2-13: At Least We're Not in Finland

The dog is laughing at me in Serbian. Stay with me, here. I promise I'm not dropping acid.

Pictured: My bedroom wall.

Day two of the koshava, here in Jotunheim. Naturally, we opted to take a field trip today to the Muzej Istorije Jugoslavije (Museum of Yugoslav History, if the cognates weren't a dead giveaway), which is, in terms of altitude, just about on top of the city. Of course, like most experiences here in Beograd, despite my bitching it was a fantastic time that I think I would like to do again. You see, the museum is a pretty rampant shrine to Josip Broz Tito, Marshal/President/Don of Yugoslavia. Today I gleaned several interesting impressions about Tito:

• The "crackpot Commie despot" that we tend to write him off as is not even a remotely justifiable perception. Say what you want about his ideology or methods (and I'm not saying I'm in his fan club); he managed to secure an economically and militarily sound nation, and not on the backs of his people. How many leaders can you say that of in the latter half of the 20th century?
• The man networked like a boss. His funeral was attended by delegations from every nation but six. Or eight. Or maybe seven. Me and numbers don't agree.
• Tito was armed to the teeth. Seriously, the museum sports two full rooms of weapons. Straight-up medieval pig-stickers, flintlock rifles, throwing knives, wakazashi--Tito was clearly that kid who always came back from vacation with a new pocketknife he bought on the boardwalk. Only, y'know. He went on to lead Yugoslavia for thirty-five years. He scaled his pocketknife collection accordingly. 

We returned to the city proper, where I persisted in my quest to eat the Balkans. My colleagues seemed confused by my appetite. I stand by my conviction that between athletic metabolism and a mild defiance disorder that considers the food-oriented lifestyle of the Balkans a direct challenge, my attempt to consume the better part of Knez Mikhailova in one sitting is to be expected.

Pictured: Me, prior to/during/directly after lunch.

Fortunately, cooler heads prevailed.

Pictured: Cooler heads prevailing.

Instead, we proceeded to language class. Good news and bad news. The good news is, the collective intelligence of 12 keenly educated minds succeeded in reaching the conclusion that we are not in Finland. I say this because the class has reached grammatical case. Having seen the light (read-been beaten over the head with nominative, dative, genitive, accusative, locative, and instrumental), I welcome case. It's a bitch, but it makes language easier. It is, however, an obnoxious concept to adapt to. But we have a leg-up on the Finns here in Serbia, in that while this language tops out at seven cases (I know, vocative? Classy, guys.), Finnish allegedly possesses fourteen different grammatical scenarios. I think after nine, it's time to subside into grunts and pointing.

Speaking of grunting and pointing, the bad news is that my grammatical progress has failed to impress the dogs of Serbia.

Pictured: Stoicism incarnate.

This (not so) little fellow, a resident and possible partial owner of nearby Cafe Britte, as well as my gracious host-dog Muvi, persist in giving me this exact same look whenever I string together a sentence in Serbian. You know the look. Dog owners, you've given this look to your dogs. It's the same long-suffering look you ruefully cast their way when they do something like drop a deuce on the carpet and look up at you like it's a trick, hoping for food. Because I think that to the dog, that's basically what I've done. Although my host grandmother is of an entirely different opinion. Today our conversation went something like:

• "Lampa?" *she points upwards at a light fixture.*
• "Ne, hvala. Ja dobro." *I grin, hoping to indicate contentment.*
• "Da. Hleb." *She brings me toast.*

I think I'm growing to like it here.

Observations:

1. The trams run on devil magic here in Beograd. Every once in a while, an inexplicable explosion of multicolored sparks will burst forth from the otherwise calm wires that power the tram system. This would not be terribly strange, except for the fact that it happens when there isn't a tram in sight.
2. Speaking of the trams, today our tramcar came screeching to a halt at a junction. The driver scowled, grabbed a hooked pole, got out of the tram (that part happens with alarming regularity), and poked the track junction until something made a tremendous "crunch" noise. He nodded, apparently satisfied, climbed back in, and we went on our way.
3. My host family's (and, I've found, many Serbians') way of speaking English fascinates me. My host-mother asked me the other day "Do you enjoy yourself?". I stopped and pondered for a moment. Do the things I do bring me enjoyment on a meaningfully regular basis? Is that a priority in the way I conduct myself? Is happiness truly a more important goal than my place in the rat race, or is what I do accumulate simply a serendipitous byproduct of my actions? Then I realized that it wasn't a holistic existential inquiry, but "how ya doing?" with different wording. Then I felt like a dork again. My host-father's observation of a glass perched close to the edge of the table tonight struck a similar chord. He walked by, observed for a moment, then looked me in the eye and said, "that will fall.". Language is a funny thing like that.
4. Good lord, #3 was long.
5. Israeli girls are hilarious, and more often than not, unintentionally so.

Srpski word of the day: Otvoreno (отворено): open (because not all words of the day can be hilarious, violent, or badass. Some people have vocabulary quizzes to study for, dammit.)