a rebel with a cause

This is Skadarlija, Belgrade’s bohemian quarter, and I’m shuffling over large cobblestones, smooth from centuries of crowds and carriages passing through.

An old, scruffy man, enfolded tightly in a shabby grey coat, held together with a mismatched belt is sitting on wooden benches – summer outdoor furniture stacked by the wall out of season – and rolling tobacco.

Ah, a tourist, he calls over, catching a glimpse of my camera and the general wandering aura that I sometimes exude. No, no, I’m not a tourist, I chuckle, although I say that in all the places where I speak the local language. What are you looking for here, at this hour, more conversationally then out of curiosity, he inquires. I’m looking for a story, I reply, or maybe just an opportunity to create one.

Most stories in Skadarlija, he counters, happen much later in the night.

But to me it doesn’t so much matter when or how it happens, as long as it has substance. View full article »

[cont'd from parts I and II]

The old, clunky tram #2 rides in a circle from lower Kalemegdan Park (or Kalish) uphill, grazing the top of the famous pedestrian street, Knez Mihailova, then downhill towards the Sava embankment, passing the main train station, Slavija square, Tashmaidan Park (or Tash), the Faculty of Law, and closing the circuit at Cara Dushana, near the Zoo.

As it rides around the rim of central Belgrade, everything within the #2 circuit is in the heart of the city.

If you are looking, say, for real estate property in central Belgrade, you only have to say that you want to be “within the #2 circle”.

In the more modern parts of town they recently unveiled the new, shiny, sleek, futuristic design, but I like these old rusty tin boxes more (# 2, 5 and 10) – they embody the eastern European spirit better, as they ride along the cobbled, tree-lined boulevards. The new space shuttles on rails don’t even belong on Dorchol.

The other night a heavy fog descended on the lower city, and since most lights on these trams have long been smashed, only the clanking of the corroded tires against the tracks and the friction of the cables intermittently throwing sparks gave away their position as they disappeared and reappeared from the thick fog.

I’m riding toward Slavija in the afternoon rush hour. The car is completely full and we are all standing closely pressed against one another. Everyone is respectful and composed, only an occasional shared look or a considerate comment slipping by.

My friend, let’s call him Mr. Z, is trying as best to retain his composure, and then, no discomfort or anger in his voice, he very politely says to the woman standing jammed against him: “madame, may I kindly ask you to withdraw your elbow from my kidneys, please.”

~ ~

[another episode]

[previous scene]

In my street, Jevrejska, there is always a long queue of taxis, lining the sidewalk all the way down to Solunska.

There are a few cheap fast-food grills, which is a reason enough for the taxi drivers to congregate here, but otherwise, I can’t imagine there being any especially high demand for them right here.

When the weather is nice, the cabbies stand around smoking and bickering over something (usually sports or local politics). When it rains or snows they sit inside, sometimes two to a car, and read the newspapers. It’s cheaper than riding around, wasting gas, looking for customers.

Anyhow, it is more common here to call a taxi than flag it on the street because there are unregistered (‘wild’) taxis that are known to swindle a few more dinars. Other than that, the rates are affordable, even cheap.

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For some reason they remind me of moto-taxis in Rio’s favelas. Favelas are built upwards into the hills, and most get very steep. A great workout, if you’re up for it, but it does get quite tough if you head up and down a few times a day.

This is why, at the bottom of every favela a cluster of motorcycles can be found, offering a ride at a very cheap fare. The trick is that the fares cost pocket-change so it is tempting to opt for a ride, instead of a climb, more often than not. Everyone does it – the elderly, the housewives, the workmen, the children, the tourists. Of course, the latter get charged the special foreigner tax. View full article »

Let me tell you a story..

a story which begins here

and ends elsewhere, maybe far away

somewhere, where it may not even end

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At the doorstep of an apartment in Kapetan Misina I am greeted with a small glass of red wine and a spoonful of sweet boiled wheat.

I’ve been invited to a friend’s slava - a traditional Serbian Orthodox celebration of saints. His family saint is St. Archangel Michael and the slava is known as Arandjelovdan.

In the wintertime there is a cluster of them, between the end of October and mid-January.

They are a good opportunity – or excuse – to bring together family and friends and overindulge in sweet, greasy and alcoholic delights of Serbian cuisine.

A few hours pass in mingling, drinking more wine or rakija, and eating.

Suddenly, they materialize, almost chimerically, that I think someone had rubbed a golden lamp, sending a gust of voodoo fairies onto the mellow, cozy apartment scene. I half-expect their cigarettes to double as magic wands, as they open with: “We are here for your very own wish-fulfillment!”

Five of them, young, tall, and would be beautiful if they hadn’t gone overboard with flamboyance.

View full article »