I remember how I'd tried to psych Inky up for our month-long trip through the Western Balkans by telling her that we would find ourselves in places that would look like something out of a fairy tale.
Many of them didn't, but tiny Sremski Karlovci, the birthplace of the Serbian Orthodox church, inarguably does. It was a quaint location in which to end our travels. The big draw is the Cathedral, and the sole lodging option, directly across from it. The Hotel Boem's humble, homey vibe put me in mind of the New Glarus Inn in kitschy, Swiss-centric New Glarus, Wisconsin, except there was no yodeling and also, no shower curtain. A curtainless shower didn't strike me as such a big deal, but the proprietor seemed so pained that this was the best he had to offer the big shots from New York, he offered to chuck in a free room for the children. I didn't have the heart to tell him that we're the low-rolling type, the kind who aren't deterred by a cigarette burn on a plastic shelf, provided the price is right, which it most certainly was, even before his spontaneous, and much appreciated two-for-one special.
Having hauled our filthy luggage upstairs for this, its final hurrah, we descended for a late luncheon at one of the tables the hotel sets out in the town square. I ordered beer, and a tureen of soup made with Danube fish. But for the children and my stained tank shirt, the whole thing was very Somerset Maugham, or perhaps even Hemingway.
Greg, who spends every New Year's Eve bedeviling me with his catalogue of the waning year's high and low points, was strangely mum on this occasion. The thousands of miles he logged at the wheel of our rental car must have taken their toll. I was further disappointed that neither of the kids felt compelled to wax philosophical over the events of the last four weeks. Inky had surrendered herself, as usual, to the battered Betty and Veronica comic that had sustained her throughout Slovenia, Croatia and Bosnia, while Milo was grumpily examining a brochure touting the Museum of Beekeeping. How discouraging that no one wanted to share some special memory, some instance where we learned important things about ourselves as a family, or as citizens of the world! Why does it always seem like I'm the only one who's jazzed to wear a costume to the costume party?
And then I heard the band. The sort of crazy-ass gypsy brass that always makes me feel ravishing and temporarily out of control, a festive and rare sensation in one whose fortunes are so intimately tied to the wants and needs of little kids. "Do you hear that?" I gasped. Not that anyone could have missed it. It sounded like the circus was in town.
Greg, looking mildly apprehensive, nodded, and prepared to assume responsibility for the young. He knows how potent I find this sort of freewheeling, horn-based music.
"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 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.
Milo, perhaps sensing that the lion's share of maternal attention had been diverted, started groping his way up my body, whimpering and making hopeful puppy dog eyes.
"Uh-uh, you're not a baby," I reminded him. "I won't carry you, but I'll dance with you!" I offered him my hands, palms up.
He put his fingers in his ears, and slunk down, a murderous expression in his eyes.
"Isn't this great?" I yelled at his sister.
"It's really loud," she screamed, retreating to a bench with the gang from Riverdale High.
Clearly this was one of those Cinderella situations where midnight would come all to soon.
"I'm going to get some stuff out of the car," Greg mimed. "When I get back, we'll go to the Museum of Beekeeping."
I signaled my acceptance, telling myself that I should be grateful for the little taste I'd gotten. Like any good theater major, I know you're supposed to leave 'em wanting more. I should be glad we were taking this thing out on a high note. Besides, the wedding party seemed to be getting back into their traveling formation. No doubt they were expected at some sort of private reception. The band took point, as before, followed by the bride and groom, the remarkably still upright best man, and all of their guests.
"Goodbye!" I thought, as they disappeared up a steep, and I might add, wildly picturesque street. "I'll always remember you!"
But what was this? A shiny, ribbon-trimmed SUV was pulling up, disgorging yet another bride, and who should be strutting downhill to meet her but another gypsy band? Talk about serendipity!
"There's Daddy!" Inky called, grabbing my hand and pointing across the street.
"Okay, you win," I conceded, trying to make the moment last by walking backwards as slowly as I could.
"Where are we going now?" Milo asked, sagging a bit to the starboard. Clearly, a critical juncture as far as my immediate future was concerned. I took a deep breath and tore my eyes away from all those shiny horns.
"We are going," I said brightly, "To see what we can find out about bees."