Gypsy is a confusing term. In the west, for example America, to call yourself a ‘gypsy’ means you like to travel, possibly on your own; less vagabond and more seeker.

In Europe, where Gypsies can be found in every country, they are ascribed a variety of nomenclature though mostly as Roma and their language as Romani. Also, they are deemed pickpockets, fortunetellers and generally unsavory.

The Gypsies of Serbia have been here 800 years. They live with their own kind and have no interest in assimilating. While they learn the language of any country where they settle and they adopt the local religion, they stick together. They live together, work together and despite 800 years they all still look alike, meaning there’s been very little outbreeding.

I am in no way attempting to provide a comprehensive history of these people, it is complex and I know too little. But I am fascinated.

In Serbia if you ask a Roma their nationality they will tell you they are Gypsy. They personally have no issue with ‘Gypsy’, to them it is not derogatory.

The Serbian government occasionally finds them a nuisance and their shantytowns are bulldozed. The Roma merely stack their slabs of cardboard that are their dwellings and set up elsewhere. They get around on wooden carts pulled by shaggy ponies and sometimes by what looks like the engines of mopeds, meanwhile Serbs whiz by in BMWs and Fiats.

Well intentioned American organizations, funded by Germany and France, have attempted to move these Roma to apartment complexes, claiming, “We want them to experience a better quality of life.” But this never works out.

More useful would be to find a middle-ground whereby the West subtlety enhances the pre-existing culture rather than trying to conform it.

My friend Igor Stojanovic and I are fascinated and plan to go deep into the settlements and discover more. Consider it data gathering for the ongoing Large Animal Research Station.

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Imagine after eight years of marriage you hit that wall. The wall of no return, no return to yourself. You see a lifetime interfering with your dreams. Do or die. So you pack and you leave. Of course you have doubts but not enough to opt for slow death.

You go your way, live your life, have adventures. You wake when you want, you never battle over inanities. You never have to negotiate with in-laws & in between these moments of clarity, at times, you wonder if you made the right decision.

You date, you fool around, you fall in love, out of love. You re-prioritize and your dreams thrive.

Your chapters fill up, more pictures, more paragraphs. Brighter dreams.
Occasionally, very occasionally, you look back and wonder if you made the right decision.

A score of years has passed and for whatever reason it becomes necessary to make contact with that partner from so long ago, from that marriage.

You need something mundane, a document.

You have no contact information so you fire up the research machine and you Google and you navigate through friends, and friends of friends and eventually you get in touch, and you present your request.

So simple, just a copy of a document, please.

And an unholy Tsunami of rage and hostility and 20 years of pent-up anger towards you is unleashed. You remain calm, you stay polite, you stay on message. Just looking for a copy of that document.

But the barrage goes on, gathering steam, knocking you over with savage malice.

Suddenly, you realize there is another way to get the document, some online government site. It will be a bureaucratic quagmire. You smile! You hear contralto cherubs singing. Well worth finding out you didn’t make a mistake after all. Flying solo in vivid technicolor.

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Sunday Story ~ Naked Truth

When he suggested they meet, Isabel was nervous, but curious, so she agreed. They would meet somewhere neutral. A restaurant by the river.
Showing her age, Isabel felt silly having only known him from the Internet.

This was a first for her but Isabel suspected he had done this before, although he denied it, Isabel didn’t believe him.

In fact, there had been a time recently when he was flirting with a girl, via WhatsApp, and finally they met on Skype and he decided the girl was ugly and he disconnected. But that was not the kind of thing he wanted to tell Isabel. Not yet. Still, he planned to play a game; it was just his sense of humor.
Isabel tried to ignore her unease and instead switched on YouTube and watched her favorite crime show, a dating show where people met on the Internet and then in real life blood was shed.

Isabel went to her closet to see what would look best with blood all over it; she had a dark sense of humor. She decided to wear a white dress so that if something untoward happened the forensics team would have an easy time deciphering.

Isabel was first to arrive at the restaurant and chose a table by the water. To her horror he arrived with a pretty young lady on his arm. They were overtly flirting. What the hell? Immediately, Isabel excused herself and got up to leave and on purpose accidentally knocked the cad into the river. Where he flailed, noisily, clearly drowning.

“He doesn’t swim!” Shouted the pretty young lady.                                                                                                                                                                                “How do you know?” Isabel asked angrily.                                                                                                                                                                                                 “He’s my brother! We were playing a prank for heaven’s sake! To break the ice!”

Isabel dove in and rescued him. Sitting on the dock they waited for him to stop coughing. There was no overlooking the water had turned her dress translucent, “That was my plan,” he spluttered, and soon all three of them were laughing.

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My neighbors and I, we had a spat, after which they cut the power to my apartment. I wanted revenge!

It was a particularly hot day and so before I did anything rash I packed a book and my bikini and headed out. By the banks of the Sava River I read The Knife by Serbian author Vuk Draskovic (NB: Non-Serbs that is pronounced Voooook Draaaashkovitch). The first three quarters is a rant that covers Serbia’s history of the 20th century told through the personal travails of a couple of protagonists. Much of the time the experience of reading the book felt like somebody was screaming in my face.

The frequent mentions of my own family members was an element that held my attention.

Briefly, the story is about people who complain about people who complain. It is about the foolish clamor for justice because as Draskovic says revenge is assuredly an act of suicide.

The final quarter of the book the tone mellows, relatively, and I could feel the writing instead of the screaming. Still, I could not decide what I thought of Draskovic, is he perhaps more an orator than an author?

The day was broiling and I dove into the water and swam with ease across the river, cutting my path smooth as the sharpest knife. As I swam I thought about the content of that book. And at the end of the day when I finally got home, spent and calmed, I knew I would exact no vengeance on the neighbors, I’d let them slide.

Therefore, in my opinion, Draskovic is a good writer because his rhetoric affected my behavior.

Thank you Vuk!

PS: Vuk is not only a popular first name here it also means ‘wolf’ in Serbian, which just goes to show one can be brought up by wolves.

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I love Belgrade from all angles, even the air. Flying in one banks over a certain house that is distinctly visible, down to its details, and that’s because it’s not strictly a house, more of a Palace, the dimensions of which closely resemble a New York City block. From the air it is marvelous and from the ground it is also pretty swell. Beauty on a grand scale just proves that more is better.

Since I’ve been in Belgrade I’ve rented all over town. I’ve seen the city from the suburbs to the center of the universe. The center of the universe being a bar called Tezga. This would be the equivalent of ‘Cheers’ to some, or the Green Parrot to others. While there are no live bands there are live humans who are reliably intriguing and I’ve had the pleasure of filling my Serbian cellphone with numbers of cool, hot, smart, funny types. All of them introduced to me by my pal Igor (Igor Stojanović whose grandfather was the personal bodyguard of my mother HRH Princess Jelisaveta Karađorđević back in the day!). He knows everyone and spends so much time at Tezga I’m surprised they don’t charge him rent.

Speaking of rent, it is Igor who arranges for my rentals. A side business in between hooking up with hotties and frolicking with them on the beaches of Montenegro in summer and skiing the slopes of Kopaonik in winter.

My current apartment, the Pigeon Palace, is my favorite of all and not only because it’s a minute’s walk from Tezga. The place is a top floor with windows drawing in sunshine all around, turret style, I even have a view of the spectacular glowing coral sunsets. This was once an attic occupied by pigeons and ever since the renovation the evicted pigeons huddle like refugees from surrounding rooftops and occasionally make fly-bys, or even attempt to settle on the many sills.

Sorry birds, it’s a dynastic thing, I’m here and I’ve taken over.

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In the center of the old part of Belgrade is one of many open markets, a maze of individual covered stalls where when the weather is sunny the fruit putrefies, and potted herbs waft odiferously. And when the weather is drizzly the salespeople close up with tarps and padlock the surrounding metal fence.

A while back I went to buy peanuts. I located a nut booth and from a distance observed the salesman. Obviously a wolf. Anxiously I circled his spot several times rehearsing the necessary sentences. Finally I approached.

His glower unnerved me instantly, his steady stare tripped me, and I blanked. Because I could think of no words I pointed at what I wanted and flashed some cash, pink and blue notes. I saw a look in his frown as he mentally cooked up the tourist tax he would inevitably add to my bill.

I stumbled my way through my prepared speech as he went through the motions of scooping nuts into a small brown paper bag, and weighing it, and then returning some of his product. He dipped and retrieved the scooper again and again, until I was certain this was a total disaster.

Eventually, he closed the bag with a section of tape and rapid-fire told me the amount, which was utterly incomprehensible, and I was obliged to open my hand and let him pick the colorful notes he wanted. With shame in my eyes I knew I was his lamb to slaughter.

My only consolation was to promise myself I would never return to the wolf.

Yesterday, however, after many more rehearsals and the discovery of a different peanut stall I spoke my Serbian phrase and got exactly what I wanted, plus a smile from the saleslady.

Lepo! Beautiful!

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I’m in Belgrade, Serbia for the summer. I will never give up on Key West, but I am glad to escape the heat.

However, turns out it’s hot here too. Hot during the days of searing azure skies and hot at night. 

The days are easy as I slump beneath the a/c, usually in a comfortable deep sleep.

The nights I fill with walks through the city, under curves of an orange moon, passing by late games of basketball where shirtless sweating men scatter about, and tiny kids mimic on the sidelines with mini basketballs.

Speaking of sweating, not to gross you out, but it’s steamy here. On these evening walks I feel myself glueing to my clothes. A gathering of drips trickle from my nape down the furrow of my spine.

Belgrade is an ancient city and it is fascinating to me. Obviously, I have my mother’s side of the family to thank for that. I am constantly running into fresh information on long dead relatives who did a variety of intriguing activities. Some deviant, some daring, all interesting, at least to me.

This old town is full of dusty stories and as I stroll I collect motes, my ankles are plied with soot. When I get home I am a clammy mess.

Which makes me laugh because many nights in Key West, after dancing at the Green Parrot until closing time, it was the hot shower at the end that was often the best part of the night.

Last night I got home, late, sticky. I kicked off my flip-flops and stepped, fully dressed, directly into the shower and turned on the water. I let the powerful jet drench me, washing me down. Felt great. I highly recommend visiting Belgrade, equally highly recommend a hot shower at the end of the night with or without your clothes.

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A party at the palace! Three days of festivities for HRH Crown Prince Alexander, his 70th birthday. 

I was so excited I immediately wanted to share it with my friends.

When I first arrived in New York City as a teenager I attended parties, invitations bespattered with dubious titles in fancy script. These parties were public and you could bring whomever you wanted, the more the merrier. The ‘success’ of these parties were the ratio of guests to press. The goal being getting your photo taken and your name mentioned on Page 6.

I once brazenly crashed the birthday party of a famous rockstar and because it happened also be my birthday that night instead of throwing me out they included me and pretended the birthday was also for me.

For my cousin’s birthday I immediately invited my favorite friends. I wanted to share the fun.

When the time came to submit my guest list it was mortared. It was explained to me this was a private birthday party.

After downing sickening quantities of humble pie and disinviting people I love and care about and hurting feelings I never intended to hurt I went alone to the parties.

Except I wasn’t alone. Because in the last months I’ve met cousins, the sons of the Crown Prince. I’ve met his nephews who are also my cousins and we have all discovered that we are of the same tribe.

Not only I am not alone I am suddenly part of a family. This may sound banal to you, but I’ve been adrift a long time, which may explain why I am so bonded to my friends.

This was an incredible experience for me. Not just because the setting was unimaginably beautiful, the real thing is seamless refined perfection but more important and something I didn’t even know to wish for I was surrounded by loving family. They welcomed me in and I wanted to be there.

I seem to be the last to have learned this but life is about love. Family is love. Love is home. I’ll be staying.

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It was a sunny day when you passed the movie theatre. The marquee promised something you thought you wanted to see, to feel. 

You bought your ticket, a ticket to ride to the other side. Forgoing daylight you entered the cave of make-believe. You picked a worn red plush seat, center back.

Others milled and settled until the lights dimmed, encasing you in a womb-like sanctuary, preparing you for the mental trip to a realm of pleasure. 

Booming orchestral sounds warped your internal speed, rewrapped your external contours, you gave yourself up and over to this known safety zone. Like a baby to a mother’s tit, your peptides blazed.

Automatically you relaxed, you reclined, stretched out your legs, crossing them at the ankle. 

Scenes flicked with alluring faces enlarged beyond life, you read thoughts in oversized eyes, you saw tenderness and fears and doubts.

Then one particular mouth captivated you, it was curved and full and sensual, it seemed to speak directly to you. Very slightly you leaned forward, wishing to touch.

Unknowingly you shifted on your plush seat, fully transported by the images and sounds. 

Your heart was pierced, senses awakened, you floated.

Shockingly, far too soon it was over. Like a death. Harsh lights blinded you and the shabby theater returned around you.

People shuffled about, it was time to leave. You didn’t want to. You wanted to burrow back. 

Except you couldn’t. It was just a movie, right?

In a disconsolate daze you trod slowly toward the exit, mentally still in-between worlds, stalling in the hopes of slipping down some rabbit hole. 

Outside the sun shone brightly. Just before your mood could rebalance you looked directly into the eyes of a face you knew. A face you instantly loved. You recognized that mouth. 

image bySerb painter Miroslav Čule check him out here:

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Somewhere in the English countryside, with my mother when I was eight or nine years old, we were staying with friends of hers in a big beautiful house surrounded by hilly fields and forests.

Notifying no one one afternoon I ventured off. I crossed a field where I noticed a herd of cows in the distance. I scaled a fence and dropped into another paddock.

Image by Great Serb Painter Saša Montiljo www.montiljo.com

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