Numb to the Ex-Yugo experience

My brother-in-law has a new girlfriend. Unlike his last, this one is not naša, or rather, not Serbian. This one is German, and thus, like myself, a foreigner. We met her the other weekend and she seems very nice, but I experienced an alarming sense of irritation at just how enthusiastic she was about Serbia and Serbian (textbook tucked eagerly under her arm). Obviously it’s new love, and with it comes a healthy helping of blind enthusiasm about the new partner and where he's from, so I readily forgive her for this. But I was alarmed by my reaction. For me Serbia – together with Serbian, Croatia, Croatian, the former Yugoslavia, the Balkans, burek, Šlivovica, bad homemade wine served in Knjaz Miloš bottles, Nationalism, typical Balkan men, dangerous driving, the smell of the air in Novi Sad, typical Balkan behavior – are now so ingrained in my life as to be like something between a rather pleasant recurring dream and an untreatable genetic disease.

I had all of that, everything. I had that feeling of first-love with a native from the former Yugoslavia too. I bought every language book there was, and I’m proud to say that I definitely function in this language, if a little clumsily. And not just language books either: a recent survey of my book collection revealed no fewer than twenty books about the history of the place (e.g. Black Lamb, Grey Falcon), or novels by ex-Yugo authors (e.g. Ivo Andrić). I certainly know the lands, or more specifically, I know a lot about Novi Sad, that part of Vojvodina, and Krk in Croatia and its surrounds, where we have a house, and bits about most everywhere else. I know that Serbs don't normally want to go to Split, and that Croats should probably avoid places like Novi Pazar. I know the people as well: warts and all.

But I’ve certainly lost my original sense of mystique about the people and the place: both impress about as often as they disappoint, or in other words, they are normal. I still have, obviously, an emotional attachment to the place, but somehow it is more like a sympathetic cousin than a new friend: the relationship (and by this of course I mean to the place, not to my dear G.) is a bit forced, but not unpleasant.

P.S. Apologies for the long silence. Our daughter M.T. was born in June and time has become a precious commodity. Blog about Balkan Baby Balderdash to come.