Two hours in Zemun feels like time-travelling sideways into a parallel Belgrade that took a long lunch break sometime in the 18th century and decided never to return. It’s technically part of the Serbian capital now, but don’t say that out loud to a proud local sipping rakija before noon. Zemun has its own rhythm, slightly slower, a little more stubborn, and entirely charming in a faded Habsburg way.
Start at the riverside promenade, the Kej. It’s best to arrive hungry, because even if you’re not, the smell of grilled fish and smoky paprika will do something unforgivable to your willpower. The Danube ambles along on one side, and a stretch of kafanas (those delightfully unapologetic Balkan taverns) lines the other. If the sun’s out, which it usually pretends to be even in winter, expect clusters of locals drinking coffee like it’s a competitive sport.
Begin your walk heading north along the river, dodging cyclists, dogs with suspiciously human expressions, and old men feeding birds while dispensing unsolicited life advice. You’ll pass wooden boats that look like they’ve escaped from a Hemingway novel and probably haven’t moved in years. The soundscape is a mix of lapping water, accordion music from someone’s phone speaker, and the occasional drunken argument about fishing regulations.
Take a turn inland and head towards Gardoš. Yes, there’s a hill. Yes, it’s cobbled. And yes, it’s absolutely worth the mild ankle threat. As you climb, the Habsburg architecture starts to flirt with you—pastel façades, crooked rooftops, and windows that seem to wink when the light hits just right. It’s romantic, but in that low-maintenance way: nothing polished, nothing perfect, just quietly poetic decay.
At the top of Gardoš Hill stands the Millennium Tower, also known as the Gardoš Tower, depending on whether you’re a local, a Hungarian nostalgic, or someone who just likes a good Instagram spot. Built in 1896 to mark a thousand years of Hungarian presence in the region, it now mostly serves as a backdrop for engagement shoots and confused pigeons. Climb it if it’s open—the view stretches across the river, over the rooftops, and into the parts of Belgrade that are still deciding what they want to be when they grow up.
Once you’ve taken in the view (and probably two dozen photos you’ll later claim were spontaneous), amble down through the Old Town. The streets here don’t believe in straight lines. You’ll pass little bakeries with steaming burek in the windows and antique shops selling everything from gramophones to porcelain angels who look a bit fed up. The place has the aesthetic of a Wes Anderson film directed by your eccentric uncle.
Make your way to the Church of St. Nicholas, whose tower peeks above the rooftops like it’s eavesdropping. Step inside if you can. It’s cool and dark and filled with that particular Orthodox ambience of candles, incense, and very stern-looking saints. Even if you’re not religious, it’s hard not to feel a slight tug of something—maybe it’s just the peace, or maybe it’s the faint smell of centuries hanging in the air.
By now, you might want coffee. Or something stronger. Head to one of the riverside kafanas like Šaran or Stara Kapetanija. Both have the kind of slightly faded decor that screams authenticity without actually trying. Order a Turkish coffee or a glass of local white. If you’re feeling brave, try the rakija. It tastes like fire and nostalgia, and it will either ruin or improve the rest of your day, depending on your constitution.
Once caffeinated or gently buzzed, continue along the river path eastward. This stretch is calmer, lined with trees and the occasional bench with questionable structural integrity. You’ll see houseboats—some bohemian, some suspiciously luxurious—bobbing just off the shore. Occasionally, you’ll spot someone fishing with such deep focus they may have forgotten the 21st century exists.
If you’ve timed it right, the light starts to go gold. The Danube softens, the sky puts on a pastel show, and Zemun begins to glow in that smug, quiet way it does best. Locals emerge in waves for their evening strolls, dressed like they’re just popping out but with suspiciously good hair. Children wobble past on scooters. Couples argue softly about dinner.
Finish at the Zemun City Park if you’ve got ten minutes to spare. It’s modest, with a few statues, benches, and trees that look like they have stories. Sit for a moment. Listen. Maybe eavesdrop. Someone will be complaining about politics, someone else about the price of bread, and someone else will be arguing that nothing’s changed here in fifty years—and they’ll all be right.
Two hours in Zemun isn’t about big monuments or grand boulevards. It’s about textures. Cobblestones underfoot. Coffee cups clinking. The rustle of old trees and the occasional rogue saxophonist testing fate. It’s slow, it’s stubborn, and it’s utterly unforgettable.
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