WEBVTT

00:00:01.500 --> 00:00:21.636
The sixth morning in Belgrade, and the heat is a physical presence you negotiate with. Step out of the apartment in Zvezdara, and the city hits you like a radiator. It’s supposed to be around thirty-eight degrees today, and the sky is that pale, milky overcast that holds the heat in like a lid. Zdravo, Belgrade. Last full day before I head west.

00:00:22.236 --> 00:00:47.364
Today is all about loose ends, and the good kind of goodbye. Also, the Nick Cave concert at Kalemegdan is tomorrow night. Everyone in the city is talking about it. The Donji Grad, the lower fortress, is apparently going to be packed, with the Danube on one side and the ancient stone on the other. I can hear the anticipatory hum in the air, that nervous energy that happens before a big show. But first, the day itself.

00:00:47.964 --> 00:01:16.500
I have a list. A short one, but a necessary one. You don’t just land in a country and float around on the river forever. You need a bank account, a residence registration, and a SIM card that actually works outside the capital. I did all of that on day one. But there are small things. A proper notebook, for one. And a visit to the National Bank of Serbia, just to look at the building. It sounds bureaucratic, I know, but there is something satisfying about understanding how a place actually functions.

00:01:17.100 --> 00:01:45.780
The buses have been free since January last year, which is still wild to me. You just walk on, no ticket, no pass, no fumbling for change. It’s a small political decision that changes daily life completely. I read online that they still print the prices on the official site, something like fifty dinars for a ninety-minute ride, which is less than a dollar, and a monthly pass is about twenty-two hundred dinars. But nobody checks. You just get on. For free. It makes the city feel generous, somehow.

00:01:46.380 --> 00:02:19.524
I take a 31 bus downtown. The windows are open, and the air that rushes in is thick and tastes of exhaust and dry dust. Belgrade in August is a sensory overload. It’s not a pretty city in the postcard sense. It’s raw, unfinished in places, brutalist concrete blocks sitting next to art-nouveau facades and crumbling Ottoman-era corners. And that’s the beauty of it. It’s a city that’s been sacked by armies and rebuilt with fury. You can feel the history in the walls, like the stones themselves hold a grudge against peace and quiet.

00:02:23.324 --> 00:03:10.100
I get off near the Republic Square, the sheer scale of the National Museum and the equestrian statue of Prince Mihailo shining in the haze. I don't go inside today. I've done the museums. The Nikola Tesla Museum is a must, obviously, about five hundred dinars for entry, but it's a strange, almost reluctant tribute, in a country that completely ignored him for decades. The National Museum is similar, a fantastic collection that was shelled and rebuilt over a century. No, today I'm just passing through. I duck into the cool, dark interior of a bank branch on Knez Mihailova, just to feel the air conditioning and check what the exchange rate is doing. It's around a hundred and eight dinars to the dollar. I'm not exchanging much. My money is here now. This is home. But it's good to see the numbers.

00:03:10.850 --> 00:03:57.002
For lunch, I'm deliberate. I walk away from the main tourist drag, into the warren of streets behind the old palace, and I sit down at a table outside Restoran Mihailo. It was always bustling when I passed by. Today, I ask for a plate of grilled vegetables and some kajmak, that thick, clotted cream that comes with everything. And a cold draft beer. The waiter, a man in his sixties with a booming voice, calls me 'draga,' dear, and the beer arrives instantly, the glass so cold it fogs up in the heat. It costs about three hundred dinars. At this moment, it is the most valuable object in Serbia. I sit there for a while, shading my eyes, watching the city hustling past. Everyone moves with a slower, more deliberate pace in this heat. Nobody runs.

00:03:57.602 --> 00:04:39.098
After, I wander over to a little specialty coffee counter, Dusha. I've been here a few times this week, scoping it out. It's a creative scene, full of designers and photographers nursing flat whites and tapping on laptops. A cappuccino, about two hundred and sixty dinars, which is a bargain for the quality. I chat with the barista, a young woman with a pierced eyebrow and a fierce intelligence. We talk about the cancelled Beer Fest. It's the strangest thing, walking over to Ušće, the huge park by the river, and finding it... quiet. Empty. No beer tents, no bands, no three hundred thousand people. It was supposed to be this week, but after last year's boycott, the organisers have apparently packed it in.

00:04:39.698 --> 00:05:12.290
She tells me everyone is trying to figure out what's next. There are two concerts in late August, Judas Priest and Dire Straits Legacy, but that's it. The whole vibe of the summer has shifted. It's like the city took a breath. Instead of the festival, people are just... by the river. On the splavs, the floating barges that are the city's unofficial living rooms, and on the grass with blankets. The absence is almost a presence. I tell her I'm heading to the mountains next, and she nods. 'Good timing,' she laughs. 'You'll miss the worst of the heat.' I hope she's right.

00:05:18.090 --> 00:05:40.506
The name on everyone's lips, though, is Cave. Nick Cave. Tomorrow night, at the Donji Grad. I'm told it's going to be one of those rare, electric nights at the fortress. The acoustics of that walled bowl, the darkening sky, the river below. I can't afford to miss it, but my plans are set. I'm heading west tomorrow. It's a pull I have to follow.

00:05:41.106 --> 00:06:19.818
I leave the café and take the long way back. Down through Kalemegdan Park, the fortress walls now baking in the afternoon sun, the grass brittle and yellow. The view from the top is one of the great river vistas in Europe. The confluence of the Sava and the Danube. Two huge brown rivers rushing to meet each other. The new bridge spanning the Sava. I look at the donji grad below, the stage being set. The crew is hauling cables and checking the sound system. A tiny figure, dwarfed by the stone, waves at a colleague. Tomorrow, this will be full of people. Tonight, it's just this: the anticipation, the work, the promise.

00:06:20.418 --> 00:07:05.586
I have a final dinner planned. Nothing fancy, but the right kind of place. Zavičaj, a local institution near Skadarlija. They serve the kind of food that grandmothers make and argue about. The mixed grill, the sarma, the proverbially fresh bread. A meal there for two, a full spread, is maybe five thousand dinars. It is a solid twenty, twenty-five dollars, but you leave in a state of near-hibernation. I sit alone at a table by the window, watching the evening crowd drift towards the old bohemian street of Skadarlija, the cobblestones smooth and worn. The string bands are already starting up, the accordion and violin weaving through the open door. The smell of grilled meat, again, that omnipresent scent of Belgrade summer. It clings to your clothes.

00:07:06.186 --> 00:07:32.658
The food is heavy and perfect. Before dessert, I make a quick call to a friend who lives in Zemun. She tells me to come over for one last walk along the Danube there. The Zemunski Kej, the quay, is the best place to watch the sun sink over the water. I say yes, of course. I have to see it one more time. I take the free bus across the Branko's Bridge. The bus is packed with people, all smelling of sunscreen and anticipation.

00:07:33.258 --> 00:08:12.234
Standing on the quay at Zemun, the light is a thick, golden haze. The river is a sheet of hammered copper. Old men are fishing off the grey stones, their rods motionless. The famous Gardoš Tower is silhouetted against the sky, and I can see the white flowers of the catalpa trees in the park behind me. It is the kind of August evening that makes you nostalgic for a past you've never lived. A couple walks by holding hands. A dog splashes in the shallows. The splav bars on the water are starting to light up, the bass of the music just beginning to thump across the water, a low, cheap kick drum. It's going to be a long, hot night. And I am leaving it all behind tomorrow.

00:08:12.834 --> 00:08:40.938
I don't stay out late. There's no point. I have an early bus to catch, heading south and west, to the mountains and the forests, to the places that I've only seen in documentaries and on maps. It's a practical decision, the right one. But as I walk back through the darkening streets, I feel the first real pang of misgiving. Belgrade, for all its chaos and heat, has worked its way under my skin. It's a city that takes a piece of you and makes you feel like you owe it something back.

00:08:41.988 --> 00:09:20.268
Back at the apartment, I pack my bag. The room is quiet, the window open on the baking air of the night. Below, I can hear the clatter of a tram, the tinny music from a car stereo, the laughter of a group of people on their way somewhere. The phone buzzes. A news alert. A breakdown of ticket prices for the Cave show tomorrow, and a reminder about the UFC event that happened last week at the Štark Arena. Uroš Medic, apparently, knocked his opponent out in thirty seconds. The whole city still buzzing about it. It feels like a week of extremes. The cancelled festival, the lightning KO, the sold-out concert. Belgrade doesn't do quiet.

00:09:20.868 --> 00:09:47.172
I close my eyes and I can still see the river. I think about the splavs dancing on the water, the fortress watching over it all for a thousand years, the free buses, the cheap beer, the kajmak, the incredible, relentless hospitality of the people. It's a strange thing, to leave when you've just arrived. But the country is calling. The Đerdap Gorge, the mountains, the monasteries, the small towns I'm heading towards. They're waiting.

00:09:47.772 --> 00:10:15.084
I haven't done it all, not even close. The thorough exploration of Belgrade, the deep dive, that will have to wait for a later season, when I can come back with a fresh perspective and a calmer mind. This week was for arrival. For learning to get around, for understanding the rhythm, for tasting the city, for the seeds of the friendships and contacts I'll need for the rest of the journey. I've got a bank account, a phone number, a notebook full of scribbles. I'm a resident now, albeit a restless one.

00:10:15.684 --> 00:10:42.372
My last thought, as the city quietens outside and the light of the moon streaks a pale path across the bedroom wall, is of that old fortress. I'm answering its call tomorrow. The concert is at the Đerdap, but the real story is at the gate. I put my hand on the windowpane, feeling the last warmth of the day, and I say it out loud, to no one but myself. 'Vidimo se, Beograde.' We'll see each other again, Belgrade. I'll be back.

00:10:42.972 --> 00:10:48.852
Goodnight, city. Goodnight, rivers. And tomorrow, tomorrow we go to the mountains.