Serbia, Told By You – Bicycle, Smile & Rakija in Šumadija

Author: Markus Schneider, 34, Germany (Berlin)

When I set out to cycle across Serbia, I expected landscapes, hills, and maybe a few old monasteries. What I didn’t expect was how often the road would bring me to people’s hearts.

It was a hot afternoon near Topola. My legs were heavy from the hills, and I stopped by a dusty village road to drink water. Suddenly, an elderly man with a wide-brimmed hat waved at me from his yard. He spoke no English, and my Serbian was limited to “hvala” and “zdravo,” but somehow he invited me in.

Inside the small yard, under a grapevine trellis heavy with green clusters, his wife brought out a plate of sir, paradajz, and hleb. Then came the rakija, in tiny glasses that caught the afternoon sun. I hesitated – drinking strong liquor mid-ride didn’t sound wise – but the sparkle in their eyes made it impossible to refuse.

We sat there, smiling, raising glasses, pointing at things and finding a language without words. He pointed at my bicycle, gave me a thumbs up, then at his own chest and laughed: “bicikl, mlad!” I think he was saying he used to ride too, long ago. His wife put her hand on her heart when I said “hvala” again and again, as if gratitude itself was a bridge.

Before I left, they packed a piece of pita sa sirom into my bag, wrapped in a napkin. As I cycled away, I looked back and saw them still waving, standing in the dust road, framed by the vines.

That day I realized something: Serbia’s greatest gift isn’t in its castles, mountains, or rivers. It’s in the unexpected kindness of strangers who treat you like family after just five minutes.

And whenever I taste homemade rakija now, I don’t think of alcohol. I think of that little yard in Šumadija, of grapevine shadows, of laughter without words – and of a road that gave me more than I could ever imagine.