I’m back in Belgrade after seven years. Last time I was here, Milosevic had recently been overthrown and sent to the War Crimes Tribunal in The Hague; Vojislav Kostunica had been elected President and the future looked bright.
Today, Kostunica is the international community’s bete noir, Milosevic is dead but his party, the Socialists, are likely to enter into a coalition government with the EU’s favourite, President Boris Tadic. The country seems locked in a struggle with the EU over Kosovo’s fate. And judging from my unscientific, coffee-fuelled poll of people I have met today, things are a lot worse now than they were seven years ago.
In Belgrade, newly-built, mirrored office buildings vie for space with clapped-out, Yugoslav houses. Down the main drag, dolled-up, silicone-enhanced peroxide blondes leap over dirty beggars. The sun shines, and the city’s second sushi bar – this one run by a Swede – tempts punters with the symbol of Western style – posh Eastern food.
But Belgrade seems like an old lady; once beautiful and coveted, she’s now bitter and tired. Occasionally, she reveals her former glory – in a beautiful, Austro-Hungarian building, a majestic street, a concert in the park – but her time seems over. And after only one day of being here, I’m not sure the Serbs are ready yet to give her a new lease of life.
