ON THE ROAD

Sale has undoubtedly driven to and through your hometown. Enjoy his impressions!

I know an old man in Belgrade who has a zet from Austria who visits Serbia frequently, maybe as often as I have, but while he’s there he rarely leaves the city. I’ve been told that when he’s in town he lives inside his phone and his laptop, and appears to have no interest in the places and people, other than family, around him. I first thought that he might have some phobia, but as I discovered my own appreciation for the magnificent country that the White City commands, I realised it was more likely that he is unable to see neither the treasures carefully hidden nor those that lie in plain sight. Clearly, I do not have this problem. I tend to get around, like the lead character from the Kerouac novel whose title I borrowed for this story. I find out what’s where and then plan a road trip, inviting those relatives I can entice to come along. I research the other attractions along the way to break up the long hours in the car and add volume, and memories, to the journey. This approach to travel inevitably leads to memorable occasions and incidents from which I’ve learned a lot about this unusual country, as well as about the people I travel with.

For example, one time I learned of my wife’s perfect understanding of the chauvinistic mind of policemen in Serbia’s smaller towns. We were returning to Belgrade from the clear waters of Ohrid, and we started early enough for a detour to see the wonder of Đavolja Varoš. Retaking the road up through Kuršumlija, we encountered a situation in Blace. Unfamiliar with European road signs, I had unwittingly turned into part of a street that was designated a car-free zone, and we were suddenly serenaded with the shrill whistle of law enforcement. I handed over my documents to this rather typical example of a village cop, and Jelena readied herself for the appeal.

”Why did you turn into a pedestrian zone?”

”He’s not from here and he didn’t recognise the sign,” offered my wife.

”The car is not registered to him. Why is he driving it?”

As Jelena attempted to make the matter clear, this middle-aged and portly man could not untangle the perplexity behind the idea that I could be driving a car registered to her mother. His whole tone was indifferent to me as a foreigner and condescending to her as a woman, and as her explanation involved more elements than he seemed capable of considering at once, he lost his patience. ”Madam, why aren’t YOU the one driving this vehicle?”

And this is the part of my little story I love the most, when I get to tell you how my darling wife turned an outdated attitude, a stereotype she had clearly and correctly perceived, to our benefit. My sweet Ženica looked him straight in the eyes and, with her most serious face and a matching voice, said, ”Trust me, sir, it’s better that HE drives.”

Eyes locked onto each other, there passed a few seconds of reflection that seemed to me like an eternity, owing to the fearful tension I felt. They ended with the officer abruptly extending his hairy arm in front of my face, dropping my driver’s license into my lap, and saying, ”Madam… I believe you.”

No ticket, no fine! And so we went back on our way, laughing our butts off at how an archaic attitude about a woman’s driving abilities provided a neat escape from a sticky situation. With the beautiful impression of Devil’s Town on a sunny day fresh in our minds, we marvelled at how this country can only be discovered when you dare to go out on the road.