Topola to Belgrade, Serbia.
June 30 to July 4
Sumadija district is often called Serbian Tuscany, a likeness which in my book is among the greatest to give a land. And it lived up to that name with round hills rolling over another in the distance, covered with vineyards, pastures, forests and meadows. Cycling through the Balkan nature was a real treat, and Sumadija in Serbia stood out as the cream of the crop. Yet there is much more to explore, and the Balkans remain the European region I feel the most excited to revisit, to delve deeper and climb higher.
As I arrived at my homestay in the town of Topola, it looked like they had just thrown a graduation party. Pictures of a young woman were everywhere under the carport, at different ages but none older than mid-twenties. Decorations hung in the ceiling and on the wall. A while after knocking on the door, a woman in her fifties greeted me. After initial introductions I asked about the setup.
"Is that your daughter in the pictures?"
She sighed. "Yes. Yes, it was my daughter."
The past tense was enough to keep me quiet for the time being. Later, when asking about the history, I learned that the daughter had passed a few years prior at age 24 in a sudden series of physical system failures that I couldn't quite follow. As I learned her name, the accommodation listing with Milica in the title started to make sense. The stay itself was perfect, with host Liliana being very curious and accommodating. Putting her daughter's name on the property likely made her invest her soul in making it the best it could be in honour of Milica.
The presence of her daughter was kept not only around the homestay. Still today, Liliana updates the time since her daughter's passing on social medias, 39 months and counting as of September 2024. One of them reads: "how many nights and days of emptiness? How will we ever smile again?"
The part of me that drives personal development might question that focus in Liliana's life seem to be all about her lost daughter. The pictures and the reminders make the past all the more potent. But how can you ask of a parent to let go of their only child? And if moving on is not possible, does the spirit of Milica keep her mother going through her presence? These are only two of the questions that come to mind, to which there is no answer. True ring the simple words by Theoden of Rohan: "No parent should have to bury their child." If there is a god out there, he works in the most mysterious ways.
Next up, Belgrade. It became one of only two stops of the entire journey where I stayed a full three days and four nights. Not because it was that spectacular, although I enjoyed my time, it was just lined up that way. The first day was all rain, so rest, recovery and writing was on the menu.
The second day was a road trip out of town with fellow travelers. Lars, a young and eccentric Dutch who took initiative to the trip and kept the talking going through it all. Emese, a Hungarian in a transitioning life phase whose vocal filter prioritised quality over quantity. The brit Ross, oldest in the group and acting as a balancing and diplomatic force holding the power in that when all was said and done, we rode in his car. Leon, Ross's mixed shepherd rescue from Romania, was skittish at first but soon he soon a liking to Lars and rested the head over his shoulder. And me, the cycling Swede, a tagline I started to use when exchanging contacts in places where cyclists and Swedes were rare enough on their own.
It brought back memories from road trips in the past. Jordan, where six people each represented one continent. Israel, a day trip like this one, where Brit Jay and Polish Lukasz played in the mud by the Dead Sea. Morocco, arranged by long time friend Abderrahman, who I have met three times in as many continents. Gran Canaria, racing around the narrow corners in the mountains and tasting lots of liquors at the distillery. Malaysia, where I was the organiser, taking pride and joy in the companionship that we built. Sweden, crossing the country while visiting friends and avoiding moose on the roads.
These memories hold a special place in my heart, where people from distant lands have gathered in a little car to create something beautiful, together. Foreign misfits, banding and bonding - that's home. Serbia is now added to the list, not in a grand epic manner but in a calm toned down way of enjoying a day with three more people, two more wheels and one more dog than usual.
Day three was filled with a bit of sightcycling. My favourite thing about travelling by bike is that one can speed run the checklist sites of a city, saving time and sanity without missing out on pictures. The prior evening and this one was spent in a local game store, enjoying board games and Magic alike (see chapter 40) with strangers turned friends. When in Belgrade I hoped to meet Sergei that helped me back in Silifke, Turkey (see chapter 31) but he currently was fetching his family to make the move. I did however see the heavy Russian migration firsthand as they accounted for a majority of the active players in Belgrade's local Magic community, and I learned more about their life situations.
Obviously the Russians who have fled their country to places like Turkey and Serbia have mainly done so because of recent political developments, but their personal agenda differ. Some left before the war, seeing how their freedoms and opportunities withered. Some have left to avoid the army, tending to their own safety. Some have most valued their future, others have a family to think of. For all I know, the same driving forces are also making Russians stay in their homeland. They think and feel that staying is better, and safer, than the options.
As I observe the Western outlook on Russians take shape in news media, in sports, in culture and in daily conversation, the main driving force often seems to be that of morality. For moral reasons we should take distance, refrain from buying Russian products, ban Russians outright from competitions or, if we wake up feeling kind, only force them to disown their heritage. I cannot help but notice the differences in what presses our actions. An old neighbour to my parents, a well-travelled man of much wisdom and kindness, said that morality is not a quality of intelligence or empathy, but a product of privilege. To me, it rings very true.
We act out of morality when our bellies are full, when our kids are safe and our future is secure. That is simply levels of privilege that many Russians do not seem to feel today, and yet I have only met those with means who have successfully made it out. Some of them have lost hope on their motherland, but most seem to have a strong sense of belonging and duty to where they come from - they don't simply give up on their own. Who, really, am I to judge them?
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