it's world dance day!!

who knew? i didn't. it's a good thing i've been sitting on some comparative dance material then...

first up, sardanas. when you think spain, you think flamenco, right? sweet strumming guitars, ruffly red dresses, rhythm, passion, fire... olé! no. no olé. not in catalunya. the national dance of the catalan is sardanas. this video was shot one sunday afternoon in plaza st. jaume, where dozens of catalan gather in warm weather, to celebrate their catalan-ness through movement. behold, the least fiery, least sexy dance on the entire planet. (the girl without a bra does not count.) behold, the single most convincing piece of evidence in the argument that catalunya is not really spain.

sardanas sunday from ieishah clelland on Vimeo.

next up, kolo. the dance of the balkans. i participated in this dance at a party this past new year's eve in novi sad. there were about 5 people in a dark room at the back of the apartment, drinking jelen pivo and listening to traditional serbian music. they kept saying, close the door, close the door! like they didn't want anyone to know. when i joined in, everyone in the entire party was summoned to watch, the lights were turned on, and cameras started flashing... like they never seen a sister dance kolo before. it seemed easy enough. a lot less manic and acrobatic than what appears in this video.


two completely different countries and cultures. same goddamn circle dance. or is it? what do you think? what is the difference?

sarkozy smells himself

the european union has suffered an identity crisis since its inception. who are we? what do we really have in common, historically, and looking towards the future? can we trust each other? more importantly, who's in charge, here?? and the crisis ain't helpin'. the questions loom even more ominously than before: how are we going to fight this thing? do we band together? or is it every man for himself? french satirical weekly, charlie hebdo, seems to think it's the latter. especially in the case of french prez, nicolas sarkozy. the titles of this mid-march edition read: 'the protectionist's temptation: why search out there for that which we can find in ourselves?' when this illustration of a naked, pretzeled sarkozy was brought to my attention by my french contingent, i found it a bit harsh... albeit really fucking funny. but given the presidential trash talk sarkozy's been engaging in lately (obama's weak! zapatero's stupid!) i've changed my mind.

the dark side of boho chic

spanish teacher: so, what's one thing that bothers you about barcelona? one thing that you don't like.

me: too many pickpockets.

spanish teacher: but you're from new york! barcelona is definitely safer than new york!!

me: i guess so. i mean, here i feel safe walking at night, and i never really feel like anyone will hurt me physically, but i've never had to watch my belongings as much as i do here...

[entire class agrees. teacher looks confused.]

me: seriously, of all the cities i've lived in--paris, london, brussels, madrid--i was never once robbed. i was here only two days, and my bag was taken! i don't know anyone who lives here that hasn't been robbed.

[entire class agrees, offering their own stories.]

spanish teacher: yes, but, it's not catalans that steal... it's the gypsies...
****
student: i don't mind immigrants. south americans, africans, moroccans... they come here, and for the most part, they all want to work. but gypsies? they will never ask you for a job. they never want to work.
****
needless to say, this billboard gives me the creeps. it gave me the creeps even before reading this morning's new york times article, as economic turmoil mounts, so do attacks on hungary's gypsies. it gives me the creeps because it's the only form in which anything 'gypsy' would ever be welcome on barcelona's answer to madison avenue, paseo de grácia. everywhere else on european soil, it's the roma that are considered the wretched of the earth.

apparently we have former nazi party boss, tobias portschy to thank for that particular quirk in the racial hierarchy. according to a 1995 times article, attack on austrian gyspsies deepen fear of neo-nazis, in 1938 after austria's annexation by nazi germany [...] tobias portschy described the gyspsies as work-shy, do nothing criminals. in 1990, at the sprightly young age of 85, portschy, by then a 'respected member of society', took credit for the long-standing stigma: i put the gypsies in the same category as the jews. i proposed that analogy'. olé.

if not through a visual scanning of barcelona's city centre, just how much traction portschy's 'analogy' has had in the last 70-some odd years certainly bears out anecdotally. by contrast, in novi sad, serbia, the problem of the roma is visible, tangible. the majority of street beggars i see are roma. many of them, children; hungry, dirty, missing both teeth, and parental supervision. often see them digging through garbage for food, or shrewdly checking beneath kiosks for fallen change. i try not to look at them. partially because i see questions in their eyes i can't answer.

but mostly because when i look at them, i don't hear flamenco guitars. i don't see long flowing printed skirts, stacked gold bangles and tarot cards. in their eyes, in their muddy outstretched fingers, i don't see the carefree fluidity of 'boho chic' tapped for big billboards; the hoop earrings, colorful headscarfs, and peasant tops. i don't see the rhythm, chaos, and magic of a kusturica film. and i should, cause we got it from them.

i don't look because i cannot understand how 'roma' manages to represent cooler than cool and lower than low all at the same time.

random acts

looking back at the last few posts, i realize that the line-up is making me look a bit random. i go from the theater to penis sizes to G rated children's educational videos in just a matter of days.

this is not just for the blog. i'm proud to say my life is no less... hmmm-multifaceted. take last thursday for example. the day looked something like this:

745am arrive at work, making photocopies, tweak lesson plan

8-11am classes, no break

11am intermediate class departs, a middle aged male student is overheard saying to another classmate on his way out the door, 'now THAT was a good class'

1130am i still feel good

1135am catch a taxi across town to the federació de basquet (basketball federation, the catalan government's sports marketing branch)

1150am arrive at the federació to shoot a real ad for a real bank.
i got the gig through a make-up artist i'd met while looking for a flat during my first days in barcelona. when her casting agent colleague was having trouble finding a girl who looked 'both foreign and professional' (wtf??), the make-up artist remembered me from a brief meeting exactly one year ago, and recommended me. i got the gig.

12-2pm actual photo shoot. i'm channeling tyra: smile with your eyes!! smile with your eyes!!

155pm collect payment. feel good.

2pm back across town to lead a conversation class with 4 accountants.

410pm convo class over. run home.

415pm check email. i find that someone's designed a great logo for the blog. woohoo!!

430pm one more class to go! quick walk through paseo de grácia to bask in the st. jordi's day festivities.

445pm stopped by a girl i don't know in the street. 'hey!' she says, 'aren't you that girl who writes that oyster blog??'

530pm remember the girl on the street. still feel good.

545pm juniors class begins.

6pm i abandon my original lesson plan and we make a video about st. jordi's day.

7pm class over. girls are upset we didn't get to finish. they won't go home. i feel good. creative.

8pm at home. with headache. can't move, so tired...

... but what a day!! by 10pm i was snoring. somehow, without even planning it, i'd found enough room for all of my worlds--teaching, performing, writing. a bit overwhelming, the feeling of contentment. the headache developed in the aftermath, on my way home, trying to figure out how i could feel like that every day. completely connected to all of who i am, and not feeling the need, at all, to make sense of it, to fit it into some limited linear progression towards CAREER, or answer this question in 30 seconds or less: what do you do?

it was like i'd been sitting under the bodhi tree and a branch of truth fell, knocking me square on the dome. in a migraine haze, i heard a voice, like, you don't have to choose, my child... stop shaving off parts of yourself to fit into a box, my child...

in life, on a blog, the things i do and write are connected if by nothing else, my passion. the ultimate, singleminded purpose of the full expression of all my shit.

besides, who said theater, penises and children aren't connected? sounds like the mating game, to me.

st. jordi's day. a video post.

my 9-year old student's response to hearing we were going to have a regular class day today, on la diada de st. jordi:

if you're going to live in catalonia, you have to treat today like a holiday, as we do.

little crumb snatcher does have a point. yesterday was la diada st. jordi, or st. george's day. the biggest day in catalonia. both paseo de grácia and rambla catalunya were lined with little white vendors' shacks and positively jam-packed with people. the sun in full force seemed to have brought even more people to the street that usual. it's like valentine's day, except the gift-giving is circumscribed: women receive roses. men, books (i'm guessing for some reason that has to do with stories and legends). not fair if you ask me. i'll take a book over a rose any day. then why i was so excited that a student walked in with a big fat beautifully fragrant rose wrapped in a catalan flag just for me? i almost overlooked the fact that he was 20 minutes late. in the spirit of things, later that day, the juniors and i interrupted our regularly scheduled program to giggle through half 'the story of st. jordi', in english. wikipedia the rest.

lost in translation 15 part 2

the serb is 6 feet and 7 inches tall (just shy of 2 meters). i'm black. the stereotypes associated with my blackness and his 'big-ness' often rub right up against each other like ardent lovers. i am supposedly, as excatalanboy using some kind of fuzzy genetic mathematics calculated, made for bigger dicks. at his height, the serb must have a big dick.... and uuuuaaaalaaa, just imagine the sex between those two!!! i know people's minds be in the gutter when they look at us. nevertheless, i'm still caught off guard when people like the serb's colleague (beautiful blonde, morning show host) corner me and confront me on it directly.

k: so i heard he has a really big... you know...

me: seriously???

k: well? is it true?

the serb is leaned up against the bar across the room from us with only one eye on the conversation going on in his immediate vicinity. she looks him up and down. he winks at me. not helping at all. k turns her attention back to me. nudges.

k: well??

me: where the hell did you hear that?

k: some of the other guys said they've seen it in the dressing room, and i heard it from an ex-girl of his, as well.

the serb is still watching us. i'm looking back. eyebrow raised.

k: come on! you don't have to give details. just say yes or no. is it huge??

the serb and i say our goodbyes a few minutes later, and head out into the freezing serbian cold.

me: babe, k asked me if you had a big dick. no--she told me she heard you had a huge dick, and then asked for confirmation.

he stops midstride. i wonder, not for the first time, why serbians like to linger in, like, -16 degree weather.

serb: what'd you tell her?

me: nothing, of course.

serb: you didn't answer her?

me: hell, no!

serb: why didn't you tell her it was true?

*the window-frost sketch above, which i like to call 'the size situation' is the work of the serb, at a stoplight the very next day

lost in translation 15

it was a beautiful summer saturday that i sat in a little sidewalk café with (now ex) catalan boy, trying to ascertain whether or not we had anything at all in common besides pretty good sex. apparently, he was thinking about the same thing. well, he was thinking about the sex part at least.

excatalanboy: am i big enough for you?

i managed to turn my face to the pavement just in time for a mouthful of coca cola to spray out.

me: seriously?

excatalanboy: [without one ounce of shame] yeah, i just want to know if my... you know... is big enough for you.

me: uh..

excatalanboy: well, if you compare it to other ones you've... had.

me: no good can come of this conversation.

excatalanboy: i just want to make sure i'm pleasing you.

me: does it seem like you're not?

excatalanboy: it's just... you're black, so you're made for black men. and they have bigger penises.

1 scottish playwright + 4 serbian actors= magic

written by super-sexy scottish playwright, martin mcdonagh, the pillowman is a twisted, tragi-comedy, set in an unnamed totalitarian state in eastern europe, in which a string of child murder/mutilations is traced back to two brothers, katurian and michal. katurian is a writer of short stories; michal, his mentally challenged older brother. the men come under suspicion because each murder has been carried out in the exact fashion outlined in katurian's stories.

in our protagonist's gruesome portfolio of works is the story of 'the pillowman', a man literally made of pillows, who can see the future. when he sees a particularly horrific future full of sadness and tragedy, he visits the person as a child. to avoid the pain in suffering in their future, the pillowman encourages him or her to commit suicide in a way that will resemble a tragic accident. he's there to hold their hand, provide them with comfort and softness. but this takes a toll and in the end, the pillowman visits himself as a young child, sparing himself a life of helping innocent children die. mcdonough's incredible web of fictions and non-fictions, results in a whodunnit that's more about why they 'dunnit'.

i devoured the entire play in, like, two hours. then i set off for the serbian national theater in novi sad, to see the serb and his troupe jorik perform it. i was nervous. it was my first time really seeing him perform. what if i didn't like it? or worse, just plain didn't understand any of it? i was as ready as i could be. with the exception of the very real possibility of having to find something positive to day, even if i didn't like it.

the entire action of the play occurs in an interrogation room, between katurian, his manchild brother, michal, the cocky, sneering, good cop, tupolski, and the earnest but aggressive 'bad' cop, ariel, played by the serb himself. i walked into the theater expecting a simple steel table with about 3 chairs, lit by a single bulb hanging above, just like in the movies. instead, i found the entire stage walled-in by the type of glass that in a certain shaded lighting, becomes reflective. this way, when the story of katurian's childhood is told, the audience sees itself, begging the question, the serb later explained, 'what did your parents do to you?'

mcdonagh's text sets up the ultimate existential questions, with implications ranging from the personal, right to the political: how do our stories lead us to murder, the ultimate destruction? how do our stories lead us toward art, the ultimate in creation? the serb's production asks these very questions of modern day serbia. as the theme song from a popular serbian children's television show in the 80's punctuates the play's climaxes, the pillowman becomes the perfect play at the perfect time. we are the generation that fought the [90's balkan] war, he would later explain. we were all educated with the same references, but i suppose that we understood something in the wrong way. that song, from a show that taught us about our abc's and 123's, we use to mean that something was wrong in the way we were taught.

whoa. i knew the serb was smart. but i didn't know he had it like that. even with the play performed totally in serbian, i was totally pulled into it's dark world.

with the help of the reflective investigation room walls, i played witness not only to katurian's tragedy, but to the experience of my fellow audience members. i didn't understand a word. but from the looks on their faces, i knew exactly what point we had arrived at in the script, at all times. like when, the secret of the serb's ariel, was revealed, and he went from bad cop, to completely vulnerable, to good cop... he was so real, so completely in the moment, i knew it wasn't just me who thought so, and teared right up.

so much for having to lie or be polite. in the end i had to understate my excitement, so as not to sound like a groupie.

the serb: i think we can do this in english and take it around europe. and because it's set in the east, people will forgive us if the english isn't perfect.

me: yeah, i think so.

anita jain's marrying anita

i love the idea of turning things on their head. especially big things. conventional things. as-wisdom-would-have-it, common-sensical-ly irreversible things. things that if you manage to coral all your will, resources and strength to upturn them, there's really no turning them back, and so when you're done with the upheaval, nothing's ever the same. i like that.

and so i was sure that anita jain's memoir, marrying anita: a quest for love in the new india, would be exactly the kind of thing i wanted to read. we move for jobs, to be nearer to family, even for better weather for fuck's sake! why not to increase our chances of marrying and procreating? let the record show: i'm all for it!

besides, jain and i already had so much common ground. the girl's a freelance nonfiction writer. (word.)

credits include stints with the financial times and articles published by the likes of the new yorker and the washington post (bitch!).

una nómada sophisticada, like me, who's called the coolest of urban bastions, home (london, singapore, mexico city, and well before her move, delhi) (check.)

a disgruntled new york single lookin fer love. (i was never disgruntled in nyc, but in the spirit of sisterhood, check!).

she decided, after years of dating without succeeding in forming a long term committed bond with anyone, to move to india to find a better life. in case you haven't heard, they arrange marriages there. no way an eligible indian-american chick of jain's ilk would stay single there. finding a husband would be like shooting fish in a barrel, right? errrrrr... well...

jain's story begins with the arranged marriage of her parents and their subsequent immigration to the united states of america. 34 years later, jain finds herself smart, young, beautiful, cosmopolitan, and never married, living the different-date-daily life of new york city; the girls-nite-out culture of the city, and wanting more. like her dad did when he moved stateside. she reversed the pilgrimage and moved to her native delhi, which she left at 6 months old, to increase her chances of walking down the aisle with henna-painted hands towards ever after.

but instead of a compelling story about a search for love, what we get in marrying anita, is an anita decidedly not getting married. rediscovering her homeland, making wickedly on-point, almost ethnographic observations of it and collecting 'you've-got-to-hear-this' dating 'don't' tales--everything BUT starting a meaningful relationship.

in the end, it's more a story about culture and development, and how some cultures, on this rapidly moving, flattened globe, (especially those which had previously been considered to be 500 years behind the 'west') are now rolling neck and neck. we all share the same cultural references (in terms of music, film, literature and everything in between) and technology advances everywhere at the same pace (i just got a twitter follower from dakar today!); india is now not only the country we go to for spiritual awakening, but it's where we turn when our multinational tech company needs cheap, effective labor. and having skipped many of the growing pains that come with 'progress', urban life in delhi, especially when it comes to dating and mating, is increasingly a disjointed, aimless, uncomfortable amble towards eternal singlehood.

i'm sorry, but marrying anita was a little disappointing. a bit of let down, not having a happy ending. i mean, in the end, she isn't even dating anyone! the problem with most dating memoirs is that we all, everyone single and over 25, living in metropolis, have crazy dating stories. every girl worth her 20 euro (or dollar or pound) eyebrow wax, has anecdotes about dating, ranging from the cute and funny to the sad and tragic. anita jain, able storyteller though she may be, is NOT the first.

as much as i love turning things on their head, which her very move to delhi does, i still require obvious movement upward and onward. if you're going to move to find love, a practice of which i'm totally in favor, you're gonna need more than a suitcase full of good intentions and a sharp wit to make that happen.

novi sad, day-to-day 2

i'm back in barcelona, back to work, and totally ready for the next phase of my life, whatever that is. but first, i'll recap the last few days of semana santa in serbia.

EASTER SUNDAY:
spent the day at the country home of era's parents-in-law. we walked around the property cutting vines, pruning, and planting trees. we hiked high up into the hills looking for a house that's supposedly all made of glass. never found it, but it was good exercise. while the children ran around the property, playing in the mud, spelling words in english for me with small flowers and broken tree branches, pink in the face and fully enjoying the freedom of the outdoors, era and the serb actually chopped the wood with an actual ax for the fire, and cooked the food, highlander-style. easter dinner was barbecued veggies, turkish sausage, and a big ass leg o' lamb in the outdoor brick oven in what was formerly a tree house.






SATURDAY:
the streets were filled with families celebrating st. lazarus day. we went into the orthodox church to say a prayer and light some candles. the priest was full of questions, having spent a few years at an orthodox church in d.c. 'are you orthodox?', he asked. 'i was baptized catholic,' i answered. 'ah!! well, welcome!!', he said. i lit a candle for my grandma who just got out of hospital. the priest seemed to be undaunted by my catholic-ness. something tells me god will be, too.

the barbecues started later that day, with a little daytime get-together at the petrovaradin fortress, where friends of the serbs run an archery school. i met two of the cutest little girls here, ages 9 and 13, recently transplanted from london. their parents both come from novi sad, but moved to london when the father got a job there, after the birth of the first and before the birth of the second. 'our parents made a deal that they would only speak to us in serbian at home, then we'd learn english in school and with our friends', the younger one said. the younger one!! they were like two cute little birds chirping at me about everything from the difference between school in england and school in serbia, to traveling europe (they often travel between england and serbia by car, stopping in different cities each time). then i learned some archery.



every orthodox christian has a patron saint, and the celebration of that day is almost as important as a birthday. to hear the serb tell it, it's more important than a birthday. st. lazarus saturday also happened to be the patron day of the serb's director's brother... whew!! (see the pillowman below). it being lent and all, no meat and dairy allowed, we enjoyed a beautiful fish and seafood filled feast.

i met a physicist whose sister lives in san fransisco with her african american husband, but thinking of moving back to serbia where there are more opportunities as they have yet to experience the worst of the crisis... so funny how things happen. as told by the physicist: 'my sister has two beautiful boys. so one day she was walking through novi sad, just her and the boys, and walked past a gyspsy family. the gypsy woman approached by sister and said, miss, your sons are so beautiful, really. but... they're the wrong color!' the serb and i left the patron day celebration at about 11, and headed to club trema to catch popular, socially conscious hip hop artist, marchelo perform. look out for him on the next world music wednesday.

FRIDAY: i just realized there are no pictures of this day. because we spent most of it in bed. sorry if that's too much information. blame it on thursday night.

THURSDAY NIGHT: the serb is a member of the national theater and performs in the national theater's in-house productions year-round. he also has his own theater troupe which produces its own more modern, edgy, experimental works, performed in the national theater, as well as in theaters and at festivals around the balkans. this night i saw the serb's production of martin mcdonough's the pillowman. {{{{sigh}}}}} let's just say i was all tears and dropped jaws, not just at the production, but the serb's acting. i'll review the show in full in the coming days. it deserves its own post. it was that good. here's me, the serb, and a bunch of actor friends, tying one on after the performance.

novi sad, day-to-day

WEDNESDAY: fruska gora, lake ledinacko. we drive to the mountains of fruska gora about 20 minutes outside novi sad. we walk through the woods and up an incline to what looks like a clearing. the area was formerly used for mining stones, till they hit water. eventually, this body of water with multiple shades of clear green known as lake ledinacko manifested. so peaceful, so cavernous, it looks unreal.

we take pictures. lay in the grass. the serb goes to relieve himself. i hear, yes... you're a big guy! such a big guy... and you're not scared of anything... i turn around to request that he not talk to himself in this manner. but he's fully clothed, bent double, peering into a tangle of wood. bring your camera, he says. miraculously, what is, indeed, a big green lizard stays completely still as the serb talks to it, photographs it. man in his element.


TUESDAY: around novi sad. this was my first day venturing out on my own. i met the serb after his rehearsal not long after and we strolled around novi sad, unearthing quaint little urban treasures. like this fish restaurant, a whimsical little structure, with a man wearing a red and white checkered chef hat inside. made me happy.

it was on this night that i saw the serb and era perform in jovan 'sterija' popovic's 'the nagging husband'. a statue of the dramatist stands outside the national theater.

of all sterija's dramas, i've been told that 'the nagging husband' isn't the best, but it's a light, funny, accessible 19th C piece about marriage, money, and social moors. the physcial nature of the humor served to keep my attention, but the humor in the text was definitely lost on me. from what i could gather, the play has elements of ibsen's a doll's house, featuring rosencrantz and guildenstern from hamlet. era played one of the rosencrantz and guildenstern characters, brilliantly, if the audience's laughter was any indication, and though i thought i heard my name at some point, i dismissed it, thinking that he managed to behave himself. later, sitting around the table reserved for actors at club trema-
era: did you hear me say your name?
me: no, you didn't...
era: yes, yes! in the text, i'm supposed to tell the serb, 'say hi to your sister, klara' but i said, 'say hi to your sister, ieishah.'

MONDAY: university of novi sad, faculty of art, einstein's wife. did you know einstein's first wife was serbian? mileva maric was a celebrated mathematician who lived in her husband's shadow. legend has it that she is half responsible for the discovery of the theory of relativity as well as his ideas about quantum theory, which have had such a profound effect on my life. anyway, it was in this church that mileva and einstein baptized their son, hans.


SUNDAY: we had lunch at ski bar, a restaurant and café on the danube. literally. firewood and fur seat covers lend to the feeling of a ski lodge in the boat's interior. the café sits on a barge just outside, rocking and swaying along with the volatile danube. the clientele is young, stylish and self-aware, all dark sunglasses, big earrings, and carefully crafted "this-old-thing?" ensembles. so cosmopolitan, there's even a black man in the crowd. i nod at the brother, as the serb and i join two other couples, 3 of them actors one an architect. we discuss high class problems (like when the tabloids say shit like, 'here is milica with louis vuitton bag and boyfriend...' how does the bag have a first and last name, and the boyfriend, none?). we talk about more serious things too, like the idea that serbia is 500 years behind the rest of the west. i live in spain. i'm skeptical of this. can you name one famous serbian director? is this a trick question? kusturica. okay, one famous serbian author? okay. got me there. but i'd soon know the answer to that, too.

the serb lifts a big ass fish.

me, on the danube.


SATURDAY: i arrive at nikola tesla airport. exhausted and a little worse for wear after a six-hour teaching shift followed by almost 8 hours of traveling. serb's standing near the entrance, clutching a red rose. great start.

black in the balkans 2: some history

yesterday for the first time, i ventured out into novi sad all on my own, as the serb had rehearsal for the summer run of chekov's three sisters at the national theater. i walked to the center of the city (about 7 mins from the serb's flat) past the theater and into the main square, where i walked into the first bank i saw and said just two words: english? then, exchange? it dawns on me that i will have to learn serbian.

with my nearly 2,000 dinars (20 euro) i head to club sterija to sip on iced coffee, dig into some writing while i wait for the serb. sterija is named after the father of serbian drama, playwright jovan 'sterija' popovic, whose statue stands at the entrance of the theater. people here know me from last time, where the serb and i drank beer and listened to cover bands until the wee hours. during the day, it's a light, sunny café that plays 80's pop and provides free wi-fi.

when he shows up about an hour later, we do what the weather as well as time constraints wouldn't let us during my first visit this christmas past: we stroll through the streets of novi sad hand-in-hand, stopping to eat lunch on the terrace of a cute little restaurant, check out an exhibition of pieces by slovenian photographers, laugh, talk and just, like, date.

during my christmas visit, the serb was super busy performing christmas shows for the children of employees of corporations like pepsico. i didn't mind, and actually liked seeing the serb in his natural habitat, doing what he does on the daily. it makes me feel like i know him better. but this also meant that i saw the same show, up to 3 times a day, every other day. though it was all in serbian, i got the gist. the serb played a toymaker with a nagging wife, played by his up-and-coming colleague era, in drag. in one of the opening scenes, a cross-dressing era tells the serb's ted bundy-like toymaker, as i understand it, you can't do anything right! you can't even make the toys properly! you put the wheels on the top of the car, you give barbie 4 legs instead of two arms and two legs...

one morning, we're in a big warehouse not far from the river danube, which has been transformed into a performance space. a big stage has been erected, along with high tables and bar stools, a big rectangular bar in the room's center and a few heaters. the warehouse would play host to the christmas party of top leather goods company, manual. but that morning, the employees' children who would be entertained.

the show begins, andi'm standing on the top step of a flight of stairs, munching on the hors d'oeuvres set aside for the actors, enjoying the festive atmosphere. i see several people turn to look at me, laughing. what the...? i turn to santa claus, also known as sasha.

sasha explains: era said, 'you can't do anything right! you put the wheels on top of the car, you made barbie black...'

and so i settled in the other night, for the serb's performance of dzandrjliv muz 19th century comedy written by sterija, which i've decided means 'nagging husband'. era is also playing in this performance. i sit back to watch the serb perform, for real, for the first time, expecting anything.

sullying the queen's english

for all the hate i sometimes direct at english folk (ptgsed or post traumatic grad school experience disorder), sometimes they really do crack me up. especially when they say inappropriate things in posh accents. i had this conversation with colleague yesterday in the school library.

poshgirl: what are you doing for semana santa?

me: i'm off to serbia.

poshgirl: oh, right! your boyfriend lives there.

me [big smile]: yeah...

poshgirl: are you excited?

me: totally!

poshgirl: how long has it been since you last saw him?

me: 3 months to the day.

poshgirl [bigger smile]: YOUR gonna have SEX!!

i'd like to thank my mom and dad

... for my first blog award!!! [clapping and yelling, 'strangé! strangé! ... yes, that was a boomerang reference). it was rose-anne at currents between shores who bestowed upon me the splash award, given to alluring, amusing, bewitching, impressive, and inspiring blogs. rose-anne, whose effortless writing style and bird's eye view content work ju-ju on me, too.

so, upon receipt of this award, one must

1) put the logo on your blog post
2) nominate up to 9 blogs which allure, amuse, bewitch, impress, or inspire you.
3) be sure to link to your nominees within your post.
4) let them know they have been splashed by commenting on their blog.
5) remember to link to the person from whom you received your splash award.

as of now, i only have two nominees. one whose writing keeps me rooted in the past. the other turns my eyes towards the future.

guyana girl
she writes in the dialect of her (and my family's) native guyana. from caricomm to cricket to the singular sounds of crickets, guyana girl weaves mesmerizing, onomatapaeic tales of caribbean life, making my desire to actually know guyana, ever stronger. we can say of her what we cannot of so many other bloggers: the girl can write. there's something a bit zadie smith about her. apparently there's a book coming out. i will devour it like dahl and curry.

balkanmutt's blog
i discovered balkan mutt's blog through viktor at belgraded (another blog that gives me the tingles). he tweeted just a teaser. something like, 'but woman, you don't need a doctor, you need a welder.' like guyana girl, balkan mutt is a storyteller of formidable skill. you'll find stories about everything from how a small cow ended up in his/her apartment building to how a childhood friend was thrown out of a window by nationalist thugs in the opening acts of the 90's balkan war. oh, and i can't tell if balkan mutt is a guy or a girl. makes it even cooler.

honorable mention:

i really like belgraded for 3 reasons. first, viktor was the first person, that i'm aware of at least, to link to my blog for this post, written during those first enchanting days in serbia last december. the second is that his posts range from detailed analyses of balkan history to the ever popular, 'are serbian girls hot or not?'

then there's the fact that he always humors me. like once when he posted a serbian turbo-folk music video and there was one sister up in there feeding the singer, bojan bjelic, grapes. and i commented, how the hell did the sister end up in the video? he actually managed to formulate a thought-out response. bless. i want to give him this award, but i feel like it's a bit too feminine-looking. and you know those macho serbian men...

'leh we walk'

i spent the last week trying to keep up with my parents. one could say, i've spent a lifetime doing it. but i felt the upward pull of ancestral achievement even more sharply this week, with my parents in barcelona. they launched a full on assault on these city streets, refusing to do anything other than eat, talk and walk. every suggestion i made that involved folding the legs at the knees and putting the ass in a chair was met with the same response: 'let us walk' or, leh we walk, in guyana-speak.

me: are you guys tired? how about we go home for a few and rest?
mom: nah, leh we walk.
me: how about a coffee?
dad: nah, leh we keep walkin'.
me: wanna find a bench?
mom: nah, leh we walk.
mom and dad: YAAAAWWWWNNNN
me: ready to go home?
dad: yeah!
me: should we hop on the metro? grab a cab?
dad: naaaaaah, leh we walk, nuh??

tireless, my parents. ever since i can remember. that's why it surprised me when my dad started in, during one of the few breaks we did take, with the shoulda, coulda, woulda's.

dad: if i had known then what i know now we would have . . . that's my biggest regret in life . . . if only i had . . . i wish we had . . .

i'm watching him with my mouth open.

me: you guys left guyana at 20 and created lives for yourselves. [dad,] you became a top union rep, a management consultant on an associate's degree, earned a bachelor's at the age of 50, then had the nerve to knock off two master's degrees within the next 3 years and become a certified teacher. [mom] you started a business that feeds 20 families. you run one of the top universal pre-k programs in the borough that sends about 30 literate 5 year-olds to kindergarten every year. that's before you count the other hundred families you provide day care for. y'all were recognized by the city of ny for your work with foster children... [i look at my dad] you fought a war. you know? you're right. what have you been doing with your lives?

the thick lips i've inherited curl upwards. the blue-rimmed eyes he kept for himself, shine a bit.

dad: takin' up space. come. leh we walk.