I was 4 and it was my first time visiting Serbia; the whole trip my family called me šećer because I loved eating sugar cubes off the table. It was August and it was sweltering and I wasn’t used to having no air conditioning. I ran around shirtless in denim sandals and played in the hose and the river and ate massive slices of watermelon larger than my head and sweeter than candy.
We took a drive to visit our extended family in a rural area where they always served a bubbling pot of fish stew with all the bones and bits in it. They served me ice cream and told me, in English, that it was very hot. I still get the words hot and cold mixed up in Serbian. One of my relatives french braided my hair for the first time. I was always fussy about having my hair even brushed but I had never experienced scalp pain like that before.
I remember watching the Simpson and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles dubbed poorly in English. I remember plates of the best food I’d ever tasted and cakes as soft as clouds. I remember playing with my cousins and being fawned over in a language I only knew a handful of words in. I remember drinking fresh spring water under the mulberry tree. I remember the colorful rooms and cracked stone streets and Cyrillic graffiti and dogs and cats roaming the graveyard. I remember my Nana and my Deda and my Dad looking so excited to show me their homeland for the first time.