Budapest to Belgrade. According to Google Maps,
a breezy 378km journey undertaken in around 3.5 hours by car...
a breezy 378km journey undertaken in around 3.5 hours by car...
Or 9+ hours by train. Despite the considerable time increase, the train itself was surprisingly comfortable. We had the carriage almost entirely to ourselves but due to the railway gauge change at the border, we were left roasting in the midday sun for hours with no air-conditioning, dwindling water supplies and a strong desire to be able to speak at least basic Serbian to gain a little context as to what was going on...
But on the plus side, the Austrian lady who insisted on keeping up conversation with us (we don’t speak German) had disembarked an hour earlier. So our only companions were the burly conductors. The kind of conductors you really want to have a ticket to show when they ask for it…
But on the plus side, the Austrian lady who insisted on keeping up conversation with us (we don’t speak German) had disembarked an hour earlier. So our only companions were the burly conductors. The kind of conductors you really want to have a ticket to show when they ask for it…
We arrived into Belgrade’s main train station in the evening. There is a definite feeling that you’ve left the comforting embrace of the EU - the area is dirty, run-down and unforgiving to the starry-eyed traveller fresh from Western Europe. We grabbed a few snaps of the Cyrillic ‘Belgrade’ station sign before making a hasty exit and wandering uphill past the bombed buildings from the 1999 NATO campaign. We ducked through a steel gate, passed through a dim car-park and found our little oasis - a hostel manned by a character whose sexual orientation (and preoccupation with Pete) became the subject of a growing number of discussions for the next couple of days.
It had been a long day without food, and our hostel owner eagerly converted our city map of Belgrade into something resembling connect-the-dots, full of suggestions of things to do and places to eat. But as we sat down to eat our burgers at nearly midnight, we looked down at the mass of indistinguishable squiggles on our map and realised we could only remember one thing: There was a free walking tour of the city tomorrow morning.
At 10:30am, after a mosquito-ridden sleep, we found ourselves at Republic Square,‘by the horse’, the place to meet. Our guide was enthusiastic about Belgrade, full of amusing anecdotes and strange tales with questionable amounts of truth to them. For instance, the sculptor of the Prince Mihajlo Obrenovic statue (an Italian named Enrico Pazzi) apparently killed himself when the statue was revealed: he forgot to put a helmet on the Prince's head and was so deeply shamed by his mistake.
With tall tales under our belts, we wandered through Skadarlija District, pausing to admire extremely functional Ottoman architecture, the oldest tavern in Belgrade (called ‘?’), and of course, tasting the local firewater, Rakia. We headed through the huge expanse of Kalemegdan Fortress, a huge park in the centre of town, perfect for sunsets, and ended our walking tour near ’Silicon Valley’, an area known to be frequented by women who have a higher-than-average amount of plastic in their chests. The whole walking tour experience was a great introduction to Belgrade as a city - a huge recommendation to any new visitors.
With tall tales under our belts, we wandered through Skadarlija District, pausing to admire extremely functional Ottoman architecture, the oldest tavern in Belgrade (called ‘?’), and of course, tasting the local firewater, Rakia. We headed through the huge expanse of Kalemegdan Fortress, a huge park in the centre of town, perfect for sunsets, and ended our walking tour near ’Silicon Valley’, an area known to be frequented by women who have a higher-than-average amount of plastic in their chests. The whole walking tour experience was a great introduction to Belgrade as a city - a huge recommendation to any new visitors.
But Belgrade isn’t exactly a pretty city, and despite the main attractions, it feels a little … distant. It’s very much the kind of city you need to know someone in. It’s a city to hang out in. A city for wandering aimlessly. It’s a city to talk about life for hours over a cup of coffee in that new place that just opened, or that underground bar that no one else knows about.
Luckily for us, we knew a local or two. Marko, a tall and talented cinematographer who has an appetite for natures extremes met us outside the Hotel Moscow, a grandiose focal point of Balkanska street. We chatted about his time in Nepal during the recent earthquake over falafel balls - the kind of super-cheap but tasty place the average tourist would’t even look twice at. Marko had a new camera that Pete was eager to test out, so we all wandered through courtyards, exploring photo opportunities against textured backgrounds - Belgrade is one seriously cool city for texture lovers.
One courtyard had a series of weathered letterboxes, swooning with character. Yet no sooner had we raised our cameras, a lady appeared:
“It is illegal around the entire world to take photos of letterboxes”, she squawked, abruptly.
This felt a little far-fetched to me, but I’ll admit my knowledge of international letterbox law is lacking.
I managed a meagre response, ‘Really?’
“Yes, because of the names on the letterboxes means you know who lives at what address”, she proudly claimed.
I balanced out the effort vs reward in my head on whether I should stand my ground, or concede. It was a pretty cool photo opportunity, after all:
Luckily for us, we knew a local or two. Marko, a tall and talented cinematographer who has an appetite for natures extremes met us outside the Hotel Moscow, a grandiose focal point of Balkanska street. We chatted about his time in Nepal during the recent earthquake over falafel balls - the kind of super-cheap but tasty place the average tourist would’t even look twice at. Marko had a new camera that Pete was eager to test out, so we all wandered through courtyards, exploring photo opportunities against textured backgrounds - Belgrade is one seriously cool city for texture lovers.
One courtyard had a series of weathered letterboxes, swooning with character. Yet no sooner had we raised our cameras, a lady appeared:
“It is illegal around the entire world to take photos of letterboxes”, she squawked, abruptly.
This felt a little far-fetched to me, but I’ll admit my knowledge of international letterbox law is lacking.
I managed a meagre response, ‘Really?’
“Yes, because of the names on the letterboxes means you know who lives at what address”, she proudly claimed.
I balanced out the effort vs reward in my head on whether I should stand my ground, or concede. It was a pretty cool photo opportunity, after all:
I’m sorry lady, but if anyone purchases this photo, you’re welcome to a proportionate share of the operating profits based on whichever letterbox is yours - just shoot me a contract and we can nut out the details. Then this whole legal matter can just be swept under the carpet..
We managed to squeeze in a cup of tea (made from fresh herbs from Grandma's garden) at Marko’s apartment (which was surprisingly the next block over from our own hostel), before meeting up with Isidora, another local who’s managed to escape to Oslo for a large portion of the past year. It’s a reoccurring theme we notice in most of the Balkan countries we visit: people study, set their eyes for overseas, and return only to gear up and go again.
We wander all around the city, stopping only as Marko eagerly strips trees of mulberries, and settle down by the Sava River in an area where a plethora of boats are docked and turned into ramshackle floating bars. One serves pizza - probably one of the best we’ve had in weeks. We drink and laugh until the sun glows red and dips below the horizon.
We managed to squeeze in a cup of tea (made from fresh herbs from Grandma's garden) at Marko’s apartment (which was surprisingly the next block over from our own hostel), before meeting up with Isidora, another local who’s managed to escape to Oslo for a large portion of the past year. It’s a reoccurring theme we notice in most of the Balkan countries we visit: people study, set their eyes for overseas, and return only to gear up and go again.
We wander all around the city, stopping only as Marko eagerly strips trees of mulberries, and settle down by the Sava River in an area where a plethora of boats are docked and turned into ramshackle floating bars. One serves pizza - probably one of the best we’ve had in weeks. We drink and laugh until the sun glows red and dips below the horizon.
The next morning we finally ‘win’ at breakfast - a super healthy smoothy and seed-bread combo which we devour while sitting in the park near St Mark’s church. Trying to keep up a diet which has enough of the healthy stuff is surprisingly difficult while on the road for a while. But it sets us up for our last full day in Belgrade - the enigmatic St Sava Church, (one of the largest of its kind in the world), local markets, yet more bombed buildings care of NATO, and something quite far off the regular tourist itinerary - a visit to ‘New Belgrade’.
It’s a peculiar area, and one which elicits strong, dividing responses from locals when asked about it (as is the case of many topics in Serbia). Our visit was purely for aesthetics - Block 62 has a striking cascade of apartments which repeat with subtle differences for kilometres in each direction. In fact, much of New Belgrade is this - gargantuan areas cleared for which only looks like apartment cities.
It’s a peculiar area, and one which elicits strong, dividing responses from locals when asked about it (as is the case of many topics in Serbia). Our visit was purely for aesthetics - Block 62 has a striking cascade of apartments which repeat with subtle differences for kilometres in each direction. In fact, much of New Belgrade is this - gargantuan areas cleared for which only looks like apartment cities.
It’s everything you’d expect not to work in a socialist apartment block development, but somehow, despite the crumbling neglected public domain, it still felt vibrant with people of all ages out and about, playing sports, going for walks, and socialising with neighbours.
We were intrigued to find out more: and via Instagram, a resident of one of the buildings actually said we’d taken a photo of the block he was living in. He was largely enthusiastic about the area - despite it having a rocky start. But most research articles are less optimistic - the entire district is a failure in urban planning. Over an excessive dinner of roasted meats, we concluded it had all the trappings of Nowa Huta in Krakow, Poland - yet on a far grander scale.
We were intrigued to find out more: and via Instagram, a resident of one of the buildings actually said we’d taken a photo of the block he was living in. He was largely enthusiastic about the area - despite it having a rocky start. But most research articles are less optimistic - the entire district is a failure in urban planning. Over an excessive dinner of roasted meats, we concluded it had all the trappings of Nowa Huta in Krakow, Poland - yet on a far grander scale.
The next day we’re off to our next destination - Niš, in south-eastern Serbia. With buses departing every 30 minutes, it’s probably the last time we find inter-city transport to be this easy. We’re here really for one thing only - to visit the monumental Bubanj Park, home to a distinct 3-fisted concrete sculpture, commemorating the execution of over 10,000 citizens of the city. As this is on the outskirts of town, we’re pleased to find affordable accommodation right nearby. A place that merrily describes itself as having a tennis court.
We jump into a battered taxi at the station, and all too quickly the main thoroughfares of Niš are left behind. The road narrows as we wind up a forested hill until the paving ends entirely. We have passed the star on our Google Maps and seen nothing resembling our accommodation. Outside are village houses with Grandma’s sweeping away dust. Our silver-haired driver takes another drag on his cigarette as he slows to ask yet another Grandma if they know the name of our place. Emma hears the word ‘tennis’ in the banter, and yells “Yes!” eagerly. It’s just a little further.
The road is in a dire state - we bounce around like the dangling and long since useless air freshener hanging from the rear-view mirror. And then our accommodation appears. It’s not quite what we expect. The mention of ‘having a tennis court’ is dry Serbian humour at its finest. This is the regionally famous Živković Tennis Club. We look about as out of place as we possibly could, with our dirty backpacks amongst all these people wearing extremely bright, white shorts. But everyone smiles and waves hello at us and makes us feel welcome. It may be one of the weirder places we’ve stayed at.
We jump into a battered taxi at the station, and all too quickly the main thoroughfares of Niš are left behind. The road narrows as we wind up a forested hill until the paving ends entirely. We have passed the star on our Google Maps and seen nothing resembling our accommodation. Outside are village houses with Grandma’s sweeping away dust. Our silver-haired driver takes another drag on his cigarette as he slows to ask yet another Grandma if they know the name of our place. Emma hears the word ‘tennis’ in the banter, and yells “Yes!” eagerly. It’s just a little further.
The road is in a dire state - we bounce around like the dangling and long since useless air freshener hanging from the rear-view mirror. And then our accommodation appears. It’s not quite what we expect. The mention of ‘having a tennis court’ is dry Serbian humour at its finest. This is the regionally famous Živković Tennis Club. We look about as out of place as we possibly could, with our dirty backpacks amongst all these people wearing extremely bright, white shorts. But everyone smiles and waves hello at us and makes us feel welcome. It may be one of the weirder places we’ve stayed at.
Niš is a strange little city - there are a few things to see, such as the Fortress, a skull tower and for those interested in being in the ‘birthplace' of Yugoslavia - the Serbian Wartime Parliament Building is where it all was hatched. It’s even the place Constantine the Great was born, way back in 272 AD. There’s a lot of history here (it’s one of the oldest cities in the Balkans), but the city is so poorly maintained, we end up frustrated, unable to do the most basic things. Like find somewhere to eat.
It seems a national pastime of Niš-ians to sit in a cafe and drink, but for the life of us, we couldn’t find anywhere to eat at lunchtime. We’d wander the entire main street and old square, and pass cafe after cafe proclaiming nothing more than espresso and coca-cola deals. Well-dressed teenagers and twenty-somethings in all hours of the day fill the streets and strut around... but no one is eating. It’s surely a sign of difficult times for Niš, a city of under 200,000 people whose major industries of electronics and tobacco are probably sliding a little further down the economic curve.
We end up having most of our food home-delivered to our accommodation, and find a local supermarket for breakfast and snacks, but we wander into town on our last evening to find the most recommended place to eat dinner on TripAdvisor (Much to our frustration, the same website describes Niš as “Foodie Heaven”).
It’s a dismal affair - with neither a menu in English, nor a waiter who cared much for, well, anything, it makes me wonder if Serbia’s third-largest city had a heyday which we missed by a few years. Even in the centre of town, the Hotel Ambassador, is in a sorry state of recent abandonment. I love a city which has a few pieces of mortar missing, but Niš feels like a few too many bricks have given way.
It seems a national pastime of Niš-ians to sit in a cafe and drink, but for the life of us, we couldn’t find anywhere to eat at lunchtime. We’d wander the entire main street and old square, and pass cafe after cafe proclaiming nothing more than espresso and coca-cola deals. Well-dressed teenagers and twenty-somethings in all hours of the day fill the streets and strut around... but no one is eating. It’s surely a sign of difficult times for Niš, a city of under 200,000 people whose major industries of electronics and tobacco are probably sliding a little further down the economic curve.
We end up having most of our food home-delivered to our accommodation, and find a local supermarket for breakfast and snacks, but we wander into town on our last evening to find the most recommended place to eat dinner on TripAdvisor (Much to our frustration, the same website describes Niš as “Foodie Heaven”).
It’s a dismal affair - with neither a menu in English, nor a waiter who cared much for, well, anything, it makes me wonder if Serbia’s third-largest city had a heyday which we missed by a few years. Even in the centre of town, the Hotel Ambassador, is in a sorry state of recent abandonment. I love a city which has a few pieces of mortar missing, but Niš feels like a few too many bricks have given way.
Any irks we had with Niš itself as a city were more than made up by the people we met (except for the plethora of women wearing colourfull and silky jumpsuits… what’s with that?!). While at the tennis club, a major match was on where the ranked number 1 man in the world happened to be playing. Although the match didn’t go as expected, we were made hugely welcome while we tapped away on our laptops. Filled on meatballs, we solidified our love for the Serbian Zaječarsko Beer.
With two failed sunrises and one failed sunset, it was the fourth attempt at the Bubanj memorial - sunset - where we met another local who was walking his (very large) dogs. He was enthusiastically chatty about both Niš and Serbia and gave some insight into the country - he felt that Serbia would be in a better position if it leaned more toward the West. There’s a feeling of disillusionment in his words - money nowadays goes nowhere. There’s an extended gypsy family nearby, drinking and laughing as too many accordions are being squeezed for my liking. Life is always very different away from the big cities.
With two failed sunrises and one failed sunset, it was the fourth attempt at the Bubanj memorial - sunset - where we met another local who was walking his (very large) dogs. He was enthusiastically chatty about both Niš and Serbia and gave some insight into the country - he felt that Serbia would be in a better position if it leaned more toward the West. There’s a feeling of disillusionment in his words - money nowadays goes nowhere. There’s an extended gypsy family nearby, drinking and laughing as too many accordions are being squeezed for my liking. Life is always very different away from the big cities.
The next day we have two tickets in our hands to the town of Graçanicë. We’re leaving Serbia for Kosovo, and our instructions are to tell the driver we want to get off the bus in Priština, the capital city. We can’t officially buy tickets directly to Priština because it has an Albanian majority, and so we’ll jump off the bus 20km’s before its final destination.
Interestingly, our experiences and education about Serbia continues well after we’ve crossed the dotted line into Kosovo. There are strong feelings in the Balkan countries toward Belgrade, the capital of the former Yugoslavia. A lot of history has occurred in this part of the world, one which is rich with cultures and traditions. Modern-day Serbia is a fascinatingly complex place. From second-hand smoke to turbo-folk, our favourite experiences always came back to the people. Serbia is a cultural country, one best experienced slowing down and taking time out to smell the roses.
Interestingly, our experiences and education about Serbia continues well after we’ve crossed the dotted line into Kosovo. There are strong feelings in the Balkan countries toward Belgrade, the capital of the former Yugoslavia. A lot of history has occurred in this part of the world, one which is rich with cultures and traditions. Modern-day Serbia is a fascinatingly complex place. From second-hand smoke to turbo-folk, our favourite experiences always came back to the people. Serbia is a cultural country, one best experienced slowing down and taking time out to smell the roses.