“Kasey, I can’t sleep like this,” Aleksa has said, for the past four nights, pointing to the air conditioner in our rental space. “Serbians don’t do well with this cold air.”

“Aleksa,” I keep saying back to him, “I can’t sleep with it off.”

I’m back in Belgrade. You’d think that the most telling sign that I am American is, I don’t know, my voice — how when I’m not in the center of Belgrade, people turn toward me, now and then, a bit bewildered or possibly offended at my English words — but it isn’t. 

And it’s not my clothes (although I don’t know what it truly means to dress “American,”, especially in New York) or my appetite (yes, I did go to Starbucks near Rajićeva yesterday, but I also ate ćevapi and burek, so…) or even the way I attempt to pronounce “doviđenja.”

No. The air conditioner, somehow, is the most telling sign that Aleksa and I are from different worlds.

I don’t know if most Serbians are like this, or if it’s just my husband. But one whir of the AC unit and he begins to complain about it like it’s the promaja: how his throat hurts, how his nose is running.

The problem is that when we don’t sleep with the AC on, I have nightmares. I can never recall what they’re about, but I know I’ve had one from the way I wake up on my back and the horrible feeling in my stomach. (Google it, if you can: sleeping in a warm room can provoke night terrors.) And the room is always warmer when you’re trying to sleep next to Aleksa. He has this funny way of burning up the bed without sweating, just emanating the same thick air that floats above a hot pavement in summer.

But when we do sleep with the AC on, Aleksa wakes up sick.

I didn’t think I’d begin my triumphant return to Belgrade blogs with so much to say about a ducted cooling system. But Belgrade is a bit like that, no? You walk into a café and realize that this is no ordinary café: this is a restaurant filled with pictures of JFK, the American president. Or this one has a bunch of teddy bears dangling from the windows. 

Serbian food is like that, too. You slice into a punjena pljeskavica for the first time and realize this burger isn’t exactly a burger — there’s hot cheese inside of it, spilling onto your plate.

Belgrade is full of so many surprises. And to tell you the truth, I’m a bit burnt out at the moment to appreciate most of them. Last summer in Belgrade was the second-best summer of my life (number one being the summer I worked at the Statue of Liberty and met Aleksa, who you all know, and Sonja, who encouraged me to begin this blog.) 

Summer 2021 was a whirlwind; my first time experiencing a sunny Belgrade. I was amazed by all of it: the way the flowers bloomed at Skadarlija, the way the cafés lit up with happy people well into the evening. How people partied at Beton Hala like nowhere I had seen, how the kafanas blasted music so loud, I thought my eardrums might give out.

To top it all off, I was planning my wedding at the beautiful Hyde Park. And planning a wedding in a foreign country, in a language I don’t speak all that well, will probably always be the wildest thing I ever did. It was a summer of running around to different florists and learning that I would need to find the scientific name of every flower (Baby’s breath became Gypsophila, peony became Paeonia.)

I spent my weekdays taking long, laborious drives to Pancevo to taste wedding cakes from Anči Kolači; or I was in Vračar, trying to find a bridal makeup artist that didn’t turn me into a Serbian girl (because no matter how many times I visit, I will always be that American girl.)

It feels a bit strange to not plan a wedding this time around — and even more strange that in 12 days, it will be one year since we were married. It doesn’t really feel that way, though. When I left Belgrade last July, I returned to New York with a to-do list that seemed as demanding as wedding planning: packing up my old apartment, moving into a new apartment, finding a job, and starting grad school.

Aleksa and I were not reunited until six months after our wedding, at which point, we felt not quite like strangers, but not quite like newlyweds, either. So to be back in Belgrade after such an arduous year feels a bit … off. Like, what do you mean that there is nothing to do today? What does it mean to relax?

At any moment, it feels like we’re supposed to run away to Nikola Tesla airport to pick up more wedding guests. Or we’re due in Zemun for lunch with family. But we’re not. We’re just here, which I am thankful for, but adjusting to. 

It’s very hard to get a New Yorker to slow down.

Right now, I am sitting in a restaurant after just poorly ordering a sandwich. I asked the waitress, “Mogu li da sendvič” instead of “Mogu li da dobijem sendvič.” Aleksa is in my ear, correcting me: I could have said, “Moze jedan sendvič” (although this is a very informal way of ordering food, he says, as he watches me type this). My Serbian books, which sometimes help me (and sometimes don’t) tell me to say: Želela bih da poručim sendvič. Will I ever get this down?

Neda, my sister-in-law, both encourages me and teases me. Only seventeen, she reminds me of my own younger brother —who only just turned twenty. Yesterday she and I sat across from each other, giggling, our straws dipped into some kind of fruit iced tea that she ordered for us at a café. 

“Serbian is such a hard language to learn,” she said. “But you have a lot of time.” She picked up the slippery glass, the condensation dripping onto the wooden table (but drying instantly in the hot sun). “And also,” she said, rising from her comfy position in the lounge chair, “It’s just a totally different language from English. Completely different.”

“You’re right,” I sighed as if I were talking to my priest and not my teenage sister-in-law. “I just, you know. The books are confusing and I haven’t found a proper tutor. And I’ve been here so many times.” We both took a sip of our iced teas. “ I really feel so guilty every time I come over. Everyone in the house speaks Serbian. You all shouldn’t have to switch to English for me.”

“But we’re okay with that,” she said. “And Buba (Aleksa and Neda’s mom) is still learning English, too. So everyone is learning.” 

We plopped back into the chair’s cushions, quiet but content in that warm weather spirit.

 “What did you first think when you learned your brother was seeing an American?” I said, breaking the silence. Neda would joke, much later, about how I never stop talking. 

“We didn’t know what to think. I remember listening to my mom talk on the phone with a friend. She was saying how her son came home and said, ‘Mom, this is the one. This is the girl I’m going to marry.’”

“Oh my God,” I said, putting on my sunglasses to hide my embarrassment and awe. “You guys must have been shocked.”

“We were,” she said, pausing to take a sip. “But then we met you. Remember how we first met?”

I must have looked at her blankly. 

“We met in a car. You guys just finished driving home from Italy, and you picked me up from my friend’s home. And you asked me, ‘Should we hug?’”

“That’s so embarrassing,” I laughed.

“It was funny,” she corrected. 

“I remember a few years ago — it was the middle of August — I was sitting in a mall with your brother,” I told her. “And we were in that honeymoon stage (we’re still in that honeymoon stage) where you’re proclaiming your love to each other. Aleksa said something to me, like, ‘You know that we’re soulmates, right?’ And I laughed and said yes.”

“Well, yeah,” Neda laughed — mimicking the way I’d say yeah when I’m laughing, which is more like a yaaa. “What else can you say to that?”

“But that’s not all of it. Your brother was so sappy, he was saying how he could see us being together always. And I told him, still half-joking, ‘If you and I are still together by August 2022, I’ll marry you.”

“Really?” she said.

“Really. And you know what he said to me?” 

She shook her head. 

“He said to me, ‘You’ll be mine before then.’”

“He’s so sweet,” she said. 

“He’s so crazy,” I said, emphasizing the crazy. 

And then we giggled in a way you might giggle in a movie, as if to say, well, here you are! You’re his, he’s yours. Živeli. 

There are plenty of times when my romance feels a lot like some smoky French film. But besides the epic reunion at the airport, the vacations in each other’s cities, and the eros of being from two different cultures, there is no more movie. There are just two people desperately trying to be together. And a lot of people who, for their own reasons, don’t agree with it.

Just two weeks ago, this blog celebrated its official one-year anniversary. And I know from experience, thanks to pesky tabloids, how quickly your words can be twisted — especially when they’ve been mistranslated. I know some people will disagree with how I portray Belgrade. Or they’ll complain that I’m not doing enough, or too little, or too touristy. Or they’ll continue to look at these blogs the way one might look up and down at an unflattering outfit: disapprovingly.

Whether you found your way here through Belgrade hashtags or my Instagram (or you’re just too curious to know what that heinous writer is up to…) I have one more piece of news that might delight (or enrage) some of you.

This summer, Aleksa and I are attempting to vlog our time in Belgrade. I have no idea if this will be as interesting to the masses as it is to our families. Nevertheless, it’s all in good spirit. Maybe the vlogs will be fun for those curious about what we do here. I wish everyone could see Belgrade just once. But for those who never will, maybe they will experience The Magic of Belgrade © through my vlogs and my blogs. I’d be okay with that. 

Until the next blog — and the first vlog —

Kasey, That American Girl

Hi friends.

It’s been three chaotic months for That American Girl. Aleksa went back to Serbia and I went back to graduate school. Two dear friends passed away. Grief, like a ghost, took over my home. The winter went on and on and on … even though spring had arrived.

We have not had news on the status of our visa situation — and that, too, weighs on me.

In addition to the ongoing pandemic — chaos ensued. War broke out. Violent acts sprouted across the city. Harmful laws have been passed. And now, thousands of women are fighting for the right to have autonomy over their bodies. All in all, it’s been a dark time. 

Since February, I have attempted three new blog posts. The furthest I got was a post about spring in Belgrade. I think you guys would have liked it. It began with my disgust for the smelly Bradford Pear trees that dominate Manhattan’s streets. And it moved into my admiration for Belgrade: the liveliness in the streets, the cafes preparing for outdoor table service — even the thrill of tuning into Eurovision. 

Needless to say, I didn’t finish it. Nor have I finished school. I still have one more week until I am off for summer vacation — and now, with the sun beating down on me as I write this blog from the train, the gentleness of spring feels far, far away. It’s nearly summer now. When I return home, I’m going to turn on my big fan and cut up watermelon.

Do I finish the blog about spring in Belgrade? Or do I abandon it? Maybe you guys can weigh in and tell me. In the meantime, I thought I would end this brief post with some good news.

I am returning to Belgrade very soon! I am thrilled to reunite with Aleksa, my in-laws, and our friends. I am eager to see the city and explore other parts of Serbia. I will be keeping my eyes open for new writing content — please let me know if you have any requests!

We will also be doing a road trip to Italy. This makes my Italian ancestors happy. I can see them preparing the limoncello now. And it makes me happy. I will be blogging — and vlogging — a lot of my time in Europe. So keep up with my social media.

Thank you for all the support and encouragement.

Until the next post, 

That American Girl 

When I touch down in Belgrade, I go through the usual motions of long-haul flight exhaustion: eye dryness, sensitive stomach, sweaty clothes, sore glutes. All I want to do is go to bed. Only I still have to go through customs, collect my luggage, and — oh yeah — reunite with Aleksa after 6+ months.

When I reunite with my partner, I want to look like a movie star — not a stinky egg with bloodshot eyes. And of course, the first thing your partner will want to do is hug you and kiss you: stinky, sweaty, achy, sleepy you. 

I always try to enjoy the moment; I always tell myself that my partner doesn’t care about any of that. But no matter what, I have a nagging voice in my head saying “Hey, fleabag. Take a bath.”

Luckily, I’m not alone in this feeling. I’ve spoken to a handful of people who share my post-flight ickiness. What’s funny, however, is that we’re not the only ones who feel a bit unrecognizable!

After so many months apart, our partners can seem like strangers. And I don’t just mean in their behavior. Facetime skews proportions; cameras don’t pick up skin textures, beauty marks, facial hairs. Think about who you were three, six, nine months ago … you probably looked different than you do now! 

When you see your partner again, it can be straight-up weird. I’m always surprised by Aleksa’s height (has he always been this lanky?) and current hairstyle (he’s more handsome than I remember!) During those first few days of reuniting, I feel shy. It’s as if I feel like I’m doing something wrong — that the person I am with can’t be the person I’ve been speaking to on video camera. 

But once you’ve gotten over the shyness — and the jet lag — your chemistry will return. And that’s a really wonderful part of being reunited. You’ll fall in love with your partner all over. You’ll make new memories. 

Lest we forget that this period is one in which the world romanticizes an LDR. The story arc of passion, of travel, of being kept apart and reunited … seems quite exciting, doesn’t it? That’s because not getting what you want right away can be very sexy. 

Take it from me, though, and revisit paragraph 1-2: it’s not very sexy. Not right away.

This brings me to a different point: There is pressure on LDR couples to have a wonderful time when they reunite. Friends and families send us away with words like, “Make the most of your time,” or “Make every second count.” 

It’s a bit silly, right? Like, of course we want to make the most of it. I just spent $1200 on this plane ticket and have been dreaming of kissing my partner for months! Why wouldn’t I make our time count?

But eventually, you realize “making it count” doesn’t even make all that much sense. How do you make every second count? How do you make every day exciting, happy, and intimate? What about illness? What about jet lag? Or just a run-of-the-mill bad day?

In my last blog, I shared that sometimes the inconvenience of your trip will come down to misfortune in your personal life — with “family members suddenly [passing]” being the first on my list. Eerily enough, the day after that blog was posted, I lost someone who was dear and precious to me. A friend who was a part of my New York family. 

This was among three losses I experienced in January. And even though Aleksa had no problem sticking by my side while I grieved, I couldn’t help but feel I was not “making the most of our time together.” How does one celebrate love when they are processing loss? It’s hard. We hadn’t seen each other in six months, quite literally not since our honeymoon … and to be dealing with such tragic news? Even harder. 

My vision of reuniting was this: lots of blueberry pancakes, lots of kissing … surprise dinners, afternoons at the Met, cuddling on snowy days. It was most certainly not crying on the couch in the same pair of pajamas for days on end.

(And it was also not the following events: the mouse that terrorized our home, the cockroach at the laundromat, the infection on Aleksa’s sixth molar, the weekend in Connecticut dealing with the infection on Aleksa’s sixth molar, the night I lost my peripheral vision, the time we fought over garlic vs onions …)

The point is that when I was sad, Aleksa brought me flowers. When Aleksa was homesick, I learned how to make a pretty good tzatziki sauce. Reuniting doesn’t need to be a glamorous weeklong event of lingerie and oysters. What reuniting is, or what it should be, is a testament that when the two of you are together again, you mean business. You have each other’s backs. You support one another.

If you’re about to reunite with your partner, don’t feel like you need to put on a show. Enjoy their presence. Enjoy what the two of you have together. Even in the bad moments.

Best, 

That American Girl

P.S. (Hey, look at this cheesy line I just came up with: I didn’t love every second, but every second was filled with love. Did someone write that already?)

When I touch down in Belgrade, I go through the usual motions of long-haul flight exhaustion: eye dryness, sensitive stomach, sweaty clothes, sore glutes. All I want to do is go to bed. Only I still have to go through customs, collect my luggage, and — oh yeah — reunite with Aleksa after 6+ months.

When I reunite with my partner, I want to look like a movie star — not a stinky egg with bloodshot eyes. And of course, the first thing your partner will want to do is hug you and kiss you: stinky, sweaty, achy, sleepy you. 

I always try to enjoy the moment; I always tell myself that my partner doesn’t care about any of that. But no matter what, I have a nagging voice in my head saying “Hey, fleabag. Take a bath.”

Luckily, I’m not alone in this feeling. I’ve spoken to a handful of people who share my post-flight ickiness. What’s funny, however, is that we’re not the only ones who feel a bit unrecognizable!

After so many months apart, our partners can seem like strangers. And I don’t just mean in their behavior. Facetime skews proportions; cameras don’t pick up skin textures, beauty marks, facial hairs. Think about who you were three, six, nine months ago … you probably looked different than you do now! 

When you see your partner again, it can be straight-up weird. I’m always surprised by Aleksa’s height (has he always been this lanky?) and current hairstyle (he’s more handsome than I remember!) During those first few days of reuniting, I feel shy. It’s as if I feel like I’m doing something wrong — that the person I am with can’t be the person I’ve been speaking to on video camera. 

But once you’ve gotten over the shyness — and the jet lag — your chemistry will return. And that’s a really wonderful part of being reunited. You’ll fall in love with your partner all over. You’ll make new memories. 

Lest we forget that this period is one in which the world romanticizes an LDR. The story arc of passion, of travel, of being kept apart and reunited … seems quite exciting, doesn’t it? That’s because not getting what you want right away can be very sexy. 

Take it from me, though, and revisit paragraph 1-2: it’s not very sexy. Not right away.

This brings me to a different point: There is pressure on LDR couples to have a wonderful time when they reunite. Friends and families send us away with words like, “Make the most of your time,” or “Make every second count.” 

It’s a bit silly, right? Like, of course we want to make the most of it. I just spent $1200 on this plane ticket and have been dreaming of kissing my partner for months! Why wouldn’t I make our time count?

But eventually, you realize “making it count” doesn’t even make all that much sense. How do you make every second count? How do you make every day exciting, happy, and intimate? What about illness? What about jet lag? Or just a run-of-the-mill bad day?

In my last blog, I shared that sometimes the inconvenience of your trip will come down to misfortune in your personal life — with “family members suddenly [passing]” being the first on my list. Eerily enough, the day after that blog was posted, I lost someone who was dear and precious to me. A friend who was a part of my New York family. 

This was among three losses I experienced in January. And even though Aleksa had no problem sticking by my side while I grieved, I couldn’t help but feel I was not “making the most of our time together.” How does one celebrate love when they are processing loss? It’s hard. We hadn’t seen each other in six months, quite literally not since our honeymoon … and to be dealing with such tragic news? Even harder. 

My vision of reuniting was this: lots of blueberry pancakes, lots of kissing … surprise dinners, afternoons at the Met, cuddling on snowy days. It was most certainly not crying on the couch in the same pair of pajamas for days on end.

(And it was also not the following events: the mouse that terrorized our home, the cockroach at the laundromat, the infection on Aleksa’s sixth molar, the weekend in Connecticut dealing with the infection on Aleksa’s sixth molar, the night I lost my peripheral vision, the time we fought over garlic vs onions …)

The point is that when I was sad, Aleksa brought me flowers. When Aleksa was homesick, I learned how to make a pretty good tzatziki sauce. Reuniting doesn’t need to be a glamorous weeklong event of lingerie and oysters. What reuniting is, or what it should be, is a testament that when the two of you are together again, you mean business. You have each other’s backs. You support one another.

If you’re about to reunite with your partner, don’t feel like you need to put on a show. Enjoy their presence. Enjoy what the two of you have together. Even in the bad moments.

Best, 

That American Girl

P.S. (Hey, look at this cheesy line I just came up with: I didn’t love every second, but every second was filled with love. Did someone write that already?)

For months, friends and followers alike have asked me to write a blog on how to successfully make a long-distance relationship “work.”

The first attempt at this blog was back in November. All the talk of Thanksgiving travel plans had me reminiscing about my love affair with travel: my packing rituals, my airport stories, even my movie recommendations for long flights. More affectionately, I thought of the moments I was able to reunite with Aleksa in airports. And how nothing, not even the rest of the trip, can compare to that first celebratory embrace.

Would it be painfully obvious for me to suggest that a long-distance relationship requires travel? Probably. But I wouldn’t say that travel is the answer to making an LDR “work.”

For devil’s play, let’s break down travel a bit more. To travel, you need to have a flexible schedule and the means to fund your trip. (These days, you also need proof of vaccination or a negative test, depending on where you go!) 

So what we’ve whittled travel down to is the bare necessities: time and money. Except for the entirety of my long-distance relationship, I have been a student — I have had neither the time nor the money. I’ve coordinated my long holidays off from school as opportunities to see my partner. And when I wasn’t seeing him or studying for class, I was working — mostly to afford traveling! 

So, how do you successfully make an LDR work? It’s travel, sure. Maybe it’s even having an end-date: the projected estimate of when you two will finally, permanently, get to be together.

If someone were to ask me what they’d need to make an LDR work, I’d tell them this: First, you need communication — like any relationship. Second, you need a reality check. 

COMMUNICATION 

I don’t believe anyone’s LDR is the same. I know couples who watch movies together online and couples who eat meals together over Facetime. Aleksa and I aren’t any of those couples. It’s partially because of the huge gap in our time zones, but mostly, it’s because it’s not in our chemistry. We don’t like watching movies online together — they glitch! And his lunchtime is my breakfast — so that’s a no on virtual meal dates.

Honestly, Aleksa and I can go a day or two without talking, just a few texts here and there. On the occasion I wake up very early, I may get to spend an hour on Facetime with him.

When it is midnight here in New York, I sometimes receive a picture of Aleksa’s 6 A.M Serbian sunset. If I’m shopping, walking, or cleaning, I try to call Aleksa and talk his ear off for a while.

Aleksa and I know that our day-to-day lives are very busy, so this is what works for us. And that sometimes means not talking as frequently as we’d like. What’s most important is that we are both aware of that, and not creating narratives of what sparse texts could mean. Google will tell you that this infrequency of communication means your relationship is doomed; your friends might tell you how they could never do that. Now and then even my mother will ask me, panicked, “You haven’t spoken since this morning? Are you two ok?!”

As always, communication is key. Your relationship doesn’t need to make sense to anyone but yourselves. If you’re on the same page, that’s what counts.

REALITY CHECK 

So then what did I mean when I said you need a reality check? 

It means being honest with what you both can handle. The events of 2020 showed us the detriment of travel restrictions on long-distance couples. Pandemic, war, and tragedy are things we might not like to think about, but could potentially affect two people in an LDR. 

When entering an LDR, you must accept that some things are out of your control. Sometimes, the reason you can’t see your significant other is in the hands of the CDC or the government.

And other times … it will be on you! You must also remember that personal emergencies happen. Family members suddenly pass away; passports expire, your appendix inconveniently ruptures. Or, maybe it’s on your partner: they don’t pass their tourist interview; they test positive for COVID and can’t fly. A lot of things can happen before a planned trip. It’s important that you and your partner address this and have a backup plan. A good LDR couple always, always has a backup plan!

But for me, the biggest reality check has nothing to do with what can happen before a trip. It’s about what happens in between the time you two see each other again. When you’re in your location, and they’re in theirs, the world can feel like a lonely place. You can’t call up your partner on a Friday and grab Thai food. They can’t just hop in their car and hold you when you’re sick. 

Are you the kind of person that can handle months without intimacy? Can you handle holidays and birthdays away from your partner? When your friends invite their boyfriends and girlfriends to dinner, are you okay being the “single” one at the bar? 

This is the actual reality of the LDR: you are apart from each other more than you are together. “How do I make a long-distance relationship work?” is the wrong question. The right question is, “How do I make our time apart feel okay?”

I’ve sought the internet once or twice for an LDR community. There’s a great deal of content online — Youtube vlogs to Reddit forums to Twitter threads — but for some reason, it’s never really stuck with me. Maybe it’s because I’m already living my happy-sad LDR life, and I don’t need to watch someone else’s. 

Unfortunately, there will be days when you and your partner feel crazy that you’re doing this LDR thing. Your friends will want to relate, but they can’t. Your family will make comments that upset you. On these days, it will feel like the world is against you. 

But what is crucial is that you seek your own reality — and don’t let anyone, not even family, give you their version of a reality check. This brings me to my final point:

CUT OUT NEGATIVE PEOPLE

This should be a no-brainer, but you’d be surprised at how many people can be opinionated and rude. One week into dating my now-husband, a coworker told me to have “fun while it lasted” because these kinds of relationships just don’t work. He even suggested I prematurely break it off to make things easier “because neither of you will stay loyal when you’re apart.” 

The classic “romance scam” was thrown in my face a few times. When I was engaged, the comments went from jealous to ridiculous — a former friend asked me if the whole thing was a big joke. I don’t know if it’s the uncertainty of LDRs that makes people act like an ass, or if they’re just that miserable. Some of the things that were said to me (and to Aleksa) were plain out horrible. Most of the time, it wasn’t the comments that hurt my feelings, but the person saying them. Friends and family broke my trust. 

In an LDR, you’ve got to develop a tough skin. And you must prioritize the people that show up and support you. Everyone else gets the boot.

***

In my next blog, I will be sharing my thoughts on how to make an LDR work when you are together again! You may think this is the easy part, but it’s easily just as complicated. It takes work to make things feel seamless and balanced again. Keep your eyes posted on my socials or the blog for the next post. 

Sincerely,

That American Girl

Well, friends, it’s January again: that polarizing month that fills us with happiness or dread. For many people, this is the time to start fresh — to join the gym, to learn how to use a crockpot, to cut out those negative people in your life!

But if you’re like me, this is a sad stretch of time following the joy of the holidays. My Christmas tree is put away and I’ve tossed out the candy that was collecting on my coffee table … but now what? 

For the last few years, I’ve had the pleasure and the fortune to spend my Januarys in Belgrade. I was there in 2020, admiring the New Year’s lights adorning Knez Mihailova (which caught the attention of another Serbian tabloid). I was there again in 2021, dining at Hotel Moskva on my anniversary. (I even had a nice trip to Zlatibor for a weekend, too). 

Serbians always scolded me. “Why do you come during this miserable time of year?” they ask, referring to the harsh winter winds. “You must visit in the Spring!” But like most American students, the winter was when I had a vacation from school — and vacation meant I was off to Belgrade!

Maybe my opinion is unpopular, but I adore Belgrade in winter. I like the Christmas carts that spring up around Rajiceva, selling meats and cheese and sugary pastries. I like how the stores along Bulevar kralja Aleksandra decorate their windows with fluffy coats and sparkling gowns. In restaurants and cafes, people are glowing over a cup of coffee. They’re laughing as they tell stories well into the evening. 

Belgrade is magical in winter. And yeah, I’m definitely romanticizing it — but that’s what we do with any city we love, right? Belgrade has its flaws the way New York has its flaws. But that doesn’t stop thousands of people from visiting New York for the holidays. 

At this moment, I’m sitting in our chilly apartment in Manhattan while Aleksa rearranges the food in our refrigerator. We are preparing for the oncoming blizzard (meċava … I’m learning!) this Friday, and I can already promise you the city will be a wreck by Saturday. The streets will be lined with thick, black slush. The staircase in our building will be a gooey and salty mess. 

But on a more serious note, New York isn’t perfect right now, either.  Covid testing lines have been wrapped around the block, and I see more and more homeless outside the shelters. You can see the effects right in your neighborhood. Several businesses are closing their doors for good. Rent is decreasing, but the city is limited on jobs. Hundreds of offices remain empty in midtown. And I have plenty of talented friends that are currently jobless. 

City to city, no matter how different, is suffering right now. I don’t want to pigeonhole  New York or Belgrade into one thing. But I think it’s important to seek happiness in your life — and both of these cities provide me with bits of joy.

The other day I was folding laundry and said to Aleksa, “I miss Belgrade.” And I do — I miss the city’s vibe and the feeling the people give off. Even at one in the morning, there are people walking around Trg republike. The kafane play music I’ve never heard, but I don’t feel unwelcome at all. I miss my husband’s family and their Christmas traditions (somehow, Aleksa always manages to find the coin in the bread). And I don’t mind the cold weather, either.

“Would you rather be in Belgrade?” Aleksa asked. But I couldn’t quite answer. After spending two months in Serbia this late spring and early summer, I can attest that it is beautiful. But I missed New York all the time. So the season makes no difference. I’m just caught in the middle! When I’m in New York, I think about the mellowness of Belgraders. When I’m in Belgrade, I think about the punctuality of New Yorkers. I want both at different times. 

What I can say is that I missed the ritual of traveling to Belgrade this year. I’ve gotten used to JFK around New Year’s Eve for my AirSerbia flight — and I’ve gotten familiar with explaining to random people that I’m not Serbian, but my partner is. I missed touching down at Nikola Tesla airport at seven in the morning (this is random, but I always notice the trees in the parking lot: they look nothing like US trees. That’s how I seem to ground myself after that tiring flight.) I’ve grown affectionate toward cruising around the city in Aleksa’s white Fiat. And there’s really nothing better than driving around Belgrade at night playing WTF radio, praying you’ll make it around Slavija alive. 

More important than missing Belgrade is that I am not missing Aleksa! I am happy to report that he has arrived in the US for a while — and thank goodness — we spent six married months apart. For our 2022 dreams, Aleksa and I hope that this year is the year we finally get to be together permanently. 

During these next few days, we will be celebrating orthodox Christmas together — baking bread, burning a badnjak, and seeing family friends. With Aleksa here, my world always feels a bit more like Belgrade. I think true love should be like that. 

Tell me, friends: what would we do without Autumn in New York? For those who have experienced it, you know that there’s nothing quite like it. During this time of year, Tom Hanks feels compelled to buy school supplies; Bryant Park rips up its 9.6-acre lawn to clear space for the skating rink; and Central Park transforms into a perfectly orange pastoral, complete with horse-drawn carriages and the occasional bride stomping down Bethesda Terrace. 

New Yorkers, momentarily, may feel compelled to seek out the pleasures of “suburban” autumn. They might even Google, “nearest pumpkin patch.” But they’ll soon realize that the closest farms are in Long Island and New Jersey — which, to a New Yorker, is impossibly far away. It’s hard enough to get us to leave our boroughs, what makes you think we’re going to leave the city?

So what is it, then, that draws us to autumn in the city? Our pumpkins are imported from upstate and charged one-too-many dollars. They sit outside Morton Williams on limp haystacks, waiting to be noticed. If you buy one, you risk your neighbor stealing it from your front door or your friendly cockroach munching on it in your kitchen. 

And then there’s all the festivals, activities, and events that bring tourism. Just when you think you’ve escaped the crowds of the Halloween Parade in the East Village, you are met with the chaos of the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. Not to mention, by the way, that every store starts putting our Christmas decor during the third week of October.

But somehow, I surprise myself every September: those silly Morton Williams pumpkins make me smile. I enjoy the leisurely Sunday mornings by the Jackie -O Reservoir, watching Central Park lose its green face. I don’t mind tripping over sidewalk chalkboards promoting a cafe’s seasonal latte. I especially love rediscovering my fall jackets, and the particular way the wind shocks my eyes. Or how about the evening when your landlord finally kicks on the heaters? Little surprises, secret pastimes — jouissance!

This October, I’ve been so lucky to share my Sundays with my Instagram followers. Dubbed “The Sunday Diaries,” I share what a casual (or glamorous) day in the city is like. It all started with an innocent picnic in Bryant Park with my dear friend Hannah. She prepared these mouthwatering crostini with ricotta and roasted tomato, except there were way too many birds and the lawn was sopping wet from the night’s rain. We looked out toward Bryant Park Grille, an elegant and expensive restaurant that appeared to be everything our picnic wasn’t. One of us said, “I’ve always wanted to go there,” and then it was as if lightning hit us. Your life consists only of the decisions you make — and always, that means curating the lifestyle you want. We both said, at the same time, “Why don’t we go there?” And really, what had been stopping us? We dined there the following Sunday, and thus, The Sunday Diaries were born. They are akin to December’s vlogmas, but specifically for autumn. My favorite season!

All of October, I’ve shared what I’ve been up to: drinking cappuccinos at fancy brunch spots, wearing fluffy sweaters to the Park, admiring fresh cut flowers in local markets, stocking up on vintage dresses at thrift bazaars, and hosting an Oscar-themed birthday party. Don’t be fooled, my life isn’t like this every day. There’s a lot of long shifts, a lot of teary Facetime calls, a lot of poems that are stuck in revision. Bills to pay, a bookshelf I can’t seem to buy, fake plants that are collecting dust. But on these special days … the ones where I choose me, and choose to make the city feel wonderful … It feels like life can always be like that. 

I am always brought down to reality, however, on Sunday evenings. It feels like an elephant is sitting on my chest, or worse, that there’s an anvil waiting to fall on my head — anxiety. Every beautiful component of Sunday is something I want to share with Aleksa, who is still not here with me. Quickly, everything starts to feel very wrong. You can’t imagine how many times I’m asked, “But I don’t understand, you’re both married, he can’t come here now?” It’s a question with good intentions, just one that I am very tired of answering. People want to understand, and I appreciate their sympathy. What they don’t realize is that I, too, have no idea how to react to what I am saying. Do you respond with ugly tears, do you get so frustrated that you break your favorite vase? Or do you just continue to be you, enjoy the fall for what it is, see your friends, and feel terribly alone at night?

I’ve never, ever, enjoyed the summer. Even as a little girl, it was a season that carried with it an associative melancholy (ie, my summer is likely your winter.) The sun is too much, the fashion is boring, the days are horribly long. But it truly boils down to the ennui of it all; I am someone who constantly needs to be busy. That’s my flaw. Although I desperately, probably, need to relax, I still haven’t narrowed down what actually relaxes me. It isn’t bubble baths and it isn’t yoga. About ten years ago, I would have said running — but that no longer does it for me. It might very well be writing these blogs.

With autumn in my corner — a new job, a Masters’s program, a new apartment — I’m incredibly busy. And I can’t help but think about how different my life was only a few months ago, when I spent my summer in Serbia.

***

The week I left for Belgrade is all but a blur. It was May 10th, and Aleksa and I had been apart for 101 days. Within that time, I had accomplished so much: three bridal fittings, two bridal showers, graduation paperwork, graduation photos, final exams, final essays, and the joys of packing for a long trip. The very same weekend I was packing for my summer away, my roommate was moving out of our apartment. Our home was a mess. I was either strategically moving my wedding dress out of the way and scratching up the floors with my suitcases, or he was combing through the intimate corners of our space, trying to determine what to toss, what to keep, and what to leave behind. 

Twenty-four hours before my flight, I helped him load up his U-haul and watched him drive away. The whole thing was very nostalgic. I walked upstairs, returning to what looked like a former shell of our home, feeling nervous, elated, and sad. I realized that that night would be my last evening sleeping in that apartment, and that the next time I returned to New York, I’d be sleeping in an apartment belonging to me and Aleksa.

That following morning was just as chaotic. I woke up too early, as I usually do for international flights, and left around 10 A.M. for JFK. I was completely by myself juggling two giant suitcases, a large green tote, and my big wedding dress. I couldn’t even tell you how I managed to get those belongings down three flights of stairs and into an Uber. Carrying a wedding dress in an airport, by the way, is no easy task. You can’t get coffee as you risk spilling anything on the bag, and you can’t exactly put your dress down to wander off. You can’t carry it, leisurely, on your arm as you stroll through the airport’s gift shops because any sudden movements might knock over a souvenir or bag of chips.

All I could do was stand there, the heavy dress straining my shoulders and drawing attention. In some ways, it was nice. Everyone who noticed what I was carrying seemed to smile at me, even with their masks on. The TSA was wonderful. They opened a giant machine to scan my dress so that it wouldn’t get crushed or dirty in the conveyor belt. And luckily, somehow, the stars happened to align for me. I managed to get a row on my flight with absolutely no people, which meant the cabin above my row was completely empty. My dress hung up there, unharmed by suitcases and carry-on bags, and I was able to finally breathe. Every now and then, a flight attendant would walk by and say, vencanica? And I’d say, da! 

The first thing I noticed when landing in Belgrade was the coolness of the morning. I had been warning about the Serbian summer heat, but this was still the baby’s breath of spring. Belgrade was gorgeous.

Now, considering that this blog has a history with Serbian news tabloids, let me try to be as clear as possible: this was my experience of summer in Belgrade. Not a general overview of what Serbians do in the summer in their country. This is as narcissistic as it gets! Just me and Belgrade.

During the cooler month of May, I spent a lot of time being a tourist. I had never experienced the warm seasons in Serbia, so it was an adjustment. 

One of my first memories of that trip was going to Galerija. Aleksa and I had spent my first few days reuniting with friends and family, so this was our first outing: checking out the sales and shops at a newly opened mall. From what I gathered, not all Belgraders are fans of Galerija. It’s too new, or it’s too empty, or they’re just loyal to Ada and Delta City and Rajićeva and UŠĆE — all the other malls that have filled the city. Personally, I like Galerija. The bottom floor has restaurants that all lead toward an outdoor terrace that overlooks the river, which in my book, is a great architectural and business model. I enjoyed getting breakfast two or three times at Avenia, where the eggs and tortilla were cooked over medium in an amazing secret sauce. 

Galerija is also a huge layout with big, open floors and fresh new stores. It’s the kind of place an American would want to be if they were shopping for Christmas presents on Black Friday — no one is on top of each other, no one feels cramped. Compared to UŠĆE, whose layout is traditionally more “mall” but always, always, swimming with shoppers — Galerija is a breath of fresh air! I was lucky to see the early days of the mall last winter when the building had barely any businesses open or functioning. There was a giant Christmas tree standing in this domed corner of the structure, and that’s when I knew it would eventually blossom into a gorgeous, roomy mall. 

Belgraders, like most people, enjoy escaping the heat by hiding away in shopping centers. But some days, they like facing the heat, too. Aleksa and I spent a few days walking the paths and park by Kalemegdan Fortress, a structure rich with Serbian history. So much of the city felt alive down here in ways that mirrored Central Park: street performers, street artists, walking tours, lovers holding hands, children running around, dogs smiling with their tongues out. I adored looking over the fortress toward the view of New Belgrade, all the city lights twinkling and the sunset one dreamy mess of colors. 

We spent many afternoons walking Knez Mihailova — it reminds me of New York’s Soho, but if Soho’s streets were wide and filled with European buildings. All the stores are around here, and I watched the windows change from the end of winter sales to spring dresses and summer swimsuits. I wouldn’t say that Knez Mihailova or Bulevar kralja Aleksandra is what people do all summer long, just how us Manhattanites don’t do Soho all summer long. But it’s a beautiful area with hidden gems, decent sales, and lovely people. You can get a real taste of Belgrade’s nightlife here. 

Aleksa and I visited Ada’s waterfront twice; it looks like parts of the Jersey Shore. With boardwalks and umbrellaed areas for restaurants, this seemed most familiar to me when you think of typical summer shenanigans. All kinds of people seemed to enjoy their time here. Whether their kids were swimming in the water or the adults were enjoying a cocktail in the shade, Ada had a space for everyone. Including us, licking ice cream cones in the grassy area while our allergies skyrocketed thanks to the floating pollen clouds everywhere. Safe to say, our immune systems kept us from revisiting. It was all tears and sneezes. 

For one day, Aleksa and I headed to Zemun. There’s nothing I can compare this area to. Parts of it look like Italy or Greece, and other parts seem completely unrecognizable. The streets are narrow and steep, with pink flowers blooming in unexpected corners while tiny cats innocently roam. It took some convincing to get me to walk up the Gardoš tower, but I eventually did. The lookout was beautiful from this historical monument: the tops of orange-tinged roofs, the sparkling waters, the city in the distance. We had a great lunch at one of the waterside restaurants — you might be seeing a pattern, now, of Belgrade having beautiful restaurants by water or nature — where Aleksa devoured an entire pizza in five mins.

We took a day trip to Novi Sad, of course, with Aleksa’s “best man” and his lovely girlfriend. We admired the pink and green buildings, the restaurant with its mini-red umbrellas hanging over our heads, The Girl with the Horn of Plenty statue (surrounded by vibrant red flowers) in the Park, and the museum Aleksa forced us all into. Just kidding, we enjoyed that museum. We were able to see portraits that had been destroyed during invasion, the clothes of previous eras, and the treasures from another life. 

I’m leaving out, of course, the one-hundred-and-one other things we did during my summer stay. I haven’t gotten into the plenty of girl’s nights I had — like drinking espresso martinis with Martina at Hotel Pavillion far too late into the night, then walking in the dark to Belgrade National Theatre, when one guy yelled out of his car that we looked sweeter than sugar which sent us into hysterics — or the warm afternoon I spent with Sonja and her mom looking for bridesmaid dresses in Indjija, followed by the coziness of her home aftward, where we sipped coffees and pet her Black Lab, Šharlo … or the many evenings we saw Aleksa’s friends, who spoke to me in English and Serbian about their plans, their girlfriends, their thoughts on the USA — all over rakija or beer, obviously, which always prompted a late-night run to get giant pljeskavice, and then they’d devour those in their neighborhood, laughing or insulting each other in the dark. 

I had plenty of one a.m. talks with Neda, my adorable sister-in-law, going over boys and school and TikTok dances — and then that one time I dragged her to the mall with me to buy something for our wedding, but we couldn’t stop laughing, which made the jewelry seller start laughing, so nearly everyone was looking at us. And I have also left out all my lovely days with Aleksa’s family. The week I arrived in Belgrade, Eurovision had just kicked off. I had heard of it before, but never knew the star quality and possession this contest held over people. We were all glued to the TV, holding our breath — laughing at the playfulness of Serbia’s girl group, Hurricane, and taken back by the rock-and-roll of Italy’s Måneskin. Aleksa’s mother and I often watched movies together or went over the nitty-gritty wedding details that Aleksa didn’t care about — like the color of napkins and the shapes of vases. Aleksa’s father and I always seemed to be making fun of something, whether it was the announcer’s voice on the radio or the way Aleksa would describe American burgers. Aleksa’s grandparents had us over for lunch plenty of times, too. His grandpa was always fermenting plums for next season’s alcohol; his grandma was always rolling pastry into spirals, which resembled the Jewish dessert, rugelach, but was something else entirely. 

What I mean to truly say, from all of this, is that summer is not just about the dog days. 

Sure, it can be. I adored visiting the castles, the cafes, the bookstores, and wedding venues.

 But it wouldn’t have been half of what it was if not for the people I love there. My summer in Serbia is not something that can be recreated, let alone a travel guide for curious tourists or a critique-all for the current residents of Belgrade. It was a period of immense joy and new beginnings, a time where I finally got to live with Aleksa and reconnect with friends and family. 

And that should be reason enough to understand what follows the afterglow: a tsunami of sadness and confusion. Despite autumn’s magical effect on Manhattan — despite the tiny gourds on my windowsill, the wool coats, the cinnamon-apple teas, the warmth of my friend’s phone calls — I still feel the absence of Aleksa. A part of me hoped that my admiration for this season would help calm these feelings, but they’re just as strong as ever. Every time I see a crinkly brown leaf blow through my building’s hallway, I just want to shout, Aleksa, look! Autumn! 

My life is so drastically different from just one season ago, that sometimes, it feels like this past summer was not my life. I was simply watching someone else live it, or I’ve somehow inherited false memories. Now, all I can do is exist without my husband or the people that made up my summer.

Instead, I can experience this year’s autumn filled with the friends and family that are absent from Aleksa’s corner of the world. Binational marriages, international friendships, they’re impossibly tricky. Whether I am in Serbia or America, I’ll always have a group of people missing from my life. That’s not as bad as it seems, though. If not for the omnipresence of summer, I wouldn’t be so excited by fall’s subtle arrival. Eventually, we must pause and take notice of the change. And when you do, you feel alive in a brand new way. 

In order to understand the bizarre circumstances in which Aleksa and I were fated to meet, you must first know the story of how my parents met.

In 1991, my father was a captain for Circle Line, the company that formerly operated the ferries that carry visitors to Liberty Island (where the iconic Statue of Liberty stands) and Ellis Island.

My mother was living with my great-grandmother at the time. Mafalda, affectionately nicknamed Mary, was an Italian woman with a fervor for wanderlust. Throughout her life, she took trips back to Amalfi — where she was born —and across the globe. Her home was garnished in the souvenirs of her travels: ceramic vases from Germany, geishas made of opal mosaic, even Polish tea sets. 

And if not for Mary, who had her heart set on seeing the Statue of Liberty in 1991, who had urged my mother to take the trip with her to New York one Saturday in September — my parents wouldn’t have met.

And their story goes like this: My mom is a tourist boarding the Miss Ellis Island ferry. My dad is in the wheeling house, where the captain sits atop the shop. And from way up there, he sees some beautiful, dark-haired woman crossing the bridge from the dock onto his boat. Supposedly, REM’s hit song “It’s The End of the World As We Know It,” was playing on the radio. And if my dad was telling this story, he would unapologetically say it really was the “end of his world” — a world without my mother! My Dad sent down a deckhand to retrieve her phone number. But my mother — that femme fatale — sent his deckhand away with this message: “Why don’t I take your number instead?” 

And that next weekend, my father drove from Brooklyn to New York to pick up my mother for their first date. Six months later, he proposed on Christmas Eve in Central Park. And they’re still very much in love today.

***

In 2017, I had applied for a lucrative fellowship that promised a travel fund for a creative project. I had my heart set on Ireland so that I could study Gaelic folklore. I had made it to the final round of interviews, but was ultimately rejected. “Don’t stress about this,” my sponsor had told me. “This fellowship is notorious for turning away freshmen. What they like to see is drive. If you apply again, they will take you. I’ve seen it happen many times.”

I did just that. In 2018, I applied yet again to the fellowship. This time, my heart was set on a different idea; going to St. Petersburg to study the methodology of Russian literature. To my sponsor’s shock, to my college’s shock, and to my own … I was rejected, again, after the final round. As disappointed as I was, there were new issues on the horizon, like, where was I going to live this summer? I had made no plans for residency since we had all hoped I’d be going abroad. 

Panicked, I called my Dad to ask him what I should do. He suggested I spend the summer working at the Statue of Liberty “because I still have friends there who can get you a job.” And after a few phone calls, my summer plans were decided. I would be working in the gift shop at Liberty Island.

I did not know anything about Liberty Island at the time; I did not know that there was a foreign exchange program for students; I did not know the ferry schedule. So on my very first day of work, I was late. And I missed the Liberty Island ferry.

Without much choice, I had to take the Miss Ellis Island ferry instead. It still would take me to my destination, but the commute would be fifteen minutes more. I was stressed — I would be very late!

And waiting on the dock — also late for his first day of work — was a man with chocolate-silver hair and dark eyes. He was pale and he was tall and the moment I saw him, I felt strange. He was wearing a black v-neck and blue jeans with white Hogan trainers. It wasn’t that strange, unless you consider that I was wearing the same outfit (only they were white Nikes). It wasn’t a work uniform, it was just our outfits for the day. The first weird coincidence.

And this man turned to me and said something, like, “Are you here for orientation?” and I said yes, taking note that he had an unfamiliar accent. And he replied, “Nice. I missed the ferry,” while running his long fingers through his hair. 

We spoke about our backgrounds as we waited for the Miss Ellis Island to arrive. His name was Aleksa, and he was from this country wedged in between a bunch of Balkan countries: Serbia. I was Kasey, and I was living in New York to go to college.

This next piece of this blog will be from an excerpt from a memoir I wrote in 2019. I never usually do this, but I think the memoir will convey the story better, and richer, than blog writing will:

As we start nitpicking at our backgrounds, the Miss Ellis Island ferry pulls into the harbor. It’s one of the first ferries of the day, so no passengers are disembarking. Instead, we watch as the deckhands slam the gangway off of its tracks and slide it down onto the dock. A deckhand wraps his hands around a thick, brown rope and pulls. The captain shouts, watch your step.

Aleksa and I step onto the steep, metal sheet and enter the gray first floor of the ferry. I walk past him, confused, and sit on a metal bench alongside the starboard windows. I didn’t understand what I was feeling. I’m on the Miss Ellis Island ferry, and there’s a man, and I feel something much more present than just my attraction to him. I feel like I’m not meeting him for the first time, and just the thought of it makes me feel ridiculous. As I move over to make room for him to sit down, his thigh touches mine for an instant— an instant that completely scares me. It’s not just deja vu, but it’s electricity … It’s like I am undoing the amnesia, like I am remembering him, like our history is coming back to me. Only today is the first time we’ve ever met.

“I’ve never been to Serbia,” I say, trying to distract myself. “What’s it like?”

“We’re very proud. I’m not sure how to describe it.”

“How did you get this job?”

“I applied for a work visa.”

“So you don’t live here, now?”

“No. My visa will expire, eventually.” My heart sinks. How could I read a situation so wrong?

“That … sucks,” I say, and I mean it. That moment where the atoms were pirouetting between our skin … — was it really that fantastical, I think to myself, or am I just smitten for his accent? The ferry continues to board with passengers. It’s May, and the air is warm and good for my dry skin. I don’t know what to think about other than the strange omnipresence he has.

“It does sucks,” he says a few moments later. “ I love New York. You guys are so open.”

“How could you live here?” I ask. I’m genuinely clueless about the issue.

“I have to figure it out. Most likely a long term work visa.” He crosses his arms, leans back, and smiles at me. “Have you been to Europe?”

“Some. I haven’t been to Italy,” I say. “And my family is from Italy.”

His eyes open wide. “You’ve never been to your motherland? That’s insane.”

He looks me up and down like he’s trying to understand me. “I’ll take you there,” he finally says. “I will take you to Italy.” 

“Okay,” I say, knowing he’s joking. “I’ll go to Italy with you.”

Then he closes his eyes, and his eyelids act like translucent sheets against the sunbeams spilling into the ferry. I notice his short, black eyelashes, the tiny-spider veins around his sockets revealing he’s tired. I notice his shoes, which aren’t white and clean — the flaw of this compelling me to like him more. I like how he has a big dimple in his chin, I like that his fingers are long and his palms are wide. I like that he smells faintly of pine trees and sweat. And I like how his shoulders move with the boat’s motions: gently up, then down, then swaying, unaware that they’re doing so. 

He doesn’t notice me noticing him; or maybe he does. With his eyes still closed, he responds, “you think I’m joking with you. You want to see Italy, I’ll show you Italy.”

***

Little did I know, then, but Aleksa kept his word. A few months later — when the leaves were browning, when New York was adorned with ghosts and pumpkins, when Aleksa’s visa had ended and he was back in Serbia — I called him one night. “So, what do you think about Italy?” I asked. Within minutes, he booked our hotels and our plane tickets. We would be reuniting in Rome. 

If you ask Aleksa what happened next, he would say that he went to bed, woke up, and asked his father: “Do you know a good jeweler? Because I know the girl I want to marry.” And that afternoon, he bought a ring.

So, kind reader — that is how we met! On a boat one fateful day in May, with so much coincidence and symmetry, with the beginning of something that looked like love, with the previous history of my parent’s destined meeting, with all of New York’s tourists crowding us. All because we were late to our first day of work. 

Best,

That American Girl