Day 104
Location 19: Belgrade, Serbia
Feb. 12, 2023
“How long’s your flight to Belgrade?” my friend Nick asks me as we sit in our cushy Rome Airbnb.
“Hour and a half.” I answer.
“What’s Air Serbia’s safety rating?”
“Five stars…” I answer sheepishly.
“Perfect score! You’ll be fine.”
“…out of seven.” I answer even more sheepishly.
Here's the situation: My American Visa allots me 90 days in the Schengen Zone (which is a collection of mostly EU countries). Then I have to leave for 90 days before I can return. In accordance with this travel restriction, my plan is to lay low in the Balkans for a few months. As if I’m a spy hiding out after carrying out an international hit. Or, more appropriate for my sensibilities, as if I’m in the witness protection program after seeing someone else carry out an international hit.
My first stop is Belgrade, Serbia. Upon landing, I grab my trash from the pocket on the seat in front of me and stand to exit the plane. “Is there a garbage?” I ask the flight attendant. Without bothering to lower her gaze, she responds “I’d be more worried about getting off the plane than some trash.” Cool, cool, cool.
The unfamiliar letters, war-torn buildings, and accents that years of American xenophobic propaganda in action movies with vaguely Eastern European henchmen have conditioned me to be wary of, all have the unfamiliarity of being taught a complicated board game for the first time.
There's a scene in The Office where the upstairs, white-collar workers descend—for the first time—into the unfamiliar, blue-collar warehouse. One salesman, Dwight Schrute, describes the unsettling vibe to the camera while wearing an even more unsettling grin: "Remember on Lost, when they met the others?". Well to convey the unsettling vibe I'm feeling in Serbia, I'm looking at you and saying "Remember on The Office, when they met the warehouse and Dwight says 'Remember on Lost when they met the others?'."
The juxtaposition of laughing with my best friend by the Coliseum in the morning to being alone in Serbia by evening gives me mental whiplash. Not the good kind of Whiplash with Miles Teller that gets nominated for five Oscars. It's the bad kind of whiplash, like during a sharp turn on a wooden coaster that provokes the worry “what if this time it finally breaks?”. That’s my worry. The fun ride (my trip) is coming to a sputtering, untimely halt. If only Miles Teller were here, he’d know what to do.
Over the next few days, I'll realize that, of course, there's nothing to be anxious about. People are (mostly) the same everywhere you go. It'll become clear that the people of Belgrade are friendly, welcoming, and fun. The city, while recently war-torn, is full of personality and energy. I'll soon learn that my preconceived notions were, of course, misplaced. Welcome to Serbia.