One morning early, on my Serbian adventure, I was driven from central Belgrade to the top of Avala, a mountain where my ancestor, King Alexander I of Yugoslavia, commissioned a monument The Tomb of the Unnamed Soldier to commemorate the victims of the Balkan Wars and World War I. Wars he fought in. This tomb would be built over the site of a medieval Fort, which was itself constructed atop the ruins of an ancient Roman city. Plans began, but over time, Alexander’s vision expanded from a modest gravesite to a memorial complex requiring the freeing up of space on the mountaintop.

An explosives expert by the name of Schultz was brought along to prepare the area with copious dynamite. King Alexander granted the honor of plunging the TNT device to his nephew and namesake, Prince Alexander, the eldest son of Prince Paul, my grandfather.

Whatever the King’s reason for choosing his nephew over his own sons, my uncle Alexander so relished the experience to this day, and he is alive and well and living in Paris, he is known, in small family circles, as Schultz. I’ve known this all my life, but I never knew why.

Do you have a nickname?  I’ll tell you mine … If you tell me yours…

Image by John Martini©

www.johnmartini.com

 For more Christina Oxenberg  visit: Christina Oxenberg’s amazon page 

SUP?!!!

I’ve watched punters standing, or sometimes sitting, on ‘paddle boards’, and honestly, I have always suspected this was not quite a ‘sport’.

Until I tried it, and I loved it! Everything was contrary to my expectations. It is not boring! It is not difficult!

After my few years here the notches I count on my belt are sightings of eagle rays, of manatees, of dolphins and miniature deer, and sunsets.

The paddle boards, for anyone not familiar, are as big as your average house, essentially a surfboard for a giant. My guide told me that I could expect to fall off the board and not to panic, but above all else, not to lose my paddle.

I got all suited up in one hundred layers of sunscreen.

Of course I fell right in. After rebooting I followed my guide across a channel with houseboats and egrets and pelicans and on the way we saw a nurse shark sleeping, only a few feet below, and then the manatees. They filled up the space beneath my board, and then some. My guide recommended we sit quietly and watch over the side as these paved roads silently passed beneath, elephants ending in a wall of tail, like an exaggerated bumper. A tail so strong these peaceable sea cows, with one flick, can move from zero to invisibility.

Next we entered a tangle of mangroves, and here the world changes. Narrow passageways too tight to paddle, so that you pull yourself along by the imploring fingers of the mangrove trees. And where the limbs cross low over the path, you lie back on the board and allow the woven works to pass above your eyes, and an ethereal peacefulness infiltrates. Light dapples and shadows contort, and from deep within you quieten. An interior peace I’ve heard of, but seldom experienced.

My well-informed guide pointed out the strangest of sea life from purple starfish to white snowflake-shaped jellyfish and tiny balls of silver hair pulsating to beats of their own.

For a good time on the water I recommend SUP!

 www.supkeywest.com

Image by Amy Badass©

 For more Christina Oxenberg  visit: Amazon.com Christina Oxenberg-Royal Blue

After my travels I’m home in the Keys and settling in when I heard a certain siren call, I learned my favorite band, Xperimento, was playing this weekend at my favorite bar, the The Green Parrot. All I could think of was wanting to gather up all of town to attend the nights of their lives. This band is a gorgeous work in progress, hence their name. They combine all sorts of genres and their music is ever evolving, sometimes even the musicians are switched out for others.

I texted everyone I know, and facebooked those I don’t and urged them to attend the shows.

As perhaps you know the Parrot has a new dance floor, so I was glad to go check it out. It is matte black and flat and even like a freshly tarred road. It was shocking. The new floor felt great under my flip-flops, and it no longer has the shredded wooden floorboards, one side with a dip and trip area, or the one hundred years of spilled beer making for a tacky grabby surface where on occasion a flip-flop did get stuck. But it is so ugly, I can’t love it. Except that I know the young demoiselle who worked on it, helped make that new floor, and she is a very special little angel, you know her as Amy Badass. So I have to learn to love the dance floor.

Xperimento has some new songs and they are mesmerizing. No point me describing, please get their latest CD and you’ll hear for yourselves. Goes live December (but you can pre-order) at www.music.xperimento.com

Life trucks on yet much has changed. The dance floor at the Green Parrot is changed, the members of the band are changed, I am changed after my travels.

What has not changed is I’m up to my old tricks dancing the nights away, hence the brevity of this post. And now, as the roosters crow, I must go to bed!

I love Key West!

Image by John Martini©

www.johnmartini.com

For more Christina Oxenberg  visit: Amazon.com Royal Blue Christina Oxenberg

There was a time I was related to a former Prime Minister of Peru.  I was in Lima visiting, he was obsessed with security and never left his reinforced apartment in the San Ysidro area without a bodyguard as well as a couple of revolvers, one in his jacket pocket so that it sagged like the belly of a pregnant bitch, and another stuck in the waistband of his slacks.

Sometimes when we drove around the city he liked to drive with the security guard in the passenger seat, buckled in and looking impotent. Lima’s streets were busy with impatient drivers and few police and fewer rules, all the cars seemingly racing instead of merely getting from place to place. But the former Prime Minister had his own tricks to stay alpha in the face of all those lesser dogs at the wheels. He would, while pressing the horn of his car with one hand, and steering with the knees of his long legs, with his free hand he would wave around one of his pistols, right out the window and directly at the shocked faces of all around.

One day, we were walking into a restaurant which was a bungalow with a squad of ninjas on the roof all dressed in black and pointing AK47s, security for the restaurant, this was the 1980s, a different time. A time of violence and hunger strikes and sit ins at the Parliament and a time of riots in the big city square where authors were considering running for elected office.

Just as we reached the front door of the restaurant we passed a bench. On the bench was seated an ancient man wearing rags and nearly toothless which became apparent when he opened his old dry mouth to smile. The former Prime Minister cordially stretched out his hand, and cracked a campaign smirk.

‘This happens all the time’, the former Prime Minister explained, ‘People remember me and the good I did for our country’.

But the toothless old man refused to shake hands, instead he turned his hand palm up, and it was clear. He was not saying hello, he was begging. The former Prime Minister had no cash in his pocket, and he instructed his body guard to dole out a few coins, and into the sumptuous restaurant we went.

 Image by Amy Badass©

 For more Christina Oxenberg  visit: Amazon.com Royal Blue Christina Oxenberg

I don’t mind spiders. I don’t want them crawling on my skin, but I’m happy to see them crouched in their webs and waiting to score a hapless fly, a deviant sugar ant. Provided they are doing their job I won’t interfere.

But these days I’m faced with a dilemma. Recently come to live with me is a small spider. He’s in a corner of the kitchen with a low slung clumsy unwieldy web. There are bits beneath him all over the floor. He’s a slob.

When I was a kid I was the bug killer of the family. Siblings were squeamish and would run screaming from rooms at the first sight of anything small and dark and moving fast.

I was the one sent in to deal with insects. It’s not that I liked them, or had some fetish for them. I didn’t want to possess them or put them in glass jars and examine them. No, it was an uneasy truce between the skeeters and I.

For relocation purposes I would find a stick around which to wind the web and with it the prisoner arachnid and run the whole thing outside and fling it into a bush. Even a paper tissue would do, just to pin down and gather up the tiny prey so as to toss it out a window. I was inspired by the praise from family members who would cling to each at a distance from me, and quiver until the operation was over.

Mosquitos, however, suffer a different fate altogether. If I’m bitten or not I will go after them. Like they are Bloods and I’m a Crip, and it’s a matter of principle. I’m an expert at killing mosquitos. The trick, since they can only seem to focus on one event at a time, is to come at them with both hands, in a slicing motion, so that you catch them in the palms of your hands, like you’re saying goodbye to an ex. There were nights in Colombia where all I did was mash mosquitos. We didn’t have cable.

I haven’t yet decided what to do with my teenager of a spider. Today I see him wrapping a fly’s wing in web string. He’s working, so perhaps I’ll let him be.

Image by John Martini©

www.johnmartini.com

 For more Christina Oxenberg  visit: Amazon.com Royal Blue Christina Oxenberg

I was driving to where the boulevard takes a sharp left and merges with the coast road.

The sight of the glittering Atlantic sucked my attention and I dragged my eyes from oncoming traffic to admire the horizon of refracted sunlight and sparkles.

However,  instead of awe inspiring shiny sea I was faced with a pair of eyes. Oily dark eyes wide with terror. I was stunned and nearly lost control of my car.

The tiny reptile was pressing himself flat and hugging the windshield.  In his eyes I clearly read a heartbreaking desperation. I steered to the side of the road, and parked. My heart was racing with this sudden responsibility. I slipped out as fast as I could and rushed around to the front passenger side.

Unfortunately my actions further terrified the wigged out gecko and he bound off the windshield and wound himself into the wheel spokes.

No no! Get out of there! I waved excitedly at him. 

He stared at me like I might be insane and he scooted down the tire. He was on the ground and then the unthinkable happened, he rushed into the traffic.

Oh no! I implored, horrified at the raised threat level, and I ran around to herd him, at least out of harm’s way. Mercifully he responded, and dashed past me and towards the beach.

I was already shaking from anxiety but I pursued him so that he settled far from the busy road. Seeing me pursue him he hurried faster and sped up the squat sea wall, where he stopped, and there he caught his breath.

I was panting too, as much from fright, and I held out my hand to him,  and spoke in a soft voice, “If you calm down I could take you home.”

An impossible standoff.

I got in my car and lowered the windows. I frowned at my tiny combat buddy. As I drove off I saw him watch me pull away. Guilt riddled me.

Image by Amy Badass©

 For more Christina Oxenberg  visit: Amazon.com Royal Blue Christina Oxenberg

Four years ago, slumped on a sofa in a cottage in Southampton, NY I was watching the weatherman on television. He was flailing in front of a map of the east coast of America. He was advising in the manner of a preacher predicting Armageddon that we were in for ‘the storm of the century!’ He advised the swift purchase of a month’s worth of supplies. ‘Buy a shovel,’ he urged with enthusiasm, ‘Buy flashlights and batteries!’

‘Sod off!’ I replied to the television, ‘I’m buying a ticket to Florida!’

And I did, and ever since that auspicious moment I’ve been a Key West resident resplendent in ample sunshine and yearly access to the warm ocean in which to float and gloat about my chilly northern past.

By chance, for a weekend, I find myself returned to the end of Long Island, to stay with great old friends. I am reminded of the intangible beauty of this place, the playful light, the romance of ochre leaves and open fields.

Indoors there are floor to ceiling fireplaces of ornately carved stonework with raucous spluttering fires to stand beside and watch the world outside. Outside is a gorgeous display of wind blown trees and driving sleet and while evocative I have no desire to don five thousand layers and venture out. In fact, I’ve yet to step a toe outdoors since arriving Friday.

No, instead I fill yet another deep hot bath and submerge and make-believe I’m at the beach. Interrupting my self delusion are the sounds of windowpanes whimpering against the forces of mother nature, doors popping open from suction only to slam closed on themselves, for no one, or maybe ghosts.

I believe the winter is jealous of colorful nature, forever trying to denude it until it is left naked and beseeching. But we all know this is a temporary victory and come spring all will reverse with proliferating buds and shrubs.

Sure my heart feels a tug and I’m tantalized, in a way I think of here as home. But I’ve been known to try and put down stakes in hotel rooms, ‘I could live here!’ is a common refrain of mine.

Before dawn tomorrow I’ll be sitting on a jet plane wending south, and ‘home’. And despite my slight ambivalence quite likely the first thing I’ll say, swaddled instantly in balmy heat, is, ‘I could live here!’

The Nikola Tesla museum is a creamy villa in Belgrade. I arrived in time for the short film which included a snapshot of my grandfather saying hello to Mr. Tesla. It was surreal to see my grandfather up there on the screen. I forget where I am sometimes. I never fail to recognize my grandfather and his beautiful serene face concealing who knows what thoughts. In the photos he is always perfectly composed and serious. Not at all like the warm funny man I remember from my childhood.

After the film a tiny lady with a huge engineering brain lectured us, and showed us how the machines worked with light beams and conducting electricity through people and remote control operation which in its time was considered magic mind control. And despite my minimal grasp it was impressive. The museum lady was so fierce, although young and sporting a plump ass, no one dared ask a single question at any point of her talk. Instead we all just gaped in silence. When a couple of German tourists whispered to each other she admonished them, saying, ‘Later is a better time for you to chat’. Next we were left alone to wander around and look at Tesla’s personal effects, his top hat, his kid gloves, his eyeglasses, a silver flask. His art collection and letters from friends. And the final room with an urn shaped like a bowl atop a marble obelisk and here are Tesla’s ashes. Before we were let loose the museum lady gave strict instructions not to photograph or video or in anyway be disrespectful to the ashes of the hero.

There’s no denying Tesla was way ahead of his time. He went to see his hero Edison in America and Edison turned on him. He conducted experiments in NYC and his laboratory was mysteriously burnt to the ground. He built a tower on Long Island and it was destroyed with TNT by the army claiming spurious reasons. When he went to Colorado Springs he was treated like a crazy man. And his great sponsor J.P. Morgan withdrew his sponsorship once he realized Tesla wanted to help the world not charge the world. The capitalist mindset was horrified by Tesla’s altruism, and he equally was disappointed with their greed. He named one invention a Peace Ray and it was immediately recoined a Death Ray. If Tesla had his way the whole planet would have access to free power.

Tesla died a poor man, ridiculed and rejected. But I doubt he was himself dejected. In fact he said it himself, he said ‘Today may belong to others but the future is mine’.

Is the future here yet?

That my beloved Green Parrot is closed and under renovation is an excellent reason to exit Key West. Most importantly the dance floor is being rebuilt and I feel a little responsible for its extensive wear and tear. What a great time to be away, because to be there and not be allowed to go dance at the Green Parrot would be worse than hell.

Equally hellish in my sainted little island life is the weather, it being the muggy season, where the atmosphere perspires and oxygen has vanished and it feels like one is gagging on mouthfuls of clouds.

These days I am in the very ancient city of Belgrade, Serbia where I have rented an apartment short-term and I’m feeling like a native but behaving like a tourist, using methods like the tram tracks to find my way home. Employing hand gestures to communicate numbers, flashing fingers and wincing, until the person says, ‘English?’ And I grin pathetically and proffer colored papery notes, fanned out like a deck of cards, and let them pluck what they like. The city of Belgrade is hustle and bustle like New York City except of course with a European flair with ornate buildings while others are blocks of marble, still others bombed wreckage with shrubbery growing where once there were walls.

Bustling coffee shops everywhere are filled with slouched lupine locals. The men are sturdy and unusually handsome and the women supremely feminine and all of them seem to move as if on oiled hinges. Little restaurants out on the cobblestones are filled with people who seem to have little concern for time, only for the company they keep and their diminutive coffees and brandies.

By contrast, the tranquil houseboats along the banks of the Sava River, are the manifestation of romance. I was lucky enough to be invited for lunch last Sunday. A barbecue of fish fished from the waters surrounding us, while a friend’s mother chopped this and that and made magic from unrecognizable produce. Mouthwatering magic. Here I’m told the scent of food brings strangers to one’s houseboat. I lounged on a hammock, a platform with a mattress hung by chains, and right before I closed my eyes, relaxing into paradise, I observed a tranche of tree swiftly traveling down the center current of the river with two indolent ducks side-by-side hitching a ride.

I traveled here on a one-way ticket but despite my rapture with this land I cannot stay forever. For one thing I left my car at the Key West airport. I’ll be back, eventually.

My very first time in this country, five days in the middle of July, I traveled with my friend Henry Bisharat. He sure made things easy, as a world traveler himself it came naturally to him to organize everything, even more natural for him was to go on to start a travel company, I recommend you put your life in his hands at www.worldtravelerhelp.com

In 1903, after a strange and orphan-like existence, my grandfather HRH Prince Paul of Serbia arrived in this country aged 10 years old. One of his first impressions was the sight of the massacred previous ruling family, blood and bodies putrefying in the fortress courtyard. My introduction to this country was far gentler, quite the contrast. When I think about him I cry for him and his absurdly complicated life. But what I always knew was his love for this country and its people. And I have to agree with him even if I cannot exactly explain why.

Today my life feels acutely clear and joyously vague all at once. I am certain about visiting this foreign country where maybe for the first time in my life I am not a foreigner. Yet I know nearly nothing and can scarcely communicate. But I have so many friends here, who I have yet to meet, I only know them from the ethers of the Internet.

One of my absolute priorities was to meet Milos Mitrovic, Serbia’s greatest living poet, with whom I’ve been Internet friends for years. Unluckily for me he was out of town my first trip, which was short and planned at the last minute. He was not only out of town he was off the grid. I didn’t hear from him until I was back in the States. We were both distressed to discover Murphy’s Law had prevailed and kept us apart, except I had no doubt I was returning, even if I didn’t know when, it was inevitable.

I’ve traveled the earth oftentimes alone, on purpose, to get far away from everyone and anything I had ever known. I chose destinations where I could get lost in anonymity and be fairly certain of not running into anyone familiar.

This trip I’m traveling by myself except I don’t feel remotely alone, and again, maybe for the first time in my life, I feel I am headed somewhere instead of running from someplace.

Last night I had the great honor and pleasure of meeting my friend Milos Mitrovic in real life. We walked around the busy night streets and toured a museum of modern Balkan art. Unsurprisingly Milos is as clever and funny and original as his gorgeous poems which I adore. I strongly recommend a visit at www.milosmitrovic.com