Cafe PrincipIt's good evening Belgrade and so I take my walk down of an evening to where the refugee camp is by the central railway and bus station. I arrive and as I sort of suspected it's cleared - the grass which had worn away has been lightly ploughed over, the open areas have been cordoned off and there is a sense of renewal. Everything has changed.

 

I walk through the small park, now brightly lit and towards the bus station - NO ONE IS ILLEGAL has been stencilled onto one of the concrete bollards. There are a couple of police officers standing at the far end and I manage to engage them into conversation. "One day last week, the last of the refugees and migrants left," they say - "they just packed up and left. We assume to Slovenia. The only ones left are Kosovans for whom this might be their destination anyway." And that's about the limit of the chat, there is a slight hint of concern that I'm a journalist rather than an interested traveller.

The toilets are still here, the water truck, and I cross back to cut through the park again. There a small gaggle of young guys have gathered round one of the late night food stalls - I pause to buy some food and see what I can learn. Sure enough they are Kosovan, uncertain where to go next - one of them has a good enough command of English: "homeless here is better than homeless in Pristina he says, and at least we have running water, and a sense that we got out..." It trails off there and I decide to poke no further.

I tack through the park and head to an old haunt - Cafe Princip - named after none other than the infamous Gravrilo Princip whose bullets acted as the trigger to commence the First World War.

The cafe is a meeting point in every sense - nothing has changed from when Princip himself was here - now it's football and Lady Gaga that blares out. Serbian men are gathered chatting animated - food emerges from the kitchen and I order myself a double espresso and a rakia.

The table next to me sees I am interested in what is going on and we start to chat. He is Serbian, his mother Croation, his brother married a Greek. "Stretching back centuries," he says, "we have been a crossroads. And with the refugees, if the road is blocked you go around. So these refugees have gone around us. they might be poor, homeless and stateless, but they are not fools."

The waitress here moved fast - when the tray is laden she nips through the bar, when the tray is empty she spins it effortlessly on her fingers. I feels the smoke of the bar waft over me, much like the refugees over Serbia. My drinks drunk, I say my farewells, pay my bill, I leave the cafe of Gavrilo Princip and head to my hotel, ready for my flight and home.