The war museum in Kalemegdan is–not surpringsingly–a labyrinth of corridors and display cases where Ex-Jugoslav and Serbian history is exhibited in all its spectacular complexity and brutality. Our head spun after trying to follow this confusing and often disturbing story, told by artifacts like an Illyrian spear, a Byzantine helmet, a janissary uniform, a German incendiary bomb, a chetnik hat, a partisan machine gun, a Croatian AK-47, an Albanian mortar, a NATO graphite bomb.

It was a relief to leave the stale air of the museum and stand on the sunflooded ramparts of Kalemegdan and feast our eyes on a hawk hovering over us.

In the evening, I threw a goodbye party to old and new friends. I offered ärtsoppa med varm punsch (pea soup with hot punch), some weird Swedish drinks and salty licorice.

After this Vorspiel, we went to the best restaurant experience of my stay: Stara Hercegovina, where my friend Petter had some—yuk!–tripice.

I went home to my flat, feeling like Fritiof in the song Fritiof Anderssons paradmarsch (without the snow).

Här kommer Fritiof Andersson, det snöar på hans hatt,
han går med sång, han går med spel!
Hej, mina lustiga bröder!
Det knarrar under klackarna, det är vinternatt.
Hej, om du vill, säg bara till,
så går vi hem till Söder!

Here Fritiofsberg Andersson,
it snows on his hat, he goes with singing,
he goes with the game!
Hello, my cheerful brothers!
It crunches under your heels,
it’s winter.
Hey, if you want, just let me know, so we go back to Söder!