Postcards from Europe #4
A series of my first time travelling through Europe before settling into my writing residency at the Chateau d'Orquevaux. This postcard is about Novi Sad, Serbia
The Postcards from Europe series chronicles my first trip to Europe visiting Vienna, Bratislava, Budapest, Novi Sad (my father-in-law home town), Belgrade, Paris, Dijon and Joinville. After this I commence a three-week writing residency at Chateau d’Orquevaux.
Catch up on previous posts
Hello my dear Musers
I’m writing to you on the way from Novi Sad to Belgrade with a stopover in Indija meet the priest who conducted my father-in-law’s funeral. It’s been an amazing time in Novi Sad for many reasons, but mostly for M to learn about his father’s family’s life here and to connect to his Serbian roots.
Novi Sad, Serbia
We travelled from Budapest to Novi Sad by bus as the train was a complicated connection due to crossing borders. The instructions from the driver and their ‘assistant’ about which side of the bus for our luggage was overly complex and it was only due to another passenger we worked it out. This guy was travelling with another man, a woman and a teen. I got chatting with him and learned that they were heading to Novi Sad for the 150 year congress of the International Congress of Americanists (ICA). He was surprised I’d never heard of it. He and his mate were from Columbia and the woman and daughter were from Brazil. The ICA is a meeting of academics to talk about the two Americas (which I’m still confused about what that is, so if you know please drop that in the comments). These are moments I love about travelling. M and I grabbed a couple of seats up near the front, only to find out that we were in the reserved section and had to move up the back in separate seats. I was next to Swedish guy who didn’t talk a lot but did a lot of research about religion on the trip.
The border crossing was again complex, and a rather wordless one where we were shepherded off the bus and made to form a line. We then had to show our passports. We returned to the bus after it passed through the boom gate, drove for about 50 metres and told to get off again. Again, we formed a line with our passports and received our rubber stamp of Serbia, climbed back into the bus and once we were all back on were told that we now needed to get our luggage out and take it to a room. The bus met us on the other side of the second boom gate and the last passenger climbed on with what looked to be a temporary passport and we were off … until we stopped ten minutes later at a roadhouse for a half hour break. We ordered a borek and sat inside – it was hot out, only to discover that there was smoking inside. Welcome back to the 80s!
When we arrived at the Novi Sad bus station, we were swamped with taxi drivers touting for business. I messaged our host to find out the bus number to get to our accommodation, they replied to say they would pick us up. It was the daughter who was in her early twenties fresh back from completing her marketing degree in Barcelona. She took us to our home for the next four days in the middle of the old city. We were on the third floor and climbed concrete stairs that would be condemned in Australia, but here were held together with scaffolding. M had a moment as we walked in with everything looking very Serbian. Perfect, he said. I asked if he’d noticed that we were a couple of doors up from his father’s house and he nodded.
His father’s house is now the H&M store and has the original ceiling painting, parquetry, stairs, doors and so much more. We walked through taking photos, speculating what each of the rooms might have been. It is a grand building and would have been an amazing home back in the day.
Novi Sad was easy in so many ways. Given we were staying in the old city, there was no traffic. The main square that we looked out to was empty when we arrived, but a few hours later, was full of people strolling, children running and riding bikes and quad bikes, teens riding electric scooters and motorbikes, lovers arm in arm, people drinking, eating popcorn (a favourite here) and ice cream. A heavenly scene.
Our first day in Novi Sad was spent talking with the people at the info centre and walking around the old city. The folk at the info centre provided M with a bunch of addresses to look at along with information about M’s family. It was a stinking hot day so we spent a while at the gardens sitting in the shade of the enormous trees watching the world go by: tour groups following guides holding flags and talking a million miles and hour, strings of young children in high vis vests holding a rope with a teacher and both ends, people eating ice cream.
We visited the Museum of Contemporary Art which was a respite from the heat. We’d been told that there was some art there from M’s ancestor’s homes but we unexpectedly found ourselves in a permanent exhibition of Serbia experience of the first and second world wars. It was confronting stuff.
We visited the Novi Sad city library and, as expected, had a wonderful experience. The librarians helped M find a book about his family while I had a great chat with a young man earnestly reading philosophy. He spoke in great English (and German and Russian) about the current politics and the uprising of discontent. ‘There’s a huge protest in Belgrade tomorrow, so don’t go there as it will be too dangerous.’ He explained how there would be riot police and thousands there. The protest was about the corrupt government and, he assured me, that they were hoping to overthrow them. Between us on the table was a long line of books. There again was Viktor Frankl’s book in Serbian. A woman picked out two Gabor Mater books from the line. I suggested Viktor’s book and she recommended a Federiko Bosko book, Govorili su da sam Preosetljiva (They said I was oversensitive), saying in broken English that it was the first time she’d felt okay about being a sensitive person. Books, huh. They help people be.
We grabbed a hire car to pick up our son J after his 33 hour transit from Melbourne to Belgrade. We had about three hours to kill between getting the car and his flight landing. The guys at the car hire place recommended a restaurant on the Danube on the way to Belgrade. Pasent in Sremski Karlovci was full of character and charm. Inside a DJ played tunes for the packed tables who over our meal moved to the dance floor. We sat on the balcony overlooking the Danube and our attentive young waiter practised his English. He said they learn English at school but he’s never had the opportunity to speak it. We went with his recommendations and I had the best fish stew with Danube carp.
With J in tow, we had a day trip to ancestors old homes and the family crypt out in the country. There’s heaps of photos online about these places, but seeing them and walking around them is something else. They’re all abandoned and left to crumble as they are owned by the government now but as I walked around, I was able to imagine the people there and the life they gave to the places.
At one, a man appeared from one of the buildings (we couldn’t access the inside of anything). He gesticulated to us while speaking Serbian words urgently. ‘English?’ I said and he shook his head. ‘Not much,’ he said. He had more English than we had Serbian. He knew more about the family’s history than we did and he walked us around the overgrown property talking about the things he knew. How it was painted white and that the government will turn it into a museum one day, how the family were respected for the agricultural school they set up. He paused in front of a sprawling tree. ‘Three hundred years old,’ he said. ‘From Argentina.’ He pressed his dead cigarette between two fingers and rolled it to a ball. The wall around the property was made of bricks that were made from the land around there. The huge holes in it are due to locals using the bricks for their houses. He took us through some rooms in the only building that is used now and showed us the handicrafts of some local Hungarian women. As we left, he pressed M’s hand, telling him it was a pleasure to meet him.
Were my ancestors good people?
This question plagues so many. When researching my First Fleet ancestor story, I worried I’d find some ugly fact. I haven’t but I’m sure if I followed the tree down, there’d be something for sure but it may not be documented. As that young guy in the library said to me, History is written by the winners and is never the truth; instead, we must find the truth.
At the end of the day driving around, we sat drinking a beer in the beautiful old city watching the local promenade in the lazy evening heat. I asked M how he felt about everything he’d seen and heard. ‘It’s good to know they were good people and are still respected.’
Our time in Novi Sad was short but we fell in love with it and will be back again.
Random fact
Serbia is the world’s largest producer of raspberries (8%).
My writing
I’ve been scribbling notes about everything and have things I can build on for my new manuscript (Plan A for my time at the Chateau Orquevaux). My creativity basket is filling and there’s even more swirling in my head.
It’s been a great thing to be in among the city and out into the villages where I could switch on all my senses to absorb the culture and place.
I’m looking forward to some still time to unravel all the threads. I’ve got another week and a bit before I settle into my residency and I’m tingling with nervousness excitement.
Fun fact: nervous and excited have the same physiological feel, so you get to choose what you want it to be. If you’re feeling nervous, try telling yourself that you’re excited and notice the shift.
I’ve booked into a couple of events at the Bendigo Writers Festival. It’s a great line up and the added bonus will be staying with my son in his new place.
My retreats
My next writing retreat at the stunning Karma Kinglake property kicks off not long after I get home. Karma Kinglake edges onto Kinglake National Park, and I’m looking forward to holding the space for the writers and their stories. It’s a great bunch of writers coming.
These retreats are brilliant for writers who have been craving the time and space to write something new, or immerse themselves in the work of redrafting. Writers always come away from my retreats thankful for the time it has afforded them and the focus it has given them.
Want to join?
There are only two cottages left at this four-day retreat: Silver Princess Cottage (which can be shared with another writer mate as there are two bedrooms) and one of the Mountain Ash suites. If you’re keen to grab one (you can be a writer at any stage and for any type of writing), reach out to me on WhatsApp, email or book through the retreat page.
Next?
We’re in Belgrade now for a very short stay. So far we’ve been serenaded at a traditional restaurant. More in the next postcard.
I love hearing from you!
Until next time, with a postcard from Belgrade!
x M
PSST: if you’re new here, welcome! It’s lovely to have you here. If you haven’t checked out my Welcome post, I’d recommend that to find your way around
Added bonus
Since you’ve made it all the way to the end, I’ll show you some more pics
Love reading about your adventures Meg!