Because the museum was too far to walk - Vacation diaries day 13

As the taxicab careened into the traffic of Belgrade and away from the pier where our ship was docked, I wondered - was I making a mistake?

It’s hard to believe I’ve been back for two weeks now. The internet connection for the last few days of our cruise down the Danube was lousy, so I wasn't able to put up any more posts, but I've been thinking a lot about those days travelling through the Balkans - and that afternoon in Belgrade in particular.

On the tour bus that morning the guide had shown us many beautiful sights, but I’d also taken note of:
- tram cars that looked like they'd been new in 1967
- a tent-city in a riverside park that looked like it was populated by refugees
- the hollowed-out remains of the what used to be the Yugoslav Ministry of Defense (it was bombed by NATO during the war over Kosovo in 1999).

Yugoslav Defense Bldg - photo Tomislav Jagust

As the bus idled at a red light on our way back to the ship, I noticed a small brass plaque beside a dreary office door that read: "Republic of Serbia - Anti-Corruption Agency." What kind of a country needs an agency like that, I wondered, then I realized I had to adjust my frame of mind.

On our way down the Danube, we'd started out in wealthy Germany and Austria, then traveled through the somewhat poorer former Soviet bloc - Czech Republic, Slovakia and Hungary. Now we'd arrived in a country that was recovering from a recent war, and couldn't afford to tear down let alone rebuild, a major downtown office building. We'd entered the "developing world" and now I had to get used to the idea that my own wealth far exceeded that of the people around me.

After lunch on the ship my mom said she wanted to go see the Nikola Tesla museum. Our guide had told us that the original inventor of Alternating Current was a Serb, and that many of his inventions were displayed there.

I wanted to make my mom happy, but the museum was too far for her to walk in the 35 degree heat, so half an hour later, as my mom made her way up the gang plank into the sweltering heat, I was thanking the desk clerk profusely. The ship didn't normally exchange currency, but she'd managed to scrounge up a 1000 Dinar bill and sold it to me for 8.50 Euros. And she'd also found a waiter on board who could speak Serbian - and through him she'd ordered us a taxi.

Serbian "Anti Corruption Agency"

The waiter was a handsome young Romanian man with jet black hair and pale skin. He walked with us along the pier to where the cab was waiting. He told the driver where we wanted to go and I watched the driver nod. Then I asked the waiter to find out how much the ride was likely to cost. He said 450 dinar.

I stood on the sidewalk, doing the math. I had enough to pay for the ride, but not enough for admission and another cab to get us home. I just had to hope I could change some more Euros there.

I climbed in and the driver took off into traffic, careening across tram lanes, speeding through intersections, and weaving madly through a three-laned traffic circle.

Some trams looked very old.  Photo: public-transport.net

When I think back to that moment in the cab, I remember giddy panic rising as I realized I might be getting us in over our heads - the museum might not be able to change our Euros, the cab driver might try to cheat us, or we might end up dead in a traffic accident. The feeling reminds me of a moment I had with my dad in the hospital a few days before he died.

He was restless, edging his way over to the side of his bed, gripping the hand-rail, pulling himself up. I asked if he wanted to go to the bathroom. He was having a hard time speaking by then, but he managed to get out the word "no." Then he eased his legs over the side of the bed. I asked if he wanted to walk. He could barely stand on his own by then, but the day before we'd "gone for a walk," which meant making our way around his bed, him gripping the side rail, me holding on to him. He nodded.

We'd only made it a few steps before his legs began to give way. I braced myself but he was too heavy. I called out to my mother, who was sitting in the corner, but she didn't understand when I asked her to bring over the chair. My heart began to pound. I cursed my own pride, thinking I knew how to help a feeble man walk. This was the kind of thing that nurses and orderlies got trained for. I should have rung the bell, asked for help. I shouldn't have tried to help him by myself.

In the end Dad didn’t fall. Mom wheeled over the commode chair just in time and I managed to ease him into it. Later, after my heart had slowed down, my dad muttered something. I leaned in to hear. It took effort for him to get each word out. “I… guess… I’m… not… perfect,” he said, and it dawned on me that he thought our near fall had been his fault. I chuckled. It was an old family joke, his pretending to be perfect – or almost perfect at any rate. I stroked his hand. “Of course you’re not perfect. After 89 years you’re just figuring that out?”

I didn’t have many opportunities to make that kind of mistake with my dad. He was only feeble enough to require my help for the last six weeks of his life. With my mom, I’ll be helping her for years to come, or I hope so anyway. So I imagine similar situations will come up again - her wanting something, me wanting to please her and not recognizing when I'm about to put us both at risk. I imagine I'll need to get better at asking for help, and also at saying no to her when something's not safe.

Thankfully, that afternoon in Belgrade the cab got us to the Tesla museum unscathed. And though they wouldn't take my Euros at the ticket booth, several other people from the cruise were already there. One of them happily gave me a second 1,000 Dinar bill. It was enough to pay for admission and a taxi back to the pier. I breathed a sigh of relief as we boarded the ship again.