There was a hole in my program around noon today, and so I went out for a walk. Although windy and chilly, it was quite sunny. I had no plans for my walk, but I immediately noticed that I was heading toward the first place where I lived with my parents. It did not take me long to reach Jovanova Street, and I walked toward our old apartment building. I recognized only one family name on the bells by the front door: Jovičić. Dragan, my best childhood friend, is no more, but some of his close relatives are apparently still in the building. I almost rang the bell, but I stopped myself just in time. Let bygones be bygones. It would take me quite a while to explain who I was, I reckoned. And then I resumed my walk through my old neighborhood. Everything struck me so much smaller and shorter and narrower than I remembered it. Interestingly, I felt no pull of the second apartment building in which I lived with my parents. Chances are that I will not walk through Kosovska Street even once on this visit to Belgrade. In my mind, Jovanova beats Kosovska Street by a wide margin. I was about eighteen when we moved. Nearly a grownup, that is. But my childhood still exerts an enormous pull at this stage of my life. Or is it already, instead?