In the end you might stay for a little while. You are on tour but what the heck, you are not in such a hurry after all. So you took a room to rent in the center. Two forks, one knife, no oven, no pans, rediscovering the joys of boiled vegetables. You like to play with the idea that from now on you have an address in Belgrade. On the morning you breakfast on the ruins of what use to be a terrace, listening some jazz among the dead pigeons. You spend your days drifting in the city, stopping at each corner to decipher the name of the streets, adding the letters you don't know to your self made Cyrillic alphabet. You spend your nights plotting with the art students, the street musicians, the ballet dancers and the drunken in the parks. And you feel this little twist in the stomach, a diffuse impression that somehow this might be a place you would like to call home. Nothing so surprising though, you always had this strange thing with the cities which name starts with the letter B.