"The Face"

We first saw him about four days ago. Stewart, Kris, Kara and I were walking through one of the shortcuts that connects our street to the Knez Mihajlova, when the large, trench-coated creature passed right by us, briefcase in tow.

"OH MY GOD!"

"What??"

"Did you see that guy's face????"

"What??"

"I've never seen anything like it before in my life!"

"What??"

"His face! It was like .... gooooooooooeeeeeeeewwwwwwww!" I did my best to stretch an imaginary mug upwards and downwards -- slowly, forcefully, permanently.

It was like I had seen a ghost. Stewart, too, had seen it. He was also beside himself in disbelief. The others were totally lost, and confused, as to why I was flipping out on the crowded streets of Belgrade.

It's been a hard go for The Face to find work since filming wrapped on "Dick Tracy."

It was like a cartoon. Like someone had grabbed hold of his forehead and his chin and just PULLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLED, until voila. Done.

We didn't have a camera. I always have a camera. But not this week -- damnit! I've been waiting for a package to arrive at the doorstep of the Three Black Catz since I left Sarajevo, one that will finally give me a charger for the replacement my mom gave me in a (very) one-sided trade while we were in Bosnia. I resigned myself to the fact that I would just have to orally describe the sight of The Face for the rest of my life, knowing that no one would believe me.

And then, we saw him again.

In my three trips to Belgrade, I have gotten progressively lazier and lazier. I have seen less and less of the sun per day, each time. My radius of exploration has steadily shrunk: From Kalemegdan-to-Zemun, to Kalemegdan-to-Ada, to Kalemegdan-to-sometimes-Ada. It's the Hole. The One Black Hole Hostel. Stewart calls it "the nexus of the universe." Not only does Mladen's place suck you into the orbit of Beograd; it sucks you into the orbit of its own walls. Kris, for example -- who arrived 46 days ago -- hasn't gone outside since Saturday night.

(Wait, let me correct that. I just asked Stewart -- who isn't exactly Mr. Active himself -- if Kris left the hostel at all yesterday. He took a sip of his tea, pondered the question for about two seconds, and responded: "We bought cheese.")

That's why buying the football was such a great thing. The most useful purchase since my one pair of pants. The football has given my life in Belgrade a new purpose. A reason to breathe fresh air, to put on my shoes, to go outside. Stewart and I -- and whoever else we can rally to get motivated -- go to toss it around at the Kalemegdan every day. And on two of those days, we crossed paths with The Face as a result.

"Stewart, Stewart! The Face! I just saw it again!"

"Where! Where!"

Once again, we were just outside of the hostel when it happened.

If ever I trip on acid, this is not what I want to see.

"Dude, you've got your camera -- we've got to get this on film."

"Oh, for sure," he said in his Big Sur accent. And he started to walk -- fast.

The first attempt failed. Stewart's camera choked -- the shutter just didn't comply fast enough. He was pulling the old "My friend is right behind you" trick to disguise his true intentions, which is pretty believable, but only once.

Definitely not twice, though. Especially when you've crossed the street, and for the second time in 20 seconds, you see a tourist punk walk right past you, turn, point a camera in your direction, and shoot.

The Face, I think, knew what was up. Check that. The Face definitely knew what was up.

"Dude, he was not happy about that," Stewart said when he ran back across the street. Rob and I had gotten stuck on the other side, and we had watched the whole thing while laughing, the football in my hands.

I took a quick glance at the LCD screen. Money.

"Great success!"

And we were off to the Kalemegdan, where we met Vlade Divac. And once again, Stewart's camera came through in the clutch.