LOST AND FOUND

What I have found, others have lost.

My travels to Serbia have rewarded me with so many gifts. But, accustomed to the privilege of visiting as a tourist, I was always a step beyond the hardships of recent history and modern life in the country. From these many trips, and from sharing so much time with Serbs and other former Yugoslav expatriates in Canada, I began to sense the loss that haunts most people who grew up under Tito in the 70’s and 80’s.

When interacting with as many cultures as I do in Montreal, one begins to pick up on different nations’ styles of humour. Asked ‘how she was’ - the empty greeting we often impose on colleagues - a Romanian nurse on my team

unenthusiastically answered, “Excellent… but I›m not complaining.” There is no way to appreciate the depth of her reply without taking into account her difficult previous life under Ceauşescu. But the ‘previous life’ in what was once Yugoslavia was different. The songs, the films, and the stories I have been exposed to have seduced me into a belief in an idyllic nation, seemingly outside of time, whose quality of life was better than any in Balkan history. And therein lies the sorrow of loss, the pain of having to give up such a dream for the cold, hard reality of life in today’s Serbia.

In Novi Sad, I met an unhappy waiter who revealed a poignant and cynical sense of humour that could only come from those who survived the breakup of the federation. As was our habit, we were in the area for some event at Petrovaradin, EXIT or Tamburica Fest, or touring Fruška Gora. We always wind up having an elaborate, mid-afternoon meal at the charming, riverside resto beside the bridge at the foot of the walls of the fortress (for those who may know it, I speak of Čarda Aqua Doria). It’s a scenic spot, offering traditional meat roasts and the

Danube’s freshest catch. Zvonko Bogdan’s musicians often appear on weekends to charm patrons with standard starogradske pesme requests.

I had the need to express my gratitude and love for this land by way of my economic choice to only buy local. This invariably means learning who owns what beer, as many of Serbia’s regional brands were being swallowed up by larger brewing empires from foreign countries. Icecold točeno pivo being our respite from the crazy summer heat, I summoned the waiter, a man in his early forties that seemed mildly pissed-off but still composed enough to do his job well.

“What do you have on tap?”

“Only Lav.” Spoken with impatience.

“Lav is owned by Carlsberg, and I wish my money to remain in Serbia. How come you haven’t got any Jelen?”

“Jelen is owned by Coors.”

I despaired. “I can’t win!”

With mock earnestness, without a trace of a smile to signal a joke, he abruptly put his arm around my shoulders and pulled me close, looked me straight in the eyes and said, “We lose together.”

I reflected on this episode in the years since and realised that there were layers to this man’s lament which went beyond the current state of his life. It spoke of what it means to lose such a country as you all had, a uniquely complex and beautiful society. As I continue to appreciate the gifts of history and tradition that feed my passion

for Serbia, the sense of what life used to be like has deepened my gratitude in a way that led me, through the nostalgia of others, to love a country that I never knew and that no longer exists.

And so, as strange as it may sound, what others have lost, I have found.