When I learned about my trip to Belgrade in connection with the promotion of my new book, I decided to stay at Majestic, a hotel I have long been acquainted with. My father often had coffee in its café together with his friends. His barber was in the hotel as well. When I grew old enough, he introduced me to the barber, and I used to come to the hotel for my haircuts. Build between two world wars, it is a jewel of modernist architecture, too. But the room I got this time around could not be worse. On the lowest floor, it faces the courtyard rather than the street. Its only and small window gives on a few exhaust pipes coming from the kitchen. After so many years, my family name means nothing to the hotel crew. So many years after the breakup of Yugoslavia, my father is history. Which is why I have ended up in a room that is far from majestic.