Europe 2025

If I’m honest, when I was planning this trip Serbia wasn’t really on the cards. I had no dots on my map within Serbia to see, yet here I am. Why? Well, instead of being logical and just buying a normal connecting flight on one airline, I wanted to try a new airline—Air Montenegro this time. They had a flight from Belgrade to where I did have dots on my Google Map: Tivat. Alas, it would mean an overnight connection in Belgrade. Welcome to me flying to country number 56 to get to country number 57.

Leaving Sarajevo after a blink-and-miss-it visit via taxi from the bus station to the airport, I arrive at a flash new terminal—a stark contrast to the city I’ve just driven through. I check in, pass the friendly border control, and relax while eating overpriced Mentos that I use my remaining Marks to buy. This trip has given me a small taste of pre-Euro currency times—using up those excess coins and notes on stuff I don’t really need, before needing a new currency tomorrow. I’ll be doing a bit of that in Serbia too.

To get to country 56 I’m flying on Air Serbia—an airline not aligned with any of the major alliances, so no lounge access for me. I’m on an ATR72-600 on a sold-out flight. I track the inbound plane—it’s running slightly late but nothing compared to yesterday’s 20-hour delay. We board via the tarmac and through the rear door. ATRs are unique like that, boarding from the back, with row 1 being the furthest from the door. I’m seated about halfway down with a view of the engine and glad that the person beside me is a petite woman, unlike the customer of size in the row in front.

It’s hot and stuffy until we get airborne and the airflow kicks in. It’s less than an hour to Belgrade, yet the crew still manage to serve everyone a bottle of water and a little snack. You can buy more onboard, but I don’t think anyone bothers. The snack—“Plazma”—is kind of cute and hits the spot. From what I can tell on the packaging, it’s vitamin-injected wheat. Healthy?

The overcast skies clear up as we zoom across Serbia toward Belgrade. The fields below stretch out in long stripes of brown and green—a linear patchwork of agriculture. I get a great view as we approach the city. Two rivers meet in Belgrade, forming a broad swathe of waterfront scattered with boats, docks, and what looks like a stretch of parks on both banks. It looks like quite the place to be on a summer day.

We touch down and taxi to a remote stand—the only aircraft parked out here. But as we disembark, ATR after ATR rolls in beside us. By the time we’re on the bus, there are seven parked out here. Seems Air Serbia runs quite the hub operation in Belgrade. Immigration is fast, and my bag is the only one on the carousel—circling solo like it’s been waiting just for me.

Assuming there’ll be ATMs outside, I skip the row of them inside customs—a rookie mistake. I spend the next 10 minutes wandering the terminal looking for one. Eventually cashed up with a new currency—the Dinar—I head outside to the spot Google Maps claims the city buses depart from. I wait around until a cute younger guy—who I later learn is a Russian living in Germany—asks me for directions. “I’m looking for that too. Google Maps says it’s here,” I say. “Mine too, but is it this level or downstairs?” he replies. Is Google being vertically challenged again?

Turns out it’s downstairs. So me and my new friend head down to wait. The A1 bus is the official express transfer to the city—but it’s a mini-bus and no match for the crowd waiting. We jump on the 600 instead—a full-sized city bus and free, unlike the A1. We board through different doors, but my new friend waves and signals that he’s saved me a seat. It’s backwards-facing, which I’m not a fan of, but he’s cute, so I suck it up.

He works remotely and has flown to Belgrade for a friend’s birthday. “It’s good working remotely—I worked on the plane,” he says. He works in medical tech and lights up when I say I’m from Australia—his company is doing projects there due to our advanced medical systems. As we talk, we compare notes on where to change buses. He needs the 37; I need the 23. Google gives us different transfer points, but we both agree on switching at Mostar—no, not the one from this morning.

We chat about our travels, plans, the free public transport, and other small talk—but is there a vibe here? I feel like I’m playing a round of Gay or European. His glances, the way our legs brush, and even the way he moves his lips—it all feels flirty. Or is it?

This continues for the 20-minute journey to the transfer stop—just before which he asks for my number. “Do you want to maybe take a walk in the city later tonight with me?” he asks. I’m exhausted and know I probably won’t have the energy, but I say yes anyway. He’s cute—slightly younger than me, but done with university, so no cradle snatching. He still has a few zits—one eager for popping—but he’s got a real charm to him. How he’s managing a hoodie and jeans is beyond me. I’m sweating in just a shirt.

Just as we leap off the bus, he runs to catch the 37. Before he goes, he snaps a photo of my WhatsApp. “What’s your name? I’m Carl,” I say. He shouts back something like “It’s the Russian for Michael—I hope I see you tonight!” as the bus door closes behind him.

I wave goodbye and look at my phone. Rookie mistake. While the 23 was the preferred route, the 37 goes the same way! I could’ve continued the game a little longer. I check Grindr—just in case—but no dice. I guess whether the game continues is now in the Russian-for-Michael’s hands.

The 23 isn’t far behind. I hop on, only to find it veers off course—apparently some roads are closed. When I realise I’m as close to my hotel as I’m going to get, I bail, cutting through a park and checking into my chilled, upgraded room overlooking the national parliament.

The receptionist recommends a restaurant nearby, where I’m served by a waiter who seems to have studied Mr Bean’s mannerisms but with the personality of someone for whom everyone around him is an inconvenience. I enjoy my dinner, then order dessert while waiting for a text that never comes. I’ll never know the outcome of Gay or European today—but it was fun playing, even if it may have been a single-player game all along.Læs mere