Old Serbia.

The Ford Taurus of "Rump Yugoslavia."

After leaving Turkey, and spending a week back in Sarajevo, I am back in Belgrade.

Again.

And back at the Three Black Catz.

Again.

My total time spent in Serbia now is running somewhere along five weeks, maybe more. Remember that time I was supposed to be in Syria by the end of September?

Seven and a half months. It's a long time to be away from home. Especially away from home, alone. My goal was to amass a small arsenal of stories and conversation-starters for when I returned. I'd say I've done that. But because of my Cardinal Rule -- that I never forgo an experience so that I can write about a past experience -- about half of the the insanity has gone unrecorded, both on the blog and in my journal.

This is a sad casualty of trying to overflow the bucket. Some of the water is going to get spilled, inevitably dried and forgotten.

But it's overcast outside. And I never did write about my week in the south of Serbia, from Vranje, to Leposavić, to Sjenica, to Nova Varoš . All are part of what is referred to as "Old Serbia." It happened a month ago. But better late than never.

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Vranje.
Serbian Thanksgiving.

"Sveti Nikola? Like Saint Nicholas? That's awesome -- I'm missing Christmas as it is, so this 'Slava of Santa Claus' can just be a substitute!"

Hold up, hold up. Where are the elves again?

Shouldn't have said that. Mladen's little brother Miomir looked a little offended.

"Nei, nei, nei. Sveti Nikola is not Santa Claus." He was shaking his finger. "It's not the same person."

"Yeah, it is," I argued. "Sveti Nikola is Saint Nick is Santa Claus ... it's the same guy."

In America, that is true. Not in Serbia. Here, the saint we envision as a fat, human ATM machine is a trim, holy protector of sailors. He is to be revered, not milked dry. For the Milenković family, a Slava (think Thanksgiving with religious, rather than national overtones) is a time to come together and break bread in honor of this man, their patron saint.

The only other non-Serb in the room, Vincent, could see that it wasn't smart to enter the fray. So I tried to do damage control before I went too far.

"I mean, I think that's who it is." Backtracking. "Maybe I'm wrong." Covering.

I had only been a guest in Mladen's family home in Vranje, a small town in the southeastern pocket of Serbia, near the Bulgarian and Macedonian borders, for about 15 minutes. Already I was stepping on toes.

Cyrillic 101: B = V, P = R, Њ = NYUH

This was the first day of his three-day Slava, and I hadn't even technically been "invited." I had been self-invited, like always:

"Mladen, when is your Slava, man? I am really trying to go to one of these 'Serbian Thanksgivings' while I'm in Serbia. You better bring me to yours."

And it worked.

To Mladen, my friend and owner of my Balkan home sweet home, the Three Black Catz, that kind of stuff is no big deal. To hell with protocol -- Sure, come to my intimate family Slava celebration. I won't even ask my parents if it's okay. Don't worry about the fact that our flat is smaller than the hostel ... I'm sure they would love to have you barge in. It's no problem that you're a non-Orthodox tourist who is viewing this as a chance to get a free meal or two and take some cool photos.

Really? So you won't mind if I invite Vincent, too.

Ho ho hope you don't mind about the self-invites!

The more the merrier, just like merry old Sveti Nikola would want!

The food was DAAAAAANK, by the way.

"During this Slava, we are fasting," Miomir explained, just after we finished saying the coolest prayer of all time, which consisted of the entire table standing up, putting our hands on a frisbee-shaped piece of bread, playing ring-around-the-rosie with it while saying something in Serbian, and then all tearing off a chunk, simultaneously.

"Fasting, as in.... what?" From what I could see, we were feasting.

"As in no meat."

Turns out it was a vegetarian Slava, which is somehow different from the "real" deal -- think pork pork pork, pork pa pork pork pork. But I wasn't complaining. I'm an omnivore. There wasn't a square inch of table cloth visible, so much food waiting to be eaten. And all of it -- all of it -- was incredible.

What was not incredible, though, were my French skills.

This got me into trouble.

To know why, we've got to back up a few days. Back to Belgrade, Part 2.

"I got you a present."

Zoka knew I was going to be missing "normal" December 25 Christmas, which was only a week away at that point. And as my personal teacher in all things Serbia, someone responsible for a huge amount of my knowledge of her country's history, she wanted to give me something to remember her by.

It was an antique pin. One I had yet to see among the hordes of stands operated by old Serbian men along the pedestrian paths of the Kalemegdan. Against the backdrop of an old Yugoslavian flag -- a red star plastered atop three horizontal stripes of blue, white and red -- were six words: "Druže Tito, Mi Ti Se Kunemo."

"This is very rare," Zoka said. "It means 'Comrade Tito, we give an oath to you.'"

It was the best Christmas present I could ask for.

What better complement to a Communist era hat pin than a Communist era hat? That very night, I made Zoka -- a girl who makes a living in the fashion industry -- come with me to make sure I bought an old man hat that looked good. Instead, I had to settle for one that fit.

Rather than leaving the store with one of those awesome, plaid tweed hats with the bill that flips up in back, I was forced to go with a floppy, camel-colored sailor hat, like the ones they hand out for free to the first 5,000 fans at a Padres game -- the only difference was that this one was made of felt. Such is life for a kid with a melon the size of Kevin Mench.

But at least I had a new hat for my new hat pin that I loved so much.

A few days later, I left with Mladen and Vincent for Vranje.

Mladen's dad, Miroslav, can't speak English; and I can't speak Serbian. But we can communicate, somewhat, in the language of the Frogs.

Hey Miroslav, comment dit-on en anglais, "Merde!"

Somewhat.

During the course of the dinner, the topic of Milošević and Tito came up. In very basic, yet flawless French, Mladen's dad spoke of them both with a twinkle in his eye. Most Serbian men of his generation do.

Without asking to be excused, I got up from the table. This was a perfect chance for me to impress. I walked into the hallway to open my backpack. Stuffed into the top compartment, wrinkled and unwrapped, was my new felt hat. It had clearly been worn before. It was clearly mine. I pulled it out, admiring Zoka's gift. Druže Tito, We Pledge An Oath To You. Mladen's dad was going to love seeing this blast from the past.

What came next was like a scene from a Ben Stiller movie.

Coming back into the dining room, I dropped the hat in front of Miroslav, who was seated at the head of the table. I made sure to point out the reason.

"Druže Tito, mi ti se kunemo!" he exclaimed to the table. His next words were quieter, more for his own ears, almost. "Josip Broz." He smiled. The good old days. Comrade Tito.

While he was busy admiring the relic of Yugoslavia -- rotating the hat, rubbing the face of the pin -- I whispered a question into Vincent's ear.

"How do you say 'gift' in French?" (Vincent is from Québec City).

"'Cadeau.'"

I turned to Miroslav.

"C'est un cadeau..."

This is a gift...

But then I blanked.

My mind began to race in search of the words. "C'est un cadeau," it said. "C'est un cadeau..." Miroslav was holding the hat, looking directly into my eyes. I wanted to say, "from my friend to me." But nothing was coming to me. This was really basic stuff! Where were the words??

It was only a second. Two, at the max. But my hesitation was fatal.

"Un cadeau!" he exclaimed. "Pour moi??"

A gift! For me??

Miroslav was delighted. What a thoughtful gesture from Mladen's American friend!

"Merci beaucoup! J'aime les chapeaux!"

Thankyou very much! I love hats!

What had just happened here??

Mais.... mais.... mais......

I was paralyzed. My mouth, slightly agape from the initial shock, turned to stone. My eyes froze. I looked like I had been constipated for a week. Still, I had to pretend like nothing was amiss.

I looked at mon ami, Vincent. He wouldn't take his eyes off of the plate in front of him. If he had done so, he would've spit out a mouthful of ayvar.

"Stupide americain...."

Miroslav got up from the table, beaming. The smile was ear to ear. He disappeared into the bathroom, clutching his new cadeau.

"That is not what you meant to say, is it?" Vincent cracked, whispering, smiling.

"What the f**k??????" I whispered back.

"I'm not gonna say anything." He could barely hold it in.

Miroslav's dad came back moments later, holding a stack of chapeaux five or six deep.

He was wearing his new hat, which was about two sizes too big for him. No matter. He loves hats, remember? Putting down the stack, he began to check himself out in the mirror. Profile shots, straight on, flipping the brim -- looking good, Miroslav. Looking good.

Vincent still wouldn't look at me.

Mladen's dad was on a roll. He took off my hat, and began to model for us with the rest of them. Each time he'd change one, we'd have to guess which country he had gotten it from. England! France! Germany! It was a really fun game .... for everyone but me.

Who put those lights up? The Bob?

After dinner, Mladen announced that he was taking Vincent and I for a walk around town. As we got our jackets and shoes on, I noticed the hat sitting on the table in the entryway. The pin was staring me right in the face, mocking me. Miroslav was in the other room -- I briefly considered snatching it right there, and just leaving him the hat, but decided against it. "It will be there when I get back," I thought to myself. "I'll just snag it then." He would never notice.

When we got outside, it was dark. It was raining. My head, now hatless, was cold.

Vincent was clearly aware of what had just happened, but Mladen didn't appear to be so. I debated over whether or not to tell him, knowing exactly what sort of reaction he would have:

"What is the problem? It is your hat. Just tell him, 'That is not for you. It is mine.' What is the problem?"

Osama bin Mladen.

No respect for protocol, remember? I decided against bringing him up to date. The hat was a non-issue; it was losing the pin that really bothered me. But even if it had been a Patriots Super Bowl ring, the amount of awkwardness required to get it back by using Mladen as an intermediary was not even close to being worth it.

I'd just have to snatch it myself, or not snatch it at all.

Gypsy town in Vranje.

When we came back, about two hours later, everyone was asleep. The lights were off. And the hat had disappeared from the table.

Miroslav was playing hard ball.

The next day, I woke up, and immediately started to plan strategy. I had to get this thing back -- it was a gift from Zoka, not something I had bought on the street, after all. It had sentimental value. Damn Vincent. Where was the help, Frenchie? I thought we were brates.

"Blame French Canada!" the it's-not-my-fault side of my brain grumbled.

This, is Serbia. Old Serbia.

It wasn't until the sun set that I made my move.

Once again, it was like a movie.

I was trying to make my way westwards across Old Serbia to Nova Varoš, and Mladen had arranged for his brother-in-law, Miljan, to give me a ride to his home in Leposavić, a small town in a Serbian enclave of Kosovo. Miljan was leaving after dinner that night. The clock was ticking.

Everyone was around the table, enjoying another feast -- err, fast. The bedroom was vacant. I needed to pack my bag, anyway, but the No. 1 priority was to find that hat. I'd remove the pin, Miroslav would have his new chapeau, and everyone would be happy.

I shut the door behind me -- no lock. This had to be fast.

The very first cabinet that I opened gave me what I was looking for, except for one thing.

The pin was nowhere to be found.

I couldn't believe my eyes. It was the hat, the same exact freaking hat. Tan, felt, floppy, old man style. Same size, same brand. It was the hat. Had Miroslav known that I'd try to go covert on him and take back my Druže Tito?

I had been outsmarted. Absolutely outplayed. Those crafty Serbs...

Less than three seconds after I hurriedly put the hat back in its place, I heard the doorknob begin to turn. It was Miroslav, coming in to make sure I was getting packed okay. If the pin had been in there, and I had spent the every few seconds required to get it out, I would have been caught red-handed.

I left with Miljan that night having been defeated by a more worthy opponent. But it was worth the trade. A free night's sleep, four free meals and a really cultural experience were memories much more valuable than any old man hat, or any old man hat pin. Besides, like Zoka said when I told her what had happened, "I guess he needed it more than you did." I suppose so.

Besides, everyone did end up happy in the end. The first thing Zoka did when I saw her this time in Belgrade, my third visit to the city, was give me a gift.

Against a backdrop of a silhouette of the former Yugoslavia, read the words: "Druže Tito, Mi Ti Se Kunemo."

The End.

My Old Serbian family.

I love how all family pictures are the same, from Serbia to Texas.

Wasn't the guy in the gray the one who played Borat in ping pong?

Time warp.