Going back to my roots...

led me to declare to my parents that not only was I going back to Serbia, my country of birth, but I was going alone, to a random hostel, for a month. I didn't really speak Serbian; I pulled the odd phrase out of the bag occasionally in an attempt to sound exotic. I'd never been a fan of travelling in groups - there was always someone lost, hit by stomach flu, or making hysterical phone calls to a left-behind spouse. Having said that, I'd never traveled alone, and I was nervous as the plane landed in Nikola Tesla airport. The plane was almost empty; despite this, an old lady had sat next to me and regaled me with tales of plane crashes, which hadn't helped. At the airport, sweaty taxi drivers hustled for my attention, Marlboros drooping from their mouths. I chose the quietest and sat in his battered Lada. After about two minutes, he asked me, "Where you from, then?" I was surprised; how did he know? He went on to explain that a Serbian girl would've insisted he close the window, so as not to muss her hair. I stayed silent, sulking. Approaching the towering building known as the Gate to Belgrade, I looked at the cars on either side; nothing that would pass an MOT. We passed a bombed building; a large advert for Erstebank had been pasted over the shell. Having paid the driver, it took a while to find my hostel, which wasn't well signposted, and drag my bags upstairs. I was met by Ivan, the co-owner, who showed me my room. The tiny balcony overlooked Slavija, the hectic central roundabout – the general idea seemed to be “Pick your favourite direction and accelerate!”. As he pointed things out, a group of men in jumpsuits and balaclavas jumped onto the roundabout and started roaring. I was terrified; a riot? No, I was informed, a group of Russian football fans who stage flash mobs and dance to techno – without music. After unpacking, I went into the common area, where I met some Serbian football fans, reclining on sofas. They all sat up and introduced themselves. Very polite, actually! They offered to walk me to Kalamegdan, an old fort on the rivers Sava and Danube, at the end of a long, fashionable pedestrianized street called Knez Mihailova. Stylish people sat outside cafes, sipping fancy coffees and nonchalantly smoking. I was suddenly very aware of my scruffy appearance. Stalls at the sides of the street sold hand-crocheted tablecloths; cheesy souvenirs (think I went to Serbia and all I got was this lousy T-shirt) next to ancient military paraphernalia.