Belgrade

Serbian drivers are nuts, but the people are the friendliest I've encountered. A day with my niece's godfather, desperately struggling to remember my Leaving Cert German. An evening on the terrace drinking beer and schnapps with Sneza's father, whom I had previous essentially snogged. I'm sure my quite nature is sometimes mistaken for aloofness, but everywhere I was greeted by smiles and the warmest hospitality.

The city itself is perhaps in a state of transition still. The museum is being renovated, the national assembly and the massive St Mark's are both clad in a cocoon of scaffolding. Communist era façades dominate the centre, but elsewhere glass-fronted offices vie for space beside ailing apartment blocks. One failing bridge over the Danube contrasts with several modern spans on the Sava. Maybe the Sava is thought of as Belgrade's, and the Danube is in shared custody, and only given attention once in a while.

Capitalism has not become a scourge yet. Stalls are abundant, but hawkers do not impose. Only one street has the air of a tourist trap, with maître d's hovering outside, tempting passers-by. Muscisians plays by the tables, romancing couples with renditions of Sinatra.