Hitting the Snooze Button ... on Life

Novi Sad.

My Serbian Mistress.

Six days in the capital of Vojvodina, without Internet, without television, but with three good-looking Orthodox ribe to cook, sew and clean for Stewart and me ... Life in Serbia can be pretty good at times.

Novi Sad or Belgrade?

I love them both. The latter is the steady girlfriend; the former, a one-week fling. But I can't put a ring on my new girl's finger just yet. Belgrade has been too good to me for too long. To toss her aside, just like that, would not only be inappropriate -- it would be unfair.

Besides, I've never heard of any rap group called Novi Sadski Sindikat. Have you?

I will say this, though, about Novi Sad: At just over an hour away from my Balkan Home Sweet Home by bus, and with a waaaaaaaaaaaay better bod, she makes for a damn good Serbian Mistress.

Tragedy struck my first day.

You know that sound? That terrible, awful, godforsaken sound? It's like nothing else on earth. There's a reason they came up with "R.I.P." as the tombstone acronym. It's because of what happens to your only pair of pants after you hear the dreaded riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiip.

My Carhartt's have taken a mortal blow to the liver.

Thanks, Vojvodinan trash cans. Especially you jagged metal ones. I really appreciate it.

"And now, I will sing the Kazakh national anthem to the tune of your national anthem."

Luckily, I had Dragana -- the "real Bosnian girl" -- to patch them up. With style. She made sure, in Cyrillic letters, that everyone knew the new and improved version had been "Made in Serbia." Name one other dude on earth -- especially in Texas -- that is rocking that this season.

The sad part is what began to happen after about five days of looking goooood.

The hole reappeared. Dragana's sewing abilities had been proven to be insufficient.

Now, it's only a matter of time until these pants die. And when that happens...

I don't want to talk about it. I just can't envision life without them.

Vojvodina is not quite Serbia.

I mean, it is ...

But it's not.

The Serbia I knew before this past week was Turkish Serbia. Five hundred years of Ottoman occupation style. Vojvodina -- which borders Hungary -- has a different history completely. In Old Serbia -- essentially south Serbia -- you can feel the legacy of the Turkish yoke, in the air. You can see it in people's faces, on the sidewalks, in the flowing water of the rivers. Vojvodina is Austro-Hungarian Serbia. You can still see the legacy of empire, but it's just easier on the senses. When you're in Novi Sad, you don't feel like you're in the East; you can't even imagine that the place may have ever been in that realm. You're thinking about courts and corsets and Vienna; not viziers, sanjaks and the Porte.

But Dragana, I'm sorry. The Petrovaradin fortress may be cool and all -- that's where the infamous Exit Festival is held every year -- but it doesn't hold a candle to the Kalemegdan.

But maybe that's just my Belgrade Bias shining through.

Oh, and another thing: You may want to keep up on those ice skating lessons.

Stewart, who is California as California can be, decided last week to "get Serbed" by Adi's brother Milan -- "the best hairstylist in all of Belgrade." He then allowed Kris to pressure him into adding Michael Irvin lines on the side (the right side; not pictured).

"You look like shaban guy," is what our Novi Sad girls had to say about it. Context can explain to you folks back home what "shaban" means.

Gordana? Gordza? Gor.......what now? No wonder Stewart announced her nickname the first night: "Juh juh juh, juh juh juh, juh juh juh, GEEEE YOU NIT!"

Coolest. Apartment. Ever.

I just love that at Serbian weddings, someone, at some point, was like, "You're getting married! I know exactly what we need to do: Get out a Serbian flag!" Just picture if you were like, "Uhhh, Mom? Dad? I'm marrying a Croatian girl. Is it okay if we scrap the flag thing?"