Belgrade has been witness to many changes—empires, countries, cultures, religions—but one constant is traffic. The way out of Serbia’s capital was treacherous.
Eventually, cars gave way to unpaved dike roads. These roads were home to territorial dogs that loved nothing more than to chase cyclists. The trick is to stop riding and put your bike between you and the hound then firmly say something like “No!” I was chased three times today.
Today’s road quality was the worst of the entire trip. Roadside memorials for mowed down motorists abound in Eastern Europe and in particular, Serbia. After a couple hundred of these solemn gravesites, riding through quicksand was still better than cycling with cars.
After what felt like an endless ride punctuated with stops to pull branches out of my spokes, I arrived at the ferry crossing in Stara Palanka. Just after the ferry stop on the left was a pension with a restaurant. That’s where I stayed. It was no two-star hotel but it was a clean room with food.
Dinner was frozen fish nuggets. Frozen, as in they arrived at the table still cold and solid. My host took the fish back and let them swim in the hot oil a while longer.
My room had posters up of all of Serbia’s basketball stars. In other words, all of my favorite Sacramento Kings players were looking right at me. Since there is a dearth of hoops-talk in Dublin I ignored the fact that my hosts didn’t speak English and started talking Serbian basketball with them. The language barrier was no problem at all. Peja plus three fingers, Vlade plus a mimed behind the back pass, Djokovic plus “best Serbian,” and so on.
Tomorrow I’ll ride through the Danube Gorge.
Today’s Miscellany
