I left K. yesterday morning on a bus and arrived in Belgrade just before noon. My bus to Bosnia was not scheduled to leave until 2pm, so I decided to take a short walk around, ostensibly in order to exchange some of my Serbian dinars for Euros. [While the Serbian currency would probably not have posed a problem in the Republika Srpska, I suspected it would be easier to get the Euros changed in the Federation -- and my destination was in the Federation. It may not seem like such an important thing, but I vividly recalled having bought two postcards and stamps in Sarajevo last year, and then traveling to Brcko, where I was unable to mail the cards at a conveniently located post office because it was a Republika Srpska office -- and my stamps had been purchased in the Federation. Even though the RS and the Federation are technically two entities of the same country, their administrations seldom cooperate smoothly with one another; this can understandably provoke questions such as, "When is a post office not just a post office? When it is an opportunity for a highly politicized statement." (The Federation post office was not as conveniently located to the city as the RS one, so my cards were eventually sent after my own departure from Brcko, when my contact there next happened to pass it.)]
Aside from the money-changing, I also had a personal motivation for taking a walk around Belgrade.
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The first time I visited Belgrade, the visit that sparked my interest in the Balkans, was on a holiday from an internship in Western Europe. I was en route to Istanbul, disembarking from my trains at three cities along the way. I knew nothing about Belgrade, aside from recollecting its prominent presence in newspaper headlines, and was curious to experience the city.
My train had arrived at the Belgrade station at 5am one December morning. It was not an auspicious beginning. The air was grey and condensation lingered; the weather was chilly; the oppressive smell of burning chemicals wafted around the city. The tourist information office at the train station did not open until 8am; the exchange office was likewise closed; no one at the station spoke English and there were no maps available. Although I had been in contact with a university student who would be hosting me for my time there, I did not have his phone number and would need to find internet to get it from my e-mail. The Belgrade station is on the corner of a street that is a main thoroughfare to enter and leave the city; there were taxis, buses, tankers, semis, cars, motorcycles, bicycles and trams all jostling for space in the six-lane road.
I was afraid to cross the street, had no idea where I needed to go and no one to ask, was wary of venturing out alone, was tired and chilly and overwhelmed. I was also willfully ignoring all of that, as well as the creeping thought that it had been a mistake to come, and why had it ever seemed like a good idea to stop in such a terrible place. I was determined to make the most of whatever there was, and to find a way to do it, and also to look purposeful, to avoid hassle. Standing near the ticketing area, I noticed some confounded-looking backpackers and engaged them in conversation. One was a loquacious lawyer from Texas on his holiday. The other was a British girl with short maroon hair and a Lonely Planet guidebook that had maps she couldn't read to a hostel she wanted to stay at. We set off together; the Texan, seeming quite struck with the Brit, endorsing wholeheartedly her directionally-challenged suggestions as we passed bombed-out buildings and eventually took a break in a park while the two tried to re-read the map. I told myself that it was better than waiting for three hours in the station for the tourist information center to open, or roaming the city alone, but was skeptical and unconvinced. We finally made it to the main pedestrian zone and then to the hostel, in spite rather than because of Lonely Planet. After getting my host's information, I went in search of the correct bus that would take me to Studenski Grad, or the dormitories where students live, in Novi Beograd, the newer part of the city.
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The bus station in Belgrade adjoins the train station. Upon arriving, I went to the train station and stood in the same place that I had when I'd first arrived in the city twenty-one months before, acknowledging to myself for the first time how hesitant and underwhelmed I had felt that morning, and realizing that I did not feel at all as nervous on this visit.
It was empowering to sense the difference. This time, I felt confident, I knew where I was and, roughly, its relation to other places in the city. I felt as at home in the Belgrade station as I do these days in the Port Authority, and I did not feel fear at the prospect of finding a bank at which to exchange my money. I decided to change the money and then to walk on up the hill to the pedestrian zone, where I meandered around cafes and side streets before stopping at the Hotel Moskva for a refreshing mineral water. I bought another bottle of water and some 'Bake Roll' chips (bagel chips) at the corner Maxi and then went back to the station with fifteen minutes to spare.
Aside from the money-changing, I also had a personal motivation for taking a walk around Belgrade.
-----------
The first time I visited Belgrade, the visit that sparked my interest in the Balkans, was on a holiday from an internship in Western Europe. I was en route to Istanbul, disembarking from my trains at three cities along the way. I knew nothing about Belgrade, aside from recollecting its prominent presence in newspaper headlines, and was curious to experience the city.
My train had arrived at the Belgrade station at 5am one December morning. It was not an auspicious beginning. The air was grey and condensation lingered; the weather was chilly; the oppressive smell of burning chemicals wafted around the city. The tourist information office at the train station did not open until 8am; the exchange office was likewise closed; no one at the station spoke English and there were no maps available. Although I had been in contact with a university student who would be hosting me for my time there, I did not have his phone number and would need to find internet to get it from my e-mail. The Belgrade station is on the corner of a street that is a main thoroughfare to enter and leave the city; there were taxis, buses, tankers, semis, cars, motorcycles, bicycles and trams all jostling for space in the six-lane road.
I was afraid to cross the street, had no idea where I needed to go and no one to ask, was wary of venturing out alone, was tired and chilly and overwhelmed. I was also willfully ignoring all of that, as well as the creeping thought that it had been a mistake to come, and why had it ever seemed like a good idea to stop in such a terrible place. I was determined to make the most of whatever there was, and to find a way to do it, and also to look purposeful, to avoid hassle. Standing near the ticketing area, I noticed some confounded-looking backpackers and engaged them in conversation. One was a loquacious lawyer from Texas on his holiday. The other was a British girl with short maroon hair and a Lonely Planet guidebook that had maps she couldn't read to a hostel she wanted to stay at. We set off together; the Texan, seeming quite struck with the Brit, endorsing wholeheartedly her directionally-challenged suggestions as we passed bombed-out buildings and eventually took a break in a park while the two tried to re-read the map. I told myself that it was better than waiting for three hours in the station for the tourist information center to open, or roaming the city alone, but was skeptical and unconvinced. We finally made it to the main pedestrian zone and then to the hostel, in spite rather than because of Lonely Planet. After getting my host's information, I went in search of the correct bus that would take me to Studenski Grad, or the dormitories where students live, in Novi Beograd, the newer part of the city.
-----------
The bus station in Belgrade adjoins the train station. Upon arriving, I went to the train station and stood in the same place that I had when I'd first arrived in the city twenty-one months before, acknowledging to myself for the first time how hesitant and underwhelmed I had felt that morning, and realizing that I did not feel at all as nervous on this visit.
It was empowering to sense the difference. This time, I felt confident, I knew where I was and, roughly, its relation to other places in the city. I felt as at home in the Belgrade station as I do these days in the Port Authority, and I did not feel fear at the prospect of finding a bank at which to exchange my money. I decided to change the money and then to walk on up the hill to the pedestrian zone, where I meandered around cafes and side streets before stopping at the Hotel Moskva for a refreshing mineral water. I bought another bottle of water and some 'Bake Roll' chips (bagel chips) at the corner Maxi and then went back to the station with fifteen minutes to spare.
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