I’m not in Belgrade long,
so if I want to see anything,
I must walk in this ceaseless rain.
I’m headed to Skadarlija,
which I’m told is the bohemian part of town
with art shops and restaurants with outdoor patios.
I like to see what the creatives are working on
wherever I travel.
It’s an hour’s walk,
but it takes longer because I wander first
through the Green Market near my hostel.
I’m looking for blueberries,
which someone told me are the best in Europe,
but none of the fifty or so fruit and vegetable stands
is selling them.
I am also delayed on my journey
by the aroma of coffee,
which leads to a seat in a cafe,
a large latte,
a piece of raspberry cheesecake,
an array of passing umbrellas,
and plenty of people watching.
Finally, I’m back on my feet,
full of the energy
that only cheesecake can provide,
and I’m destined for Skadarlija.
Alas, the Nikola Tesla Museum
draws my attention.
No credit cards,
no foreign currency,
cash only in Serbian dinars,
English tours nearly every hour,
no photos except in certain exhibition areas,
people exiting the museum
with smiles on their faces
and enthusiasm in their voices.
I check to see how much cash I have left.
Yep, another delay on my mission.
From the museum,
I step again into a downpour,
but am determined to get to Skadarlija,
which is only another fifteen minutes away,
although I’m soaked within minutes.
Despite the advertising of Goretex,
it’s completely useless in a heavy rain,
and I’m wet all the way through
the layers to my t-shirt.
At last, I arrive at Skadarlija.
The restaurants are all open,
and there are a few patrons
sitting indoors for the lunch hour,
but the patios,
despite being under the cover of canopies,
are empty.
Skadarlija is smaller than I expected,
primarily a single cobblestone lane
with restaurants and only a few artisan shops,
lined with some buildings
that desperately need repairs,
and a primary school,
the exterior of which is covered in graffiti.
There are a few interesting statues,
a fountain,
and a drunk fellow
walking along with a glass of beer in his hand,
stopping from time to time
to look up at the rain and mutter to himself.
I fall into line behind some pedestrians
and the young man in front of me is talking
into a microphone in English.
I edge closer to listen for a few seconds
and hear him talking about class privilege
and the need to upgrade a part of the city.
I wonder if he’s talking about Skadarlija
because it could sure use a little work,
although it is pretty and has great promise.
My long walk back to my hostel is uneventful,
except for the drama of the traffic of Belgrade,
with the steady stream of honks
from angry and frustrated drivers,
and the poor woman
who is standing too close to the curb
when the bus hits the tiny,
seemingly harmless,
puddle in front of her
and sprays her white skirt.
Does she yell and scream and throw a tantrum?
No, she doesn’t even flinch,
just casually looks down at her skirt
and takes it all in stride.
When I’m about five minutes from my hostel,
the rain finally stops.
