One Night in Belgrade

One Night in Belgrade

Belgrade was still deep in its sleep. Except for a handful convenient shops opened for the early birds and night workers, everything was kept shut behind closed doors. I spotted a few figures crossing empty streets hurrying off from out of nowhere to perhaps somewhere. It was a new feeling to arrive in strange city in the dark, in a stranger’s car and run off to another stranger’s home. “So Cindy, do you have a plan?” I hesitated unable to answer the question, not exactly because I had no plan.

I was curious to see to where this ride would take me next. “OK, you have no plan.” He declared. “I guess so.” I said in a quite voice.  For the first time in a long time, I felt completely at ease admitting I was for once clueless at something.  This unrestrained confession had a lot to do with the fact that I was in the presence of a Serbian who, I was almost certain, didn’t have any plan either. While I wanted to get to Kosovo as soon as possible, I also wanted to check out the flat of his friend,  remembering his invitation that I could sleep there in the case we would get to Belgrade late at night on our very first phone conversation discussing my ride with him to Belgrade. I didn’t say anything else and sat passively watching Branko driving the car around the blocks, looking for his friend’s apartment. He pulled into five, six different streets before finding a correct one.

I got out of the car and immediately felt the effect of the bad packing decision I made yesterday. I brought only a very thin khaki jacket, fit only for summer-day weather, after being fooled by the 25 degree and girls dressed in tank-tops, shorts, skirts, sandals parading the streets in Prague. I could barely hold my composure, wanting to throw up on the pavement. If my hairs were in a complete mess, my breath wasn’t in a hang-over state of no-brushing since last night and I was doused in Channel 5, I would jump up to Branko for a big, manly hug.  We kept ringing the bell for a long time, but no-one came out. Hours being confined in the car had finally caught on with Branko. He ran to other side of the street and did his deed. A small breeze crept past and brought with it the unmistakable smell associated with streets and corners where men pulled down their pants and let the water freely flow.

Branko’s friend finally came out and took us in. He lived alone in a quite nice flat. The ground floor was a living room connected with a kitchen. Upstairs were the bathroom and two attic rooms used as bedrooms. Now I felt a bit weird. What the hell was I supposed to do? Leave immediately to the bus station or stay and rest for a few hours? The friend, reassuring me “my home is your home, feel free here,’ took me upstairs to show me my room and gave me a stack of pillow, pillow case, blanket, blanket sheet, couch-cover and towel. I really wanted to leave for the bus station andI didn’t understand why I decided to excuse myself to walk upstairs and sleep.