At nine in the morning, in the center of Zemun, Belgrade, Niko picks me up in his ride. I chide him on his fancy BMV wagon. Wisely, he ignores the comment. Since we have two hours to drive to Subotica, on the Serbian-Hungarian border, he needs to focus on the road.
During the trip, we compare our grandparents’ war stories. His great-uncle enlisted in the Yugoslav army, essentially as a spy. My grandpa was on Normandy Beach at the D-Day Invasion.
Neither of us had to go to war.
Our only fight this week will be against Serbia’s most powerful force, the almighty rakija drink. We are going to the north of Serbia for the Young Rakija Festival.
