Serbia

Belgrade hit differently from every other European city I'd visited — there was a rawness to it, an energy that didn't try to package itself for tourists. The first afternoon I walked down to the Sava, the old fortress up on the hill turning amber in the late-day light, and I just stood there watching the two rivers stretch out below. It felt enormous, and quiet, and completely alive at the same time.

The city runs on trams and coffee and an almost defiant local pride. Those old red trams clank through wide boulevards past buildings wrapped in climbing vines, and the murals on the side streets are full of attitude — giant black-and-white figures, dripping colour blocks, half-finished scenes that somehow say more than a finished painting would. The food followed the same logic: a wooden board arrived loaded with cured meats, soft cheese balls, little fried things, and bread still warm from somewhere, and the whole table just went at it.

I rented a bike one evening and ended up near the Cathedral on a corner where the street opened up and the church tower caught the last orange light above the rooflines. That's the moment I keep coming back to — not a sight, not a landmark, just a Belgrade corner at dusk with the trams going past and the whole city buzzing somewhere just out of frame.