I realized that I had been here almost a month and that I had not met a single other American here in Budva, Montenegro. This was utterly shocking to me, as the town is bustling with tourists from pretty much everywhere else. The Russian language is in the air here, and the fashion sense as well. But the only thing I have seen here to let me know that America is here is one paltry McDonald's.

Why exactly Americans had not inundated this resort town like any other resort town in the world I was not sure. It really did not make much sense, as Serbians seem to have an excellent handle on the English language. Practically every Serb I met has a cousin, brother, sister who is currently living in some American or Canadian city. Yet there are no Americans here.

Serbs are always offering me homemade plum brandy, food, or some other hospitality. Of course strangely enough this is usually followed by the statement, "Make sure that you tell the people back home that we Serbs are good, kind, people."

"Indeed I will," I'd always say. "Serbs are kind people."

So I could not put my finger on why exactly we, Americans, are not over here. It's cheap, the people are friendly and good-looking, and the weather is perfect. Such places elsewhere, have always been rampant with fat mid-westerners lazily eating carbohydrates in local cafes. But not here in Montenegro, only fat new Russians.

I was watching satellite T.V. one day, in my spare time as I usually do, switching between 900 channels that include anything from Arab Porn to Zimbabwe Bible classes. Channel 721 is BBC world. I watch it to catch up on what's happening abroad. I was watching a piece on saving Africa; a cause that I understand has been in the news since I've been gone. I can say safely, that the Russians are not as concerned. Although, I am proud to see that Moscow had a Live 8 concert. Clearly this was put together to show that Russia, while not charitable at all, still has the money to put on a charity rock concert. But on the passing blurb bar on the bottom of the screen came a bizarre message.

"The U.N. made a statement today that Radovan, perpetrator of genocide at Srebanica, is alive and well and now suspected to be living in the tiny mountain country of Montenegro."

"Well that makes two of us," I gasped, spitting out my Perrier.

At that moment in came L------, the families driver and bodyguard.

"L--------, do you know who this Radovan is?"

"Oh, Radovan, yes."

"Do you like him?"

"He is a good guy."

"The BBC says that he murdered 10,000 Muslims at Srebanitsa."

"Well, that can't be true."

I did not feel like pressing the matter any further with L--------. It seemed that it would be better to do some research.

10 years ago at the end of the Balkan war, Radovan, a former sports psychologist for a Belgrade football club, orchestrated the worst act of Genocide outside of Rwanda since World War II. 10,000 Muslims had sought refuge and protection by the United Nations in the northeastern corner of Bosnia. Their 400 Dutch peacekeepers were stationed and well armed. There was one problem: They worked for the U.N.

Not wanting to fight the Serbian forces the UN troops were content to be human shields instead of protecting the Muslims who were all waiting like chickens in a coop in their refugee cams. The U.N. not wanting to sacrifice it's troops for the sake of 10,000 or so Muslim civilians did not order air strikes, instead bending over to the demands of the Serbian forces who promptly marched in and separated every Muslim male from 12 to 70 from the rest of the Muslim people marching them off. Many were tortured, starved, and ultimately met their fate in mass graves.

In the end they suspect around 10,000 people were killed. The man behind this of course was Radovan. It hadn't occurred to me though that he was Montenegrin. It is times like this that I just want to kick myself. I should have known, when only a week before, a guy named Slobodan had brought me my drinks at the beach. It occurred to me then that I'm in the war criminal's San Tropez.

Montenegro is the size of Connecticut. After the war in the Balkans, all of the nastiest Serbs did what they could to get as far away from Catholics and Muslims as possible. Montenegro is just that place. This means that at this very moment I am surrounded by the people responsible for the worst atrocity in Europe since the Holocaust and they are literally right by me.

"L-------, you were a partisan?"

"Yes I was?"

"How long did you fight?"

"Five years."

"And that scar. How did you get it?"

"I was shot by Ali Baba." He turns his shoulder towards me pointing to his back. "This is where the bullet exited."

Naturally the Serbs have their version of the story: The whole Balkan war to them was an attack on orthodox Christianity led by a joint catholic/Muslim force and supported by a protestant America. It was only a handful of Greek Religious extremists who came to the aid of their Serbian brethren. Furthermore, the massacre at Srebanitsa was a response to an earlier attack made by the Muslim forces, and while maybe Serbs should be a little ashamed, the Muslims should also apologize.

Last month in Belgrade a university debate about the massacre at Srebanitsa ended in uproar as the gallery insisted on chanting nationalist hymns and their mantra, "Radovan…Radovan…Radovan." Orthodox masses in Montenegro frequently have Radovan's picture in a sort of premature iconostasis. These people clearly are not very sorry.

The president of Serbia made a trip to the 10^th anniversary of the Srebanitsa Massacre, showing something like regret, if not a true apology. This in itself is a bold political statement, according to the BBC. I can understand this because the average Serb shows something like pride over the entire event.

"You're afraid of Ali Baba, Ameros." Ameros, is what my Serbian friends call me. It means something but it sounds like America.

"Yeah, a little."

"Serbia fucked Ali Baba. We are not afraid."

So I realized then, at that moment, that I was living in the most unpopular country in the world, short of North Korea. While Arab countries certainly despite both Israel and Serbia and Montenegro, at least Israel seems to have some sympathy from the west. That day I told my Serbian friends if they knew where Radovan was, I did not want to know where.

So currently I am living in a palace within a 40 kilometer distance of the 1990's answer to Hitler. This is really quite sobering when you think about it. How could this man hide in such a small place I wondered to myself.

It was at the t-shirt kiosk that I began to understand. There were three different t-shirts and they stated "Serbia is not Europe, Stay Cruel." "Serbian Partisan Forever," and the one I ended up buying, "Each Serb Is Radovan." I looked at this shirt mesmerized as to why someone would buy a shirt with a picture of a mass murderer on it. I figured at least Che Guevara was somewhat good looking, but Radovan looks like he should be working a 9 to 5 as an accountant. It was fascinating, I had to buy it.

My Serbian friends were elated to see me wearing the shirt on the main promenade. I sat down with them at a café and they congratulated me on my purchase.

"Look, an American wearing a Radovan T-shirt everybody!" L-------- shouted.

People all looked and smiled at me.

In the street people started talking me, as if I understood Serbian. Men started singing to me nationalist Hymns. Surprisingly I felt like an instant Serb.

The Next day I was in a café with L-------. I had ordered a beer asking for .5 liters and was told they only had .33. L------- was there meeting with his Aunt and cousins.

"Ameros, go put on the shirt," he commanded.

I obliged him, and went to the car. When I came back I received applause from his family. Suddenly, the waitress who had told me that .33 was the only amount of beer they had arrived with a 1 liter stein of frothy cold Niks Pilsner.

"Free for the American wearing Radovan," she announced.

You really can't beat Serbian hospitality.....even if it comes at a price.