The Adventures of the Curious One

Photos: My Scholarship entry - the divide

thelonelyserb — Sat, 1 Nov 2014 22:59:00 GMT

I recently moved from Vancouver to Belgrade, Serbia to experience life, essentially. I want to capture the essence and rawness of life in an artistic form, whether that be through photography or writing- I'm a story teller. I want to be in situations in which I can capture the atmosphere and emotional state being experienced through the subjects. As an amateur photographer, I want to develop my story-telling skills.. I want to live, I want to see, and I want to tell a story.

Putin and the peen

thelonelyserb — Sat, 1 Nov 2014 22:34:00 GMT

Today, I went to Belgrade’s military parade which was accompanied with the appearance of the all-mighty Vladimir Putin. Naturally, I felt the need to see this parade, because, well, do I need a reason? I wanted to see Putin in the flesh.

There were three entrances into the cleared “cheering” zone, which were not bigger than your dining room table. Everyone had to go through them. Everyone. And as we all know, we Serbs, developed our organizational skills from the Germans.

Needless to say, it was a mess. Thousands of people waited to enter through these gates- shoving each other, dripping sweat onto one another. True intimacy at its finest.

But today, I was not in the mood to experience these intimate moments.

As I stood in line, waiting for the parade entrances to open, a young man behind me was rubbing his dick on my ass. I could feel my sweat dripping down my armpits and forehead, and in addition, a unknown dick.

Now, I’m all for consensual grinding when the time is right. Which would go down like this:

“Can I rub my dick on your ass?”

“Yes kind sir, yes you can.”

But alas, that did not happen.

The continuous feeling of this dick rubbing itself on me developed a slow teary-eyed anger which then flared.

Usually I would evaluate my options and rationally think of the next step of action but, I hastily turned around and loudly said to the young man,

“Can you stop rubbing your dick on me? Can you just back-up, just back a step back. And if I feel your dick on me one more time, I’m going to shove it up your ass.”

The girls behind him giggled nervously, as the men around him stared at me. My father and brother stood beside me and insisted that the young man do as I say and respect my space. He hesitantly stepped back.

As time went by the young man eventually made his way in front of me. I stared mindlessly at the back of his head, in a numb state, I went close-up behind him and whispered in his ear,

“Now it’s my turn to fuck you from behind”.

And then I saw Putin.

Oh, don't worry, the drinks are on the house

thelonelyserb — Sat, 1 Nov 2014 22:30:00 GMT

I have become quite the expert of going on dates which have an unlikely chance of any positive outcome unless that outcome is me never seeing them again.

And yesterday’s date was another addition to my book of self-pity and possible self-reflection.

We had met two days prior at the club. He asked for my number, and with no phone at his disposal memorized my digits. Which, I must say, was highly impressive. I received a phone call from him the next day.

Alas, the day had come when I would meet up with Aca at the lake. I had forgotten what he had looked like, as it was dark at our initial meeting and upon looking at him, I was pleased to find that he was an attractive man.

Within the first five minutes he explained that he was a personal trainer, and asked that if it would be okay if he disrobe his shirt from his body, as he was accumulating sweat on his chest. Naturally, I allowed this as I respect the discomforting emotions attached to excessive sweating. He disrobed, draped his shirt on one shoulder and stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. He looked down towards his stomach and started caressing his abs. I was unsure if he was removing excess sweat or if he was stroking himself to verify his profession. In order to cement his claims he said, “when I am training someone I show them my body and ask them what parts of me do they want to have.” Which I felt was a gateway statement for the continuation of the one-sided discussion of his abs. More specifically, the discussion included but was not limited to the shape, the bumps and the origins of their formation. But then, but then out of nowhere, he said, ” You are a little fat but that is okay because you will better in bed”.

I just stared at him. I knew he wasn’t being intentionally cruel, you could see that he was simply stating something he felt to be true… IN THE MOST BLUNT AND INAPPROPRIATE WAY. Naturally, my thoughts at that moment left me at a crossroad. I could stop, turn around and go home or I could stay and make him pay. And as I was developing my strategy, he continued rambling the brands his body was currently sporting- Gucci sunglasses, Armani bracelet, Calvin Klein underwear, and other items which I failed to store in my perplexed mind.

We made it to a cafe. Great. I then ordered the most expensive drinks and snacks, as I wished slowly suck out each penny from his Fendi wallet. He removed his sunglasses and crossed his legs as his fingers were folded together, rested on the table. I felt a though I was seated in a business meeting. DING DING DING. He stated that from our initial meeting, my energy drew him in and claimed that we balanced each other. This energy balance, he stated, was a rare gem and felt that we should capitalize on what we have found. Perhaps we should engage in the act of holy matrimony as where he would be able to obtain special papers which would allow myself and him to join our energies in Canada. More specifically, he felt that we potentially would build a gym, where I would be the Manager and he, the personal trainer. I was initially surprised that he assigned me a position of power and authority of our gym. Which he then explained was a necessary step since he is in debt due to his gambling addiction.

Ah yes, of course, the gambling addiction.

The rest of our date we spent hopping from one cafe to the next, as he felt the need to show me how recognizable and popular he was amongst the lake people. As we cafe-hopped, I continued to order my expensive drinks and internally smirk as I politely engaged in our recycled conversations of himself.

The date then came to an end. I thanked him for the rich and mentally fulfilling date, while also mentioning my thanks for him purchasing all my beverages and assorted snacks. He replied that it was no problem at all, since he knew all the owners at each cafe resulting in every drink being on “the house”.

Serbian date #2: Sylvester Stallone wishes to torrefy me from behind

thelonelyserb — Wed, 18 Jun 2014 23:35:00 GMT

I’m at a cafe tucked away in the middle of the city. The cafe is filled with cigarette smoke, which after going to a couple times the nausea soon subsides. This one man continuously asks me to dance. He’s around forty-five, extremely short and profusely sweating from his forehead. His sweating is so severe, that he uses it to slick his hair back – exposing more of his moist flesh. After the song is over, I spot a young guy sitting stiffly at the table where my purse is resting. I’m quickly introduced to him by his friend, and he proceeds to tell me that he doesn’t know how to dance. Still on a slight ego trip from my first date with the Norwegian, I confidently measure my level of success with this new guy.

I didn’t realize his resemblance to Sylvester Stallone until we began dancing. He shoulders almost touched his earlobes and his arms were bent in a non-flexible 90 degree angle. I found this to be endearing, however, I should have seen this tension over dancing as a red flag.

I continue to teach him the basic salsa steps, however I realize quickly how much it sucks teaching someone to dance. I’m quickly losing interest, and my patience is fading as after three songs he’s still fucking up the stupid side step. This song finally ends, and I go to get some water, he follows and suggests that I give him his number. That sounded too smooth. In actuality he walked to his friend to ask for a translation of a word, came back, paused, when back to his friend, came back, mumbled some words, paused, went again to his friend. At this point, his friend was so annoyed that he came over, and in fluent English asked me for my number on behalf of his friend. I, again, found this, at the time, to be endearing. Perhaps another red flag? Stallone soon after left the club, and the next day I receive this text (just to inform you in these texts “j” means “i”),

“Natasa..here is boy from last night. Can you be on Trg Republika, there is one horse and one men sit on him:), and whit finger show somewhere. Can you be there at 17:45? Please, don’t be late, j don’t late. J don’t love that ;), j don’t late. The day is veru nice for walk or siting and looking on river.”

I still find this an endearing text message, and I overlook the fact that he went out of his way to tell me not to be late, and that he doesn’t appreciate it. I arrive at Trg Republika on time. I receive a text message. He is late.

“Meybi j will run :) but j be there on time. Bus is slow. So nice girl can wait”

You know, I take particular offense when someone specifically instructs me to not do something, which I follow through and then they do it, but you know, nice girl can wait.

Me and Stallone went to the main park in Belgrade, Kalamegdan. For the next two hours, he took the honor of trying to “figure me out”, which concluded in him professing that he thinks I’m the bees knees, I’m the light in his sky, his warm soothing voice. Let me tell you, I like a compliment just like the next girl, however, after two hours of it, you get tired. Especially after each compliment he asks “do you believe me?”

I felt the need to wind down this sexually frustrated date (on his part), so I said that I should go home to cook dinner for my domestically retarded brother. And I almost got away Scot-free, but then he said “I want to show you something… do you know about city street school?” At this point, I have not a fucking idea what is going on. He then tells me to close my eyes and asks me if I believe him. At this point, I’ve been strategizing how to get out of this park and in the safe quarters of my apartment, where I will lock myself in and never go on another date. I conclude, if I close my eyes he could either stab me which would get me out of this park, or sing me a song which would also end in me leaving the park in a pleasant parting.

Instead he kisses me. I have never experienced a less energetic kiss, on my part. He was into it, just going at it. But my reaction was somewhat similar to being flat-lined in the back of an ambulance while everyone yelling “come on! shock her again! come on Natasa, come on!” I pulled away after the kiss, did a nervous giggle and slowly turned away to walk home. He followed and asked “why didn’t you hit me?” Why didn’t I hit you? I’m… what?.. wait?… Why didn’t I hit you? I’m in a god damn park, you look like Sylvester Stallone, have you seen Rambo? Have you seen Rocky?

I refrain from answering due to the fear of saying something hurtful. He then continues to profess his love for me and insists on walking me to the market. We get to the market where I’m eagerly waiting to enter to purchase chicken breast – but he continues with his profession of admiration and says that he knows he should go home, but he can’t move. I decide to make it easy for him, and say goodbye as I walk into the market. I arrive at home only to receive a text message from Stallone:

“How much j want a kiss you when j look you. J don’t now why. Wensdeey in 18 at the horse? On wensdeey j will definitly now are you like others girls but J think.. that you are not. Maybe j sound redicillis when j say that j feel likes twenty stephens inside but that is one step j feel. You dont be confused.”

This text later invoked another text which stated,

“You have lips like a honey… so nice. That is not compliment, that is true, j try them, unikat, special :).. Ok, weensday in 18, or later, j will call you. Good night adn just a few procent think about this evening, and you will understand everything. Dust must fall to the flr. Dont dring alot tonight;)…”

I didn’t reply, I was experiencing a level of shock I’ve never experienced before. Then the next text came,

“Natasa… j am… J walk with my friend, and j think on you. In last time, j don’t think on someone like on you. Weednesday is so far. J don’t be so natural yesterday becouse j don’t belive in people. Why j dont want look another girl? :)”

This text was particularly heart breaking, as well as a huge flag that I need to tell him that I am not interested. I reply by saying that I feel that we need to talk and that this is going very fast and I’m not ready. He replies,

“We will talk dont worry, j understand. Meybe is fast. Meybe j wrong becouse j make it fast Good night, everything is cool, relax, Sorry becouse J answered now, j been in city all day with my friend, run for some work. Good dream.”

I didn’t reply, I wasn’t sure how to.

The next day I receive a text,

“Canadian girl, how are you? See you tomorrow or you have a plans? Are you angry on me? :) Tomorrow in seven on Trg? Can you? And today j be in town with my friend, some combination on Serbian way ;). Its cold outside, meybe are you cold ;)? If you want j can torrefy you from behind. Good night.”

Torrefy you from behind…

I don’t know what torrefy means, alas, I will google.

Torrefy: to subject to fire or intense heat; parch, roast, or scorch.

I have never been asked that before… to be torrified from behind.

The time has come, Natasa, the time has come for you to be horribly straightforward with Stallone.

I sent him a text saying that I don’t think we should meet because I am not interested. I really struggled sending this because I felt that it was harsh, so at the end I told him that I wish him all the best. His reply,

“k, j respect that, and i think same, but j test you.”

This was all a test apparently…

But then there was third date…

Serbian date #1: A Norwegian, you say?

thelonelyserb — Wed, 18 Jun 2014 23:32:00 GMT

I decided to be “wild and adventurous” and go on a couple dates. Well, I didn’t actually decide this – it just so happened that poor helpless young chaps took attention to me and I agreed to occupy their attention.

I’m walking back home from my daily semi-Olympic swim session. These swimming sessions usually result with every lap swam, there is a 20 minute floating pause. This pause usually causes me to reflect on life, while everyone else in the pool is making out and preforming underwater hand jobs. My privileged helplessness brings out a moment of fear due to the bacteria infestation in the pool which motivates me to swim another lap in order to leave faster.

I’m making my way home, as a tall blonde man walks past me, handing me his hand to “give him five”. I find this incredibly lame, but due to my Canadian hospitably I return his gesture with my palm and five fingers. It’s thirty degrees outside, he’s wearing a deep v-neck t-shirt underneath a navy blue sports jacket, with a pair of brown loafers. I judge him, but he’s going on saying that he likes my legs, and finds me to be a sporty girl. He’s very observant. He continues talking, saying that he enjoys tea which I feel was his bridge into the big question. He asks me out, and as I’m staring as his side-combed hair I willfully agree.

The next day I receive a text from this Norwegian man. He wants to meet for tea. I decide to go. The conversation was surprisingly entertaining and however I learn that he is here for vacation and leaves in a couple days. Aha. It all comes together now. I am his lay. His bang before departure. I quickly figure this out prior to him kissing me, but my strategic thinking is too slow. I’m not good in these situations. Though I know that I don’t have to kiss anyone I don’t want to, I’m fearful of the awkwardness after the rejection. So instead I do what everyone high school girl does – make up an excuse to leave, and then leave. I’m pretty content at this point, as I feel that I took the situation into my own hands. But my mistake was that I didn’t provide closure. I left it open. “Oh I have to go, something came up” does not mean “I don’t want to see you again” – fuck sakes.

And of course, the date didn’t end there. Oh no, oh no. I receive texts, calls – daily. I thought, well, no worries, he’s leaving, onto the next. And as a child, I ignore or provide countless excuses to not attend any of his meetings. But the day has come, he is gone.

And then the second date came…

Dubstepping to Iceland

thelonelyserb — Wed, 4 Jun 2014 18:31:00 GMT

My arrival to Iceland started as any casual trip to a foreign land. While walking around the YVR airport, I could hear in the distance a soft beat. One the young generation call a dubstep. My curiosity and my gate number led me closer and closer to the “dee-dee-dee-dee-dummmming”.

As I turned the corner, a massive crowd of eager travelers surrounded my gate. Tables of Icelandic meat sandwiches, and bowls of their coined “Blue Lagoon” fruit punch were displayed on my left. On my right, there was the entrance to my gate. And just before it, stood a tall Icelandic DJ with overly white teeth in between two strobe lights, appearing to be mixing some beats. At this moment, I was unsure why there was such a celebration occurring for my flight. But I concluded that in order to get on my plane, I had to walk by him. The thought of this made me extremely uncomfortable as his smile was shiny and forced, while his strobe lights were violently blinding my fellow travelers at four in the afternoon .

Anyways, the moment of uncertainty continued when I boarded the plane, found my seat, and said my hello’s to the couple sitting beside me. Just as we were departing, the flight attendant comes on the speaker and said “Welcome to Vancouver’s first flight to Reykjavik, Iceland”. That announcement then proceeded with the popping of champagne bottles. This is 2014, and this is the first flight to Iceland. I took the news with sadness, as I foresaw my later years using the phrase “I was on the first flight to Iceland..”. I used to gawk at my parents when they would say “We were the first kids on our block with color tv”. And now, now I join them. Anyways, I drank the champagne. When we landed, I noticed that there was no ice in Iceland. however, my thoughts were disrupted when the pilot did celebratory donuts with the plane, as I sat facing the window, puking.

Then I got off the plane, and noticed that all the workers at the Airport transport themselves via scooter. Manual scooter, the ones that you push with your feet. Scooters.

Photos: profile picture

thelonelyserb — Thu, 29 May 2014 02:24:00 GMT

i dont know how to put up a profile picture

Death and the bionic asshole

thelonelyserb — Wed, 28 May 2014 02:04:00 GMT

I needed to get my computer fixed, so I called a phone number I found taped onto the window of a bus stop in New Belgrade. The man on the had a heavy Serbian accent, which if you are not familar with, sunds similar to a Russian accent. On the phone he told me to meet him in front of a mall where a grey car will pull up. He then continued by saying that I would easily recognize this vehicle, as it is the ugliest one in Belgrade. Later on in our conversation, he stated that upon entering the vehicle, he will then drive me to the service shop.

At that moment, I found not one thing wrong with this scenario, and agreed to the terms of the arrangement. In fact, I only gained suspicion after the man on the phone said "don't worry, you'll be safe".
I stood in front of the mall entrance. The car pulled up, I got in. I passed my laptop to the man in the passenger seat. He momentarily looked at it and signaled the driver to continue driving. We arrived to a house, where I walked down a spiral staircase into a basement.
He fixed my computer.
Then I went home and watched a Grey's Anatomy episode on a women whose getting a bionic asshole.

The Baba

thelonelyserb — Sat, 10 May 2014 05:32:14 GMT

In a village in the outback of Montenegro, a four foot hunched-back Baba clings on to my leg while stroking my forearm. She has mistaken me for her granddaughter. And at this moment there is a fresh loaf of bread in the oven, so I'm allowing this mistaken identity. This warm greeting makes me feel nostalgic and now I want to be held in her arms as she strokes my head and feeds me warm bread. She releases me from her clammy grasp and I’m left admiring her from afar. Her mauve floral scarf covers her peppered hair, leaving her face vulnerable for my eager observation. Her face is laced with deep groves which only get deeper as she parades her single snaggletooth smile at me. As she slowly makes her way to the stove, she grabs her walking stick. Like her hands, the stick is raw and unrefined. Pieces of bark and slivers protrude as she nonchalantly clasps on for support.
I go to sit on a wobbly stool beside the grandfather, whose laying on the bed staring at the beige water stained ceiling. The room is bare and silent, as the only noise being produced is the static coming from the miniature television set sitting on the window sill. I watch the Baba at the stove – walking stick in one hand, she spoons out some liquid from a pot, pauses, adds salt, pauses, tastes again, seems satisfied and turns off the burner. One hand gripping her walking stick, the Baba returns with a pot of hot stew in the other and a loaf of steaming bread balancing on the lid. She takes a bowl, ladles out two large scoops. I look down at the stew. The meat is various shades of grey which sit stiffly in my bowl. My hunger leaves me investing only mere seconds to identify the mystical meat. After a spoonful, the taste triggers my childhood memories. I know this taste. I've tasted this taste. I've felt this taste in my mouth before.
Now mindful of the stew, my bites are small and my chews are slow. Which is unusual, as I take pride in my inability to savor food with a technique I call vaccuming. The next spoonful held a lifeless white squishy tube. I chew it. I ask what this dish is. Sheep stew. The Baba goes on discussing the specifics of the sheep. Intestine, liver and kidney. I swallow the chunk of meat and muster up a grin, which results with a ladle of stew in my bowl. I stare at my bowl calculating the ratio of stew to bread. I eat half the loaf - my calculations were correct. Though, I was not aware that these calculations would dub me in the village as the “healthy eater”.