I entered the Temple of St. Sava reverently. It had been a long journey. Some months ago, I had found myself in rural Virginia, near my undergraduate university, almost tapped out, as I had been unable to find an apartment using the last of the Covid savings, and I realized that I could last longer abroad. I then checked the airline prices and the rental costs, and with a day, I was flying to Belgrade, in order to spend the days looking for work online. Of course, since the standing room tickets to the national theatre were less than $5, I was frequently there. And I spent many hours walking around the city and reading in the park. I found a job, but it required a Windows machine, and I only had a Chromebook, so I pressed "pause" on that, and kept looking. I was living in a rental in an old outdoor mall from the days of the Republic -- Kumecivo Sochache (sp?), inside one of the stores that had been converted to tourist rental. I kept to myself, drank coffee, baked bread, read Henry James in the park, and looked for work.
Finally, I found a position in India as an Assistant Dean and professor, teaching American constitutional law and international public law. I had extended the stay by a few weeks, as I had been unable to bring myself to abandon the quest before I found something. Unfortunately, Turkish Air and I didn't see eye to eye on the rebooking, which cost me the price of a new ticket, hastily rebooked after being turned away at the airport on the day of departure and then booking an extra night at the rental and a second ticket.
The rental was actually my second place there. I had initially found a place in New Belgrade, right across from a small university, apparently rented by a local government official, perhaps now retired. A 24-hour chain bakery two blocks away. Michael, the government official, was a bit more savvy than he let on. We were using Google Translate to communicate, passing the laptop back and forth -- on the first pass, he made a befuddled face and punched some keys apparently at random, bringing up my entire (innocuous) search history. It had been difficult to find him at the airport -- I think he might have had second thoughts when I showed up in an old winter coat and with a BW knapsack, as opposed to the usual American attire and rumble suitcase. We talked a bit on the drive over; I mentioned that I had wandered through the temple during renovations on an earlier visit in 2002. I was with a theatre troupe, and we had an excellent Italian dinner with our hosts on King Michael street, just across from the JDP. They indicated the structure on the hill, and I mentally decided to explore it later on. Luckily, the gate was open, as the small chapel and gift shop was open. I wandered into the main church, finding a few candlelit icons on the back wall. The floor was dirt, and the stones around me were rough-hewn ("when building a great dome, one does not use finished stone" Hegel, I think). I purchased an icon and kept it with me for some time. When I described my visit during the renovations to Michael on the drive in, he gave me a bit of inquiring side-eye, as the temple had been under construction, not renovation, something that had escaped my perception, being considerably more intrepid than knowlegable.
At any rate, the van to the airport departed from the traffic circle at the bottom of the hill. I asked the driver to wait a moment, got out, and had a brief colloquy with the distant Temple, mentally resolving to return to that particular place.
After the confusion with the airlines, I had lost my deposit on the planned rental in Cleveland, and the indolent fellow from whom I had rented before refused to proceed without it. I put out a call to a fellow who I knew rented inexpensive rooms near the university in Illinois, and he agreed to rent me one for a few months, so that I could prepare the courses for India. India proved to be chimerical. They sent the wrong paperwork twice, and the third batch was mysteriously held up for over a week with the courier, arriving the day after I would have had to file it in Chicago. Now inarguably completely tapped out, I returned to NYC for what proved to be a difficult winter, which broke in spring when I returned to the Balkans, first heading to Bucharest, and then Sibiu. But now I was back in the temple where I had been for the previous year's easter night liturgy, and many Sundays reading the psalter after Catholic Mass at the tiny cathedral near the Parliament.
A guard approached and told me that I would have to leave, as there was a liturgy with the Patriarch about to start, and only Serbians were allowed to be within the building. I was taken aback, but reasoned that a church without walls would have a hard time building a ceiling, so it would be best to go quietly. (The walls and ceiling, incidentally are covered with brilliant mosaics and pietra dura paid for by Gazprom.) I asked if I could stand outside the doors on the porch and look in, and he agreed, but later came back to say that this was to be prohibited as well, and asked me to stand some distance off on the grass. I obeyed, peering at the small bit of the inside I could see, until the Patriarch and his party arrived on the porch, and then I headed off to Starbucks.
It had been a bit jarring, but also inspiring. The Christian place of worship was meaningful enough to them that they felt they had to defend it against all other peoples (Americans understandably not being high on the list). It was a rare inhospitable moment in a country famous for its strict rules of hospitality, and that made it even more meaningful. I felt a bit like a missionary playing pickup baseball with a remote tribe who suddenly find the game so meaningful that they keep all the equipment for themselves, and make it a part of the tribe's life. I don't think I've ever seen a more clear demonstration of the conquering power of Christ.
I returned to the city some months later, as part of the extended Balkans travels. First, a tiny studio across the street from St. Mark's, the parish church near the Parliament built in the 1940's, and I visited it a few times, but I respected the discipline of the church, and kept away from both the temple and the patriarchal cathedral closer to the old city. I had a peculiar dream one night connected with an angel -- he cast salt in my face for some reason, and I shifted into lawyer mode, demanding to know who was in charge there. Shrugging, he pointed to some small figures far below, clearly prelates of the national church. The angel had an immense face.
Although I visited the parish a few times, that stay much more often found me at the Starbucks across from the Parliament ($2 Americanos) and the JDP and the national theatre down the street, tickets at both well under $10, as culture is thought a necessity there, rather than a luxury good. I had a small wooden table in the rental, which was good for reading, and the strong hotplate made for some savory dinners. (When I am forced back to the city for these difficult winters, the coffeehouses and the dinners abroad tend to come into sharp relief in memory.) One night at the Starbucks, I listened to the live broadcast of Rheingold from the season opening at Bayreuth -- at the end of the evening, the parliament building was brilliantly lit across the street, filing the windows, just as Valhalla is revealed. (An uneasy cultural synthesis, of course, as the Germanic horde and Belgrade aren't on the easiest of terms historically.)
After the month or so across from St. Mark's, I decamped to Zemun, to a apartment rented from a local musician and scholar -- the bombed out air defense building was visible from the window, and on the other side, there was the distant strobe of Usce Mall, which had been an excellent place for necessities until I figured out the markets. I spent my time there writing, gratefully. Walking into the city from time to time, across Brankov Most for a bit of theatre or some coffee, and then the long walk back at night. And the full kitchen and the nearby Lidls made for many healthy repasts. I was able to see theatre, read, think, and write. Belgrade has offered this to me on occasion, and it has come to stand for the proposition of a safe station on the road, where I can stop off and write or explore for a month.
But it is one of two countries in the world whose constitutions begin by declaring it the home of the dominant ethnic group, and those others who live with them.
It has its mystery, and its discretion. But when I've occasionally visited for a bit of respite from an inexplicably difficult life in my own country, I've been grateful even for its reticence and defensiveness. Such things are real, and indicate realities.