In Honor of Branko Grgurev

Sometimes, even to this day, in Zadar Croatia where my husband grew up, small but poisonous enmities between Croats and Serbs permeate everywhere, even when you're not expecting them. As a Serb, you must always be at least slightly on your guard.

Except with our friend Branko.

Branko, a son of one of Zadar's most ancient Croatian families, was the only Croatian friend who kept up with my husband after he fled to Serbia as a refugee during the civil war. "He telephoned me when no one else would, he called me in Sombor!" my husband exclaimed.

Later, when Branko found work supervising a factory in Italy, he spent his Euros on driving all the way home nearly every weekend to visit his widowed mother in Zadar ... and to keep calling his friends no matter where in the world they had ended up.

Finally, when my husband met me in America and we decided to get married, Branko was our sole friend from the Balkans who agreed to fly over from the ceremony (even though we offered to pay for several other people's tickets.) Branko not only danced at our wedding, in a gorgeous new Italian suit bought specially for the occasion, he was the best man.

Early this morning in Zadar, Branko died. He was not yet 50.

This evening with candles lit and wine flowing, we paid tribute to him. We each told stories of the Branko we loved. The man who was shy with women, but adored heavy metal music. The man who knew the toughest people in Zadar, but fed dozens of stray cats in the alley outside his flat in Italy. The man who knew to the millimeter how far a few drops of petrol would allow him to drive around town in his red Fiat. The man who could, with a bit of red wine, make the most delicious mussels anyone's ever tasted. And, the man who was infamous in 1981 for making a joint so large it required 16 rolling papers... plus, he flew his Zadar buddies up to Belgrade for one amazing weekend at his own expense so they could partake of it with him.

That's the kind of guy Branko was. A good son, an even better friend. The guy who would help create the good times and then stand steadfastly at your back during the bad ones.

We will miss him.

Sometimes I Just Get Krompir-ed Out: A Weekend of Lika-style Hospitality

We are visiting my husband's ancestral lands in Lika (pronounced "leeka") a long thin area that lies just behind the sharp hills of the Dalmatian and Kvarner coast. It reminds me of Vermont more than anything. Maple trees, pines, cows, sheep, and a few little ski resorts, all less than an hour from the Riviera-style coast. The leaves have just begun to turn, but no tourists come for the fall show.

Except us. The people who live in this area -- or rather I should say "still live in this area" because it's been significantly depopulated by the past century's wars and economic diasporas -- are happy to welcome us when we drop in uninvited to visit them in their kitchens.

At first, this act of dropping in makes me feel intensely uncomfortable, because it's against the rules of good manners my mother raised me with. But my husband persists. We must stop to say hello to this cousin, that neighbor, the uncle's widow, and you can't forget that family... it would be extremely rude not to. A slap in the face. You can't visit one without visiting them all. Call first? What on earth for? The split second our American SUV rolled into town everyone for miles and miles knew we were here.

So, from mid-morning 'til late-night we spend an entire day making the rounds. Each time we park and walk straight into the kitchen, where people are already gathered. If the family owns two kitchens -- newly-flush families often build a new house just a few yards away from the old one -- you automatically go to the old kitchen. I get the feeling the new kitchen is a bit like a fancy new front parlor. You're proud of it but you don't touch it except for special occasions. And for god's sake don't go in there with your shoes on! Who knows what's on them from walking in the farmyard?

The old kitchen inevitably has at least two stoves. The first is an ancient wood-burning Susler. This is the main stove in continual use, merrily keeping the room warm all fall and winter along with being handy for cooking. The second stove might be gas or electric, or a combination. It's there for overflow capabilities, when you need a few extra burners.

The host and the men present sit around the table and often do a shot or two of homemade liquor to break the ice. Any women present may sit (if they are not cooking) but a bit further away, at the end of the table or perhaps in a chair across the room. It's as though they are spectators rather than main participants. They may occasionally toss interjections into the conversation, and they clearly listen keenly to everything, but nothing centers on them. I sit at the table, but don't speak enough of the language to say much of anything. And anyway, I am an Amerikanka stranger so all rules are off for me.

Meanwhile, the hostess busies herself getting a snack ready. First she slices a bunch of krompiri (potatoes), from her own garden, in half lengthwise, dusts the open sides with salt, and bakes them in or on the stove. You eat these with your fingers, peeling off the skin and popping them in your mouth. (My husband was startled when he learned people ate potato skins in America.)

The hostess also creates two platters of accompanyments, one of cheese (which if it's not homemade, she apologizes about) and one of slices of cold bacon and sometimes prosciutto. Then, she offers everyone fresh coffee, as well as plunking down (an unasked-for) bottle of cola for the Amerikanka.

This was a delicious snack... at the first two kitchens. By the time we hit house number three, I begin to yearn for something green and/or crunchy. By house number five, I ask for a glass of water and ate nothing at all, hoping it would not be construed as an insult. Thankfully my husband chowed down enough krompiri for both of us, and then went on to one final kitchen visit after that while I crashed for the night.

As we are leaving town the next morning, my husband's aunt comes tearing out of her house with a warm bag she thrusts into my arms. She's gotten up early to cook a dozen or so krompiri for our journey. I desperately master control of my facial muscles to appear grateful. My husband says, "What's that?" And then, god love his Likan stomach, he is absolutely delighted with the answer.

Fabulous Partisan Statues Littering the Kvarner Coast

Although I've toured Croatia's Dalmatian coast extensively from Dubrovnik to Senj, until this fall, I'd never been further up to the Kvarner Coast. I figured it would be pretty much like Dalmatia. Rocky, lovely, empty in parts and overrun by tourists in parts (with nothing in-between), and a little too windy for comfort now that Fall is here.

I was right. What I wasn't expecting were all the WWII partisan statues. Maybe there are partisan statues in Dalmatia, but I've never seen them. Here, though, every town and village seems to have their own version. Each is slightly different but most appear to be done by the same artist using the same model, only in a variety of poses, such as:

- Striding forth
- About to throw a hand grenade
- Just after throwing a hand grenade
- Being shot in battle
- Holding a wounded buddy who has just been shot in battle
- Arms raised in victory

All of the statues have the same Partisan-style which is ... a little homoerotic if you ask me, but I'm sure Tito didn't see it that way. They have ripped clothing, with shirts unbuttoned so you can see their fabulous chest muscles, and despite apparently living for years in the forest, they all have absolutely perfect haircuts and clean shaves.

They also all have what I used to call 'WPA-style' hands. These are enormous, squarish hands you see on Depression-era statues in Washington DC that I always thought were inspired by stylized Russian art of the period. Until I met my husband I didn't know hands like this could be found in nature -- on him and many other Serb men.

My husband was much struck by this wealth of partisan statues. He said he thought they used to be in towns all over Croatia, but many were toppled and destroyed during the civil war, in part because so many of the partisans themselves had been of Serb ethnicity. (Which is what the Austrian/Hapsburg empire, who settled these Serb warrior-farmers on the land hundreds of years ago, had in mind, although they were thinking about repelling Turks instead of Nazis.) For my husband, seeing partisan statues still in situ had a great deal of significance. He hoped it meant "We don't hate Serbs so much here."

Compared to the area around Zadar and Gospic where many former Serb lands are still coated in land mines in part so people can't return safely, you can see what a difference a partisan statue's presence might indicate. We hope so anyway, because we plan to return.

Cafe Society in Sombor

When my husband leaves the house, he always gives a time estimate. As in "I'll be back in an hour." In America, he'll match that ETA. But, in Sombor Serbia, he's on Balkan time. It's the cafes he blames. He meant to get home when he said he would. He really really did. There was just this cafe on the way, no matter where he was coming from, where it so happened an old friend was sitting. So he joined him for just one quick coffee, which completely unexpectedly turned into two coffees. Then someone else came along and it would be rude to leave without talking for bit to him too! And somehow one hour turned to two... sometimes even three.

He always looks so hangdog when he gets back. As though he's expecting to be in trouble. He shuffles his feet and apologizes. Which in itself is heroic, because Serbs rarely apologize for anything. The whole routine makes me smile. He has no idea how happy I am to have him out for hours at his cafes, getting his Balkan on.

I feel so guilty in America where he doesn't have that outlet. That casual dropping into the cafe man-time. Because no matter how much you love your wife, shooting the shit with her at home just doesn't feel the same.

Not-So-Fun Adventures in Serbian Healthcare

Just as I arrived last week for my vacation in Serbia, a close friend fell seriously ill and was taken to the Sombor hospital. From the outside, it looks like the setting for a Dr Who TV show, or perhaps The Jetsons. Futuristic design a la 1965, that probably belongs in an architectural tourbook, proving that while Communist Europe was building concrete monstrosities, Yugoslavs had a more creative soul.

Get a little closer and it looks like the setting for one of those "After the Apocalypse" movies, where it's a generation after the atom bomb fell and everything's been untouched and falling apart since. Large plants growing out of gutters, siding falling away in chunks... an abandoned building in the process of turning into rubble.

We push through the only remaining working door to find a huge dark lobby. The reception desk has been pushed to one side because there is clearly no reception anymore... you wander in and find your patient on your own. There's only one sign of life, a small shop in the corner where you can buy, among other things, rolls of toilet paper and bottles of water to bring your patient, because these are apparently not provided by the administration.

I learn you are also supposed to bring cookies, chocolate, fruit juice, or bags of coffee. These are not for your patient but meant for leaving in the nurses' lounge in hopes that they'll pay your patient a bit more attention. But doctors often apparently require studier fare, perhaps a very good bottle of whiskey for a quick in-office consultation or a wad of cash for more significant services. Unfortunately for us, there's just been a medical corruption scandal in Serbia that led to actual arrests, so all the corruptible doctors are a bit shy right now. It seems you need good personal connections to be able to bribe someone! So even corruption is not on a level playing field here.

Sitting by my friend's shadowy bedside (there are very few lights in the rooms or hallways either), I'm appalled to see the food she is served - a large bowl of boiled potatoes in a sauce that smells like Vegeta and chicken fat. I'm pretty sure it's all-wrong for her condition. It's also the same exact meal everyone else in the ward is served, no matter what their condition is. (This is not unusual for the Balkans, in Croatia, my Father-in-Law had the same experience, albeit with spaghetti.)

I remember when my own father was in his local US hospital recently for a knee operation. He was a bit dismissive of the four-page room service menu, so he called us from his private phone to ask us to bring in some of his favorite foods from home, while he surfed the Web using the room's excellent WIFI and the nurses came in to "pester" him every 15 minutes. All courtesy of Medicare.

There are no private nurses or medical services we can find to help our friend in Sombor. Or that we know of in Novi Sad either. But yesterday, due to a complete coincidence, I was in Belgrade to visit one of Serbia's first private hospitals with a different friend who needed a quick chat with a doctor. It's in one of those shiny, glossy new buildings in the business center of Novi Beograd. The enormous hospital lobby is glistening with marble and decorated with huge flat-screen TVs and an official-looking security guard. We perch on Italian leather sofas with chrome legs waiting for the Doctor. The beautiful receptionists, who all wear medical-looking white scrubs, assure us the Doctor will come at 8pm. 8pm? Well, it seems the doctor may also have a day job at the military hospital close-by (where services are free even for civilians, but you must get on a wait list to enter, and presumably there is no marble, chrome, or flat screens.)

At last the doctor is ready to see us. She does look a bit tired, in her also-enormous white room. But she has the latest US medical technology including MRIs at her command.

I sit there, in my comfortable white visitor chair, observing the detailed discussion, which I haven't 1/100th the Srpski required to follow. She hands over, without our asking, copies of the MRI plus a detailed diagnosis memo, so we can take it to another doctor if need be. But, it seems everything is fine. Then we walk out past the security guard into the night. I think, this is what a millionaire feels like.

If they had this in Sombor, I would pay for it in a heartbeat for my friend there. But they don't. And my frustration is intense.