Border crossing
The guy with greased-back hair points and beckons me off the coach. Other passengers look curious or else yawn disinterestedly. Outside the hatch is open and a Serbian border guard is examining my backpack. "Where've I come from and where've I been?" he demands. Fibbing a half truth I say Sarajevo, not wanting to draw any attention to staying at private residences or that I've been in Bosnia and Croatia. He turns my passport over flicking through the blank pages and staring at me waiting for a reaction. The greased-hair man intervenes "you're missing some stamps"... Ah, well I've been in Europe and no-one's seen fit to stamp my passport as yet. Is that mine, the guard motions towards my guitar case? Yes. I'm preparing for the inconvenience of having my stuff pawed through, but after being looked up and down the guard shrugs, and hands back my passport ushering me away. Unlike L'Oreal, I'm clearly not worth it! However, I do get my first stamp of the trip courtesy of the Republic Serbskia.
Adie's 1999 edition Europe guide has been very handy thus far, but I'm banking (ha!) that the situation described in Serbia of there being no ATMs will have changed in the ensuing 8 years. As if to address this concern, the road to Belgrade is lined with Billboards advertising Alpha Bank, now with 103 cash machines. 8 hours to explore Belgrade before my overnight train to Greece.The Kalemegdan citadel is the obvious choice and clearly very popular as many people are picnicking around the site on grass verges and walls. From the hilltop there's a good view of the sunset over the river and the inner courtyards are filled with more military equipment which little children use imaginatively as climbing frames, occasionally forcing a parent to intervene when tiny hands slip from the gunbarrels.
Hardy Traveller Take Two...
This time I'm better prepared - bread, water and snacks, check! cereal and milk for breakfast, check! Ipod charged, check! Ok, 16 hours to Thessaloniki overnight via Macedonia, let's go. The porter beckons me to a cabin, I'll be sharing with a middle aged man who has made himself a home, feet up sprawled across two seats, back turned to me, trying to fall asleep. There's a slightly stale musk to the cabin but I can ignore it. My feet are tired and aching a bit however I'm feeling magnanimous and decide to keep my shoes on for both our sakes. A hour later, I'm subjected to severe olfactory assault, he is exuding what can only be described as the essence of a decaying rodent with an unhealthy egg-fetish, no-one light a match! I'm willing to let this go, after all we all succumb to the occasional bad stomach, but another half an hour later the bombardment continues with greater intensity. The door is half open but it's a plaster on a broken leg, time to fight fire with fire, the gloves are off, or more accurately the shoes, en garde! My malodorous cabin companion shuffles and turns uncomfortably in his seat and reaches to open the window, touche!
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