Home sweet home. As Dan and I cross the border into Croatia we realize we have more recently been in this heavenly nation than in our actual home city of Montreal. The signage feels more familiar than Quebecois francaise and we are eager for the comfort foods of cevapi and kaymak and the choicest onions and soft smoky bread as if we were experiencing the cravings of returning home. When you have been on the road (non-stop) for over four months, these details are enormously rewarding. In Zagreb, I feel home. Wholly home. And the moment we cruise up to our beloved Hotel Laguna, with it’s kitsch 70’s décor and proud Telefax operating signs and postcards of parking lots, we feel welcome despite the unsmiling staff. In fact, because they are so consistently sullen, we feel even more hearteningly received. Dan and I take our few hours of free time to stroll these well-known and loved streets past the stadium in search of our favourite Bosnian kepab stop and into Teatre & TD for trustworthy espressos. We feel restored. And when we arrive to Tvornica Kultura, the tremendous Mate Skugor is ready with open arms. He is wearing a t-shirt that reads “I listen to bands that don’t even exist yet” and, if you have had the immense pleasure of meeting this man, you know that it’s sort of true. Mate was the first person in Ex-Yugoslavia to take a chance on our unknown band way back in the day and he built and fostered connections in this region that have enabled us to continue returning time and again with a growing fanbase that floors us every time. In truth, Mate changed our lives. He is a humble man and trying to express our gratitude for what he has given us – for our hearts and brains – has never been made easy by him. He is dismissive about the wondrous effect he has had on the music industry in these parts but his legacy is known by every lucky fan of subculture music. He is a living legend and dear friend. We are forever indebted. And today he is eager to let us know that we have had to jump to a bigger venue because the pre-sales alone would have oversold the smaller room’s capacity. We are shocked and delighted to say the very least. “It’s like a hometown show,” he winks and then curls his arm around my neck into a sturdy hug. After a swift and perfect soundcheck with utter professionals who even take the time angle hazers and spot lights, we do an interview with the country’s foremost rock journalist. He has interviewed every band from Sonic Youth to REM to Azra and gone vinyl shopping with fucking Mick Jones but mostly we talk about rock during the fall of Yugoslavia and the end of communism and brand new tattoos and Canadian versus Croatian politics. We are all in agreement that most people are wrong; that we need to revolutionize our governments and that the injustices in this life are also paralleled with these specific joys made possible by the wonders of our personal work – playing rock shows in Zagreb for example. We talk for such great lengths that I don’t realize that we are actually late for our performance and I have to slap on some lipstick to get into the right frame of mind. Dan swigs the vodka to work some courage through his veins and we both hurl ourselves into it. Nervous and terrified. There are so many people here for us that I am almost sick with terror. As soon as I am on stage, I feel I could cry with joy. I look into the upturned faces and feel so overtaken by love that I can hardly contain myself. It is pulsing. I am covered in sweat by the second song. Everything shakes in me. To the bone. I am alive. After two ferocious encores, I am ready to meet my chosen family and I rush back to them. Our intrepid interviewer is absolutely covered head to toe in sweat – he looks his happiest and I feel proud. A rapturous and beaming Ivanna is standing by the stage with a gift for me – a felt flower that she has carried in her purse for years with a sentimental value that makes my heart double. A coal-mining Metal head, who dragged his nephew to our show for inexplicable reasons, bestows his compliments through comparisons to the heaviest acts he’s ever seen. I am shocked to have them in attendance. And of course our most loved Croatian couple (the folks we happily shared some tour dates with in our van so they wouldn’t be forced to follow us via other methods of transport!) rocked harder than ever before, their faces glowing. And finally back stage, I meet Dan’s beguilingly pretty and smart friend (also named) Ivanna. She is slim and strong and sharp. She offers us the most incredibly thoughtful presents that anyone has ever given us: a SIGNED copy of Zizek’s Parallax View and a DVD of her favourite movies and the film program that she helped curate and an Oliver Mandic record. The fact that I have been reading everything Zizek has been writing and now have an edition with his actual illegibly scrawled autograph with a dedication to my very husband makes me feel sublimely proud. I hug her with passion. She is intensely lovely and I want more time with her. With Ivanna and her friends, we are taxied to the apartment of her fellow philosopher pal who is (goddamnit really?) translating the works of Zizek into Croatian. He is a fucking genius and makes me embarrassed to share his youthful twenty-nine years. I am in awe. Wide eyed and humble in their company. As we drink with these perfect humans who give me strength about humanity, I scan the bookshelves and swap jokes and truly feel the most at home I have likely ever felt in my life in this man’s home – full only of novels and non-fictions and mismatched wine glasses and the dregs of a myriad of boozes. This riffraff share my disdain for life in general but my perseverance in the specifics. I am full hearted.
So, Zagreb, you are certainly something to write home about….. but where would I send the postcard? To your doors? Can it be in a self-returned envelope so I can anticipate one day living amongst you?

P.S.
I’m a big fan of Nancy Sinatra and Dan knows too well that when I am happiest I often strut around in a pair of shoes and clumsily sing through “These boots are made for walking and that’s just what they’ll do and one of these days these boots are gonna walk all over you.” It isn’t the sweetest of songs but my greatest joys always have an element of evil to them. So I will tell you, whoever you are, that the shoes that you took from the stage of Tvornica Kultura after our concert were enormously well-loved. I wore them nightly, during nearly every single show we played across this globe, for a good number of years now. Please wear their black leather and gold studs with pride because I certainly did. I wore them when I was happy and when I was tired and when I was nervous and when I was strong and when I was lucky and sexy and excited and I loved them very much even though they were cheap and wearing out. I try to be a good woman and I love things to their deaths, so I hope you give those shoes of mine a new great life.