Travels With Baby: Strike Up The Band
The last installment in Ayun's Balkans adventure: Sremski Karlovci, Serbia.
by Ayun Halliday
August 7, 2007
"Oh, my god, it's a wedding!" I screamed as the band rounded the Cathedral, in fedoras and rumpled black suit jackets, their instruments gleaming in the sun. The bride and groom followed behind with their best man, an open collared hipster, brazenly swigging from a bottle of something local and hard. They were clearly sophisticates from nearby Novi Sad. A gaggle of gypsy kids clung to the Cathedral fence, gaping at the bride's strapless gown and the crumpled dinar notes the best man shoved into the lead trumpet's breast pocket at the conclusion of every song. A dozen or so Serbian tourists pressed closer, cameras in hand. The wedding party seemed in no big rush to tie the knot, milling around the town square, while the band blatted away.
"I can't think of a more perfect ending," I marveled, squeezing Greg's hand. He smiled in wan acknowledgment, understanding that the appearance of this band was every bit as meaningful for me as standing in Franz Ferdinand's assassination spot had been for him. The children remained neutral, though I tried to tip the scales in my favor by invoking the Hungry March Band, a homegrown outfit with a similar sound and a beautiful majorette who loves kids.
When half an hour later, the couple finally passed through the gates to assume the old ball and chain, the band remained behind, lolling on the fountain and the shady benches. I gathered to my delight that they were on break, and would no doubt play again when the wedding party reemerged.
Meanwhile, our extremely solicitous hotelier wanted to show us a good time by showing us the inside 
This was exactly the soundtrack I'd had in mind, sitting at home imagining how it would be to pull the kids out of school in order to travel through the former Yugoslavia en famille.
of the Cathedral. He pooh-poohed our anxieties about crashing the wedding, shooing a gypsy kid out of the way as he escorted Milo and Inky up the steps. We tip-toed in behind them, not the only tourists to rubberneck from the back of the sanctuary. The ceremony was nearing its conclusion, but our guide displayed very little interest in the ritual. "This, Mother of Jesus," he announced in a stage whisper, as the freshly minted Mr. And Mrs. Headed processed back down the aisle past a life-size Holy Virgin. "You know her?"
"Uh, sure," I murmured, distracted by the trombone gearing back up in the town square. "Very beautiful."
"Yes!" our host laughed, telegraphing his approval by squeezing the children's shoulders in a way I knew only Inky would tolerate. "Beautiful! Mother of Jesus! Next, this," he nodded toward one of the many dark eyed icons lining the walls. "Very important man for Serbian church. You know Serbian church?"
I nodded reluctantly, not relishing the idea of a long theological slash historical lecture keeping me inside when the party of my dreams was due to conclude soon in the public square.
"Mommy, can we sit outside?" Inky pleaded, desperate to get back to Betty and Veronica. Milo was distancing himself from our affectionate host by burrowing his face into my crotch. I hated to be rude, but . . .
"I'll take them," Greg volunteered, eager as ever to escape any overt expression of Christianity.
"I'll go with you!" I said, grabbing his arm. "Our children aren't used to so much incense," I apologized, hoping neither of them would contradict me by bringing up the scented clouds that daily roil from Mystic Essence, our neighborhood aromatic oil store. Our host nodded graciously. He has a son in Atlantic City. He understood.
Much to my joy, the band was still mixing it up in the square. What a glorious squawk. This was exactly the soundtrack I'd had in mind, sitting at home imagining how it would be to pull the kids out of school in order to travel through the former Yugoslavia en famille. We had worked hard for this moment. My cheek muscles ached from beaming so broadly. Once I take off on one of these natural highs, it's pretty hard to come down.
©2007 Ayun Halliday and Nerve Media
About the Author
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Ayun Halliday is author of The Big Rumpus and No Touch Monkey! and the popular zine East Village Inky. She is a columnist for Bust and a frequent contributor to Babble. Visit AyunHalliday.com.
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