Alexandra Bogdanovic's Blog: That's life..., page 13

Going global

Just think of it as my own "Amazing Race."
My quest to learn more about my father's life for my next book recently took me on a three-week journey through Europe - from Spain to Serbia and Germany. It gave me a chance to visit new cities, to reunite with some relatives I haven't seen in 16 years and to meet others for the first time.
While staying with one cousin who lives near Barcelona, I fell completely in love with the Mediterranean city teeming with life, history and culture. I felt my heart break when another cousin I stayed with in Belgrade told me there's no future for her own daughter there. I developed a love-hate relationship with Munich while visiting my aunt.
I came home with priceless memories, a deeper understanding of my Serbian heritage, and more questions than answers about my dad. Was he a thief, a spy, or both?
I came home with not only a deeper love and appreciation for America, but a deeper understanding of the damage done by our government in the former Yugoslavia.
I came home knowing there's no way to change the past, and no reason not to embrace the future.
Until next time, "That's life..."

Un (bleeping) believable...

So Bradley Manning wants to be a woman. Or thinks he's a woman. A woman named Chelsey, to be precise.
And now that he's been convicted, he/she wants to go through her transition while she's incarcerated. Ain't that grand?
All joking aside, you'd think after everything I've been through, I'd be more tolerant. But truth be told (pun definitely intended) I'm sick of these kind of stories garnering national headlines. First all of the fuss about Chaz Bono. Then the fuss about the former Navy SEAL who came out as transgender earlier this summer. Now this.
Why now, Mr. Manning? Or is that Ms. Manning? Have you leaked so many secrets you could no longer keep your own? What makes you so special?
Frankly I don't know and I don't care. I wonder if anyone else does?
Until next time, "That's life..."

Social networking

As I mentioned last week, I'm definitely writing another book. And because I'm not one to waste any time once I make a decision, I can now tell you that I've already started doing the research for it.
I must admit, it has been a little bit challenging so far. My grandparents and a lot of the people who knew my father best have died. His remaining friends and family live all over the world.
So far I have spoken to some of my European relatives, and I've really enjoyed reconnecting with those whom I haven't seen in years. I've also enjoyed speaking with cousins whom I've never met.
Because he never spoke much about his childhood or what happened after World War II, there were a lot of things I didn't know about my father until extended family began sharing stories after he died. Now I want to know even more.
The next challenge will be trying to separate facts from family legend. But that should be fun!
So until next time, "That's life..."

Here we go again

I´ve come to the conclusion that I´m definitely a glutton for punishment.
As if writing and marketing one book isn´t enough. I´ve decided to write another one. In fact, I´ve just started the research for the book that will be based on my father´s life as a staunch anti-Communist and political refugee in post-World War II Europe.
As you can imagine, the research will involve extensive travel and quite a bit of digging. The hardest part will probably be dredging up a lot of painful memories, but I should be used to that by now.
I honestly wish I could tell you more -- but I don´t want to put the proverbial cart before the equally proverbial horse. But I can tell you this. My father´s family was fairly influential in the former Yugoslavia. A lot of people didn´t like that - and a lot of people certainly didn´t appreciate him monitoring national elections for certain wetern bloc country(ies). The rest, as they say, is history... So stay tuned!
Until next time,¨That´s Life...¨

Modern inconveniences

A wise man once defined progress as "man's ability to complicate simplicity.” I recently learned that the hard way.
It all happened while I was working on my laptop in the middle of the night a few weeks back. Much to my dismay, the screen began flickering. Then it turned pink. And purple. Panic quickly set in.
Oh, no. No, no, no! Oh (expletive deleted), no!
I turned the machine off -- and prayed the screen wouldn't be blank when I turned it back on. Taking a deep, calming breath, I hit the round button in the top right corner of the keyboard. The computer took forever to reboot, or so it seemed. Finally, the machine came to life and everything on my desktop appeared as if nothing ever happened.
Phew. Maybe it was just a fluke. Maybe it was the proximity to the fan. Perhaps it has to do with the heatwave. It can't be broken. I haven't even had it for a year.
Deciding not to push my luck, I turned off the machine, put it away, went to sleep still hoping it was just a glitch and praying I wouldn't have to deal with any more technological drama.
I awoke to find that wasn't the case.
After breakfast and my daily power walk, I returned to my home office, sat down, opened my laptop, punched the "on" button, waited for the machine to start up and gasped when I saw flashes of pink. And blue. And wavy lines.
Oh, expletive deleted, expletive deleted, expletive deleted!
I left a frantic voice mail for my computer guru, turned my laptop off -- and prayed. By the time the computer specialist returned my call, it seemed my prayers had been answered. The computer screen appeared normal once again.
The joy was short lived and my frustration resurfaced when the computer tech told me there was no point in sending the laptop to the repair shop unless there was evidence that there was really a problem. I assured him the pink and blue flickering screen with the wavy lines was not a figment of my imagination.
What you're telling me is that I have to wait until it breaks completely before it can be fixed -- even though it's still under warranty, I said.
He told me that wasn't really the case, and advised me to take pictures if and when the screen went kablooey. With no other choice, I heeded his advice and once again hoped for a miracle.
I almost got one. The machine behaved -- for two whole weeks. Then one morning, when I least expected it, the dreaded pink and blue flickering screen with the wavy lines returned with a vengeance. As instructed, I grabbed my digital camera and took at least twenty pictures of the screen and e-mailed them to my computer guy.
Being a man of his word, he called me immediately and arranged to bring the laptop to the repair shop. He said he couldn't guarantee anything, but figured the repairs would take about a week. I figured I could live with that.
One thing led to another. A week became ten days. I used the tablet I'd jut gotten to surf the 'net and send e-mails, but it wasn't the same. So I made daily trips to the public library, where I was forced to use unfamiliar machines with finicky keyboards and other quirks in order to get any work done.
By the time I finally got my own laptop back, I wanted to hug my computer guy -- and bitch slap the hell out of the people responsible for creating all of these modern "inconveniences."
Until next time, "That's life..."

I'm so over it

I've said it before and I'll say it again. I love the Hamptons. It's the (summer) people I hate.
The thought I've so often voiced in disgust over the years came to mind again last Saturday as I sat, seething, in bumper-to-bumper traffic. It had taken two hours to make the 100-mile (or so) drive from Greenwich, Conn., to Southampton and it looked as if it would take at least that long to get from Southampton to Bridgehampton -- assuming I stayed on the main road.
Fearing I would soon commit an unspeakable act of road rage, I decided to take my chances on the back roads. When I spotted a break in oncoming traffic, I turned left into a car dealership parking lot and drove down the narrow aisle towards the exit. There, I came face to face with another motorist who wanted to go up the aisle I'd just come down. Unless she moved, I would be forced to drive over a large curb in order to get to the exit and I wasn't about to do that. So there we sat, at an impasse, until she finally yielded to my get the effing hell out of my way look.
Finally out of the parking lot, I headed west and enjoyed doing the speed limit until I found the turnoff marking the beginning of the "short cut" the locals taught me when I got married at the Hampton Classic Horse Show back in 1997. Finding little traffic to impede my progress, I let my mind wander and my thoughts turned to the time when I was head-over-heels in love with Adam. Those were the days when I thought I'd have it all -- when I thought we'd have it all.
Suddenly my nostalgia -- and the traffic -- came to a screeching halt on a secondary road where I had never, ever seen so much congestion. My anger resurfaced as the eastbound traffic crawled along.
Who are all of these people? I thought. What are they doing here? Do they think it's cool? Do they think they've "made it" just because they're renting a house out here? Is this how they measure their success in business? As people? Is this how they define themselves? Wow! How sad.
Fervently wishing that everyone would just go away, I finally turned right onto one of the residential streets leading into Bridgehampton. I passed some very nice homes that would likely be considered "modest" by some standards, and a train station before turning onto a well-traveled road on the east end of town. Mission accomplished I thought when I finally pulled into a parking spot behind the local Starbucks.
In keeping with longstanding tradition, I ventured through town, picking up some glossy magazines along the way. I also grabbed a venti frappucino before jumping back in the car and heading to the Bridgehampton Polo Club, where I planned on photographing a high-goal match.
As it turned out, my afternoon only got worse. I arrived at the club to find the driveway blocked. I didn't see anyone around -- and to be honest the more I thought about spending the rest of the day putting up with drunken idiots who know next to nothing about polo, the less I felt like staying. Feeling completely miserable, I headed into Southampton to do some window shopping and then headed for home.
Comfortably ensconced on my couch with a sour apple martini in hand a few hours later, I leafed through the glossy magazines touting "Super Saturday" -- the day when several high-profile charity events are held throughout the Hamptons. They're the kind of events hosted by celebrities that attract mainstream media attention along with sychopants, "wanna-bes", hangers-on and hordes of "very important people" who no doubt believe their own press because they've got a few bucks.
Their photographs litter the pages. In shot after shot, they appear in groups, trying not to seem smug while posing and failing miserably. Aren't we great? Aren't we special? Don't you want to be one of us? their expressions say.
In a society obsessed with wealth and celebrity, it makes me sick. In fact, I once told a co-worker that celebrities don't impress me.
Oh, they did once upon a time. But once I started covering professional sports I realized that those idolized by millions are actually... pause for dramatic effect... human. Some are wonderful. Some aren't very nice. And then there are those who are so rude, arrogant and self-centered that they aren't worth a second thought, much less the adulation heaped upon them by the masses.
And even though I'm a devout proponent of capitalism, people with lots of money don't impress me either.
When you say things like that it makes you sound like you don't value anything, my co-worker said.
I beg to differ. I value common decency. I value compassion. I value loyalty, honesty and hard work. I value fairness and open-mindedness. I value those who give back to their community without clammoring for attention because it is the right thing to do. Shockingly, I learned to value these qualities from... gasp... my parents.
Sadly, they are also qualities that are sorely lacking among the Hamptons' summer denizens.
Until next time, "That's life..."

Reversal of fortune

While doing some book promotion last Friday, I unexpectedly landed in the proverbial hot seat. And believe me - it had nothing to do with the fact that it was 90 degrees in my house.
It happened during an interview for a podcast with Eat Sleep Write host Adam Scull. Even though Adam asked all of the right questions about my background, my memoir and the challenges associated with writing Truth Be Told: Adam Becomes Audrey, I had a tough time answering them. In fact, I felt completely unprepared -- and unsettled.
The more I tried to relax, the more I stumbled. The more that happened, the more annoyed I got. I didn't understand why this was so hard. After all, as reporter for more than 20 years I made a living interviewing people. This wasn't my first time being interviewed, either. I aced my on-camera interview for the episode of A Wedding Story that featured my nuptials all those years ago. This interview should have been just as easy.
Sensing my frustration, Adam -- who began our video chat by sharing some tips for a successful podcast -- stopped recording and gave me some more advice to help me settle down.
With my confidence restored, we re-recorded some of the earlier questions and answers before moving on to new ones. And by the time we finished the second "take," Adam seemed pleased with the results.
"This will be fairly easy to edit," he said. "Once you got going, you did very well."
Until next time, "That's life..."

A literary 'amuse-bouche'

Depending on the online dictionary you use, an amuse-bouche is defined as "a single bite-size hors d'oeuvre" (Wikipedia), "a small complimentary appetizer offered at some restaurants"(merriam-webster.com), or "a small, savory portion of food served before a meal, typically without charge at restaurants" (yourdictionary.com).
Because it has been so hot that my poor little brain feels like it has been fried -- and because I can't think of a bloody thing to write this week -- I am hereby serving up a literary amuse-bouche in the form of an excerpt from Truth Be Told: Adam Becomes Audrey.
Bon appetit!
------------
I didn’t want to tell anyone about my past, much less anything about Adam. After all, I had come to Virginia to put it behind me and start a new life.
Nevertheless, curiosity abounded. People wondered what brought a single young woman from the New York City suburbs to Warrenton, of all places. I told them -- a bit gruffly -- that I needed a change of scenery and that I had left everything I’d ever known to join the staff of what had once been one of the best suburban newspapers in the country.
I never imagined the first person I’d confide in would be a high-ranking cop. Yet somehow, even though we’d only known each other for a few months, I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that I could trust Major Paul F. Mercer Jr.
“I got married at a horse show -- at the Hampton Classic Horse Show, one of the most prestigious shows on the east coast,” I told him on what promised to be a typically hot and humid June day. “It was a fairy-tale wedding. We got married on the grand prix field. We had a horse-drawn carriage, seventy-five invited guests and three thousand spectators. Oh, and it was on TV,” I added, almost as an afterthought.
Traffic on Route 50 crawled past the Upperville Horse Show grounds, and then came to an abrupt halt behind a motorist who wanted to turn into the wrong gate. Major Mercer stepped off the grassy shoulder to talk to her and quickly pointed the wayward driver in the right direction.
“So what happened?” he asked when he returned to his cruiser.
“What?” I said.
“You were saying you had this fairy-tale wedding. Apparently, things didn’t work out. What happened?”
I wanted to tell him. I just didn’t know how.
Sitting on the ground behind his black Ford Crown Victoria, I began pulling up blades of grass. One by one, I let them slip through my fingers.
“I’ll tell you,” I replied, eying the trim, uniformed man with short, prematurely gray hair who, as third in command, was also the public information officer at the Fauquier County Sheriff’s Office. “But only if you promise not to tell anyone else.”
“I promise,” he replied, becoming uncharacteristically grave.
“Okay.” I took a deep breath, dropped my gaze and resumed uprooting the grass. “So, you know what a transsexual is?” I asked.
Rip, up came another fistful of grass. Rip, rip, rip. Tattered blades fell softly back onto the earth.
“Yes.”
“Well, Adam -- a couple of years after we got married I found out Adam is really a woman -- or wanted to be a woman. We got divorced. He went and had the surgery and everything, so he’s ... she’s Audrey now.”
I bit my lower lip and dropped another handful of shredded grass before I finally looked up, dreading a look of dismay, disbelief or disgust and half-expecting to see his trademark grin.
He remained serious. “Alex,” he paused. “I’m a country boy but I’ve also been a cop for a long time and I’ve seen a lot of strange things in my career. I can’t understand why anyone would do that, or begin to understand what you’ve been through. I will never tell anyone and I will never tease you about it -- unless you open the door. Okay?”
He extended his hand and I reached up to take it. The lithe major’s strength surprised me as he pulled me to my feet.
“Okay,” I said, meeting his gaze and returning the handshake. “Thanks.”
It turned out to be the first of many conversations we had about my ex. The subject became a matter of dispute, debate and more “counseling sessions” than I cared to admit. Paul was never shy about doling out personal and professional advice, and teased me relentlessly about billing me for it. He also kept his word and never joked about Adam unless I fired the first salvo.
As much as I loathed talking about my ex, time made it easier to share my story with friends, sources and coworkers. More often than not, I broached the subject when female acquaintances bemoaned the rough times in their own relationships.
“That really sucks,” I would inevitably say after listening to their tale of woe. “But I bet I’ve got a story that tops it.”
In time, it became an inside joke among my closest friends.
“Trust me,” one of my best pals, Christiana, said when the dinner party conversation at her house once turned to crappy relationships, “Alex has a story that can top that.”
-------
Until next time, "That's life..."

Serious horse play

Anyone who has read my book or anyone who knows me personally knows how much I love horses.
On any given summer weekend you can find me photographing a high-goal polo match in Greenwich or Bridgehampton. If I'm not there, you might catch me shooting a horse show -- especially if my buddy (and American silver medalist) Peter Leone is competing. But nothing beats volunteering in a therapeutic riding program.
It's something I've done sporadically over the past thirteen years or so, and something I just started doing again a couple of weeks ago.
A confidentiality agreement precludes me from talking about specific students or their disabilities -- and I wouldn't do that anyway. I can say that generally speaking, students in these types of programs are physically and/or emotionally challenged. Some have minimal disabilities and others are profoundly affected.
Some ride fairly well and others need a lot of support. As a sidewalker, I'm there to do whatever I can to help. Usually that just means walking next to the horse and making sure the rider stays in the saddle. I also have to make sure the student is listening to the certified instructor and following her directions.
It sounds easy but each forty-five minute lesson is tough work for the horses, the students and for us. It's also rewarding for the horses, riders and for us.
By the time I get home after two Thursday afternoon sessions, I'm filthy, hot and exhausted. But for reasons I can't always pinpoint, I'm also immensely happy.
Until next time, "That's life..."

Honestly

Happy (bleeping) birthday, America! You know I love ya, but please forgive me if I'm not in a very festive mood.
It's hot. It's humid. And while everyone else in the country is out soaking up the sun, enjoying cookouts and getting ready for tonight's firework displays, I am stuck inside working on my laptop. Again. And for the record, we don't even have central air conditioning.
But as usual I do have a lot on my mind. And as usual I feel compelled to blog about it -- even if no one else cares.
You see, the members of various writers groups here on goodreads and elsewhere are currently engaged in a never-ending debate about book reviews. Some are wondering about the merits of paying for reviews. Others are wondering what constitutes an honest review. I've chimed in on those threads and for brevity's sake I won't repeat myself here.
But the bottom line is, there are no easy answers. There are just facts -- and the facts are that most authors aren't backed by big-time publishers with unlimited marketing budgets. The facts are that no matter how much we try to convince ourselves and everyone else that we're not in this for the money, we all want to sell our books. The facts are that without the backing of large publishing houses, we are all responsible for finding new and innovative ways to do that.
The facts are that the Internet provides a wealth of opportunities for book promotion including various ways of getting paid and unpaid reviews. The facts are that for every legitimate opportunity, there are likely tons of unscrupulous people looking to take advantage of new or unsuspecting authors.
Of course that isn't right, but it is what it is. After all, this is the land of the free, the home of the brave, and a bastion of capitalism -- for better and for worse.
Personally, I wouldn't have it any other way. So, God Bless America!
And until next time, "That's life..."