As soon as the announcement came last month that foreigners were wanted in the new flip-flopped Serbian government, I was on alert. Surely the call would come from Aleksandar Vučić asking me to take over a few portfolios. Not too many, enough to keep me occupied a couple days a week.

But the call never came. I should get my phone serviced.

For many years, I have been looking for an adequate explanation for traffic in the White City. I have wondered why it was ok to come to a stop at a red light and then step out of your car and go get a coffee.

The question of right-of-way was fairly easy to figure out - everyone has it. At the same time. Especially at a four-way intersection with six ancillary roads leading into it. Why waste time trying to figure out who has priority when the answer is obviously me? And when you need to transfer (quite suddenly) from the far left lane to the far right, you just do it. Everyone will always get out of the way.

And they will greet you with friendly honking as you go.

[Moment of silent contemplation]

A scientist, chosen by the same gang that strong-armed Galileo into backsies, that poo-pooed Copernicus, and that burned Giordano Bruno for heresy in the middle of Campo dei Fiori. As a class, these are people who do not get along very well with scientists. But now...

HABEMUS SCIENTIFICUS!

“Grumpy in Belgrade” brings together the blogs, essays, and increasingly obscure thoughts of one American in Belgrade, struggling to make sense of the nonsensical. And making nonsense of the rest.

While committed to helping develop the economic capacities of Serbia, the Adviser leaves most of these key messages as implied, focusing instead on his main areas of expertise and topics of specific interest to him in his new role.

There are times when we accumulate so much information a subject that it must needs burst forth and splat onto the page like squashed blueberry. The following is not a public service announcement or message. It is just overspill.

I feel the need, the urge, to say something, but I know full well that my words will drift in the breeze like so much background noise - not even remotely disturbing to the people who should hear them, people who should be deeply disturbed by them.

The saddest part about trying to explain the deplorable, stressful, and completely unacceptable experience

 Man walks up to pay station at Sava Centar to pay for his parking. He puts in a folded 100 dinar note.

"Currency not accepted"

The notice says in English. Man unfolds the bill and smoothes it on his hand. Drops it. Damn. Picks it up, smoothes it out, and tries again.

Many of you who have experienced the Great Airports of the World - Heathrow, JFK, Dubai, and Belgrade's own Nikola Tesla - will know already what I am talking about. This is a subject, in fact, which is so well known to frequent fliers as to be superfluous to set to pixels. It is a level of luxury which we have come to expect, but it is not for the uninitiated...

The hipster has become ubiquitous. They sport my old clothes. They wear my old glasses. They listen to music which either predates me or hasn't yet been invented. In fact, every time that I sorted through my old things and gave them away, I was helping to forge the Hipster.