When you can’t come home again: RHOB’s return to Belgrade
I’ve been keeping a secret: my September trip to Paris also included a trip back to Belgrade. The return of RHOB! Or so I thought. I soon realized it’s not so easy to go home again, as a tourist to a former hometown.
We were so excited to return. Even in Paris, city of culinary delights, we kept telling ourselves, “only three more days until we’re eating in Belgrade!” We arrived at Tesla Airport and promptly checked into a Stari Grad hotel.
And that’s when it started to felt weird. I’d never to been to Belgrade as a tourist. The hotel was nice, but without a kitchen and refrigerator, my plans to shop at the markets, visit the Zlatiborski shop, or fix my favorite snack of ajvar, bread and feta didn’t make sense.
Muz and I decided to take a walk, but we disagreed about the route. I wanted to go to “my Belgrade,” all my favorite coffee shops and the cobblestone streets of Dorcol I used to wander around in search of blog material. Muz wanted to see “his Belgrade,” restaurants he visited with colleagues, parks where we walked our dog, and bars. With only three days in town, we had to compromise how to spend our time. (Long story short: we went to Coffee Dream and Parliament bar.)
We also discovered that our language skills had declined–considerably. Before we left, we felt comfortable using Serbian in most of our transactions. So imagine my surprise when I got into a taxi, tried to explain where I was going, and realized I was forgetting basic words. I had to phone my Serbian friend and give my phone to the driver to clarify things. After all the hours I spent learning the language, it was a sad moment.
Thankfully, I didn’t have to buy this.
After our second day, things improved. We went to our favorite restaurants and bakery, thrilled to be back in Serbian hospitality. We saw old friends and danced in new places. I realized I had to stop trying to cram a year into three days, and enjoy the difference between visiting Belgrade and living there. While I can’t return to our Stari Grad apartment, and I doubt I’ll live in Belgrade again, it was nice to return and see the city in a new light.
But next time? I’m renting an apartment for a week and bringing a suitcase of clothes and shoes for repair. I may not live in Belgrade anymore, but I can still benefit from its perks.
How to be a happy expat housewife…or fake it, anyway
I don’t know if it’s due to Thanksgiving prep, but I’m in a list-y mood lately. I’m also in a wistful mood, as it’s around the anniversary of our return to the United States. It’s been long enough that I can laugh at my mistakes, but not long enough that I’ve forgotten about them. I loved my expat life–mostly–and I thought I’d share some of my experience and suggestions for jobless spouses moving abroad.
1. Learn the language/alphabet.
I can’t stress this enough. Life in Belgrade is pretty easy for Americans, since most people speak English. But learning the language is essential for connecting with people and showing them respect. I didn’t have a chance to learn Serbian before moving there, but I taught myself cyrillic by writing things phonetically in English with cyrillic letters. When I arrived, I had no idea where things were, but at least I could read the street signs to find my tutor.
If you can’t afford a tutor, find a language exchange parter. My language exchange buddy taught me some of my most valuable Serbian colloquialisms. She also showed me secret bars and how to curse, which made me seem MUCH cooler than I am. (Thanks, Anja!)
2. Get ready for the roller coaster.
Expats’ emotions for the first four months usually go something like this: shock; surprise; happy; homesick. Once the novelty of a place has worn off, it’s clear that you are very, very far from home. My homesickness was compounded by missed weddings, new babies, and all sorts of fun things back in the U.S. But it lifted after a few weeks when I realized that I was a part of a new circle of friends, which happened when I began to…
3. Say yes.
I am not a natural joiner. So imagine Muz’ surprise when I began to join any kind of club that would have me, attend lectures on things I knew nothing about, and ask anyone to coffee. Was it uncomfortable? Sometimes. Did I become lifelong buddies with everyone I met? No. But I was fortunate to befriend a great group of Serbians and expats who liked to read, run, write and roam as much as I do as a result.
Of course, this can become its own kind of problem. Serbians are really friendly; toward the end of our stay, I had to walk our dog a completely different route if I wanted to avoid a 45 minute excursion talking to shopkeepers and neighbors. Serbians aren’t late because they don’t care about time; they’re late because it’s impossible to just wave hello.
4. Find your superpower.
I was nervous about being unemployed abroad. I thought it would be too easy to slide into a life of staying at home all day, meeting no one, and doing nothing. So before I left, I made a list of things that I always wanted to do, but never seemed to find the time for. The list was: (1) become a better cook; (2) play the ukulele; (3) learn Serbian; (4) write.
Ok, so none of these things are my superpower. I didn’t master any of them, but they helped me structure my first weeks and gave me great cocktail party conversation skills: “What are you doing in Belgrade?” “Learning the ukulele.”
5. Accept the differences, appreciate the positives
Okay, so you’ve learned the language, joined the umbrella repair club, and listened to your neighbor talk about her dog’s bowel movements for ten minutes. But you also hate the showers, or the bus system, or tiny habits that are unique to your new culture. Time for some tough love, expat: suck it up. You’re in a foreign place–probably by choice–and it’s going to be foreign. Accept that. Find the good things about it. Because you’re going to miss them like crazy when you leave.
A mildly successful, slightly silent, re-entry
Expats warned us that it is harder to go back home than it is to move abroad. I suppose that’s because moving somewhere new is usually exciting, even more so when it’s a foreign country. Adjusting to new languages, sights and sounds is time-consuming and (hopefully) interesting. Moving back to a known city, however, can seem like a bit of a letdown. Oh, there’s my old apartment building. Yep, that’s the coffee shop I went to for five years. Here’s the shoe repair store that ripped me off one time. And so on.
Yet so far, I don’t feel let down. Everything is familiar, but a find myself being confused or tongue tied at the simplest things. It’s almost like my first weeks in Belgrade all over again.
Here’s an example. I went to Starbucks yesterday and when it was my turn to order, I was unable to speak for twenty seconds. I wanted to order a grande green tea. Simple, right? But there were two or three kinds of green tea, and I couldn’t figure out the difference. Then I tried to remember how to say “medium” in Serbian but (1) I was not in Serbia and (2) if we had a Starbucks in Serbia it would still be called a grande. (Also, they don’t really have “medium” portions of things in Serbia. Go big or go home.) I stood there, mute, for about 20 seconds while I tried to figure this all out. Finally, I just sputtered “Tea. Green. Medium,” like a robot that barely spoke English (or Serbian, for that matter.)
Green tea in hand, I walked to my dentist’s office. I went into the restroom before my appointment and hit the light switch just outside the door. The hallway went dark. I thought the power went out for about five seconds before I remembered that U.S. light switches are inside the restroom, not outside. Someone poked their head out into the hallway but I managed to flip the light and dash into the restroom before anyone could see me. Probably.
My dentist, a man of Iranian heritage, asked what I was doing these days. I said I had just returned from a year in Serbia. I wondered if he’d respond: “Where’s Serbia?” I figured at best he’d say “sounds interesting” and at worst he’d say, “How bad was it?” What he said made me, once again, completely dumbfounded: “Govorite li Srpski?”
That’s right, readers. My Iranian-born dentist lived in Belgrade and Nis for two years. He went to University there before coming to America. I had no idea. We chatted and laughed, until he told me I had a cavity. (Thanks, krempite.) Then I was silent again, but for entirely different and more painful reasons.
Happy anniversary to me
Should I have set out on this long journey? I went almost unthinkingly, without any special desire or need, for the sake of another. And perhaps I’d gain from seeing this strange Frankish world. I say perhaps, because I didn’t believe it. Apart from merchants, traveling was only for those disturbed people unable to remain alone with themselves, who chased after the new sights that an unknown world offered to their eyes while their hearts remained empty.
-Meša Selimović, The Fortress.
I’ve always loved this quote, but I find it especially fitting today. I arrived in Belgrade one year ago. When we landed I was tired, confused, and practically ignorant about this part of the world. I moved here for the sake of another, but also because I hoped to gain a greater understanding about the world and even my own country. But let’s be honest, too–I also hoped to see new sights.
I’ve accomplished some of these goals, but the “must-see, must-do, must-read” list goes on and on. Maybe that’s the way it should be. Or maybe I’m one of the “disturbed” people Selimovic talks about. That’s ok. I’ve been called worse. Should I have set out on this long journey? Sigorno. With certainty.
Check out the works of Selimović and other Balkan (and Portugese) authors this year at the Belgrade Book Fair–it continues until Sunday.
You Live in Belgrade When…
you can buy flowers to match your new brassiere.
Taken in Zeleni Venac market in downtown Belgrade.
Longer post tomorrow, I swear. In the meanwhile check out #youliveinbelgrade on Twitter!
You can take the girl out of Chipotle, but you can’t take Chipotle out of the girl: American expats and Mexican food
Two years ago, I briefly joined friends who were taking a year-long trip around the world. We met in Thailand while they were eight months into their adventure. Over Chang beer and fiery noodles, I asked them what they missed about America.
I thought they would say “knowing the language,” “fabric softener,” or “hot showers and air conditioning.” The answer was none of the above. They missed Mexican food.
Now that I have an extra appreciation for how our friends felt, I’m even happier that we tried Mexican food in Thailand. It was a mad experiment in international food relations. Our burrito was more of a spring roll, with thoughtfully applied ketchup in place of salsa. Mexican food in Siem Reap, Cambodia was a little better. The “guacamole” was bright green and appeared to be made of peas, but at least the consistency was right. The chips were made of crispy rice paper and the salsa was edible. I watched my friends savor each bite and thought, these poor souls. They simply don’t remember what it tastes like.
Mexican food is a uniquely American experience. You’d think it would be a uniquely Mexican experience, but no. Unless you live in Texas, the Southwest, or Southern California, “Mexican food” is a bizarre hybrid of American, Latin American, Caribbean and South American cuisine. It’s massive burritos with sour cream AND guacamole, margaritas from a machine, Cuban black beans, and deep-fried taco bowls with salad inside (you know, so it’s healthy). It’s kind of disgusting, and I totally miss it.
This year, I can relate to my worldly friends more than ever. Belgrade doesn’t really do Mexican food. Serbians are generally not fond of anything spicy. Mexican ingredients are rarer than an empty seat on the 41 bus line. Black beans? Forget it. Hot sauce? Ha! Cilantro is the Bigfoot of Belgrade markets–people claim they’ve seen it, but they can’t remember where. If they do find it, they paid a huge price and then never see it again. Maybe that’s how I should have spent my time here–forming a black market for cilantro and picante sauce.
There are Mexican restaurants in Belgrade–just not any good ones. Beans are canned and bland. phyllo dough is used instead of tortillas. Some grocery stores do sell flour tortillas (how are Serbians using these?) so at least I can make my own fajitas and tacos. It’s not quite the same.
Fortunately, we found authentic American-Mexican food at Iguana. Unfortunately, Iguana is in…Budapest. Yes, that’s three hours away, but we travel there pretty frequently and three hours is a lot closer than Texas. When the craving gets too bad, Muz and I count down the days until we’re back in Budapest so we can get the best quesadillas this side of the Atlantic. On our last visit, we even ordered jalepeno poppers.
I wouldn’t order these in the States if you paid me, but here they were good. Actual jalepenos, lightly battered, served with a local cheese that was a better replacement for cheddar and sour cream. What’s that on the side? Why, it’s a Michelada: a delicious concoction of lime juice and beer with a salt rim. Technically there should be some tomato juice too, but I’m not complaining.
We’ve been to Iguana five or six times this year, and it never failed to make us happy. It’s a little slice of home in a part of the world where “run for the border” has an entirely different connotation. But now that we’re leaving, I can’t help but wonder if I even remember what it should taste like. I guess I’ll find out soon.
Top 10 Signs You May Live in Belgrade
I’ve been compiling a “You know you’re in Belgrade when…” list for a while, but it never seemed finished. Now I realize it will probably never be finished; there are too many observations and too many missed opportunities for one person to do it in one year.
I also realize that many of these things aren’t unique to Belgrade, but hey, that’s where I live. Enlighten me if you’d like and add your own thoughts in the comments!
(P.S. This photo is a bit misleading…it was taken in Subotica, not Belgrade.)
Top 10 Signs You May Live in Belgrade
1. You park on the sidewalk and walk in the street.
2. You know 8 Pedjas, 6 Dragans/Draganas, and 3 Zorans/Zoranas. Let’s not even talk about the Milicas, Anjas and Minas.
3. Your favorite bar has no food, but an extensive cigarette menu.
4. You’ve bought 15 “orphanage” cards from strangers on the street…who never give you envelopes.
5. Grocery shopping involves a pijaca, at least one Mini Maxi, and a stop at Stampa for smokes.
6. Elderly women are far stronger than you are. (That’s what happens when you carry 30 pounds of vegetables around every other day.)
7. If you’re a woman, your closet is full of galoshes and stilettos. If you’re a man, you have five pairs of pristine sneakers.
8. You’re more loyal to your bakery than your church.
9. The pharmacies are full of medicine, but none are as strong as rakija.
10. Everyone laughs at superstitions…and then follows them.
A Year of Days in Belgrade
NOTE: I can’t find my thingee (technical term) that transfers photos to my computer, so I can’t show you all the cool stuff I’ve done this week. Instead, I’m posting a revised essay I wrote in May for my writing group. Hope you enjoy it.
A Year of Days in Belgrade
Godinu dana: a year of days. I’m told that’s the proper phrase to use when I explain how long I’ll be in Belgrade. I like this expression; it highlights my urgency to see everything, go everywhere, and eat anything in just 365 days. When I remember this year, I’ll think of the special days that defined the confusion, frustration, and happiness of a life abroad.
My first few days in Belgrade were a rainy blur. I was dizzy with jet lag. I had no idea where we lived and was constantly getting lost. To bring some sense into our new life, I started Serbian classes on my third day in Belgrade. After 30 minutes of instruction, the teacher asked if I had any questions. She then blinked rapidly as I asked, “Where can I buy a hair dryer? What do I say when the telephone rings? Why do streets have two different names? After patiently answering all my questions, we ended the lesson in a Bosch appliance store while I asked, “Treba mi fan?”
Then there was the day I ended my semi-vegetarian lifestyle. It didn’t take long. We were invited to lunch at a winery near Topola. The table was heavy with smoked meats and roasted lamb. I tried some dried vegetables instead, only to discover it was duvan čvarci. It was the first day in my life I ate pork rind. It would not be the last.
Life changed quite a bit on the Saturday we picked up our dog. The breeder spoke little English, and our Serbian was rudimentary, but he welcomed us like relatives. We sat shoeless in his living room and admired the juices and sodas carefully displayed on a nearby table. He asked lots of questions and gave us strict instructions. It was my first lesson in the Serbian love for dogs, despite (or because of) the strays I see around town.
One Sunday evening, Serbia suddenly seemed like home. We visited Studenica Monastery and were given a tour of the three churches inside. We drank coffee with a monk and spoke in broken Serbian-English about the church, life in Belgrade, and our families. For the first time in months, I felt as though I was a part of my surroundings, rather than passing through them on a first-class train.
Now I wonder about the days when we return to the United States. I wonder if I’ll overhear Serbian, or if someone will stop me when I’m telling our dog hajde, dosta, and fuje to. If that happens, I’ll say, Zivela sam u Beogradu za godinu dana. A year of unforgettable days.
“What’s Belgrade Like?”
I just returned from a short trip to London, and it was clearly a taste of what to expect when I return to America. I’m not talking about Vietnamese restaurants, high prices and subway lines. I’m talking about explaining life in Serbia.
“What’s Belgrade like?” is an innocent question. It didn’t surprise me; even in (somewhat) nearby London, few people have traveled to Serbia. What surprised me was the wide-eyed stare. The “wow, you must be really brave” intonation. Or worse, the smirk. The “I’m going to get some really snarky stories about another culture” smirk. Sigh.
“It’s Paris meets Brooklyn” has become my catchphrase. It’s more like Paris meets Queens, but let’s face it, few people have an idea of what Queens is like, either. “It’s grit and great bakeries; it’s beautiful women and brutalist architecture; it has fresh, simple food and complicated people.” Most people seem incredulous.
The misconceptions aren’t one-sided. Strangers expected Serbia to be an ugly, difficult place to live, and Serbians expected strangers to think they were ugly and difficult. On my cab ride back from the airport, the driver and I talked about English people. “What do they think of us?” he asked. “Do they still think we’re savages? Cannibals?” “I never heard that,” I said. “They just think that Serbia is a war-torn country.” It’s true. Americans and Englishmen ask about the war, but they don’t imply that everyone here is a war criminal. They’re simply amazed to hear that Belgrade isn’t a third world city or a Moscow suburb.
I started this blog partly to explain life in Belgrade, but I’m no Momo Kapur. Something else is needed. More accurately, someone else: Serbians. I can’t tell you how many Serbians are shocked to find that I like living here. Or how often I hear, “Oh, I know a Serbian person (living abroad). They say that Serbia is terrible.” I hear that and I cringe.
I compare that attitude to the tour guide in Istanbul who asked, “who wouldn’t want to be Turkish?” and the hotel clerk in Sarajevo who said, “maybe you could live here someday,” as if he was offering candy. I’m reminded of a friend who returned from her first visit to New York complaining about public urination and noise and rudeness, and my reply was “yes, but didn’t you LOVE it?”
There are plenty of places that are imperfect and crazy and worth visiting. I know. I’m lucky to live in one of them. If you disagree, then please tell me: “What’s Belgrade like?”
Real Housewife of Belgrade 