After ten hours of drifting tormentedly in and out of sleep, I am roused to consciousness when our bus comes to a screeching halt. We grab our personal effects and descend the steps into the warm, cloudy cityscape of Belgrade.
Miško is waiting in front of the station to pick us up. Julijan spots him first, and rushes towards him. We exchange greetings as he loads our bags into the back of his father’s bright red Lada Niva.
Miško is one of our closest friends. Born and raised in Belgrade, he makes for the perfect tour guide and travel companion. Miško finishes organizing our luggage, and Julijan and I file into the narrow back seat which reeks of mildew and stale cigarettes. After a few misfires, the engine ignites and the car sputters to life.
What strikes Julijan and I almost immediately are the signs: Billboards, directions, currency exchanges, and not a single letter of the Roman alphabet in sight. Unlike most other former Yugoslav countries, Serbia exclusively uses the Cyrillic alphabet (to Americans, think: Russian letters) for official and public communications. We both learned to read Serbian Cyrillic during boarding school, but to Westerners like Julijan and myself, it feels like stepping through a portal into a parallel universe. “Are we sure we’re not in Moscow?” Julijan jokes.
Ironically, due to an influx of Russian immigrants in recent years, Belgrade has earned the nickname “mala Moskva” – little Moscow. And it seems to make sense. We pass by Park Knez Mihailova, with Russian flags adorning the buildings and billowing in the wind. Near Republic Square, a sign reads “Zavet Srpsko Ruski” – Serbian Russian Pact. I begin to think Julijan wasn’t joking.
A fifteen-minute drive takes us to Miško’s neighborhood of New Belgrade. Once a desolate swampland, New Belgrade is now a bustling business and residential district. In the blocks, imposing, brutalist buildings rise from the ground, as if Le Corbusier himself pulled them from the earth. Miško points out the different blocks and tells us their history. “The ones with the brown roofs were for the officers of the Communist party,” he explains. “And that’s the Studenjak, for students,” he says, pointing to a grouping of tall, white, L-shaped buildings.
We drive past a seemingly inconspicuous road, leading into dense foliage. We wouldn’t have even known it was there, had Miško not told us. “There’s the Roma neighborhood. We don’t go there,” he warns ominously. As if on cue, a horse emerges from the clearing, followed by a shopping cart. Inside the cart sit a woman and her child. The child is wearing nothing, save for a pair of tattered shorts. He stares at our car, and his mother, holding the reins, promptly admonishes him with a slap on the head. As we drive away, the horse-drawn shopping cart stops at a trash bin. Through the back window, I see the child jump down from the cart and begin rummaging through the trash. We stop at a crosswalk for just enough time to see the child emerge with a small mattress. His mother hoists him, along with the mattress, out of the trash bin and back into the shopping cart. We pull away, and so does the shopping cart. Onto the next trash bin.
Miško lives in Block 42. His apartment is on the 3rd floor, and overlooks Block 62, which instantly catches the eye with its staircase-like design. Buildings like those in New Belgrade are often criticized for being soulless and isolating. But here the blocks feel inviting and warm.
Miško’s mother is waiting at the door for us. She greets us in Serbian and envelops us in a warm embrace. The apartment is small but elegant – a welcome contrast to the building’s rough exterior. Miško’s mother leads us into the living room where Miško’s father is waiting for us, lighting a cigarette. We make small talk with him while Miško’s mother brings plum brandy and pastries from the kitchen. Neither father nor mother speak a word of English, so our dialogue consists of slow speech, broken Serbo-Croatian, and the occasional translation from Miško. Julijan’s Serbian is more fluid than mine, since his native Slovenian is quite similar. Still, I am more-or-less able to keep up.
Our conversation slides into Miško’s father’s army days. He served as an officer stationed in the Croatian city of Karlovac, fighting in a war that killed and displaced hundreds of thousands. The resulting ethnic and national tensions in the Balkans still run high. To this day, each side maintains their own interpretation of the historical events of the war. “We Serbs live in a land,” says Miško’s father, “And everyone is constantly trying to take it from us.” He pauses for a minute and looks up at Julijan. “You know, Julijan,” he continues amidst chuckles, “If I had daughters, I would make you my son-in-law.”
Tonight’s dinner is in Zemun, one of Belgrade’s most beautiful suburbs. With its charming Habsburg architecture, cobbled streets, and pastel colors, you would think you were in another country, compared to the gray, stoic blocks of New Belgrade. Miško made reservations for us at a kafana, a traditional restaurant with live music. We sit and are instantly swarmed by a group of musicians. Miško slides a 1000 dinar note (roughly $9) into a violinist’s hand and instructs the band to play Djurdjevdan, my favorite Serbian folk song. They play song after song, until the food arrives. Seemingly endless platters of cured ham, bread, cheese, and grilled meat are brought to our table. Our glasses are kept full of Medovica, a sweet brandy made from honey.
Halfway through our meal, we are joined by Miško’s friend, Vid. Vid and Miško are testament to the maxim that opposites attract. Miško is short, while Vid towers over all three of us. Vid arrives dressed in sweatpants, trainers, and a Nike Tech fleece, totally antithetical to Miško’s pressed trousers and dress shirt. The differences extend beyond physical appearance as well. Miško studies history and political science in the US, while Vid didn’t even finish high school. Miško dreams of a career in politics where he hopes to make a difference in people’s lives, while Vid’s goals are to get filthy rich as fast as possible. It’s a wonder that these two are best friends, and yet somehow, they are.
A few things quickly become apparent about Vid. For starters, he is extremely well connected with Belgrade’s underground economy. If you’re looking for drugs, counterfeit clothing, or a bookie, he’s your guy. His ambitions have always been driven by money — or rather, the quickest and easiest way to get it. He has been mostly successful in this regard. He has a crippling gambling and alcohol addiction. And he’s at constant odds with the law. Over his sixth glass of Jack Daniels, he tells us of his numerous speeding tickets, car accidents, and a recent corruption scheme involving his family’s cement business. And yet, he maintains a charming demeanor and an air of nonchalance that makes you feel at ease. His jokes and childhood antics with Miško keep us laughing throughout dinner. I can understand why he and Miško are friends, but it’s still an anomaly to me that such a dichotomy can exist within a person.
Vid brings us to a nightclub at the Splavs, a series of floating bars and clubs that line the banks of the Danube. Two bouncers of mountainous proportions stand guard at the entrance. Vid approaches and exchanges a few words out of earshot. Moments later, they stand aside, and we are allowed to pass. We follow Vid to our table, which, of course, is in the private section. Vid explains that his company was contracted by the club, with the promise of keeping an open table for him on the weekends. My instincts tell me that there is more to that story, but I refrain from further inquiry.
By midnight, the club is fully packed, and we communicate with each other in screams. The Danube is still, and the neon glow emanating from the Splavs reflects mesmerizingly onto the water. I get Vid’s attention and ask if he would ever consider leaving Serbia.
“No, I could never,” he replies. “I belong to Serbia. She is the most beautiful country in the world.”
