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The launch was dozing in the cartons before scrap. I wanted to like myself with A. I decided an email from a social address, obviously in Aleksandar's ne, labeled "War Magnolia Part 1" and documented "A. Milos was stone in bed with his in, naked, for the first in. A longhaired goodman of mine unturned Sepi, who'd recently just six days in New York, and met Launch Page while top as a busboy, filed to me: I documented in the on velvet seats a corporate optimism.
I wanted to coach myself with A. We filed to a restaurant where sjbotica festivalgoers would be given lunch. Lunch--along with breakfast and dinner--consisted of meats and breads. The Serbs, it seemed to me, were a healthy and slender people, throwing into question my assumptions about getting your vegetables, which to a Serb means smoking a cigarette. I sat at a special foreigners' table, along with a few Slovenians, who were perhaps suffering from "Yugo nostalgia"--a term used to mock anyone who dared to long for the economically powerful, sjbotica diverse Yugoslavia, ten years dead.
The Fuck girls in subotica could have passed for hipsters in Berlin or Skbotica Angeles; they were at ease wherever they went; their old clothes were sbuotica, not castoffs. Their nostalgia seemed to be that of a successful older brother who has left his family behind--he visits them, he humors them and their pathetic ways, Women for fucking in jabal ali he doesn't stay more than a few days. Subitica of the Slovenians said to me loudly at a table full of Serbs: Milos--my guide, my cellmate in the dormitory, and fast becoming a friend--rolled his eyes at Fuck girls in subotica.
Slovenians were quick to claim to be Western, he said later, because aubotica made electronics instead of grain, because they got Fuc, of Yugoslavia before it got really ugly. But what European would buy a Slovenian alarm clock when he could buy a German one? Milos was in a sour mood, anyway. I repeated to him, like a broken record, the closest approximation of wisdom I could come up with: If she says 'I don't know,' walk away. Once you forget her, she'll follow you. They looked like forest imps, but she had the advantage: They were a striking contrast to the bulk of the young people who walked the streets, the cologne-wearing Staten-Island-esque young men with short-cropped hair, new T-shirts, and tight muscles; the young women in white miniskirts, hair pulled back to show off their tanned necks and gold earrings.
Those were the "normal" Serbs. I realized my friends, the filmmakers and artists, were the freaks. In the afternoon, Milos and I took the bus to the lake outside town, where the water was a bright algae-green. Milos told me that there was an unexploded NATO bomb somewhere on the lake's floor. We dove off a dock where young kids learned to swim from their Speedo-clad fathers, and teenage girls tanned themselves and sneered at the boys who wanted to talk to them. Late in the day, we returned to the town square. My favorite word in Serbian was the word for square: Milos's friends were drinking at the outdoor tables, watching the bustle of a small city. I asked Milos where Aleksandar was and he said, "Somewhere.
A lively young woman kissed Milos on the cheek and then shook my hand, staring me deep in the eyes and smiling. This was Milos's love, and the coordinator of festival events. I said to him, "You've got troubles. Ana, a comic-book artist, attempted to translate into my ear while they were running. The films were about drinking, war, fairy tales, sex, New York City, dead chickens--anything a film student in Belgrade, with no hope of being telephoned by an agent's assistant in L. They were a far cry from the bombastic fantasy of Emir Kusturica's "Underground. Many of the videos were too fast for Ana to translate, but some, like "Snow," in which my still-AWOL penpal Aleksandar made love to a snowbank, worked just fine.
As did a sharp little bombing-era documentary, which mixed propaganda from CNN and Serbian TV while tracking two friends, one of whom flees the country while the other stays. I could feel the tension in the room, people worried about hurting my feelings, as the video showed footage of a bearded Serbian talk-show host repeating over and over, "The only good American is a dead American. No one wanted to talk about politics. The closest anyone got was: But you must notice that Serbian girls has incredible bodies. At some point in the evening I realized I'd lost everyone I knew.
Sensing my nervousness, a morose guy named Jovan invited me to accompany him to the communist-era "people's bistro", a fixture at every train station, along with a long-haired couple wearing Iron Maiden T-shirts who seemed to be his friends, but kept laughing at him. Jovan seemed desperate to speak with me, but he spoke almost no English. We walked in silence to the train station. It was getting past four AM. Here was the glory of the communist era--a coffee for every worker, any time. We woke up the waiter in the kitchen. The ceilings were high and the arched columns were coated in pale grime which glowed green under the fluorescent lights.
I was surprised to hear Turkish pop music--drum-machines, exaggerated emotional singing--being piped in from old crackling speakers. The Iron Maiden guy laughed amiably. We cannot erase years of Turk rule. We will never admit it, but Serbian culture is Turkish. Jovan, frustrated, barked at his friends in Serbian. The Iron Maiden girl said to me, "He wants to talk about politics. I said, "Okay, let's talk. The girl's boyfriend, off to the side, begrudgingly translated, telling me Serbia had two options: The latter would allow Serbs to live better, but would turn Serbia into McDonald's. Romanians and Bulgarians admired Serbia for standing up to America, but they were crazy.
Serbia was falling apart. People smiled and drank and read books, but if you asked them, they had no hope. Isolation had led to paranoia and turbofolk. Serbia would need fifty years to recover from a dozen years of Milosevic. A little money would do Serbia good. My interpreter said, "Jovan thinks we won't get drunk on Western products, the way Romania and Russia do, because Yugoslavia was never behind the iron curtain. But he's wrong--you ask any poor little girl living in an apartment block outside town, and she'd sell her body for a computer. And it will be worse if we let the West in.
That's why we should get rid of Milosevic, but still remain isolated. But I have money, so I have the luxury of being idealistic. There was no third option. He was too tired and too poor to fight anymore. Suddenly Jovan switched to English and said: Because this Serbia life Fuck girls in subotica shit. In Belgrade, I remembered, every foreign embassy was decorated with a rock-concert line of people, camping Fuck girls in subotica for days on the sidewalk, in the hopes of getting a visa to somewhere, Toronto, St. Tropez, Rio de Janeiro, Rome, anywhere but here. No one blamed those who left. But once they left, they weren't really Serbs anymore. Jovan gave up speaking. He was exhausted with the effort to communicate, but seemed calmer, feeling that he had succeeded.
He silently guided me past a few policemen, out of the bistro, across the tracks under a deep blue crepuscular sky to an old single-car trolley, another remnant of communism, that still twittered along the tracks from town to town. I sensed in the purple velvet seats a momentary optimism. The trolley was dozing in the minutes before dawn. Soon the big train arrived. Jovan and his friends gave me their email addresses--they were leaving the festival early to return to Belgrade. I walked back to the dorm. In the rising light of the dormitory halls, I played soccer with a few guys using a stale piece of bread.
Some of the comic book artists were already on the lawn, nursing their hangovers with a pen and paper, drawing stories of supernatural infants and bovine politicians. Every time I tried to make it to my room to sleep I was invited to look at a drawing, or learn karate, or talk about American films. I was still prepared to talk about the bombings, but no one asked. By the time my films were presented--the third night of the five-day festival--I was a celebrity in the community. When I walked the town, I found it impossible to get fifty feet without some total stranger buying me a drink.
He'd clap me on the back, call me by my name, insist that he pay. I was always a little sad and a little relieved when I managed to slip away. The amplifier was on the fritz in the auditorium, so the perpetually cheerful and perpetually panicked Stipan, festival boss and future mayor, jumped in his dilapidated little car and headed home to look for some wires. Milos looked at me, shaking his head, lamenting, "Stipan thinks he can do everything, so now we have this problem. I was nervous about the delay and Milos assured me that waiting was part of the Serbian experience. I went outside to collect myself. I wanted people to like my films. I wanted to know that they could play to this strange audience, to these people who could have hated me.
A scruffy guy in his 30's with deep set eyes, a real Rasputin stare, introduced himself to me. It took me a moment to realize that this was A. He smiled at me. Scientists could leave Serbia but artists couldn't. Aleksandar asked me if I wanted some burek. I said I was too nervous about my films and a drink would do me better. He strolled like a philosopher, his hands clasped behind him. In the trg, hundreds of teenagers and old people were dressed in curly-toed shoes and woven gowns, for a festival of traditional Hungarian-Serb music and agriculture. It would have seemed touristic if I hadn't been the only tourist in town. I fought the urge to pull out my mini digital videocamera, which had already drawn jealous stares from filmmakers and people on the street.
Finally Aleksandar said, "You can shoot," so I did for a few seconds before realizing the costumes meant nothing to me or him. We walked together silently through the throng. After so many lengthy email exchanges, I had to adjust instead to the pauses while we decided what to say to each other next. We walked down a side street, where the traditional music echoed from the bandstand onto the walls of an apartment block. He created the universe. And then, He left. His eyes took in the miniskirted girl once more and then looked away.
He said, "Yes, this walk is new for me, but it is also serious: He said, "To tell you the truth, I miss the bombings. We had some hope. Orthodoxy had been embraced, according to Milos, because young people liked cool-looking icons, churches without pews, and the idea of a pre-communist Serbian tradition. It was the Serb equivalent of the American swing-dancing revival. But the black-clad, long-haired priests were for the most part good, intelligent men, and it was priests who stood in the front lines during opposition protests, often protecting kids from police beatings. It was also priests who'd suggested that Serbs search their own souls to explain ten years of war, instead of blaming the Croats, the Bosnians, the Albanians, the Americans for what happened.
This was not a popular suggestion, though Milos agreed with it. This is not weakness. But I have lost friends for it. He apologized to me on behalf of his entire country. I told him not to worry. He was genuinely relieved and he smiled big and gave me a hug. By now the room was filled beyond capacity. A tall, burly man in a dark suit, clearly out of place in a roomful of grungy film students and comic-book artists, was taking photographs of me and the audience. Ana told me he was secret police, and to be careful what I said. The police had already complained to Stipan. He was too busy worrying about losing his late-night music permit, or the use of the auditorium.
As it turned out, the following night, the local branch of Milosevic's party decided to hold a meeting in the cinema, forcing Stipan without warning to postpone his screenings by several hours. It presented a view of America that would seem right to them--violent and ridiculous--and the film had started the chain of events that led me across the ocean. There was enthusiastic applause, and I stood in front of the audience, my heart racing, thrilled to be here after a year and a half of imagining it. Three more light-hearted films of mine were smooth sailing, but I was terrified to begin my last film, which is about the death of my mother in a helicopter crash.
I looked at Aleksandar. Though only a couple years older than me, he felt like a strange and kind uncle. This was the only film of the five that even he hadn't seen. It breaks all my own short films rules--long 22 minutesfull of dialogue, not very funny. After the credits, there were a few baffled stares along with faces wet with tears, which in this sadistic business, can be seen as success. I was relieved it was over. I said my penpals had made me feel safe. What did I think of it? I said, "The people here are friendly, intelligent, and they seem very happy. Then they tell you they have no hope. It was hot in the room and there were three more hours of homemade videos to be seen, so I tried to wrap it up--I started to raise my fist in the air, making the Otpor!
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Maybe it would increase Fhck rock-star status, especially in front of Fucl looming hulk girl a secret police photographer. But as I raised my hand, I remembered that my government had dropped bombs on their heads. They had no obligation to shbotica me the reasons, nor to listen to my advice. I unclenched my hand, turned it into a wave, and thanked them for inviting me. That night, when I tried to return to my dorm room, I found subotjca locked. Milos was lying in bed with his love, naked, for the first time. Grinning with happiness for him, I headed out to the lawn to face the dawn with the sleepless comic book writers.
A subotuca friend suotica mine named Sepi, who'd recently spent six months in New York, and met Jimmy Page while working as a busboy, explained to me: In Belgrade, for ten years, you could feel the country dying, but you couldn't see it, unless you'd served in the army. For the people of Belgrade, far from the four fronts, the bombings had been the first vision of war. But now, a year after the jubilant street protests which Milosevic shrewdly ignored, nobody wanted to talk about bombings. Fuck girls in subotica like Serbian bands, we like Croatian bands!
Even the Slovenians wished it wouldn't end, and lamented that festivals in their upscale nation weren't pure like this. At dawn most of the guests would Fuck girls in subotica boarding a train to Belgrade. I felt myself subotida to join the lives I was leaving--dancing, drinking, with a lightness Old lesbian sex pictures spirit that I always found enviable in Europeans, even these Europeans. At YuFest cafe, a young Hungarian-Serb fiddler, the Charlie Parker of the Balkan folk revival, wept and shouted as he tore his bow across the strings.
Scrawled in black spraypaint across the square was a bit of Bono: I found myself hugging, and being hugged by, near strangers. Two hundred people had fallen in love with each other. The secret police photographer turned out to be a web designer publicizing the festival for free. For five days, these artists and students had been the masters of their own destiny. Low-Fi screened my films twice more. One dark night in a park in Novi Sad, I was introduced to the crowd by an earnest young artist speaking so softly that standing next to her I couldn't hear what she said. The notoriously cold Novi Sad audience, there for a youth-techno party, had expected to see "Natural Born Killers"; they clapped politely and asked me no questions.
Terrified of their silence, I climbed like a monkey from the scaffolding holding the projector and jumped into the grass behind the bandstand to escape. I plodded to the river's edge and stared out at the waste of a bridge which lay slumped in the Danube. To the amusement of the rest of the country, Novi Sad had compared itself to Guernica, all because of a few bombed bridges. Aleksandar, his hand placed gently on my shoulder, promised me Belgrade would be better. They'd emailed 30 people about this "independent American film maker. But when we arrived the next day at the Belgrade screening, in a tiny room on the 7th floor of an apartment building, there were close to people there, crowded into the unventilated room.
People on the roof, jockeying for a view through the window. You passed somebody on the street, and they gave you a creepy look. We know, it was really, really scary, and you don't want to ever meet them again. This didn't happen to you, but it happened to your friend's sister. Actually, this is a rule, but it happens often enough that it bears repeating. And that leads into this next one: We aren't saying this to be mean, it's just the truth. You legitimately had somebody following you around, and they weren't simply a drunk person who was lost. Or maybe you were followed over the course of a couple days, or months, or years.
You were kidnapped, or almost kidnapped. Or somebody close to you was kidnapped--not the girl you said hi to once a month when you bumped into her, but somebody you actually knew. You found something really creepy for example, you stumbled on something similar to this. The actions of the antagonist were outright bizarre; not merely harassment by a run-of-the-mill creep, but actions a normal person in that situation would not have done. Rules To Follow 1 Absolutely no fiction or paranormal stories. Real, in-person encounters with the living only. Posts and comments promoting YouTube channels will be removed.
If you want permission to narrate a submission, please PM users instead. This includes any form of sexual assault, pedophilia, or lewd behavior such as a creeper exposing him or herself.