Return to Budapest - Friday 18th August to Sunday 20th August

Having checked in, we returned to the car and John drove us the 15 minutes to the car rental. Sandra had done us proud on our triangular tour of south-central Europe. Checking out was smooth, so we were able to return to the apartment in no time for a shower and refresh.

We had made plans to meet our new friend Môr, whom we met in Luton airport. Luckily, he lived nearby, so we met him at a small bar with outside seats in a small square around the corner from our apartment in the Palace District. We had a good chat about where he lived in Budapest, where was good to visit, and what he was doing in the UK. After a couple of beers over an hour and a half, we parted, and agreed to meet up in London. 

Nearby was an impressive, neo-classical building that housed the national Museum, and onwards we walked to the old Jewish district. Amazingly, here on a main thoroughfare, and despite attempts by the fascist occupation of Hungary during the Second World War, stood one of the oldest synagogues in Budapest, and largest in Europe. It was an impressive expanse, broad along the road and tall with its charcoal and gold capped towers, in typical Moorish style. We didn’t venture in, but could look in from a side street onto the open space that occupied the rear of the main building, which housed a small cemetery. A plaque nearby noted that Theodor Herzl, the father of modern political Zionism, was born in a house that stood on the site of the present-day Jewish Museum that was connected to the synagogue.

We walked among the maze of streets in this district, noting that many parts of it were still run down. Only that this seeming neglect actually fostered a dynamic spirit in the area, in that this was the place to come for hedonistic night life and to sample the ruin bars.

It was nearing the time to eat, so we looked around for a restaurant, not sure what we wanted to eat, but given the area we were in, we decided upon a Jewish restaurant. It was housed in a high ceilinged and open plan hall, but we were seated along a broad corridor of seating stretching to the back of the place. I had a lovely cooked chicken with potatoes and salad, as well as some wine.

Following this quick meal, and it now turning dark, we walked out of the maze of streets to the central, Elizabeth Square, which was colourful with a brightly lit Ferris wheel, and lively with gatherings of people around the numerous bars on offer. We walked through and onwards to the river. Here, the Buda side of the city looked stunning, with its glorious palaces and buildings glowing in yellow light, with the foreground sight of low-lying cruise ships chugging along slowly. We walked along the riverside, noting the memorial to the Jews murdered in the Holocaust, visualised by shoes left on the river bank. 

Ahead of us, also glowing in yellow light, was the Parliament building. It certainly rivals the Houses of Parliament for its neo-gothic architecture and grandness. We walked around it, to take it all in, and found out that we could book a tour if we wanted to.

From here, we walked along more ‘organised’ roads to reach the small gay district. We were going to a club called Alter Ego, where we anticipated a more subdued display of it being so, given Orban’s anti-LGBT rhetoric, but was surprised to see rainbow flags flying defiantly. 

We noted the entrance to the basement club, and went straight in, despite it being early, as we didn’t want to linger around outside. We stepped into the dimly lit basement, a limited glow from neon signs here and there, and navigated our way to the cloakroom. Free of our belongings, we noticed a main room with seating and a small stage, presumably for the drag show, a side room which had karaoke on but devoid of patrons at that moment, and a long and wide corridor, into which we originally descended, which had high top tables and stools for quieter conversations.

We settled in the latter area, as we supped on beer and observed new patrons enter. After about 45 minutes the place had a bit more buzz to it. A hen party had evidently found the place, and brought with them familiar props and a party attitude. Suddenly, a movement of people drifted through the corridor to the main room. We followed. The drag show had begun. 

The drag queens, albeit speaking Hungarian, were very visual so that their humour came across very easily. The crowd, especially the group of hens, lapped it up. Following a good 45 minutes of showtime, we dipped into the karaoke room and belted out, in unison with others, a few hits climaxing in the inevitable Believe by Cher.

After a few more beers we called it a night, and wondered the quiet streets of Pest back to our ‘cosy’ apartment to sleep.

The hangover was very present, but having remembered about the tours of Parliament, I went online and booked us onto one in 90 minutes time. We left at 11:30am and got the metro. After we passed security, we visited the coffee shop and then joined the queue for our guided tour.

The building emulated the opulence of the Houses of Parliament. Regal paintwork and gothic statues filled the vast halls. Although the parliamentary system is unicameral, the parliament has two identical chambers, which is useful when the working parliament still wants to welcome visitors. It meant we could get a proper look around the chamber open to us. We also saw on display a replica of the crown of the Holy Roman Emperor, which was a nice touch. At the end of the tour, there was a small museum of political history. Two bits stuck out for me. One was the large, almost Christmas decoration style red star that the communists placed on the top of the parliamentary building. The other were the pointed comments on the territory lost to neighbouring countries earlier on the 20th century.

After the tour, we walked the back streets to the Terror House – the former home of the internal terror police under both the Nazi puppet and communist regimes. This was a very well put together museum, with a novel experience of a slow descending lift taking you to the basement where the cells were located. Well worth a visit.

We then wanted to do a spa, so we went to the nearby City Park, the location of the Szechenyi Thermal Baths. After a seemingly protracted ordering process, we managed to book our two-hour slot for the baths. It was a rather canary yellow coloured building of the 19th century, more fitting as a stately home than a place of leisure, in to whose basement we descended in order to change; and then navigated the different halls that had pools of a varied nature. We also went outside to the warm baths. This evidently was the spa that all the tourists visited, as it was busy and a little unkempt, what with plastic cups lying about, but it was pleasurable. 

After some time, we lazily got changed and returned to the park, walking to a nearby metro to go back to the Jewish quarter. Once there we found a simple Thai place to eat before returning to the apartment to sleep for the last time on our trip.

Once awake, we packed up in seemingly increasing heat. We checkout as instructed and took our belongings to the metro, to a luggage place off Deak Square. Once dropped off, and locating the nearby shuttle bus to the airport, we walked in the hope that we would find the filming location that was used for the opening sequence of Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy. Sadly, the place was a closed for renovation. 

Instead, we crossed the wrought iron bridge so that we could climb the steep hill upon which Liberty Statue and citadella stood. A very steep climb was rewarded with breath-taking views of the city and the Danube. We took it all in for 20 minutes, and grabbed a soft drink from an entrepreneurial vendor, and walked the calmer descent down northward.

Here, we noticed a lot of people gathered, and it turned out it was Independence Day, and so riverside festivities were put on and were in full swing. People were handing out cakes, which we happily took, and we were entertained by street artists and a small stage with a band on it. At the next bridge, we crossed back over and located a bar in the middle of a square. We parked here and devoured a couple of beers in the shade before returning to the luggage store, and then to the nearby bus stop in enough time. And glad we had as the bus was early, and departed earlier than advertised, so we got on and made our way through the city, past the suburbs, and to the airport.

We paid for priority security, so sailed through, and ended up having my first and only KFC that served beer. And these were needed as the flight home was a bit jittery. Arriving to low and dense fog in Luton was nerve-wracking, and the weather was all over the shop when we left arrivals. But John’s mum was there to pick us up and get us home safely.

Western City Gate - 8th August 2017

We anticipated a slovenly day, what with the heat and an afternoon of travel ahead. So we woke up well after the sun had risen into our room, at a modest 9:30am, and cobbled together the bits we took out of our rather large suitcase. Having repacked, we caught up on the day’s news whilst we had WI-FI.

We took the suitcase down to the car, before returning to the block to pay the hostess our fee. A deaf yet audible conversation of our English and her Serbian took place swiftly, with a lot of nodding heads and smiles. We wanted to explore the city a little more, so we left the car where it was and retraced our walk back to the centre of the old town via the riverside.

The high street was quieter than anticipated, so we easily found a table at café that served coffee and a variety of breakfast options. I had a craving for eggs, so ordered three fried. John is always partial to a ham and cheese toastie, so he ordered that. Although under a parasol, I could feel the heat rising around us. I was thankful for the water that so often comes with coffee as standard in the Balkans. Once fed, we walked back to the central square, where we noticed a tourist map in one of those free-standing advertising boards. On it was marked a synagogue, about a 10-minute walk away. I suggested we visit that, then loop around back to the riverside, and then back to the car.

So, we crossed over the main trunk road that ran through central Novi Sad, skirting the old town, before it went off towards the bridge over the Danube towards Petrovaradin. I lasted about 2 minutes in the heat, before I asked that we walk on the other side of the road under the shade of the trees and taller buildings.

The synagogue was on the shaded side of the street, behind metal fencing with the gates open. We wondered in to get a closer look. It was a large, sandy coloured brick building, with two ‘towers’ on each side of a recessed entrance. Flanked on either side were two similarly sized outbuildings. An information sign indicated that it was built in 1909. It amazed me that it had managed to remain here during the Second World War, given that the area was ceded to Hungary who had far right and then fascist leaders under thumb of the Nazis.

We continued on until we reached the main boulevard that begins at the railway station. There was a bit more life here, as shops lined the kerbside. After turning left, we had arrived at the entrance to a very brutal shopping centre plaza. We continued down another wide boulevard until we reached the riverside. Here, we had lovely views of the fortress across the way, and stopped to look at the memorial sculpture to the victims of fascism.

Having now called time on Novi Sad, John took to the driver’s seat, and we prepared to leave our concrete housing estate. Not before, though, I changed the language on the sat nav to English, so that we could safely make out way to Belgrade and beyond.

However, we had a little hiccup upon our departure with the sat nav. As the road network nearby was all temporary due to the bridge works, coupled with our lack of familiarity with Serbian road signs, we battled with the sat nav to understand where we needed to go. After pausing in the middle of the road debating whether to go left or right, and a little back and forth between John and I, we turned left. This way, we retraced our steps back through the suburbs and onto the motorway.

The journey to the outskirts of Belgrade should only have needed to take 30 minutes, but I was unsure what the traffic would be like in Belgrade itself. I was hesitant to drive, as I wouldn’t be confident driving in a city centre like Belgrade and on the opposite side of the road. John wasn’t bothered. The drive was still accompanied by flat, agricultural land, with the odd hill here and there. We slowly started to descend, soon after a road toll and surrounded by a forest, before approaching a bridge. This was suspended highly above the broad width of the Danube below. We coasted over into the region known as Srem or Syrmia. This piece of land, shared between Serbia and Croatia, is the wedge of land between the Danube and Sava rivers.

As we turned off the north-south motorway, we joined the main arterial east-west road between Belgrade and Zagreb. Once we drove past the airport, the traffic on the motorway became a lot busier, as we hurtled into the outer suburbs of the city. We were welcomed by the Western City Gate, standing in brutal dominance overlooking the motorway. To our right, we passed a Gazprom poster depicting the Serbian and Russian flags joining together highlighting their political and economic union.

As we began to slow into the rhythm of local and long-distance traffic negotiating more numerous junctions, we knew our turn off was the second of two immediate ones straight after we cross the Sava river. One thing to note is that the junction turnoffs are very short and sharp, which can make for dramatic driving. John navigated the mini spaghetti junction with ease, and we were now heading north on the road akin to Whitehall, with all its government and embassy buildings. We then ascended a hill to the main city centre, which flattened adjacent to the park in front of the Parliament building. You always get a different perspective of the landmarks as a road user than you do as a pedestrian. We bared right, and then began to descend. We had to navigate a one-way system around a park opposite our apartment, but finally turned right onto a cobbled street thinking we had reached our destination. We counted the property numbers, and it turned out we were on the upper part of the street, not the lower. John turned around and drove down.

I jumped out and called the proprietor. He came down to meet me, and directed John to the carpark accessed by a side entrance and a steep incline into the basement. He escorted us up to the top floor, and let us in. The one-bedroom apartment was decorated in a modern way but with local twists and additions. The air-con was already on, as he must have been boiling whilst waiting for us. He showed us around, and highlighted the balcony that came with a canopy shade. One he had left, and we had dumped our things, we departed for the city centre.

There was a traditional, Herzegovinian restaurant opposite our building, which acted as a key stone to a hemispherical park that led on to a secondary road into the centre. This was narrower than the wide boulevards and so more shaded, and it led us to a market space at the bottom of the hill where Skadarlija was located. Having visited twice before, it was rather serene in the daytime without the cacophony of diners and lively music. The sun was low in the sky, so it was ideal for some snaps.

We walked up to the now familiar Trg Republike, and down the main shopping street. For ease, we stopped for a beer in the same place we did the previous year. We then ventured around the Kalemegdan and returned to the shopping street, along with many others from the park, and walked to Hotel Moscow. Its white tiles radiated a soft pink as the sun had started to hide behind nearby buildings.

 

We were here because I noted that there was a gay bar or two in the vicinity. Armed only with a little bit of research I did before we left the flat, and no internet away from WIFI to use, we managed to locate one bar inside an arcade. A closed doorway sat between two windows, one being slightly pulled up. I walked in to the smallest bar I had ever been in. Aside from the barman, there were 4 other patrons. They all looked at us as they became silent. Along the width of each window was a bar shelf with 3 stools at each. The small bar was an ‘L’ shape, and to its right, there was a steep staircase that led on to a low mezzanine level. We ordered two beers, and sat down, which was when conversations were renewed. As the place was smoky, we opted for the stools opposite the open window.

We decided it would be rude if we only stayed for one, so ordered another round. The beers were relatively cheap, and the music in the background allowed us to converse without sparking up curiosity from the others. We drank up, then walked the 3 minutes to the next bar.

This was called XL, and to get to it you had to go into the entrance way of a shopping parade that was of the 1970s/80s style of marble and glass. Up the stairs to the first level and you had a choice. Café bar to the left that overlooked the main shopping street, or a frosted door leading to the back of the building. The latter was our bar. We went in and, despite the darkened lighting, everything was decked out in white. There was a small group and a female couple in already. It was early. I ordered a red, and we sat at a raised bench with a bar table that one could easily lean against when standing up.

We finished our night here after a few more drinks, and staggered back down Despot Stefan to our apartment, and then sleep.

Around the Balkans in 20 Days – Part 5

We had an early start today, as we began our trip to Macedonia’s northern neighbour. We packed our remaining belongings after getting ready, and did a last minute look around the apartment for anything left behind. We hauled our backpacks on, the heft of which was added to with the weight of the bottles of Tikves wine I wanted to take home with me. As instructed, we closed all the windows, turned the air con off and locked our apartment door, leaving the keys in the hallway before departing through the main door on to the stairwell. One last trip was had in the rickety lift, my nerves on edge in case the bottom fell through with said backpacks. Luckily we survived to the ground floor and made our way out the communal door and on to the main square. Even for 7am, it was suffocatingly hot. I hoped and prayed this bus had air con!

With the heat in mind, John suggested that we take a taxi to the bus station. I was a little relieved he did ask, although I feigned a little bit of opposition at first (as is my demeanour) before capitulating and agreeing.  I let John do the talking, to a driver parked adjacent to the Arc de Triomphe. He helped us with our backpacks, and soon drove us down the familiar 11^th October Street. Smatterings of early risers were heading in the opposite direction to us, possibly to set up shop for the first day of weekend trading. Tracing the route we walked two days previous, we were at the train and bus station in no time.

After paying for our ride, we were met with the usual humdrum around a station, even at this hour. Bus engines where whirring in the background as we made our way into the departures hall to find information for our bus. Although the main boards were in Cyrillic, the front of the buses had English signs for their destinations. We spotted ours through the flimsy idea for a ticket gate, where a couple of small families had set up camp ahead of the driver opening the vehicle to let them on board. We had about 25 minutes, so we went to a kiosk in the hall to purchase some extra treats to add to our horde. We added sweets and crisps to our stash of water, sandwiches and beer – well, we were going to be on a bus for 8 hours!

We returned to the departure gate and showed our tickets to the clerk. Uninterested, he waved us both through, and over me moved to the front of our bus. We dumped our bags next to those of the waiting families. We were told two days ago when buying the tickets that a charge would be levied for the luggage, something we are not used to doing in the UK as the ticket price normally includes the luggage we bring. Not knowing how much this charge would be, I ordered John to take a stash of notes out so that we wouldn’t be one of those couples who searches for change and holds up a queue. I think John got out about £30 in Denar. When it came around to our boarding, the charge was a mere £2. Very reasonable, and set the bar for how much we would be paying on other bus journeys ahead.

We boarded a bus that was definitely a relic of the late 1980s/90s. Perhaps Communist apparatchiks rode in it themselves! Anyway, we placed ourselves on our dated purple and white moquette seats half way up the bus. My thinking was that the toilet would be located down the emergency exit stairwell opposite, so we would have ease of access. But as we unpacked our immediate travel necessities – headphones and the like – I noticed that there was no door either to the left or right, just the emergency door straight ahead to leave the bus. I turned around to see if there was a cubicle at the back of the bus. None existed. Shit.

So now I sat contemplating a bus ride for 8 hours without a toilet. Drinking beer was now out of the question. We didn’t know how many stops there were, where we were stopping, or even if the stops had toilet facilities. I was thinking how we would have to ration our water intake but balance it finely with our hydration needs, in order to reduce the need to go. John at this point darted out of the bus, departing in 10 minutes, to go for a last minute relief break. I ummed and ahed as to whether I should do the same, but decided my chance had now gone by the time John returned. I knew I would now be anxious for the entirety of the journey. The driver fired up the engine and the air con blew into action. So too did the Wi-Fi. Wouldn’t you believe it, no bog but there was high speed internet. Incredible!

The at-capacity bus reversed out of its bay, pulled forward through the barrier emerging from under the train platforms and on to the side street in the open air. We drove to the dual carriageway, and headed eastward. The sun was blazing through the windows, but we did have the use of curtains if we needed them. I quite enjoyed my window seat views as we swiftly passed from city suburbia to open country. The raised elevation of the road and coach meant I had a great view of the horizon. Our route would take us around the edge of the mountain range observed on Mount Vodno, which blocked our view to Serbia in the east two days ago. Now we would get to see what lay behind it. John made use of the Wi-Fi capabilities, which kept him entertained. We merged on to the E75, the road that connects Budapest to Thessaloniki and undergoing work for an additional east/west junction, to proceeded north.

We pulled off the motorway after 30 minutes or so of travelling, with Kumanovo being our first stop. I could only pass a fleeting judgment on the city, but I did notice that the ethnic divide was somewhat lesser here. The odd mosque and church didn’t seem to conform to a logic that a certain group lived in one part or another. The bus station was a mere parking lot with an aged administrative building near the entrance. A number of travellers left us, but they were equally replaced with new people boarding. We then set off towards the Serbian border.

I wanted to test out this Wi-Fi, so I decided to FaceTime my mum. I logged on to the Wi-Fi and called her. I had quite forgotten that it was very early in the morning in the UK, but nonetheless my mother was awake. It had been just over a week since we left for Berlin, and although I had messaged her and FaceTimed once, we chatted about the past couple of days. John’s head would bob in and out of the camera at prompts to the conversation I was engaged in, but only because he could hear just my side of it as I had my headphones in. After 5 minutes, we said our goodbyes.

We knew we were approaching the border because the driver’s aid (or the second driver!?) started walking up the bus and collecting an assortment of documentation, passports and ID cards etc. We gave him our passports with the visitation paper. He then waddled back to the front of the bus prior to our stopping and starting through the slow traffic to the Macedonian border control. John and I anticipated observing a mass of migrants at the border, or a sense of chaos following the refugee crisis in the previous months. But there were only a handful of people at this particular crossing. I suspect the initial influx of refugees had either made it to Serbia or they walked alongside the border to a more open spot to cross and continue their journey. As we waited, I saw that we were now indeed on the other side of the mountains guarding Skopje, and were situated in an open valley. As I was on the left-hand side of the bus, I could only see the western hillside where a settlement nestled halfway up on the Serbian side of the border. If you climbed up and over that hillside, you would be in Kosovo.

We passed through the Macedonian side with ease, and the guide handed back our passports but without our visitation paper. We then progressed to the Serbian checkpoint. We all had to get off the bus and individually hand in our passport to the guard in a toll-booth like structure in order to be stamped. The bus may have been checked by a guard or two, I was unsure, but 10 minutes or so later it pulled up alongside us for us all to get back on.

We wound our way along the motorway, pulling off every 50 kilometers or so to drop off/pick up passengers at small towns along the route. The landscape was still that of wide floodplain expanses, with the odd hill here and there, or in the distance. At one stop, John dashed off with a fistful of denars to go to the toilet. He exchanged words with the driver before getting off. I was anxious in case it was lost in translation that John said he would only be 5 minutes but the driver would instead drive off. I was also worried of the reverse that John would dawdle and be longer than 5 minutes and risk the ire of the driver, who may have chosen to depart anyway. Luckily neither happened, and John rushed back. His description of the toilet had me fear for my personal hygiene for when I would be my turn.

The one thing that struck me as we dipped in and out of these towns were the continuous EU signs on new buildings or projects. They must be spending a huge sum as part of the initial accession package ahead of EU membership. This juxtaposed with my earlier assumptions of Serbia having a dislike of anything EU related. It also just reminded me of the unfortunate situation we found ourselves in the UK, only weeks before. Thankfully, thus far, we had avoided any forlorn faces or sympathetic conversations from locals about our current quagmire.

But then my need for a rest break soon came about, in-between stops. So I had to concentrate on my need to hold it in, whilst wishing for a stop to be on the horizon. When it indeed came, I signalled to the driver before I leapt off with two fingers and mouthed “two minutes”. He nodded with a sense of further frustration at delaying his intended immediate departure. I really needed to use the full facilities of the £1 entry toilet block, but was aghast at the cleanliness and the furniture I found in the cubicle – a floor level basin. I had neither the time nor inclination to try and navigate this scenario. After doing as much as I could to ensure a comfortable onward journey, I jumped back on the bus and off we set.

The last stop before Belgrade was Nis. Located in central southern Serbia, this was its third city. And it seemed as though it was the forgotten city in that it needed a bit of tidying up. Buildings looked creaky, and the bus station seemed to look like an imitation, yet run-down, petrol station from the early 1980s. It did the job I suppose. John had to dip out for another toilet break, but here we had 10 minutes to stretch legs. I dashed to the toilet too.

Soon after we left the city, I started to nod off. I awoke about 40km outside of Belgrade, and the sleep meant I did not have to focus on my need for the loo. Outside, the bus meandered uphill through low, rolling green hills in weather that had now grown overcast. A steady stream of cars travelling alongside us soon grew in number as we approached the capital. We then came over the crest of a hill and started our descent into the city. The taller, modernist structures peered in-between the folds of the remaining hills obstructing our view, before the suburbs swept alongside us and our view of the burgeoning city was made clear. The motorway cut right through the southern part of the city, from east to west, and we departed at a main junction that sat next to the Sava River. We turned north into the city, running parallel to the railway tracks. The bus depot was adjacent to the railway station. We disembarked and collected our backpacks. There was little fanfare with our arrival, and our co-travellers seemed keen to go their different ways immediately. No hanging around!

Our new surrounds presented refurbished Austro-Hungarian architecture sat next to their patiently waiting neighbours. One building would be completely upgraded and finely pointed, and then the next would have its pastel coloured plaster partially missing and tired with pollution. The whole area was next to the Belgrade Riverside development, so was the natural next step for rehabilitation. We began to walk, crossing the main road in front of the station, to continue onward to Balkanska.

We walked past a two story covered car park, inside of which we noticed a gathering of about 70 or more men. It became apparent that these were all Syrian refugees. I mention men because there were no children or women present. None. They were huddled under the shade of the car park roof, amongst possessions that could be carried. So Belgrade was one of the centres the refugees congressed, waiting opposite the two methods of onward travel – train and bus.

We walked on and turned left up Balkanska. I recall the steep hill that this would become, and hated the idea of my backpack weighing me down. We plateaued next to the Hotel Moscow, and walked onwards to Trg Republika. We were early to check in, so we walked up Kneza Mihaila, the main shopping street, and sat down at a café to rest and quench our thirst. I opted for an elaborate Latte. We surveyed the scene and population. The street was bustling as shoppers and day-trippers leisurely went about their day. We were sat under a canopy with fans cooling us off. Where we were sat, at the top end of the pedestrianised shopping street, the buildings were low level copies of the pastel coloured ones near the station, some indicating dates of their construction. After a while, we returned to Trg Republika, and walked back downhill in the opposite direction into the Skadarlija. John appreciated a forgotten mode of transport that passed us by - a trolleybus.  I appreciated the breeze it gave off to cool me down.

The Skadarlija is a quarter adjacent to the popular Skadarska Street, which buzzes with restaurants and bohemian nightlife.  The cobbled street stretches from the Trg Republika at the top of the hill, down towards a green grocers market in the direction of the Danube. The end of the street, opposite the market, is marked with a Sebilj – a water fountain that was a gift of Sarajevo in 1989. The wider area seemed to be built pre-war, with raised one-storey houses resting next to tall four-storey apartment blocks formed on a grid basis. They were all constructed in the same dark grey stone and cement, with the unifying aesthetic of 1930’s modernism and the added flair of ornate stucco cornices every now and then; each with a touch of ageing decay.

A trolleybus whizzed by heading towards the town centre, as I made calls and sent messages on my phone to alert the homeowner that we were there. After 10 minutes, the cleaner for our apartment came down to let us in. She couldn’t speak English beyond the odd word or number. As we got into to our sizeable and modern apartment, on the top floor of a four-storey block, we had to use the aid of Google Translate. She hadn’t finished cleaning yet, so asked if we could come back in an hour. We left our bags and set off with a set of keys and left her to finish.

Although I had visited the foodie street before, I never really explored the quarter that would be our base for the next few days. I was excited to show John the confluence of the Sava and Danube rivers from the Kalemegdan. So we walked through the side streets northwest, admiring the buildings and appreciating the shade provided by the narrow streets and tall buildings. On one corner we noticed an Art Deco/modernist building that seemed to house a cultural centre now, but when built contained the First Danube Steam Navigation Society, evidence of Belgrade’s key shipping status in the past.

We continued towards the Kalemegdan, walking via the Student Park, and entered via the main entrance opposite the top of Kneza Mihaila. At first, you walk through a small forest of trees before it opens up to landscaped gardens with monuments of Serbian and Yugoslav history.  People peppered the gritty pathways and benches as we walked along, the odd person stooping into the flowing water taps for refreshment. We bared left so we could begin our 180-degree walk from the east to the northwest along the ramparts of the fortress. The Sava is the first of the two rivers we see, travelling east towards the city, before turning gradually north as it arrives below us from the left. It then passes by towards the island created at the initial joining of the Sava and Danube, which was the furthest north we could see at present. Bridges heaving with traffic crossed over to New Belgrade with its brutalist architecture, hovering in the distance beyond the park opposite us. The old city loomed on our left, clinging on to the hilly riverside above the train station and beyond.

We turned right following the Sava northward along a slim boulevard towards the Danube. The fortress over the years had been expanded, and the terracotta/stone bricked walls we were walking alongside belonged to the 19^th century. We walked through an entry gate and climbed up to the older fortress plaza area belonging to the Ottoman period. We were now opposite the island and could fully take in the awesome view and power of the Danube swallowing the water of the Sava as it travelled eastward. In front of us now, to the north, a wall of forests guarded the Vojvodina, and in past times would have been the Military Frontier to the Austro-Hungarian Empire beyond. We decided to return to the apartment, so that we could recharge our batteries (technological and biological) and change for an evening meal.

I had chilled a bottle of the white wine we packed in Skopje, and John had done the same with the beer intended for the bus journey. We drank these as we changed, then settled down for while to play cards and trawl through social media to look for any gay nightlife. We found a Facebook page of a night that was located a mere 500 meters away. Google couldn’t locate it specifically, but we decided to give it a shot anyway. After getting rather merry whilst doing all this, we decided to head out and eat on the Skadarska.

Within 5 minutes we were there, so we walked up and down the cobbled street, looking at menus and agreeing at how reasonably priced it all seemed given the posh appearance of the restaurants. We decided on Dva Jelena – Two Deers. We had bread upon arrival and ordered a bottle of white. Our mains were rich and flavoursome, thankfully soaking up the equivalent of a bottle of wine we drank each by the dinners end. As we settled the bill of around £20, it was approaching midnight. We decided that rather than go to a bar for another, we would try and locate this club.

According to Google and other notable mapping websites, the building number for the club on this street did not exist. So we decided to trust street signs and instinct. We got to Dunavska and looked for the number, but we could only find a building that was two numbers before it, which ended at a crossroads.  In the low-lit street lighting characteristic of Europe, we were anxious not to be looking for a gay venue, in case haters were waiting for prey. So we circled a block of buildings to see if we could find a hidden set of numbers to mask the real location of the venue. We even tried to listen for the bass thumping sounds of music to guide us, but nothing gave away its location. We returned to the crossroads.

It was then that we spotted three men who we decided were heading for the club too. We hung around for 30 seconds so they were a good 200 meters ahead before following them. They took the road off the crossroads that was lined with wired fences separating the road from grassed over ex-industrial land, was hardly lit, and seemed to head towards an industrial park. Things became worrying when we had to cross a railway line. Relief came over us as we began to hear those bassy sounds. As we turned the corner of a building that reminded me more of a guardhouse, I noticed a police van parked across the way. Three people were on the door to the club, one in semi drag, and began to speak to us in Serbian as we went over. We gave our apologies and they then asked in English if we knew that this was a gay club. We said yes and smiled, showing our relief. They explain the cover charge and that it included two drinks tickets. Bargain! The officers in the police van seemed unperturbed.

Whether because the LGBT scene was rather small, or this was a place for regulars, or that we simply entered; a number of heads turned as we entered into the inner open-air courtyard of the club. A bar was opposite us, so we passed groups of friends as I ordered our first free drinks while John popped to the toilet. The Facebook group mentioned that three styles of music would be played, but we couldn’t see enough space for there to be three separate rooms. It later transpired that three DJs with different tastes of music played at varying times during the evening in the sole club space inside.

After finishing our first free drink, John grabbed the next as I set off for the loo. The interior was a small concrete bunker with graffiti and posters from events gone by plastered all over the place. It would be at home in east London. Upon my return John got speaking to two people, soon to be joined by a third. Nemanja was local to Belgrade and his friend Danilo was visiting family nearby and hailed from Dusseldorf. Voja, who joined us later, also lived in Belgrade. We got chatting about a whole host of things whilst in the courtyard, as the placed filled up even more. I asked about the police outside. Nemanja said that they were there to protect us, not intimidate us. This put my mind at rest. We stuck with these guys and exchanged numbers to potentially meet again while we were here. After a number of Vodka Cokes, we all went indoors for the pop music DJ set. My last memory was calling out at the top of my lungs, along with Voja, for Cher to be played. Not sure if the DJ obeyed.