Underneath Beograd a fire burns. It does not consume, nor otherwise destroy. Well, save for the occasional cevap. Simmering cool in whites and pale yellows, the fire merely assists our will to breathe. On a moment’s notice, a climax of purples and vampish reds erupts into the passions our people are known for. In the rare instances when a darker fire breaks through and the path is steered toward inner self-destructive tendencies, our beloved White City falls into the flames but soon reemerges. There is no stopping a Serbian phoenix.
Like many others before and after me, Beograd stole my heart in a manner very becoming of its charms. Before I knew it, I was off the market and destined (or perhaps doomed? ;p) to live out my days in the mercy of the glories of Serbia. The journey has rarely been easy, at times the expression “a labor of love” seems too diplomatic a choice of words. Perhaps this year has filled me with a healthy serving of inat, a special Serbian brand of perserverence and tenacity. As Shakespeare wrote “Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds, nor bends with the remover to remove. Oh no! It is an ever fix’ed mark.” My heart lives in Serbia and I cannot bend.
Recently I was musing with someone over how an Orange County girl ended up halfway around the world. The ensuing responses couldn’t have been more on mark. God must remind us from time to time who is really in charge, and damn does He have a wicked sense of humour!