It starts at the old fortress, as it always does. Kalemegdan is the gateway drug to Belgrade’s chaos. If you’re planning 48 hours in Belgrade, this is the place to begin. You can see two rivers colliding like drunk cousins at a family wedding: the mighty Danube and the rebellious Sava. Bring a coffee, preferably from Kafeterija nearby, and watch the river traffic like it’s 1892. There are cannonballs, Ottoman walls, and pigeons that look like they have seen things. There might also be a retired man explaining military tactics to a bored teenager, because Kalemegdan is where history buffs and aimless flâneurs collide. Climb the fortress, take a photo pretending to fire a 19th-century cannon, and wonder whether you’re trespassing or just badly dressed.
Saunter downhill through Knez Mihailova, Belgrade’s main pedestrian artery. It has everything: Austro-Hungarian facades, people shouting into phones, the occasional street saxophonist playing Careless Whisper with deep emotional trauma. Street artists battle for space with lads handing out club flyers. Duck into the Ethnographic Museum if you’re up for a whirlwind of Serbian folk costumes and the realisation that everyone in history owned at least one absurdly embroidered waistcoat. Stop for ice cream at Moritz Eis or a slightly aggressive espresso at Aviator, depending on your blood sugar levels. These are just a few ways to get your bearings if you’re trying to see Belgrade in 48 hours without dissolving into existential confusion.
Pop into the National Museum on Republic Square. It reopened with fanfare, and now you can gawk at a Rembrandt while wondering if anyone in Belgrade actually knows how to queue. The square outside is the eternal stage for teenagers, protestors, and pensioners who all appear to be arguing about something existential. From here, stroll to Dorćol. It’s the slightly cooler cousin of the city centre, full of cafes that look like they were decorated by a postmodern grandma with a Pinterest addiction. Try Uzitak for brunch: eggs benedict and a rakija? Absolutely. Or if you’re more into crunchy granola and oat milk, head to Botanist. The neighbourhood’s vibes are ideal for a laid-back interlude in your Belgrade 48 hour itinerary.
Afternoon is for street art and socialist nostalgia. Head to Cetinjska Street. Once a brewery, now a playground of bars, murals, and someone selling rings made from typewriter keys. There’s a place called Zaokret which functions as a bar, a political salon, and a place to charge your phone. If you’re lucky, there’s an impromptu poetry reading or someone attempting to play techno on a violin. Sit under the string lights and pretend you’re writing your Balkan novel, or at least a blog that nobody will finish reading. It’s one of those quintessential places to visit if you’ve only got two days in Belgrade and want to feel like you understand the soul of the city—or at least its caffeine dependency.
Walk it off by heading to Tašmajdan Park, which offers both a proper Soviet-style monument and the somewhat surreal Church of Saint Mark. The park is full of chess players, toddlers on scooters, and teenagers pretending they don’t see each other. Grab a lemonade at Madera if you’re feeling posh or a beer from a kiosk if you’re not.
Dinner? That’s got to be Skadarlija. Yes, it’s touristy. Yes, it’s like Montmartre with more ćevapi and less existential dread. But there’s something charming about bohemian kitsch and a waiter named Dragan playing a battered accordion. Order a carafe of house wine, grilled meats, and lose count of the toasts. There will be rakija. There will be regret. There might be a tamburica band playing Hava Nagila for a group of confused Dutch tourists. If your goal is to pack maximum Belgrade into a weekend, this is where you go all in.
Night doesn’t end in Belgrade. It mutates. If you’re a club type, try Drugstore – a converted slaughterhouse turned techno temple. Yes, it smells faintly of ghosts and sweat, but the DJ has opinions and the crowd is less about posing and more about dancing until their souls leave their bodies. If you’re over 30 or allergic to strobe lights, try Gajba, a bar that feels like your friend’s living room, if your friend collected Soviet toasters and obscure vinyl. Or try Polet, part gallery, part bar, part metaphysical experience. These night-time choices are absolutely essential in a solid 48 hours in Belgrade, especially if you want your memories to be slightly warped.
Morning breaks whether you want it or not. Cure it with burek and yoghurt from Trpković in Vracar. Then waddle over to the Church of Saint Sava, a monumental dome that looks like it might launch into orbit. Inside: gold mosaics, incense, and enough chandeliers to light a small country. The echo of your footsteps will sound strangely like judgment. Then swing by the Nikola Tesla Museum. Small, quirky, and they will electrocute something for your amusement. The guides are either budding scientists or failed actors, but either way, they’ll make sparks fly. If you’re mapping out 48 hours in Belgrade, you really can’t skip Tesla.
If you’ve survived the morning, reward yourself with a stroll through the leafy streets of Vracar. Grab a coffee at Kafeterija Cubura and pretend you’re on a Balkans-themed Netflix show. Peek into the used bookstores. Marvel at how every second flat has a grand piano or a cat.
Grab lunch in Zemun. It’s technically Belgrade, but it feels like you slipped through a wormhole into a sleepy Austro-Hungarian village. The air smells like river mist and fried dough. Walk along the Danube promenade, climb Gardos Tower, and complain about your calves. Catch the view, which is part romantic postcard, part post-industrial poetry. Have lunch at Čarda Stara Koliba for river fish and rakija so strong it might change your opinions on politics. Or try Šaran if you want something a bit fancier, with tablecloths and waiters who disapprove of your trainers. These stops are top-tier material for any itinerary claiming to cover Belgrade in 48 hours.
Late afternoon: the Museum of Yugoslavia. Yes, Tito is buried here. Yes, the gift shop sells mugs with his face. But also: a disorienting nostalgia trip with relay batons, propaganda posters, and the slow sinking feeling that history is always messier than slogans admit. The House of Flowers, Tito’s resting place, is both kitsch and strangely poignant. Somewhere between the relay batons and the faux-leather suitcases, you may feel an inexplicable yearning for a country that no longer exists.
If you need grounding, head to Topcider Park and just lie under a tree for a while. Watch the kids feed ducks. Listen to pensioners complain about the youth. Feel mildly philosophical.
Wrap up your 48 hours with sunset at the Beton Hala riverfront. Order overpriced cocktails at Ambar while watching the water turn gold. Or grab grilled squid at Toro and pretend you’re in Miami but with better beer. Think about how Belgrade never quite makes sense, and that’s precisely the point. It’s too Balkan to be polished, too proud to be pitied, and too stubborn to ever go quietly. There is a glorious dissonance to it all — Cyrillic graffiti next to couture, grandmothers in slippers walking past bitcoin ATMs, and somewhere, always, someone playing gypsy jazz at an uninvited hour.
Like any proper weekend fling, you’ll leave Belgrade slightly confused, culturally bruised, and plotting your return before your plane even takes off. It doesn’t try to impress you. It dares you to keep up. And if you manage to do that over the course of 48 hours in Belgrade, you’ve officially earned your rakija badge of honour.
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