Sunday, December 6

lightning round, nagar style (2/2)

Wednesday evening we drove to Novi Sad for part business dinner for Vlad, and part fun dinner out for us and his girlfriend, Jelena. Though it was technically a day early, we drank Beaujolais Nouveau along with a local equivalent: Portugizer. Both were equally drinkable, though nothing exciting, as is to be expected. After a long, drawn out dinner with few exceptional dishes, we drove to our cute bed and breakfast, a farmstead of sorts, called Salaš 137. Their main attraction at the Salaš is horseback riding and golf. As we arrived quite late, we went straight to our rooms: swelteringly hot thanks to the warm weather and wood-fired stove in each room, but really quite charming. The morning was another lazy one.

The reception lady asked if we’d like to ride horses, I was the sole taker: why not? After waiting around the horse track for the trainer for what seemed like forever, a man finally walked up with a horse. I should follow him, he indicated through pantomime and broken English. We went to the horse run behind the stables, not the horse track where others were riding. Fine, no problem by me, I wouldn’t have to look like a silly novice in front of strangers. I got on the horse, which is about when I realized the trainer must have been told I was a complete moron. He told me to hold on, and took the reins himself and walked the horse around the run a couple of times. We chatted about his fear of flying, and places he liked visiting in Europe. I asked him the name of the horse, Bellissima, and was about to ask if I could take the reins myself and show Bellissima what a real cowboy from the wild west can do. I never got the chance: as I began to speak, not five minutes into my horse ride for toddlers, the man told me to dismount and go back to the reception desk to pay for my ride. Wow—pay for what, I wondered… The reception lady was surprised to see me so soon, and asked if I’d seen the trainer. I told her about my ride, and she looked as mortified as I felt like a special needs child. Good times.

We high-tailed it back to Belgrade; we had tickets for the evening’s game between the two local basketball clubs: Partizan vs. Red Star. The two have a serious rivalry, and I wanted my family to experience sports enthusiasm at its height. We first ate dinner at Zaplet, and were waiting to leave for the game when I noticed on the downstairs TV that a game was on. Our game. Almost halftime. I have not been a model of punctuality in Serbia, and this evening was no exception. We quickly took a cab to the stadium. Only, the language barrier brought us to the wrong Partizan arena. I showed the driver the physical tickets, and we were again on our way. The driver asked if we’d been to a game, wanted to make sure we knew the dangers. Way to heighten the suspense… The suspense and anxiety were largely for naught: the Serbian church patriarch died days prior, and the funeral was the day of the game. Not only that, but fearing the worst of the fans, the game’s attendance was limited. Though our team lost, it was a good game. We sat between two friends who obviously rooted for opposite teams, at one point nearly ending up in the middle of a fight. Good times.

And that was that. They left as quickly as they came, and were enchanted by the country and its people: they already want to return. This place has that effect on people. In their place, they left goodies Vlad and I had ordered for the kitchen, including some of Taza Chocolates finest specimens (thanks go to my friend Alex for getting together the order on short notice—if you haven’t tried their stuff, you should: I’m willing to bet that it will pose a hefty and worthwhile challenge to your concept of chocolate). They left behind books, knives, and lots of love. A special thanks to all who made the week such a great time, most of whom will probably never read this.

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