Ada Ciganlija

The sun is beating down on the concrete canyon of the street. My girlfriend and I squeeze under the thin precious slivers of shade from the only tree we can find, and wait.

Finally, the clanking yellow metal can that is the bus rumbles full throttle towards us, black fumes emanating behind it. We get on, the diesel engine revs into gear and hot air rushes in. The bus, being number 55, is full of people who, like us, are going to Ada lake for a swim, for shade, for the bikinis and the muscles, but mostly because it is summer.

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