Goodbye, Belgrade.

"You want coffee?"

"Yeah. I do." Mladen can just read my mind sometimes. We'd started with a beer, then had a rakija. It's only natural that we move to turska kafa, since I have no plans on going to bed tonight, as my flight leaves Belgrade at 6:45 in the morning. And besides, it's symbolism. Pivo, rakija, kafa, i necu spavati.

Beer, rakija, coffee, and I'm not gonna sleep. Pretty much sums up my Balkan existence.

"Okay," Mladen said. Mladen, the owner of the Three Black Catz, is one of those people who understands. He just gets it. The night sky above us had that hue that lets you know you've passed its darkest hour. But it's still night. "You make coffee, and I'll go get cigarettes." I smoke cigarettes when I'm in the Balkans, because it's just what you do. When in Belgrade, do as the Serbians do.

If my mom wasn't recovering from surgery, I would just tear up my e-ticket and stay for an extra month, which could easily turn into two, three, four, indefinite.

I hate leaving Belgrade for good. It's only the second time I've ever done it. But it's never something I want to do.

These two weeks were ... exactly what I wanted. They were exactly what I wanted.

"When I come back." That's what I say in sentences. Not "if," but when.

I've got unfinished business in this country. Too many friends. And a special reason to come back.

And so I will. That's all I know. I will.