Belgrade: This Time with Guidebook

As I'll be leaving by train tonight, the noon hour leaves me with a renewed sense of purpose. For, not having benefit of a hotel, I need to keep myself entertained for nine-plus hours before rolling into Austria-Hungary on a carpeted plank.

While yesterday I was content to drift through this cacophonic city with little more than a map and restaurant guide, today I'll be more of a disciplined tourist. This city has three can't miss sights, all of which I missed yesterday: the Kalmegdan fortress where the Sava meets the Danube, the St Sava Orthodox Cathedral, and the infamous Marakana, home stadium of Red Star Belgrade. Of course, they are on opposite ends of the centre of town.

The Serb Coffee arrives with fizzy water on the side at an old-school cafe called Mali Stadion. One key to happy travelling is to NEVER drink tap water in a new country. Brush your teeth with bottled water. Fizzy is better as the fizz is added insurance. Bottled water is cheap in most places, and you have one fewer vehicle for getting sick. Even if the guidebook writers say it's ok in one country, drinking local tap water is a bad habit.

Of course, most of the people around me are having a noontime Slivovitz. I'll pass this time. Perhaps a Unicum in Budapest, in homage to a book I read a few years ago about expat life in the Magyar capital. Fittingly, the book was called "Prague".

And speaking of Prague, I was soon beckoned by the sight of Mani Prag, home of quite possibly the best coffee on the planet. My return was greeted by a smile and a handshake. The coffee didn't disappoint. No sugar required.

Following the recommendations of the guidebook, I headed for Skadarska street, a street filled with clearly upscale traditional Serbian restaurants. I settled on Ema Dana for lunch, and once again, I succumbed to menu delights that were unavailable. A desire to have a virtuous turkey steak gave way to a wiener schnitzel after the waiter's vouching for it's non-porkness.

First glass of wine of the trip yields unexpected delight. A small bottle of Crnogorski Vranac from Montenegro. A red with some balance, fruitiness and flavor akin to a good California Zinfandel, a grape rumored to have Adriatic roots. I'd bring a bottle back but I'm laden down already. I overpacked weightwise--indeed, I barely touched the components of my backpack. But the contents of my big shoulder bag were well used, and high hotel laundry costs left me to do some sink washing.

...As it happened, my sightseeing today was uneventful, with the unshovelled steps defying me to enter the Kalmegdan fortress, and the unfinishedness of St. Sava's Cathedral rendering it an impressive but shortlived detour as night descended. The Marakana after dark seemed too big a risk for limited payoff (what's the point of visiting a dark stadium?), and by the time I finished posting my previous updates at an internet cafe in the crumbling Tito-era Slavija Hotel, I was exhausted. I'd had my fill of cyrillic and cold, and even risked hailing a cab to a more tourist friendly final meal in this burg. McDonalds tempted me. But then I saw the Hotel Moscow (or as it's spelled on the building, Xotel Mockba). I thought, what better place to close this visit than in a place named for Mockba.

The place did not disappoint. A four star hotel, the Mockba was clearly a cut above the Rex or the Beograd. When I ordered an all-smoked supper of smoked beef "prsut" and smoked trout with honey-mustard sauce and peanuts, the tuxedoed waiter said "absolutely", instead of "how about some chicken on the grill.". And the beer, the legendary Niksicko Pivo from Montenegro, considered by many experts the region's best lager. I still preferred LAV, for one doesn't forsake one's true LAV, but the Niksicko was robust and hoppier than the others I've tried here.

The beef was good, but the trout was absolutely divine. The smoked trout filets were delicately sauteed and served with chopped peanuts, which upon examination are no more silly to serve on trout than sliced almonds. Absolutely fabulous, easily the best sit-down meal I've had in the Balkans. And Nikola is certainly the most professional waiter.

Still, listening to "These are the days, my friend" in an opulent, marble-floored dining room is surreal beyond belief.

In two hours, I will pull out of Belgrade. Tomorrow, I will be back in "civilisation", or at least the EU's more sanitised version. Belgrade is the least photogenic European city I've seen, the least polished, and certainly the least affluent. But it's a young, edgy place, and there's a resilience, pride and independence rarely seen elsewhere on this continent.

Oh, they still drive Yugos here. Tons of them. While my efforts to find limo-length stretch Yugos carrying Serbian politicos fell vainly, I discovered a number of four and five door versions as well as the legendary boxy three door. The Yugo is a great metaphor for for Belgrade. It's a combination of socialist style, socialist infrastructure, and the sheer human perseverence required to own and drive one. But they speak to higher aspirations. The Yugo models sold here are called the Koral and the Florida. As the ice on the sidewalks firms up, such aspirations are only natural.