“I can tell from the hue of skin, your blood is blue, like mine,” lisps the wan, wheelchair-bound man in his high-pitched Eastern European accent. “You must come visit your home. Come visit Zvezdara.” The lanky giant of chiseled stone towering behind the chair grunts in assent. I smile and nod; what else can I do?
No, I’m not in Serbia, but Budapest, 200 or so kilometers north of that country’s border. Truthfully, only later did I learn of my interlocutor’s Serbian connection after Googling various spellings of the word “Zvezdara.” As far as I could tell, it’s just one of many municipalities that make up the city of Belgrade. But tonight, it is being cast as my forgotten homeland.
Kara and I had been at the Viking Pub for a while and had already downed a few pints of Kaltenburg Barna when my long-lost relative and his sinister cohort wheeled in. I felt his stare immediately, but with the strong beer warming my blood, I didn’t care much.
He soon struck up a conversation. Introducing himself as Dr. Zorica, he queried me on the normal topics at first, but the subject gradually shifted to what I knew of my ethnic background. Before long, he was expounding at great length about a place I had never heard of with a pronunciation I could not repeat, where all the people were of noble, ‘blue-blooded’ descent. They had been forced out of this paradise over the centuries by one tragedy or another, and now Dr. Zorica was trying to bring them back.
“I know a man with same name as you. He is Zvezdarian, and he lives in Zvezdara. He is a baker, and he’s happy for you to stay with him.” Every so often, the rigid henchman leans down out of the shadows to whisper something in deep, thick Slavic into the good doctor’s ear. They both chuckle. “Yes, yes, my associate thinks you would like it very much in Zvezdara.”
By the end, I am so utterly perplexed, and more than a little intoxicated, that I go along with his request to take my photo and my email address. He shows no interest in Kara. “Sorry,” she is told, “your blood is not blue like ours.” And then he quite matter-of-factly states that he needs to measure my cranium.
This is a bit too much. Kara and I awkwardly make our exit, stumbling into the crisp spring night, speechless.
Several days go by, and I get an email from Dr. Milosh Zorica, Project Coordinator for the USA, Canada, and Scandinavia, of the Institute Deda Mile in Zvezdara. I’m in luck, it tells me. Researchers at the Institute are 95% sure my origins are Zvezdarian. However, to be sure, they require a sample of my DNA. “Just cut a little bit of your hair and send it to me in way I will describe you later.”
Even though I send no reply, a follow-up email the next week offers me a Zvezdarian ID card. And then of course there’s my free three-month trip, to be overseen by my own personal host, Earl Darko Trifunovic XVI. To seal the mystery, the correspondence closes with this: “Have nice time and lots of luck in life as Zvezdarian. You should keep it secret for next six months.”
So, if you have an inkling that blue blood courses through your veins, I suggest you head to the Viking Pub in Budapest. If you’re lucky, Dr. Zorica will be waiting for you.
About the author:Freelance writer Hal Amen has been an avid traveler for as long as he can remember, and he wouldn’t have it any other way. His articles have appeared on the Traveler’s Notebook website, and he has recently created a blog to document his wayward experiences at http://wayworded.blogspot.com/.