Belgrade has elements that are so familiar, yet distinctive. Kind of like when you get a wisp of thought that reminds you of last nights’ dream, but the details are blurry. Had a strange experience having stepped off the plane, and then the bus, of having directions given to me in Serbian and somehow understanding. I can cobble together a piece-meal understanding through Spanish and English similarities. I haven't travelled somewhere I don't speak the language in a long time, and it is humbling. Which feels healthy in the same satisfying way that salad does.
Its as though my skin is coated in a light film of emotions rising to the surface. Reading the most beautiful book, and I'm like an old lady crying at every little thing- whether extremely sad or beautiful or both. Imagine what an emotional time-bomb I will be when I actually AM old, yikes.
Having made my way up a precarious elevator to Three Black Catz hostal, I was offered a shot of home-made plum brandy. And since then have been amused and amazed by Belgrade. Think: Turkish coffee. There is also such recent violence, and I'm only beginning to get a grasp on the history. It was eery to see children playing on old tanks and weapons at the fort, as well as the eardrum-destroying sound of planes thundering above. Though it was an aerial show, mere years ago the planes could have been dropping NATO bombs. I'm hoping to meet with the anti-trafficking NGO goddesses tomorrow. I have ganas de getting my ass settled in Novi Sad. I want to be able to sleep naked, do laundry and unpack my stanky bag for awhile.
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