There’s something about this country. I can’t explain it. There’s something about it.
There’s a charm to this haphazard, chaotic place. It’s woven into and in between everything. From the 40-year-old trolley’s that run on tracks which haven’t been fixed for ages, to the out-of-style milfs with cellulite, to the childish and shy way grown people check eachother out at clubs. It’s somewhere in the way my butcher greets me when I go to buy chicken with, “dobar dan komsinice,” refering to me as his neighbour and asthough we’d grown up and played together. But, mostly it’s in the way this place seems to keep going, functioning, with so little to work with and no want for anything more because, as I said, it all just works.
Here, you feel alive, because you’re part of something that’s alive, something that hasn’t yet forgotten how to live.
I want to stay in Serbia. I want to stay in Belgrade. The problem is that I haven’t yet been able to find gainful employment. Though I believe that things work in favor of what’s supposed to happen, I also believe that it’s not shameful to admit it that things haven’t been working the way they’re supposed to.
I may have to leave Serbia, though I said I never will.
This blog is no longer objective. This blog is no longer about only the city. This blog is Belgrade and me.