We decide to stop in Belgrade for an evening. Booking a hostel online, we ensure ourselves at least a bed to sleep in for the evening instead of another train. We hop on a bus and travel the short one and a half hours south to Belgrade, arriving at the bustling bus/train station as a steady blanket of rain covers the city. We play our usual game of broken language ticket buying, find that people speak great English here (as they do all over the region), exchange smiles at even the slightest form of customer service, and orientate ourselves with the city.

We are armed with an address and a map that I drew on a piece of paper. We are not worried. This is what we do.

Thirty minutes later, we are drenched in rain and at odds with each other about which way to turn. What we don’t realize is that this is how we always do it, walking around slightly aimlessly, using out intuition and knowledge of how cities work to eventually find our destination. Google maps are for suckers (and they don’t have them in Ukraine anyway).

Problem is, it’s now really starting to come down, and I, armed with the “map” feel like we are going the right way. Nikko does not agree. Since walking around aimlessly is out of the question, we decide to ask someone, a kind man in the park strolling along with his dog. He speaks better English then he’ll admit, and shows us that we are indeed not far from our destination, and in so doing proves that I am in fact the sucker. I had wanted to go the other way.

Five soggy minutes later, we arrive at the hostel, take our welcome shot of local raspberry spirit, take showers, and then head down to the supermarket right next door. Forty minutes later we are snacking on delicious deli turkey breast and Gouda, topped with tortilla chips (all things we can’t get in Ukraine), all for about six bucks. Topped off with some strong coffee, we are in Heaven. Evening plans begin to take shape as I unabashedly flirt with the cute hostel receptionist under the guise of information acquisition.

Although our spirits were slightly low as the prospect of trudging through a damp city crossed our minds, the Tourism Board had apparently received our pleading emails and relayed the message up to the weather spirits, who turned off the faucets and gave us an absolutely magnificent evening to step into. The air was brisk, yet pleasant, filled with that serene silence that only comes after a great rain. Our noses were filled with the receding smell of wet pavement, and a reflective glow that gave the entire castle grounds we explored a whole other dimension of observation. And because it had just rained, and it was winter, we had the whole city to ourselves, something we’d really come to appreciate on our travels, and the true beauty of travelling off season; instead of having to ward off crowds who completely diminish the sacred and special feelings you get at historical sites, you get the whole place to yourself, to help bring home the feeling of how things might have been during the sites heyday, instead of having to elbow groups of screaming little kids in the face to get a good picture.

Of course, the grass is always greener, and as we traversed the city in search of libations, we exclaimed to each other for the fiftieth time on our trip so far (and what would become our mantra), “I bet this place GOES OFF in the summer.”

Our sightseeing complete, we ducked into a bar called “The Idiot,” and told each other our favourite stories of yore as we enjoyed some locally brewed beer and some Star Wars Pinball. We had decided that the last week had exhausted us, and we’d grab a beer or two and then call it an evening, our train the next morning departing at 10am, and us wanting to salvage some sleep.

Three pints later and we decided we’d go check out one more bar nearby before we went home. Just one more bar.

Nikko mentioned he had seen a lot of people in a bar nearby, and as we walked back up the street, we noticed that the bar in question was named, “Mercedes Bar,” and was apparently having a salsa night. Nikko shot me a questioning glance, I shrugged my shoulders, and in we went.

As we sipped on our overpriced beers, Nikko turned to me,

“We can’t leave here without dancing with some of these girls.” The small dance floor was full of young Serbians dancing to salsa, an interesting sight in itself. Though, truth be told, they obviously knew what they were doing.

Nikko continued, “You know a little salsa, I know how to dance, we should be fine out there!”

Our beers finished, and our confidence high (we were Americans, they HAD to like us, of course anyone with a bit of history would be laughing at us) we set out in search of dance partners.

You can swallow down your bile. Don’t fret. This is not a story about two Americans successfully picking up women.

Nikko comes back to me shortly standing tall despite the fact he just got flatly turned down twice without even a chance. We’re not fazed.

My turn.

I ask a few girls if they’d like to dance. One of them begrudgingly acquiesces, and we step onto the dance floor.

Less than one minute later:

Girl: “Do you know how to salsa?”
Me: “A little bit.”

Girl: “Um… I’m going to need more than that.”

End of dance scene.

Now it’s personal. Nikko and I meet again and play peacock.

“We’re both reasonably good looking guys, and we know how to dance, what the hell is wrong here?!” Nikko complains.

“I just don’t get it, it’s like they don’t even want to dance at all unless you are some kind of professional or something. This is really pissing me off.”

I have hit my limit. I KNOW that I can dance at least a tiny tiny bit of salsa, and that should be enough to put me in that cute, “he knows a little salsa so I can teach him some new things” kind of category. I am fed up, but will not give up.

I say to Nikko who is ready to leave, “Ok, last chance. I’ve had enough, I’m going up to the most beautiful girl in here, and will not take no for an answer.”

“’Atta boy. Go get ‘em.” Nikko sees the fire in my eyes (more likely the beer and testosterone) and I can see that he believes in me.

As I glance around the room, Nikko sets off and finds a girl who explains to him that she can’t dance salsa, to which he responds, “I can’t either!” and takes her out on the dance floor. Things seems ok, but inexplicably after about two minutes, she just walks off without so much as a word. It just doesn’t make sense.

Meanwhile, I have found a gorgeous female young Serbian standing with her friends on the wall, too beautiful to need to dance in order to prove anything. She is obviously content watching the action and looking pretty. I will not have this.

I walk up confidently, say hello, and grab her hand and ask her to dance as I lead her onto the dance floor. I seem to get points for confidence and she puts up no protest (maybe she thinks I can dance). We start to dance, exchange a few pleasantries in English, and things seems to be going alright. (Nikko tells me later that from his perspective everything looked like it was going great). High five Werd.

Then the beer started talking to me. It said:

“You can dance better than this. I know the dance floor is small, but you dance your best when you have some room. You gotta show this girl what you’ve got. Do a spin!”

The beer was right! I could spin. I knew some moves. That’s what I’d do. So spin I did.

Three quarters of the way through the spin, and I realize that I haven’t spotted. I step over my other foot and headbutt a scrappy looking Serbian dude in the shoulder.

The beer tricked me!

I immediately turn back to the girl, ignoring the Serbian, and, seeing the look on her face, realize that our dance is now over. I apologize and scamper back like a sad puppy back to Nikko, tail between my legs. (Nikko explains to me later that the Serbian dude looked like he was going to kill me, except he was only about four feet tall).

I look at Nikko, Nikko looks at me. Without a word spoken, we exit the club Charlie Brown style; with our heads down and sad music playing, not looking at anyone, but knowing that everyone is looking at us.

Remember high school. That’s what this felt like. Two band kids showing up at a football party after stealing some of their parents liquor. Everyone at the party knows each other. And to their credit, the two band kids take a shot at it, strutting right up to some girls and making an effort. It is almost commendable, except one of them walks up to the quarterback’s girlfriend and spills a drink on her. *record scratch * music stops, silence ensues.

It was like that.

“Crossing borders, changing lives,” Nikko offers as he puts his arm around me, and we head off in search of one more beer before calling it a night.