This part of the Balkans lived up to expectations.
In Belgrade, the capital of Serbia, it was like I had tumbled out of a rabbit hole into another world. Blocky Soviet-like buildings, gritty streets, techno music and bars with walls washed in graffiti – this was not the glammed-up elegance of Croatia, with its Venetian and Roman influences, but its grimmer-looking cousin who proudly idolized inventor Nikola Tesla and tennis superstar Novak Djokovic.
I could feel the difference the instant I landed at the airport and tried to get a taxi. Gruff men who didn’t know how to smile waited by a line of cars. Clearly not a bustling airport, nor a top tourist destination. There’s also no Uber. One of the drivers quoted me a much higher price than the man at the taxi stand inside the baggage claim area, then grumpily told me I’m wrong, because I’m going to a “different zone.” I ignored him and walked straight up to the next guy in line, who wasn’t as aggressive in tone and gave me the standardized price I knew to be fair. It felt like the hustle culture I knew so well in southeast Asia, having to haggle over every little thing.
I had only 24 hours, and not wanting to take another taxi, I walked all over Belgrade. I first went to the Belgrade fortress, which looked more like an actual defense against weaponry that had fallen into disrepair than some fairytale castle. By the look of the litter spilling out of trash cans, it also looked like a place for teens to sit with their legs dangling off the fort walls, getting drunk and smoking weed. As I stood on the walls, sure enough, at 9 a.m., I heard the thumping beat of techno music from somewhere in the distance. I could also see a row of floating barges, where nightclub parties are supposed to be wild.
The fortress may have once been the site of official state visits, but today it looks pretty bleak. The waning of a broken umbrella flapped in the wind. Weeds were growing on paths next to a French statue. The cone-shaped green hedges were brown at the edges. The one thing I could say that I enjoyed was that because the fortress wasn’t crowded with tourists, locals still enjoyed their mornings here. I passed by a group of old men playing chess. They made me smile.
I had wanted to visit the museum of contemporary art, which got good reviews online, but it was closed. Instead, I walked to the touristy strip of shops in the city center and over to Skadarlija, the bohemian gypsy street. Murals also cover the entire sides of buildings in parts of Belgrade, and I love public art done well, so it was a pleasant surprise.
At night, I fulfilled my weird desire to go to a funky Serbian bar. I’m not sure why I had that on my list. I think probably because it’s the type of exotic place I would never really normally hang out at. At the hostel, I tossed back two shots of rakija, the Serbian plum liqueur, to warm up. The hostel staff, two ladies, were so surprised. “I like it!” They laughed. “Welcome to Serbia,” they said. (After you know what Chinese baijiu tastes like, rakija is actually quite, dare I say, yummy.) I really wanted to go to Strogi Centar, the bar with graffiti all over the walls, but it happened to be closed – yet another thing! – so I went around the corner to another bar that a hostel mate recommended, Blaznavac. The patio definitely fit the bill for eccentric décor: chairs in various shades of bright colors, a hanging elephant above. My two negronis were good and stiff too.
