A journey from the streets of Belgrade to the Himalayan heights
The rickety, Yugoslav-era train churned its way through high mountain valleys, but the view through the windows showed only black silhouettes against a blacker night.
I had the six-bunk compartment all to myself for the night train from Podgorica to Belgrade, and I was awoken from my sleep to the sharp raps on my door by border police making their way through the train.
While at the compartment door, speaking to the Serbian officials and answering questions I can no longer remember, I noticed a tall, intense man with a sharp goatee and piercing eyes that seemed to bore through me from farther down the corridor. He looked like a bouncer at best, mercenary at worst, and I didn’t maintain eye contact with him, but instead returned to my compartment to get a couple more hours of sleep before our 6 am arrival in Belgrade.
As our train pulled into the main station during an October dawn, the man approached me and struck up a conversation. “I heard them grilling you back there at the border, and when I heard your accent, I discovered why. They don’t normally ask so many questions of Americans, I hope.”
“At least they were pretty friendly overall,” I replied, unsure of how much negativity I wanted to convey to this stranger.
“Do you want to have a coffee?” The man asked. “I know a few good places here.”
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