I'm writing in a bar called the Federal Association of Globe-Trotters, which is only the best name in the world. It's one of the hidden bars of Belgrade, which I found thanks to my trusty LP.
To get in, you ring a buzzer at a nondescript, concrete apartment building (several times maybe, if the bartender is busy), and when they buzz you in, you open a heavy black iron gate, walk down an unlit hallway, go down into the basement, and suddenly you're in a large bar with several rooms. It's late afternoon, so it's pretty empty, but the decor is amazing. One table is a piano, another a sewing machine. There's a mirror with flashing Christmas lights and a fish tank. The ceiling is painted lik a partly-cloudy night sky, complete with glow-in-the-dark stars. One of the rooms is a sort of basement terrace, and it's filled with plants, though I'd be surprised if a lot of sun finds its way down there. All the lamps are different, and there are no more than a few of any particular kind of chair.
The black and white photos on the walls are fantastic: an old-school aviator with cap, a hockey player and topless figure skater in a weird studio, a random wedding picture, some whitewater rafters. There's paint peeling of the walls, and some of the brick has been exposed by missing plaster, but they just painted it gold and it fits perfectly.
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