(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. 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. The problem is that when we don’t sleep with the AC on, I have nightmares. 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. I don’t know if most Serbians are like this, or if it’s just my husband. The air conditioner, somehow, is the most telling sign that Aleksa and I are from different worlds. 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.Īnd 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 Raji ć eva yesterday, but I also ate ćevapi and burek, so…) or even the way I attempt to pronounce “doviđenja.” “Aleksa,” I keep saying back to him, “I can’t sleep with it off.” “Serbians don’t do well with this cold air.” “Kasey, I can’t sleep like this,” Aleksa has said, for the past four nights, pointing to the air conditioner in our rental space.
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