Book your tickets and hostel, pre-order museum passes and check the weather forecast.

I left Belgrade, the city I was born and raised in, when I was 16. I had no intention of ever returning, bred on my family’s notion that I was too good for a closed-minded Eastern European society. Abroad, I fed my nostalgia for Serbian turbo-folk music after practicing my English accent for hours in front of the mirror in order to get rid of the accent that would expose my Balkan identity. When my friends told me they wanted to visit Belgrade for fall break, I was shocked — why would anyone want to go to Serbia?

Apparently, Belgrade became a tourist hub in the few years I was gone. Lonely Planet, The Telegraph and The New York Times all ran stories on my city’s incredible options for tourists. Corriere della Sera even called it the “future Dubai of the Balkans” and compared it to Berlin. My friends were ready — they heard that nightlife was amazing, food was cheap and the girls were beautiful. Not happy with the possibility of staying alone on campus, I booked the tickets, the hostel and joined their Facebook group chat titled We are going to Belgrade, bitches!

The first day, we decided to stroll around the city center and visit Kalemegdan, a beautiful ancient fortress that oversees the communist architecture of Novi Beograd. My friends expected me to tell them about the history of the place, to be a local who guides the tourists around. But I was not a local anymore — I was getting lost, making grammatical mistakes and miscalculating the currency’s value. I was frustrated at my in-betweenness, so I decided to take them to a kafana — a place where no one is a foreigner. Explaining the concept of a kafana is hard — it is neither a bar, a tavern nor a club. It is a place where you can eat traditional food, drink a lot, listen to live music and dance on tables. My friends did not know a single song, but we danced for the whole evening. My friends, all Westerners, enjoyed what I feared they would deem ratchet. I was amused. Slightly proud even.

In the morning we had a traditional Serbian breakfast. Since I was not a host, but an in-betweener, I did not bake pita or serve seven different kinds of cheese and cold cuts. I simply took my friends to a pekara. Pekara literally translates to a bakery, but the concept is not quite the same as in the West. Belgrade’s streets are filled with pekaras, but they all smell different even when they sell the same products — for two dollars you can order a crepe, borek and a doughnut. You can have any meal you want, at any time of the day.

The hostel we were staying at was located near a major bus stop so it was surrounded by a plethora of sex shops and pekaras. As we were choosing one, we were discussing the offerings at the sex shops and everyone was trying to guess what the other person would buy. We were still joking when we settled for the pekara at the corner. I started explaining to them the ingredients of everything displayed, taking orders in English and giving them in Serbian. At the same time, I was juggling our discussion about sex. My roommate insisted on me ordering her a borek. Still much involved in the heated discussion, I turned around and told the seller, in perfect Serbian — “Actually, I’d really like to try this bondage thing, seems like it’s getting popular.” She stared at me and only when I noticed that my order was not coming, I realized what I’d just done – I had shared what I was supposed to say in English, to my friends. Thoroughly embarrassed, I left the bakery in the middle of ordering and broke out laughing as the bus arrived at the station.

Navigating a hybrid identity and multiple languages can get you in funny situations, but most of the time, it is just difficult. Especially if you try to efface one of your identities — the one you are secretly ashamed of. I couldn’t flaunt the beauties of my country in front of my friends because I couldn’t see them for myself. But I loved being a tourist — people were kind, nature was beautiful and the atmosphere was welcoming. I ended up in places I would have never seen had it not been for my curious friends. We discovered an underground, semi-legal café operating in an abandoned apartment. We visited the quarter where contemporary artists meet, we spoke to grandmothers on public transportation and we went to open markets. When you’re not in a rush, the smells, sounds and sights of your city come to life again.

My trip didn’t make me see everything in pink though — the flaws were also more apparent, more jarring. As we were passing by a park, one of my gay friends asked me what Smrt pederima meant, pointing at a graffito. How was I supposed to tell him, Die, faggots? All the reasons I left Serbia are still valid, but they are not inherent to my country’s identity. Before my trip, I hated nationalism and the pride our leaders propagated, so I prevented myself from feeling it. Seeing my city through the eyes of a tourist made me realize that pride can be a good thing as long as it’s not making you idealize your home.

I am proud of my people’s hospitality, spontaneity and kindness. I am proud of the old buildings’ shadows mirrored in the glass of new ones. I am Serbian, and while I tried to run away from it, I didn’t always need to.

So if you want to have an adventure that will make you rethink your identity — book your tickets and hostel, pre-order museum passes and check the weather forecast. Do everything you usually would when you travel abroad. This time, however, go back to your hometown as a tourist.