There’s a fur store in my neighborhood. It’s small — tucked between a cheese shop and a hair salon — and it’s almost always empty.
For the last six months, I’ve passed this store on my daily walk. I’ve glanced at the display or occasionally peered into the windows; only fur coats and fur hats. And sometimes, an old man with a half-eaten sandwich at a desk. Presumably, the owner.
Out of melancholy or intense empathy, I always thought to myself: how awful to own a fur store in the summer. Who goes in? Who is thinking of fur coats when it’s hot outside? (Besides fashion houses preparing their Fall/Winter collections, of course.)
Even hours later, I’ve found my thoughts drifting back to the fur store and the old man. Does he truly get no customers in the warm months? Does he sit inside all day, bored, or does he entertain himself with phone calls, crosswords, or books? How does he manage to stay open year-round?
I’ve even considered walking in there a few times. But then I thought, I better not — I didn’t want to get his hopes up. Fur coats are expensive. And I also didn’t want to disrupt his peace, assuming he enjoys those long days alone. Or what if … the store was all but a front for a money-laundering scheme?
Quietly, the urge to know the answers to my questions dwindled. I became preoccupied with teaching, with autumn, with the common cold … the fur store was less on my mind. Until today.
I was making my usual rounds of the neighborhood, desperately seeking coffee, when I stumbled upon a few women standing outside the fur store. They were excitedly chatting with each other and pulling out their phones. “Look at this one, ” a woman said. She took a photo of a massive copper-brown fur coat in the window. Finally, I thought — this man is getting business! No longer will he sit inside, bored.
And as I passed the shop, I smiled to myself. There were two people inside, trying on furs,
Still smiling, I felt a sudden, cold rush of November air go right through me — and for a brief moment, I was suddenly transported back to the chill air of Belgrade. I was standing outside a boutique [or Butik] with exceptional fur coats in the windows. It was a memory from January 2021.
On that day, I had been looking for one of those “Russian” hats — a round, white, fuzzy one — but I had no luck. At first, I tried the vintage indoor market on Knez Mihailova. Then I tried H&M and Zara for a faux-fur one. Then local boutiques with real fur; but I felt uneasy purchasing new fur.
The experience inside that store, however, was nothing like the lonesome fur store in my neighborhood. The boutique was filled with women trying on gorgeous white, black, brown and gray coats. They were spinning around in the mirrors, throwing their purses over their shoulders to get a real “feel” for the coats.
To be honest, I don’t know if those women were Serbians, tourists, or both. But it didn’t matter. There was a certain, how do you say, je ne sais quoi about wearing fur in the Balkans.
Like I said, I didn’t end up purchasing fur in that magical boutique. But I did find a street vendor — I guess I take pity on old men with furs — who sold me what I was looking for: the fabled, white, Russian hat. He promised me that it was exceptional faux fur.
Except when I brought it back to Aleksa, he disagreed. “I think it’s real. I think he misunderstood what you meant by “faux” fur.”
I guess that’s the magic of Belgrade.
Anyway, reader, you must understand. I didn’t set out to write a blog about fur coats. But when I experience these brief moments that feel like I’m in Belgrade, again, I can’t help but discuss it.
Come to think of it, fur and Serbia and I have a lot of history between us. First there’s Aleksa, who is affectionately called “šubara” by his friends. A šubara is a traditional winter hat worn by Serbian men in folk attire. They call him this because his hair grows straight up. I’m not kidding.
Second, there’s my own misunderstood Slavic roots. One set of my mother’s grandparents were from Russia. My mom’s maiden name is Dubovik. Unfortunately, my mother’s parents divorced when she was a toddler. So we don’t know that side of the family, or have a true sense of our Russian roots, for that mother.
Make no mistake — my mom is American. But she is ethnically Russian and Italian. Her other set of grandparents came straight from Amalfi, Italy, to America. I was primarily raised among this side of the family, the Italians. And truthfully, I feel quite “Italian” (or Italian-American, rather) at my core.
Last summer, Aleksa and I were having dinner with his family-friend, Saška, in Trieste, Italy. “You, your mother, and your grandmother,” she said, “have the most Amalfitan faces ever.” With her hands, she gestured a vague motion by the jaw. “Narrow, defined faces.”
It’s funny to be perceived this way. Even Aleksa thought I was an Italian work-and-travel student when we met that fateful summer we worked at The Statue of Liberty (for context, almost all of the people working there were work-and-travel students … including Aleksa.)
Yet when I’m in a room with my mother’s family, people tell me all the time that I look just like my mother’s father. And so, my deep curiosity continues. Will I ever know that part of me? And how do I appropriately explore it?
[For Serbians, this might be an unfamiliar concept. Plenty have the “privilege” to know that they’re Serbian the minute they gain consciousness (or Serbo-Croatian, Serbo-Bosnian, or whatever mix they might be.) For Americans, though, this is often less clear. The United States is truly a melting pot of cultures and ethnicities. As annoying as it is for people to claim they’re a mutt, they’re likely not kidding. Sure, percentages break down, and we could argue the logistics of it all with a single 23 And Me test. But the popularity of that test alone should ring loud and clear: people have a desire to know their roots.
I recall one dinner with Aleksa’s friend group, where I explained that America is a nationality and everyone is typically, ethnically, one or more groups. This seemed clear to some and difficult for others to comprehend. I don’t want to assume this was the case, but I had the sense that some Serbians really believed that Americans were just “American.” Or that we are all from England. (My blog that went viral — remember that? — misquoted that I had English roots.)
What I believe Americans envy is that deep sense of cultural pride. While it’s true that Italian-Americans are stereotypically proud, as are the Irish-Americans, African-Americans, Puerto Ricans and others — there’s a lot of people walking around that don’t have a single idea where their family is from. Other Americans know exactly where their families are from, but they don’t engage with those roots whatsoever.
Our pride, as Americans, is rooted in nationalism, patriotism.
What makes America a great country, sometimes, is the vastness of the diverse cultural backgrounds here. You can’t quite see that anywhere else, except for maybe the densest-populated city of a country. What I mean is that when you’re in Belgrade, probably 80% of the people around you are Serbians. When you’re in New York, that’s just not the case. You are surrounded by people who are ethnically from all over the globe.]
My fixation on these fur coats, you could say, is partially to blame on this sense of Russian disorientation. While Dubovik is a part of my family history, I don’t know much about it — there’s no one to ask. Or maybe this fixation is rooted in a deep sense of wanting to connect to a culture I’m not familiar with at all.
My grandmother with the “Amalfitan” face once said “you’re attracted to Aleksa, so something must be there.” She wasn’t joking, although it sounds quite silly; what she was trying to say was that Aleksa is Slavic, and I’m technically “Slavic” … so it makes sense that we like each other. (Lol.)
But let’s be real.. I was born in America. I’m American, at the end of the day — no matter how much we spin it, no matter how “narrow” my face is or how Slavic my mother’s maiden name truly is. Wearing a fur coat doesn’t rewrite the facts. I’m that American girl, for crying out loud.
And yet I can’t help but feel a little closer to my unknown ancestors when I slide into a fur coat … or walk by a fur store with a Russian owner.
So the last piece of all this — the coat itself — and what it represents: Winter. And Winter is really on its way, now. For a short while longer, us New Yorkers will continue to see orange leaves and pumpkin lattes. But then the trees will turn brown and Christmas music will be everywhere.
I don’t have to spell out why Winter would remind anyone of Slavic countries (although, to be clear, Serbia experiences the four seasons just like us — everyone always assumes that Aleksa is from the land of eternal winter.)
But this Winter, in particular, is exciting because Aleksa and I are planning a trip to Belgrade. It’s been a year and a half since my last trip (the longest I’ve been away from Serbia since Aleksa and I began dating.) A lot of exciting things have happened since then: Aleksa and I got married in the U.S.; Aleksa’s family visited the U.S. for the first time; Aleksa received his green card; I received my Master’s degree; Aleksa and I have our first “grown-up” apartment together. I’m excited to return to Serbia with all of these life goals tackled. I think it will give me a fresh perspective to not have as many tasks on my plate.
The last time I visited Serbia in the Winter, we went to Zlatibor. As nice as that was, I’m hoping to reconnect with Belgrade, Novi Sad, and explore some new areas this time. Leave me a comment or send me a message if you have a recommendation … for a city or a fur store.
Sincerely,
That American Girl
That American Girl 
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