted after not having slept for a day. I finally found terminal 2 and no one was at the JAT counter because it was more than 3 hours before the flight.

I should point out that, at this point, I didn't even care if I got on a flight to Belgrade. I would have happily gotten on a plane to Sarajevo, or Sofia or Istanbul, for that matter. I would have gotten on a school bus if they told me it would take me to the Balkans. But there was no school bus, and no one offered Sofia, so I waited for the JAT airline people, checked in, re-checked my bags, and went to wait in the airport.

I supposed the rest of the trip was uneventful. Once in Belgrade I had to go through customs again, collect my bags again, then re-check them to Sarajevo, and go through security again (twice! I was very secure). When I landed in Sarajevo it was about 10:00 pm and I hadn't slept since Sunday night in the US. There was also snow on the ground, and I was in a dress... note to self: when in Sarajevo in October, wear pants. Maybe 2 pairs.

The time in Sarajevo was wonderful, though. I hope Belgrade won't feel like I am cheating on it when I say that Sarajevo is a beautiful, beautiful city. It has such great intensity of passion and depth of character. It has been though some pretty deep shit but wears even the wounds of war with dignity. It is a place where a foreigner can feel safe and welcome, but it also doesn't reveal all that it is and has seen and survived all at once and, thus, remains endlessly interesting. If that city were a man, I would marry him, no questions asked.

And so it goes.

Well.

When all of this first happened, there was no doubt in my mind that I would go back to Serbia. For one, what would I DO in the US? I doubt I could find a job, and if I could, there is no way I would love it as much as I love my job in Belgrade. I don't like leaving things undone. I signed up to live in Belgrade for at least a year, and wasn't ready to let go of it.

Then I started thinking about what going back would actually look like. I adore Belgrade, I love my job, and have met some really lovely people. The fact of the matter, however, is that I still don't have any close friends there, and certainly no network of friends and family who know me intimately and love me no matter what I do. Living alone in a country where I know no one and can't speak the language was difficult and lonely at times. Losing my father has been incredibly painful. I started to wonder... do I want to combine something very lonely with something very painful? That seems like a bad combination.

There was a day or two where I thought I couldn't go back. I was too sad, too tired, too scared to do anything. I talked to my region directors about how to get my belongings back to the US. I talked to my family about living here. And I talked to a pastor who knows me well from college. He didn't tell me what to do, didn't even really offer advice, but he asked the kind of leading questions I needed to be asked. A specific Bible verse came to mind while speaking to him (perhaps in part because it was the first Bible verse I learned in Spanish while in Nicaragua with this pastor). The verse is 1st John 4:18, "There is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out all fear..." If I stayed in the US it would be because I am scared. I am scared to be alone, scared to fail, scared that if I leave again something else terrible will happen to my family. But fear has nothing to do with love, perfect love casts out all fear. Because God is love, I know that this fear is not from God, and therefore I can be free from its influence. So, yesterday I emailed my region representatives and committed to going back to Serbia. I have my ticket and everything. I am still scared, of course, but I also have the strength and confidence to face the fear.

Like many things I say, this is an idea that has been expressed often (and often more eloquently!) by people before me. So, I will borrow John Newton's words to sum it up:

Through many dangers, toils, and snares I have already come
It was grace that lead me safe this far, and grace will lead me home.

I have often wondered what makes a person an adult. I certainly didn't feel like an adult at 18 (or 19, 20, 21, or 22), didn't feel particularly grown up when I graduated from college, and until now, have sort of been wondering when that transition would happen. I know it doesn't have to be an all-at-once transformation, but I also anticipated things like marriage or childbirth being strong indicators of adulthood. I did not think the death of a parent would be my first major growing up moment, and find it almost funny that it has had such an effect on my self perception. Not "haha", funny, of course, but funny because I feel like an adult for the first time at a point when more than ever I want to curl up in someone's lap, cry, be held, have my hair stroked, and all my decisions made for me.

One of the (many) challenges I am seeing in the aftermath of my father's death is that it feels like I am living two incomplete lives. I am here in the states with my family until the 12th of October, but don't really have anything to do. While my sisters and mother return to their homes and slowly begin their daily activities, I wait... feel sad... find things in the house to clean... but as much as it feels like there is nothing for me here, there is, perhaps, almost less for me in Belgrade. Here I have so many dear friends, and of course my family... in Belgrade I have an apartment and a job (and all of my physical possessions) but little in the way of a support network. Where does that leave me, then? In limbo, in neutral, in the in-between, stalled, frozen, STUCK. Between where I grew up and where I want to be, between my responsibilities to my family and my aspirations for my career, between childhood and an adult life for which I might not be ready.

Of course, no one asked if I was ready. I keep thinking about the last time I talked to my dad on the phone, and the chances I had to call home that I turned down. The fact of the matter is, however, no matter when the last time I spoke to him was or could have been, I wouldn't have known it would be the last time, so I wouldn't have known to make it special. That paradox hurts. I am living day by day, moment to moment, taking the fears and sorrow and hope in bite size amounts, because that is all I can do right now (and, in the larger sense, all any of us can ever do).

The following might seem like a strange thing to put on a blog. This is an incredibly public place, and every day it seems I find out another person I know is reading it. Even some people I DON'T know read it, and to them, this might seem particularly odd. Still, I feel compelled to write it, because if this is supposed to document my year in Serbia, it would be painfully inaccurate if I didn't talk about it. I also hope that in some small way, sharing this with however many people will see it will make it an easier load to bear.

My father died last Tuesday. It was his 60th birthday. In fact, my first whole Serbian sentence that I made up myself, not from a book or for homework, was "Danas je moj onacov rođendan! Srećan rođendan, tata" which (I think) means, "Today is my father's birthday. Happy birthday, dad." (I wasn't 100% sure on the possessive). Anyway, as I was writing that sentence (and feeling proud of myself for being able to), my father had a heart attack while taking a nap and died in his sleep. I found out at about 10:00 pm Belgrade time, and was home in DC by Wednesday evening.

It hurts. I don't recognize my life or my family or myself. I have never felt anything like this before, and I am not a big fan. The neighbors bring food, so we eat it. We put it in our mouths, chew, swallow, and agree that it is good. We are sure it is, but we don't know, because we can't taste yet.

It is exactly like playing in the snow too long. There isn't any pain when your hands and feet are red and raw and numb. The pain comes when you go inside, and the numbness starts to leave. I remind myself that, just like hands numb from the cold, this pain is a good thing. The pain means that the blood is starting to flow to that part of you again, that your heart is beating, that feeling is coming back. Knowing that doesn't make it hurt any less, though. I hear that at some point it will hurt less, but I don't know when that is yet.

I feel like I have gotten to know my father more through the open house and funeral and reception than I did when he was alive. I keep thinking about how much he would have enjoyed the reception after the service, or how pleased he would be to know that they talked about him on NPR. Mostly I keep thinking about the things I want to say to him, the things I didn't think to say when I still living my old life, the life of a child, so I will say them now. Dad, if you're still reading this blog, I want you to know that I love you. I want you to know that I am proud of you, and that I miss you, and that I think I am starting to understand how much you loved me, and that you were proud of me, too. I want you to know you were on NPR, and in the Washington Post, and on the home page of the Newseum website. Mostly I want you to know that I love you.

Tears come in waves, and cards and flowers and emails come by the truck load. So many times I have remained silent when someone I know has lost someone, because I never knew what to say. Now I know that the important thing is just to say SOMETHING, because every text message, facebook post, email, card, and phone call mean something... mean a lot, actually. Each one brings a little hope, a little peace.

I will be going back to Serbia. I don't know when yet, but I know I will go back. I love my life there, and my dad would want me to go back. I know that, because he loved me, and he was proud of me.

Doviđenja, tata. Volim te.

http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2009/09/21/AR2009092103716.html

http://www.newseum.org/news/news.aspx?item=nn_PAGE090917&style=f

http://www.kansas.com/news/obituaries/story/975616.html

Death by stupidity.

I know we all thought that a draft would be what killed me, but it turns out there is another contender for my life: Belgrade's trams.

First, a confession: I am not great with public transportation. I am not afraid of it, but I am not very good at it, either. I can get around just fine on the DC metro, but that is about it (and I have been doing it since I was a child). In Baltimore I sometimes took the bus home from work, but most days it was actually faster to walk. I took the metro in Baltimore once, with housemates, and never used the lightrail. In Belgrade I have been using the buses, trams, and trolleys, but usually with a Serbian friend. I can take the tram to work, but usually walk because the weather is so nice and the bakeries smell so good. So, while I am certainly capable of using public transport, I'm not great at it. I admit that and have come to terms with it. Now I might need to get over it.

Two days ago a friend at work called the internet company to find out why there still wasn't internet in my apartment. He told me that everything was set up, but I had to go to the office to pay them. He explained where the office was, near the city center, which I am pretty familiar with. Another friend looked at the address and said it was near Kalamegdan, which I am also quite familiar with. Another friend had previously told me that tram 5 would take me from my house to Kalemegdan. So, I put two and two (and two) together, and decided that I could be brave and independent and take tram 5 to Kalemegdan, walk towards the city center, find the internet place, give them money, and come home to working internet. Easy. Fast. Non-lethal.

After work I hopped on tram 5. I took a seat and figured I would ride until I saw Kalemegdan, and then I would get off. It seemed a reasonable enough plan. After a few minutes, most people got off the tram... eventually I was the only one in the car (which was the last car, not the one with the driver). That made me a little nervous, but I hadn't seen Kalemagden, so I held my ground. Then I saw that there wasn't anyone in ANY of the cars, except the driver... this made me a little more nervous, but darn it, I wanted internet, and if that meant riding in an empty tram, well, I was going to do it. Then the tram went off the road into a little turn-around kind of place, and turned around. Then it stopped. Then it turned off. Then the driver got out and walked away.

"Nervous" quickly became "quite alarmed", but I thought, you know, I am a strong, young, independent woman, and if nothing else, I can just walk around until I know where I am. I went to the door and pushed the button to open it and... nothing. I was downright terrified now, and ran to the other door and pushed that button and... nothing. I tried to get a few fingers between the doors o pry them open, but they wouldn't budge. One or more of the signs may have had emergency opening procedures on it, but they were all in Serbian (Cyrillic, on top of it! That's just mean, the two alphabets thing...). I tried to open the windows, but they didn't open, either. I saw my life pass before my eyes, and it seemed far too short with not nearly enough traveling. Of all the ways to die, starving or suffocating or simply being scared to death on a tram at the end of the line in Belgrade is really not up there on my list.

There was nothing left to do except yell (and hyperventilate). I could see the driver down the way a bit, smoking a cigarette. I pounded on the windows as loudly as I could, and since neither my Serbian phrase book nor my Serbian lessons covered "For the love of God I am trapped inside the tram", I yelled "MOLIM?? MOLIM??" Which means please, and you're welcome, and is what you say when you answer the phone or when someone says your name to get your attention. It seems like a generally all around polite word, but I was screaming it at a not very polite volume. The driver didn't flinch. I figured maybe my accent was so good he thought I was just a very loud polite Serbian, so I decided to try to convey more of the distressed foreigner persona. "HELLO????" I yelled, still banging on the windows as loudly as possible. The (surprised) driver turned around, and waved at me. Yeah, not the response I was hoping for. I waved back, and then gestured frantically at the doors in my best cross-cultural "OPEN THE DOOR OPEN THE DOOR OPEN THE DOOR" charade. He slooowwwllly walked to the tram, turned it on, and opened the doors. I have never exited anything so quickly in my life.

As I walked past the front car, he said something to me in Serbian (my best guess at translation is: You are the biggest idiot ever. Also, you should find a paper bag to breathe into." I did my best to smile. "...ja sam Amerikanka...", I said meekly. "Ahhh...." he said nodding, as all confusion left his face. Of course you are an American. Americans are often in the habit of not knowing where the end of the tram line is, staying on too long, and then having panic attacks in the back of the car. That explains everything. On your way, then....

As I walked away (and got my bearings- we were at the zoo, behind Kalemegdan... I hadn't seen that side before and didn't recognize it) I couldn't help but laugh.... and laugh and laugh and laugh. A few minutes later the same tram with the same driver passed me on the street. He had only wanted to smoke a cigarette before heading back the other side of the route. Nothing- and I mean nothing- brings more joy than the realization that you will live to see another day in Belgrade... except maybe the realization that you are a huge idiot and need to get off the tram when everyone else gets off the tram.

I paid the internet people, by the way, and am writing this from my apartment. Also, it took me 40 minutes, but I decide to walk the whole way home.

My dreams are toast.

There is a quote in the little book the kindergartners gave me that I have been repeating to myself a lot lately. I don't have it with me, but it says something along the lines of, "If you were lucky enough to wake up in Belgrade this morning you should ask nothing more of life. To ask for more would be immodest."

I guess I got greedy. Today I was supposed to get a TV and a toaster and possibly maybe I was hoping for internet in the apartment, but no go on any of it. For some reason the toaster is the most disappointing loss. I really miss toast. There are a lot of things I would like to have here in Belgrade... friends would be nice. Internet in the apartment would be great. A cheap way to talk to all my friends I (foolishly!) left in the states would be wonderful. An instant ability to speak and understand Serbian would help a lot. None of those things, though, feel like immediately realizable, concrete goals. As any nanny or parent or preschool teacher will tell you, the most important thing about goal setting is that the goals be realizable, and while I certainly hope at SOME point to have friends and internet and the ability to speak Serbian, those aren't things I can control or achieve this very weekend. I thought a toaster was... and it wasn't. That being said, I was lucky enough to wake up in Belgrade this morning, and the air was cool and fresh and I am blessed to be here. I repent of my immodest longings for toast, but to be honest, I am still in the market for a toaster. Just because this one didn't work out I'm not giving up ALL hope. One day I will toast again, and that day will be beautiful.

Other than that, things are going well. I have started my official Serbian lessons, which are hilarious because the teacher doesn't really speak English. I suppose that will help me learn more quickly, but it is also frustrating at times. The must be working at least a little, though, because this week I understood my first real Serbian sentence (not one about greetings or polite conversation). A little girl at work asked me if it was Friday, and I understood her. Yes, I said, it IS Friday! I was far more excited about my proficiency than she was. Hopefully I will continue to learn and learn quickly, because nothing- and I mean nothing- makes me feel more ridiculous than standing in the grocery store looking at my Serbian-English dictionary trying to figure out what is laundry detergent and what is floor cleaner. Don't put pictures of flowers and apples on the bottles, people, put pictures of THE FLOOR or CLOTHES or a TOILET or a COUNTER. This would make my life much easier.

Finally, based on comments on my last post it seems some real live Serbians have been reading this, which shocks and delights me. In the off chance that any of you continue to read, I have a question. Why in God's name have you been keeping ajvar from the rest of the world? That stuff is delicious. We do NOT have it in the US and the first person to start exporting it will make a lot of money. Please, have compassion on your fellow human beings who have lived long enough without this deliciousness.... spread the ajvar love.

Serbs say...

Before coming here I spent a decent amount of energy convincing people that Serbia is a place where I will be quite safe. A lot of what people in the US know about the region relates to the wars, so when they hear names like Bosnia and Belgrade, they get nervous. Over and over again I explained that I would be safe, I knew what I was getting into, and that I almost certainly would not die.

I am sorry to say I have to take back those comments. It turns out I probably WILL die this year, and according to some Serbs, it's a wonder I haven't already. The following is a BRIEF list of all the things that Serbians are sure will kill me and/or cause me to be infertile (which seems to be a major concern over here):

If I go outside with wet hair, I will die.
If I stand or- God forbid- sleep in a drafty place, I will die.
If I use the AC too much, I will die.
If I drink too many cold drinks, I will die.
If I sit on cold concrete, my ovaries will freeze and I will become infertile (this is my favorite!)
If I walk around without shoes or socks on inside, I will become infertile, and then die.
If I let a wet bathing suit dry on my body, I will get a UTI, become infertile, and then die.
If I swim in a cold lake I will get a UTI, become infertile, and die.

I had no idea the dangers I was getting into when I signed up for this. I certainly didn't think my potential future children would be in danger from all the concrete steps I'm prone to sit on... I guess I just like living on the edge.

Oh, I should also address the other fear that people (read: my mother) had about this year. My mom (and, OK, some of my close friends... actually, anyone who knows me well...) was afraid that I would move to Serbia, fall in love, get married, and stay forever. I am sorry to tell you all over the internet, but this, too, is a fear realized. I am deeply, passionately, and blindly in love with... Turkish coffee. It's like I have been living a lie with all of that drip and filter and french press nonsense I drank before. Coffee! That's nothing! I have met my beverage soul mate in the thick, strong, sometimes overpowering wonder that is served in tiny, adorable cups, and I will never, ever go back.

Playing house.

I am pleased to announce that I am now the proud resident of a Belgrade apartment. I'm not positive I can find my way back there from this internet cafe, but the important thing is I have the keys and all my stuff is there. The past few weeks have been a bit rough... after spending a year in Baltimore (which was bad enough!) I spent three days in the hospital, 4 days at my parents' house, 6 days in Akron, PA, 3 days in Sarajevo, 2 days in Novi Sad, 3 days living above a Swedish pentecostal church in Belgrade, and 4 days living with a woman from work in her one bedroom apartment. There has been A LOT of moving, so when I actually got to unpack today, it was quite a celebration.

My first day at the kindergarten the kids gave me a bag of gifts, including a little book called "I Love Belgrade", which is full of famous (and semi-famous) quotes about this lovely city. Seeing as how I'm more or less an actual resident now, my favorite is this:

"Typical Belgrade girls are good-looking, bold, gracious, but they possess a touch of Belgrade-style naughtiness that does not spoil their femininity, and is a mark of courage and wit, qualities that one must be born with."

Now, I'm not saying that being the owner of keys to an apartment in Belgrade makes this apply to me, but it is good to have goals :o)

The apartment is technically furnished, but we went to a church bazaar at the church next to the kindergarten where I work to pick up some extra things. The bazzar was pretty much like any church bazaar in the US, with a few important differences. 1. Everyone was speaking Serbian, which I still find a bit alarming. 2. All of the prices were in Dinars, so I had no idea how much anything cost, and 3. Middle aged Serbian women kept handing me things they insisted I needed to start my household. At the end of the day the bare essentials we left with included, but were certainly not limited to:

every day plates
fancy plates
plates that are only for cake
coffee mugs
tiny cups that are only for Turkish coffee
three decorative candle holders
a decorative tea pot
two vases (for all the flowers from all the Serbian men I'm not allowed to date, I guess)
three water pitchers
an egg separator
every kind of spoon, utensil, and gadget known to man, including a few that I've never seen before
two decorative baskets
about 43 sets of sheets (none of which fit the bed)

So, I am clearly well stocked, and you should come visit! For the time being I have two bedrooms and a pull out couch all to myself, plus enough dishware to host a dinner party every night! I'll show you a good time.

Beograd

So, I made it to Belgrade, and was told that I would be living above a Swedish sponsored Pentecostal church and living with a girl from work who is my age and speaks English. Then they raised the rent on that apartment, and I moved in temporarily with a different woman from work while we try to find somewhere for me to live. I went around town with three Serbian women who had about 15 words of English between them to find a new apartment for my roommate and I (she is currently working in Greece and coming back in September) and we found an acceptable one, and it seemed things were coming together (again). Later that day we found out my roommate actually found another apartment on her own and won't be living with me. We are supposed to meet with the apartment owners, who are currently living in Australia, on Saturday to sign for it... although with the way things are going, I'm crossing my fingers but not holding my breath. We also tried to regiter me with the police today, but something happened or didn't work or wasn't there, and it didn't take. So, no visa for Maggie (yet?). Perhaps you will be seeing me sooner than originally anticipated...

Internet access has been few and far between, which ranges from mildly frustrating to catastrophic, depending on how many other things are going on. I am trying really, really hard to be sweet and gracious and flexible and thankful for the hospitality people are showing me, but the truth is, I am a little concerned. If this is my honeymoon period with Serbia, I might need an annulment.

At least one good thing has happened, though... a realization. For so long I thought I was attracted to gay men, but it turns out I'm just attracted to EUROPEAN men. I'm telling you, there are tight pants, nice shoes, cool glasses, and messenger bags EVERYWHERE. Thank you, men of Belgrade, for making this transition a little more tolerable.

Safe in Sarajevo

Well, I've made it to Sarajevo. I'm here for orientation for a few days, and then I'm off to Novi Sad, Serbia, and finally Belgrade, where I'll be living.

Sarajevo is a beautiful city. I've never been to Europe before, so I was excited to see rows of beautiful buildings along a river with pedestrian bridges over it... it fit into my stereotype well. Of course, many of the buildings (and sidewalks, and streets...) have very visible evidence of the war. I knew that, I had read about it and been told by people who had been here, but it is still shocking to see. Bullet holes and shrapnel damage are generally not a part of my mental image of European towns. I know if I had paid more attention in history class it would be, but I didn't. I don't count that as too great a loss, though, because at least I will learn about it now, and by seeing, not by reading.

This is my first time in a foreign country where I'm not constantly stared at. Being a foreigner in Nicaragua and in Kenya was painfully apparent, but I got quite used to it. Actually, come to think of it, I was stared at last year for being white in my neighborhood in Baltimore far more than I am here. It is exhilarating to think that maybe- if I keep my mouth shut- people will think I belong here. Several people have even tried to speak to me in Bosnian and received an apologetic smile in return. In the interest of full disclosure, though, people could be ignoring me because all of the women who really do belong here are tall and thin and alarmingly beautiful and well dressed, and maybe my little American self just doesn't make much of an impact. I prefer, of course, to believe the former.

I don't know what else to say about this place that won't sound cliche or naive. It really is beautiful, and the weather is great. The people are sweet and the coffee is strong and the peaches and tomatoes are some of the best I've had in my life.

I am trying not to think too far into the future because my head will explode. Today I am in Sarajevo. Thursday I will go to Novi Sad and Saturday I will go to Belgrade. I will live in Belgrade for at least a year. See, that's too far in advance. I can't think about a year of Serbian language and meat pastries and war trauma... so I will think about today. Today I am in Sarajevo and it's beautiful and warm. I had two peaches for breakfast and I'm happy. Tomorrow I'll think about tomorrow.

Not kidding anymore.

You know, I was always half joking when I would talk about how much I hated Baltimore. Apparently the Gods of Baltimore can't take a joke, though, and I have now moved from a general sort of tolerable dislike to full blown loathing.

Last Thursday, the 30th, I was packing to move out of Baltimore and RHHP forever, which I was pretty excited about. "Oh boy!" I thought as I put things into boxes, "I'm ready to move on. Sure, Belgrade is another economically depressed city with a lot of violence, but I'm sure it will be great!" Later I thought, "Gee, I wonder my stomach hurts! Oh well, haha! I'm sure it's fine!". About an hour after that I thought, "WOW! My intense stomach pain now has a friend, Sharp Stabbing Pain in my Side! OW!". At this point I had stopped packing and was, instead, lying on the floor crying. I called our local program coordinator and couldn't get a hold of her, and I called my housemate who had the credit card (which is also our only form of health insurance) and couldn't get a hold of HER. I lay on the floor and cried for a while more, and then started throwing up. The intense stomach pain plus the sensation of being stabbed in the side with a dull, rusty knife, plus the vomiting didn't seem like a great combination, so I did what any self-respecting 23 year old college graduate pretending to be an adult would do: I called my mom. Then I called another housemate and asked if she could leave work to take me to the er, which she did (THANKS, ANNA!).

Long story short, I was admitted to the hospital for three days for kidney stones- IN BOTH KIDNEYS- and a badly infected left kidney. It was a pretty miserable few days, as I'm sure you can imagine, although I'm fine now. The cause? Stress. Everyone knew I hated my job and had a tough time with some of my housemates and hated my neighborhood, but even I didn't know I was so unhappy and dealing so poorly with the stress that I would actually get sick from it. Quite frankly, next time I get sick from stress I would prefer a cold to calcium deposits in my organs, but no one asked.

I eventually was released and got to go back to my parents' house for a few days to prepare for Serbia. I didn't want my last memories of Baltimore to be of being in intense pain, though, so last night I went to finish cleaning my room and to say goodbye to some friends. We had a great evening, it was wonderful to be able to spend one last night with the people who made the year tolerable (and even good at several points) and I was quite satisfied with the experience. I was pleased to be able to leave the city- and the country- on a good note.

And then I got a parking ticket.

Kind of irritating, kind of hilarious, but mostly just a fitting way to end this year. I'm ready for new challenges. I promise you, though, if there is an ice cream truck in Belgrade that drives around at 11:00 PM playing Christmas songs and selling crack, I am moving back to Vienna so fast you won't even get a souvenir.

All good things must come to an end... thankfully, so must the awful ones.

Today is my last day of work at Project PLASE, the transitional housing facility where I have been volunteering full time since September.

It is tempting, though perhaps not entirely accurate, to describe this past year as the worst of my life. That's a hard call to make, though, and is clearly subjective. Overall I've been extremely lucky and had a fairly easy, joyful life. Of course there have been some less than stellar times, like when I broke my back in three places and ruptured a disc and lost several of my closest friends. That was really just a few months of suckage, though, and it was sandwiched between two fabulous things. The month before I broke my back I had a month-long internship in rural Nicaragua, and six months after I broke my back I went to Kenya for two months. While both of those trips had difficult times, they were also some of the times I've felt happiest, and certainly the times I've felt the most fulfilled. Thus, it would be inaccurate to describe that as "the worst year", because that year had two great things and only one awful thing.

This year has had quite a few awful things, but more than that, it's just been consistently discouraging. I have been yelled at, intimidated, and assaulted by the clients I'm trying to help. I have learned a ton about homelessness, mental illness, and addiction, but mostly I've learned about people. I've learned I can't fix people, and a lot of times I can't even help people. Some people in my house are fabulous, and some people I will say goodbye to and hope I never see again. Some of our clients are honest, hardworking, genuine people, and some are manipulative jerks who will take any opportunity to make sexually inappropriate comments to and about me. I can honestly say that I will miss my coworkers, the other counselors here who do this impossibly hard job every day for 20 years or more. Most of them love their jobs and do them well, and I and the clients are fortunate to have been in their presence.I don't, however, think I will miss anything else. I will not miss the unappreciative and often aggressive clients, I will not miss the drug infested neighborhood, and I will not miss being part of an organization that so blatantly disregards my personal safety and needs. Maybe the ineffectiveness, mismanagement, and poor communication isn't true of all non-profits, but it will still be a long, long time before I work at any sort of public service organization again... you know, my year volunteering in Serbia aside.

All things considered I am more than ready to go. It isn't that I think Serbia will be easy or perfect or carefree, but it I do know it isn't here, and right now that's all I'm asking for. I'm sure at some point- maybe soon- I'll be grateful for the experience and the things it taught me. Right now I'm just grateful it's over.

Jes Karper says,


"Try on Life it fits like a glove
and feel what it’s like to Be Free
Try breathing and seeking to be an instrument of Love
and encourage one another on the journey
Give thanks to the land and the sky up above
and pour your energy into building a community

Make a space for the traveler to stop and put some love in
Be a shelter from the rushin’ and the pushin’ and the shovin’
Let the music play all night so we can sing and dance
Grow good organic food and lots of bright flowering plants
Put it in a pot and stir it up with lots-o-lovin’
Roll out the dough and fire up the cob oven
Dig into the dirt so you can take a stronger stance
Educate, Relate and be creative with resistance
And Try on Life…

Try exploring and evolving in whole new directions
emanating light from your innermost reflections
Create your own economy not based on the love of money
but on the abundant and free source of the sun’s energy
Feel the Healing Vibrations of Light’s far reaching projections
Open up our arms for caring and sharing our affections
Strive for sustainability, give back to the land, plant a tree
Grow a garden of souls and minds for the harvest will be plenty
as we Try on Life…


Try making a life, filling two new eyes with sight
as husband and wife spin their love and unite
For Unity is the healing force that creates
as community blooms from its embryonic states
Give children wings for flight so that they just might
find new ways of making the light shine more bright
Sing with them dance with them learn with them help them carry their weights
and cherish them for they grow at alarmingly fast rates
and Try on Life…"

...and I agree.

Andy Warhol on Love

"I wonder if it's possible to have a love affair that lasts forever. If you're married for thirty years and you're 'cooking breakfast for the one you love' and he walks in, does his heart really skip a beat? I mean if it's just a regular morning. I guess it skips a beat over that breakfast and that's nice, too. It's nice to have a little breakfast made for you."

Andy Warhol knows everything.

Are you ready for this?

People keep asking if I'm ready to go to Serbia, and I usually smile and tell them there isn't too much I need to do to prepare. I don't need a visa or work permit and I've already been vaccinated against anything and everything. The climate is the same (more or less) as Baltimore, so I don't need new clothes. I've been studying Serbian and reading all the histories of the region I can get my hands on, and even watching the Serbian films I can find.

That's the easier answer, so it's what I always say. The truth is, I'm not nearly so sure about this or anything else. In fact, I'm a little scared... some days more than a little.

People keep asking if I'm ready to go, and I give them my lengthy, logical, rehearsed answer. What I really want to say is, I have no idea. How do you know when you're ready?

"Into the caverns of tomorrow with just our flashlights and our love, we must plunge, we must plunge, we must plunge... and then we'll get down there, way down to the very bottom of everything and then we'll see it, we'll see it, we'll see it..."

The church is a broken institution made of broken people. Sometimes it seems all that any group of Christians ever does- myself very much included- is build caricatures of other groups of Christians to tear down. I find myself getting so angry at groups of Christians for being hateful towards other groups of Christians, only to realize I'm doing the same thing they they are.

I find myself torn between two points of view. One says if you love Christ you will love his church... the other says I love Christ, but not Christians, because Christians are so unlike Christ.

I know I love Christ, but some days I find it difficult to say the same about his followers. I guess the grace comes in the assumption that genuine Christians are progressing on a path to be more Christ-like? I know none of us are there yet... but how many of us are even moving in that direction? I'm not sure I can say I am.

Come Thou fount of every blessing
Tune my heart to sing Thy grace
Streams of mercy never ceasing
Call for songs of loudest praise
Teach me some melodious sonnet
Sung by flaming tongues above
I'll praise the mount I'm fixed upon it
Mount of Thy redeeming love

Here I raise my Ebenezer
Hither by Thy help I come
And I hope by Thy good pleasure
Safely to arrive at home
Jesus sought me when a stranger
Wondering from the fold of God
He, to rescue me from danger
Interposed His precious blood

O to grace how great a debtor daily I'm constrained to be!
Let Thy goodness like a fetter, bind my wandering heart to Thee
Prone to wander Lord I feel it, prone to leave the God I love
Here's my heart Lord, take and seal it, seal it for Thy courts above

Here is an article from BBC news on Bosnia. It wouldn't let me post it directly to the blog from the website, so I'm copying and pasting the text and pictures. It's by Paul Moss.

"Bosnia echos to alarming rhetoric"

They may have disagreed about politics, but the group of 20-something friends who had gathered for an after-work drink were all certain about one thing - they were Serbs.

"My father is a Serb, my grandfather is a Serb, I am a Serb. This is my nationality," said Vladislav.

"If we are looking at a football game," added Bane, "Serbia against somebody else, we are fans of Serbia."

These would not have been particularly notable declarations of identity, save for one crucial fact.

We were speaking in Banja Luka, a city in Bosnia, and all these people were Bosnian citizens.

But that meant little to Ivana, a trainee architect: "Bosnia is an artificial and silly creation, we naturally belong with Serbs," she said.

That "creation" was born out of the ruins of battle.


Everybody should be worried, this is the Balkans, and nationalist rhetoric here always leads to war

Svetlana Cenic, writer
At the end of the Bosnian Civil War, it was agreed that the country would remain a single nation.

However, the Serbs were granted their own officially-recognised region, known as the Republika Srpska.

It has its own parliament, and a fair degree of autonomy.

But now some fear this delicate constitutional compromise could be falling apart.

'Thinly-veiled threats'

The Republika Srpska parliament has issued a declaration, insisting that it has the right to make its own rules in certain key areas, like immigration and customs.



Milorad Dodik has hinted that he wants Republika Srpska to secede
That move was vetoed this week by Bosnia's High Representative, the internationally-appointed figure who still has executive authority in the country.

But the resulting row has left many worried about the country's stability.

"The way the Serb politicians speak is getting more and more nationalistic," says Svetlana Cenic, a writer and newspaper columnist.

"Everybody should be worried," she warns. "This is the Balkans, and nationalist rhetoric here always leads to war."

Svetlana and others are particularly alarmed by the pronouncements of the Bosnian Serb Prime Minister, Milorad Dodik.

He has made thinly-veiled threats that the Republika Srpska might secede from Bosnia altogether.

Any attempt at secession by the Republika Srpska would be seriously destabilising.

It would alarm the many ethnic Croats who still live in the region, as well as the Muslim population, known as Bosniaks.

It might also tempt the Croat region of Bosnia to contemplate a similar move towards independence.

But more than anything, secession would be resisted by the remaining part of Bosnia, with its capital in Sarajevo.

Hundreds of thousands of non-Serbs now live there, having been driven out of what is now the Republika Srpska during the Civil War.

'Betrayed'

And for those who remember this experience, like the actress Alena Dzebo-heco, independence for the Republika Srpska would be a moral outrage.

"The people who did the ethnic cleansing, they would get what they wanted," she argues.

"After everything my family went through - my uncle was in a concentration camp, my father was arrested.

"We would feel betrayed."

The ruling party in the Republika Srpska, the SNSD, has been playing down fears that it plans to secede - at least any time soon.

The speaker of the parliament, Igor Radojicic, said Mr Dodik, his party leader, was only responding to threats from Bosniaks.



He argues that they would like to take away the Republika Srpska's powers, and rule the whole of Bosnia directly.

"The fact is that Serbs are a minority in Bosnia, approximately one-third.

"There are fears that the Muslims might make decisions in favour of their ethnic group. So we are fighting to protect our autonomy."

There is certainly plenty of fear in the Republika Srpska that Muslims pose a threat.

They range from the kind of sober political argument advanced by the Parliamentary Speaker, to more lurid anxieties, whipped up in part by sensationalist newspapers.

"Osama Bin Laden has operations in Sarajevo," one well-educated man told me.

Others insisted that the Serbs were in the vanguard of the struggle against Islamic fundamentalism - this despite the fact that Bosnian Muslims tend to be relatively non-observant.

It is 17 years since the Bosnian Civil War began, sparked off by each different ethnic group believing that the others were trying to take over, and that they had to fight back.

The risk is that these fears, and the inflammatory rhetoric that tends to drive them, may be gaining ground once again.

Well timed, National Geographic. I appreciate it.

Thank you, Jessie, for alerting me to an article about Serbia in July's issue of National Geographic. It is informative and, unlike Noel Malcom's "Short" History of Bosnia and "Short" History of Kosovo, a readable length. I sincerely hope I have a chance to visit Kosovo/a while I'm there. I also hope there isn't any violence in Belgrade (or Bosnia, Kosovo/a, or anywhere else) while I'm there... or ever again. Perhaps that is wishing too much, though.

Here is the link to the article. There is a very nice series of photos as well: http://ngm.nationalgeographic.com/2009/07/serbs/carroll-text

I don't wanna grow up, I'm an MVS kid...

I didn't realize how firmly planted in childhood I am until this week.

I'm house-(and dog)-sitting for a family from church this week, and it has been great. My house in Baltimore is great some of the time, but I am loving the quiet of the suburbs and the independence of living alone. I had no idea how anxious the neighborhood and, yes, the housemates make me until I had a chance to live my regular life but removed from RHHP... what a difference. Having an adorable dog around doesn't hurt, either. I've loved doing my own grocery shopping (I want some sunflowers? Great! I can buy some sunflowers!) and all my own cooking (dinner when I'm hungry, all foods that I like) and being able to be in the kitchen in my pajamas without a bra on (no middle age conservative male refugees to offend!). The one downside is that I have been making and drinking whole pots of coffee. At home I use a single-serving maker or a french press, but this family has a big, fancy coffee maker and I can't help but use it to its full potential. Clearly at 23 I am not yet mature enough to monitor my own coffee consumption.

So what defines adulthood? Paying rent? Having a job? Having self control over delicious caffinated beverages? Right now I don't pay rent, I don't pay any bills, and I don't make any money. Once a month Heather hands me $50 in cash. I spend it on what luxuries I want (coffee or drinks out, fancy soap...) and once it's gone, it's gone. If I need food I write it on a list and it magically shows up Monday afternoon. If there is something wrong with the unit car I take it to the shop and hand over the Magical MVS Credit Card, for which I never see a bill. Same with if I get sick- I don't have health insurance, but if I get hit by a bus or get swine flu, the Mennonites pay for it. For all intensive purposes I live right now the same way I did when I was 14, except I think my allowance may have been higher then.

Next year will be more of the same. I will handle my own money, but it still won't be MY money. I will take X amount of money and give it to the landlord. I will take X amount of money and it is all I am allowed to spend on food. I will get X amount of money as a stipend to spend on coffee, alcohol, and fancy soap. Baby steps towards adulthood... baby steps.

When I get BACK from Serbia I'm still not sure if I will meet societal expectations for adulthood. I am most likely going to try to do an Americorps position in Minneapolis so I can earn an education award to go back to school. I will make my own money that I can spend however I want, but it will only be about $900 a month, and that's BEFORE taxes. After a year of THAT, I am now 80% sure I want to go back to school- nursing school, to be exact. I will take pre-requisites at a community college or online while doing Americorps, and then spend the education award to work towards a nursing degree. Originally I wanted to go to nursing school so I could work towards being a midwife, but now I mostly want to go to prove wrong a friend who strongly implied I wasn't smart enough to do it... spite is a great motivator.

This is all to say that my post-college life isn't exactly how I (or my parents- sorry guys!) imagined it. Volunteer for a year... volunteer for a year abroad... volunteer for another year (but KIND of get paid!)... go back to school (there is an intensive 16-month program for a masters in nursing designed for people with a bachelor's degree in something other than nursing at the University of Minnesota that I would love to do) and then do some MORE school to specialize in midwifery.

What do I want to do after that? I will be 27 or 28 by the time it is done, specialization and all, and will have never had a "real job". So what would the next step be?

Why, volunteer with MSF or CPT, of course.

Low income countries have an infant mortality rate NINE TIMES HIGHER than wealthy countries (like the US). I don't think rich babies are worth nine times more, though.

I always thought I was called to work with the world's poor- the "poorest of the poor', if possible. Now that I'm going to Serbia I'm struggling with what it means to be a servant to people whose primary burden is not poverty (although Serbia certainly has more than its share of poverty)but violence. The more I read about the history of the region, the more confused I am. My questions are not so much how people can do these things to each other, because quite frankly, I understand the tendency to react to pain by hurting other people. What I don't understand is how people can live through the things that these people have lived through. Maybe I'm just being a pessimist, but I'm not as shocked by the violence and the hate as I am by the strength and the perseverance of the people. I'm almost afraid to meet people my age who grew up in Belgrade. When I was 13 I was thinking primarily about glitter eye liner and the boy whose locker was two down from me. When people my age who grew up in Belgrade were 13, they were living through the bombardment of their city (by my government!). What does that even mean? What do you do when bombs are falling? When actual bombs are being dropped on your city, what do you do? Do you go the basement? If you live in an apartment building do the people in the basement apartments let you in? Do you stay where you are? Eat dinner and try to talk about something else? My closest point of reference for something like that would be sitting in the bathtub in the basement hugging my dog during thunder storms, which, needless to say, is not even on the same graph as a war. I have so many questions... so many questions.

Lord, give me a humble heart. Make me a servant. Use me to lessen the suffering, Lord, but if I can't change the suffering, use it to change me. "Let my heart be broken by the things that break the heart of God".

Bwana Asifiwe!

I haven't really thought a ton about Kenya the past few months, but lately it's been making a strong comeback in the competition for the forefront of my thoughts. One of my best (and prettiest! Hi, Katie!) friends from college just got back from 8-ish months in Tanzania and a few weeks in Kenya, and I got to hang out with her this week. She brought me a can of DOOM, which is this insanely strong insecticide that is sold in Kenya and almost for sure not FDA approved. It kills giant roaches immediately on contact, and since the roaches in Baltimore are the size and strength of the ones in Kenya, I asked her to bring me some. I am shocked and delighted that it got through customs, and have used it to spray down my closet and the corners of my room where I have seen roaches. I also sprayed a circle around my bed and have the can sitting on my nightstand for any emergency roach spraying needs. I've been sleeping much better since then, probably both from the peace of mind and the fumes.

The cool thing about Katie being back, other than the pesticides and getting to hang out with her, is getting to hear about her travels and live a little bit through them. I have this problem where I think everyone else's life is infinitely more interesting than my own, so I enjoy sitting down and living vicariously through my interesting friends. Even just thinking about Katie in Kenya (and, to some extent, Tanzania, too) makes me think about my (very short) time in Kenya and the things from that trip that changed me, and the things from that trip that I've since forgotten. When I first came back I thought almost constantly about the dead babies I saw, the starving kids, the slums, the poverty, the pain. After a while I only thought about it sometimes, like when I would hear a baby cry or throw food away. When I started thinking about it this week, I couldn't remember the last time I had thought about it. While I was talking with Katie I was also cleaning my room and putting away clothes, and I kept thinking, oh my God, when did I get this many shoes? Why do I have so many shirts? Why do I need so many books? When did this become my life? Where did that girl who was so passionate about clean water sources for economically poor communities go, and why does she now care so much about nail polish?

Another reason I've been thinking about Kenya is that we just got a new client at work who is Kenyan. I was perhaps a bit overly excited when I found out and I think I might have scared him a little, but I'm going to make it up to him by bringing in some of my Kenyan chai. I might even make him some ugali and chapati and cabbage and oh... I'm excited.

The other country on my mind, clearly, is Serbia. I am getting much more nervous about moving, my main thought being "WHAT AM I DOING??" and my secondary thought being "WHO MOVES TO SERBIA??". The more I try to learn Serbian, the more I realize that Serbian is a really hard language to learn. They use the Cyrillic alphabet sometimes and the Roman alphabet sometimes, but the Roman one isn't the English one, it has all these EXTRA letters, and is missing a few, too. They all make different sounds, and some of the Cyrillic letters look like Roman ones but aren't the same. Also, Serbian not only has formal and informal forms, as well as nouns with genders, but it also has cases for the nouns. If a noun is the subject of the sentence it is in the nominative form, if it is the object it is in the accusative form, if it is possessive it is in the genitive, if it is the indirect object it is in the dative. And of course, just to mess with your head, the plural forms of the cases are different from the singular ones. And then they change the alphabet. And then you offend people if you call KosovO KosovA and vice versa.

To make myself feel better I formulated a 4-part fool-proof plan to make friends in Belgrade.

Part 1 (stateside): Buy lots of clothes from H&M to fit in. Ignore Kenyan memories about excessive spending and possessions. Try not to think about sweatshop labor.

Part 2 (in Belgrade): Smile a LOT.

Part 3: Bake a lot of cakes, cookies, bread, and anything else with a strong, welcoming scent. Keep all apartment windows and doors open. If necessary, place small fans in windows to direct scent of baked goods into the street and apartment building. Welcome and feed Serbians who follow their noses to my house.

Part 4: Marry hungry, handsome Serbian man. Steal his friends. Be doted on by his Serbian grandmother.

I'm pretty sure this will work, and it doesn't require memorizing any more crazy Serbian words and grammar. Check and check.

Hello, goodbye.

For the first time since moving to Baltimore I'm starting to feel like I have actual friends here. The worst part of this year- other than the physical assualt, of course- has been feeling so unloved and unwanted. It isn't that people are mean, but I have no connections with anyone here. Until this week I genuinely felt like when I moved to Serbia no one would miss me or even really notice I was gone. I'm not saying that now people will be rending garments and covering their faces in ashes for me, but I am begining to feel more understood and- dare I say it?- cared about by several people here.

It's a good feeling, but it makes the countdown to moving bittersweet.

88 days until Bosnia, 74 of those in Baltimore. I wish I knew how to feel about that.

Flowers CAN grow in Baltimore!

My strawberries are growing! Soon we will have no need for the farmer's market. Take that, Waverly.



They might not look like much, but give them time! Also, my mums are still alive! Photographic proof:



Many of you will not be impressed by this. That is because you didn't see the number of plants I killed in college.

I was assigned lawn duty this weekend. It involves mowing the lawn, and perhaps doing other yard-y things. I have never mowed a lawn in my life, and, as stated in an earlier post, my very presence tends to kill plants. My official plan was to have a boyfriend by this time and make him do it, but that didn't pan out. Sad day.

In other news, it is 85 degrees out, which is glorious, but I'm not allowed to open the windows in my room, which is heartbreaking. Thus, I will spend the day on a balcony learning Serbian flashcards and praying the grass cuts itself. Or dies. Either way.

Bout darn time.

I'm going to take a SHORT break from complaining about Baltimore to say that I get to LEAVE Baltimore for a week and go to the Caribbean! My sister was offered a free cruise from Carnival so that she'll write about it in the magazine she edits, and her husband can't go, and she didn't want to spend a week on a boat with her 10 month old baby and no help, so I get to go! I want to say that I do not approve of cruises. They are environmentally destructive, encourage gluttony, and provide ample opportunity for Americans to disrespect local people in the cruise destinations. That being said, I'm not the type of girl who holds on to her beliefs so strongly that she would turn down a free cruise, so I'm going.

You can read about how badly sunburned we are day by day here: http://maggieandkristenandjackonacruise.blogspot.com/

It will be awesome.

In other news, I made a basil pesto that is good, but not perfect. The quest for that continues.

Ouch.

Whoever said cockroaches can't hurt you needs to come take a look at the bruise on my leg.

Last night around 10:30 I was minding my own business, about to go to bed. I get up from my desk, turn around, and see a cockroach that must have weighed at LEAST as much as I do but looked much, much stronger. Like any young, responsible, college educated woman, I screamed and climbed onto my bed, begging my housemates in the living room to come save me. After about 10 minutes of no one coming to rescue me, I got up enough nerve to try to trap it so I could go demand aid. The only empty container I could find was a metal heart-shaped tin my sister gave me for valentines day. The cockroach was crawling on top of the lid to the bin where I keep my dirty clothes (we have to keep our dirty clothes in giant tupperware-like bins or else the mice eat our underwear. Seriously). The lid was on the ground, with a plastic grocery sack on it, and the cockroach was crawling on top of the bag. I put the tin over the roach and the bag, and then stacked two books, "Kosovo: A Short History" and "Bosnia: A Short History", on top of it. I should point out that both books are HUGE and very poorly named. For good measure, I threw my sketchbook and two pairs of shoes on top of the books. Then I went for help.

Anna was in the living room, and leaped to action after being briefed of the situation. We then spent about 10 minutes staring at the tin, trying to decide how we were going to dispose of the intruder. Anna was of the opinion that I could lift the tin and she could smash him to death with a hole puncher, but I was doubtful of this solution for several reasons. One: I have heard that cockroaches are hard to smash, and this one certainly seemed like a formidable opponent, two: I didn't want to lift the tin, three: I didn't want to have cockroach guts on my laundry bin or, worse, my carper, and four: I was about 87% sure that if I lifted the tin, the roach would fly or crawl around and Anna and I would both scream and panic and he would find a way to burrow into my underwear drawer or, worse, my brain.

I should point out that Sarah was on the phone with her boyfriend, Jeff, this entire time. I, of course, demanded that Jeff come save us, and he flat out REFUSED. What is the point of any of us having a boyfriend if he doesn't even come out to meet our needs in times of crisis?? Yes, it is 10:30 PM. Yes, you live 20 minutes away. What is the problem? Anna insisted that we were strong women who could handle the situation ourselves, but I was doubtful. I'm a pretty big fan of traditional gender roles, because I like babies, cooking, cleaning, and not opening doors or paying for meals. I have always thought that "bug killing" was in the "manly chore" category, along with yard work, taking out the trash, paying for everything, and defending my honor. If the men in my life will do that, I will be happy to bake scones and give birth. ANYWAY, Jeff refused, so I texted my sister and demanded my brother in law come to Baltimore to save me, mostly because he has a gun. And you know what?? HE refused, too!

Having exhausted the entire list of men I know in Maryland, Anna and I had no choice but to handle the task. We devised a plan in which we carried the entire apparatus- plastic lid, plastic bag, roach, metal tin- to the bathroom, where we would then try to flick the roach into the toilet, shut the lid, and flush. We were about 70% into this operation when Jeff (via phone) helpfully suggested that it could probably fly, would land in the toilet water, and then fly into our hair/ eat our faces. Anna was willing to take that chance, but I was NOT. Thus, we began the painstaking process of applying heavy pressure to the tin while sliding the plastic bag until the tin was INSIDE the bag, and the roach was in the tin. We tied the bag in a knot, and then lifted the tin enough to get the lid on it. I wanted to carry it up to the attic and leave it there, but Sarah said I had to take it outside. I ran down the three flights of stairs to the ground floor, opened the front door, and threw the whole thing in the trash. Then I shut and locked the door, and vacuumed my entire room. It was around this time that I realized at some point (probably the screaming/ flailing stage) I had banged my leg pretty badly on something hard. I now have a huge purple and green bruise to show for my efforts.

There is really only one conclusion to draw from this: I need a boyfriend. With a gun.

And... does anyone know if there are cockroaches in Serbia...?

Confession

So, I'm sitting here, listening to hymns and eating jelly beans (what? like you read to underprivileged puppies in your spare time?) and I caught myself picking out the army green ones that, as far as I can tell, are death flavored. I paused, and had a moment of quiet reflection on who I have become these past few months. Then I threw them back in the bag.

It was a long time coming, but something snapped in me about two weeks ago. It was the day the client attacked me (the first time!) I think. I came home, still fighting back tears, thinking about if I could move in with my parents, if I could find a job, if I could live with my sister... for once, no one was in our kitchen. I went to the pantry to get a snack, and grabbed a box of mixed nuts. I poured myself some tea, ate the nuts, and thought about the various ways I could get out of my commitment to MVS.

I don't really like mixed nuts; I mean, they're fine, but they're not my favorite snack. I, like everyone, like some better than others. I have this rule, though, that I really try to follow. I believe that one should eat what one grabs. Not just for sanitary reasons, but on ethical principal. If you are eating out of a communal bag of chex mix, for example, you can't pick out all the bagel chips and eat them because they're your favorite part. If that is just your chex mix, fine, but if you're sharing it you need to keep in mind that maybe other people like the bagel chips, too, or don't want the delicate bagel chip/chex/pretzel balance upset. It's taking one for the team, sometimes, when you eat the pretzels in the chex mix or the back jelly beans, but it is your DUTY as a member of a family or community to not mess with everyone else's snacking pleasure.

So, there I am, eating whatever nuts I grab. Cashews, hazelnuts, almonds, and pecans. I really just like the pecans. The others are fine, but the more I think about it, the more I know that I only really WANT the pecans, and I'm eating the cashews as more of a penalty. A penance. A necessary evil to enjoy the pecans. And then it happened- it was almost audible. The "snap" of my moral convictions about mixed snack food tearing apart. I was not going to eat any more f-ing cashews. I work 40 hours a week for free, I had just been attacked by a client, I get out of bed at 11:00 PM to pick up my stranded housemates, I live with 14 people in a neighborhood that scares the crap out of me, I make $50 a month, I hate my job, I don't drink bottled water, I don't buy clothes made in sweatshops, I give 10% of my income to the church, I match dollar for dollar what I spend on alcohol on a clean water charity, and I do NOT need to SHARE or GIVE or SACRIFICE ANYTHING ELSE, THANK YOU VERY MUCH.

I ate every pecan in the box.

I feel kind of bad about it. In reality, I don't think my housemates will notice, and if they do, I doubt they'll care. But again, it's the PRINCIPAL. Shouldn't I be willing to eat the proverbial cashew? This is the life I want- I chose this- because these are things that matter to me. I miss shopping at Gap, but I DO think human rights are more important than fashion. I DO think it's ridiculous to pay for water in a bottle when our tap water is clean. I DO think that the gospel is best lived out and understood in community. And yet...

I guess I'm learning my own boundaries. Sometimes my ideals don't look that ideal with flesh on them. I don't know if the pecan (and now jelly bean!) incident is just funny, or a sign of something larger breaking down. I guess at this point I can learn to love myself as a person who sometimes picks through mixed nuts. I think I can live with that. I want to be flexible, even within my concept of justice, because I know I don't now, nor will I ever, know all the answers. But if Bathfitter starts looking like a great deal on a good idea, I'm moving to a convent.