When Life is Beautiful -- Podgorica, Montenegro

I'm starting this post from a cafe near the main bus station in Prizren, Kosovo. Sweet Cafe. A cafe so hazy with smoke that I can hardly make out the counter with all the sweets. Lemonade is served instead of water and my cappuccino has so much chocolate syrup drizzled on that I can't take a sip without getting a massive chocolate mustache and sticky hands. 

I didn't know one could overdo chocolate. But one can. One really, really can. This is evidence. 

This cafe, like so many cafes in this part of the world, is bursting with testosterone. I see one young girl sitting with a man I presume to be her father, but that's about it. All the other tables are populated by young men, middle-aged men, old men, smoking and drinking coffee and looking at their phones. As the odd lady out, I draw glances from everyone entering the cafe. 

Frankly, I'm surprised they can see me at all, what with the thick cloud of cigarette smoke.

I have no idea where I'm going to sleep tonight. Well, I suppose it's 50/50. I'm either going to stay at Hostel Driza or with a couchsurfer who agreed to host me, but then life happened to him and I'm not even sure if he's in Prizren at the moment. 

I hope he messages me soon, I glanced at Whatsapp on my phone for the hundredth time in the last twenty minutes. It's not a big deal... the worst that can happen is he says he's unavailable and I have to spend an extra thirty bucks on a hostel. The thing is, if he's still in Belgrade and I do have to stay at Hostel Driza, I would just rather not walk there in the dark. 

This is flying by the seat of my pants. For sure. And although I have significant experience in this awkward maneuver, I'm still working on finding the fun in it. And not just the anxiety. 

Especially when I'm flying by the seat of my pants alone in Kosovo. 

I miss Sarajevo. 

I was devastated to leave Sarah and Julieta on Friday morning (sounds like an exaggeration, but it's not). Julieta's playfulness and Sarah's kindness made me want to commandeer the nest of all nests and live there until next Thanksgiving at least. It was with the heaviest of hearts and a pain in my gut (probably from too much Thanksgiving...) that I hugged them goodbye just outside of their cantankerous home. 

"Maybe see you in France next year." 

When I arrived at the bus station, I discovered that the international bus station of the capital city of Bosnia and Herzegovina does not accept credit cards. Nor does it have an ATM. 

"No ATM?" I gaped at the woman behind the glass, being slightly culturally insensitive and more than slightly annoyed. 

"No," she said firmly, as only someone from the Balkans can. "Euros?" 

"Oh, thank god," I handed her the fifty euro note I'd been hanging on to since Slovenia, and she gave me my change in both euros and marks. 

Well... I have to take Boy to Mostar one day. I'll save these marks until then. 

I boarded my tiny bus bound for Podgorica and was again displeased to discover no toilet facilities for a nearly seven hour journey. 

Dehydration, commence. 

The issue with these kinds of buses is that they do stop every two or three hours. Partially because everyone and their cats smoke in these countries and they would all probably perish without smoke breaks, and partially for people like me who always seem desperate for a toilet. My problem is that I can't understand a damn word the bus driver says. Ever. I don't know if the stop will be on minute, five minutes, ten minutes... so I fly out of the bus, making sure the driver is smoking a cigarette or heading towards the cafe or something else to keep him occupied and not driving away, and I rush towards the toilet as quickly as I can. Before the driver has time to finish his cigarette. 

I climb back onto the bus, restart the audio book on my iPhone, and congratulate myself for not getting left behind. Then I wait another ten minutes for everyone else to finish smoking and board. 

The journey through the mountains of northern Montenegro was breathtaking. Canyons, rivers, gorgeous rock faces. 

It was also terrifying. Extremely narrow roads with two way traffic, drop-offs by the dozens, and the rare, flimsy guardrails that seem more for show than for stopping runaway buses. 

I'm glad I sat on the left side of the bus this time. At least I don't have to look at what seems like my imminent death. 

I arrived in Podgorica earlier than anticipated and walked to a cafe near my host's apartment. 

Where the internet didn't work. 

This is a day full of things not working. Fine. You win. Universe of things not working.

Since I couldn't contact my host to see whether or not I could arrive at his home early, I decided to walk to the nearest post office to try once more to send my Christmas package. A Christmas package I feel like I've carried a much greater distance than Santa Claus ever has. 

And Santa Claus has reindeer and elves. I just have Ellie. Even if I'm unable to send the package, my family and Boy's family can know that I tried. That I gave it my absolute best. 

The lady at the post office told me no, I'd have to go to the international post office by the train station to send the package. And that it was already closed, but would be open the next day until two pm. 

"Okay. I'll do that." 

It'll be the fourth post office I've gone to. 

Then I met with Dusan (my host from Couchsurfing), his fiance, and their gorgeous little cat from Thailand. My host worked, I wrote my blog, then we both bundled up and headed out to walk around the cold city in the dark. 

Podgorica is a much better city at night. The lights let you believe that there's still magic in the place that was nearly completely demolished during World War II and then reconstructed during a communistic regime. The buildings are colorless, characterless (this is subjective, of course) and drab.

The soft street lamps help hide the scars of war. 

Dusan and I walked up a hill on the outside of the city, shared some wine and apple rakia, then grabbed some cheesy goodies for dinner and flagged down a cab to take us home. 

The next morning, I used google maps to look for a post office by the train station. I zoomed in and out everywhere and discovered that the closest post office was about a kilometer away from the tracks. So I grabbed my Christmas package, took a few deep breaths and stepped into the lift. 

I'm allowed to be sad if I get turned down again. But... but I'm also allowed to be okay. I'm allowed to just be happy that I have people I care about this much. That's the beautiful thing about this utterly maddening situation. 

Graffiti on the way to the post office. Montenegrins and Italians both seem to have the motto, "put a penis on it." Doesn't matter what it is. Just add penis.

Found South Park in Montenegro!

Walking is a stressful activity in Montenegro. I'm convinced that drivers don't understand the concept of crosswalks or sidewalks. Or the just have an entirely different understanding of them. For Montenegrins, sidewalks are places to park and crosswalks are places to blaze through before the pedestrian can get the advantage by taking that first step.

I'M WALKING NOW, I glare at the drivers as I deliberately step across streets, making them slam on their brakes.

I find it absolutely hilarious that people in this part of the world are terrified of getting damp or caught in a draft. Five drops of rain, everyone opens umbrellas in a panic. Wet hair will make you die. A draft will end you. But nobody minds the psychotic drivers who seem to pose real harm. From my perspective, anyway.

After half an hour of glaring at drivers and charily scampering across sidewalks, I arrived at the post office. And was told that it wasn't the correct post office.

"Train station," the guy behind the desk said and handed my box back to me.

"But it's not on my map," I mumbled, knowing my English was useless but still needing to speak.

I walked twenty minutes to the train station and started looking for the post office.

Nothing. 

"Can you tell me where the post office is?" I asked the woman at information.

"Umm... yes. Yes. Out and... left?"

"Okay."

Nothing. 

"Can you tell me where the post office is?" I asked a security officer.

"Umm... yes. Yes. Straight, then... right?"

"Okay."

Nothing. 

"Can you tell me where the post office is?" I asked a lady selling train tickets.

"Walk left. Two minutes. Red building."

"RED BUILDING! Thank-you!"

SOMETHING. 

"Umm... " I approached the counter of the correct post office, "I'm sorry, I only speak English."

"No," the postman said.

"Okay," I laughed.

I'm just going to laugh. No matter what happens. I've made my decision. 

"Can I send this to Colorado? USA?"

The gruff postman weighed my package and then handed me four different forms to fill out. Unfortunately, the forms were in Montenegrin and the postman couldn't explain how to fill them out. So I spent ten minutes scribbling away, was told I'd done it all wrong, had to pay a fee for the incorrect paperwork that they had to shred, and then start all over again.

I laughed.

"Do you take credit card?" I asked when they told me it would cost 50 euros to ship my package.

"NO. Cash."

"Oof, okay. ATM?"

"Bus station."

"I'll be right back."

So I ran to the bus station, withdrew cash, and skipped back to the post office.

Am I finally mailing this thing? Is this really happening? 

It happened. I paid the 50 euros, they gave me a tracking slip, and told me, "Okay."


I'm sad that it would probably be inappropriate to give everybody high fives. That's all I want to do right now. 

Instead of giving high fives, I said, "Hvala," and went on a quick walk through Podgorica. 

The Ottoman Clock Tower. Podgorica's one surviving monument.

Millennium Bridge

Dusan drove me to give a friend of his a massage that afternoon. A friend who was a yoga teacher and massage therapist. A friend who had her own massage studio with beautiful drapes, mood lights, ethereal music and incense.

It felt so wonderful to give a massage on an actual massage table. With the oil I needed. In a space that incredibly beautiful with zero distractions. 

I can't wait until I can create a space like this. 

One day. Perhaps. 

My host from Banja Luka had a good friend in Podgorica, so he messaged her and she messaged me and we met for coffee during my last day in the city. Then we met with her French boyfriend and strolled around, talking about France, food and travel.

"We're going to my mother's for lunch in an hour or two. You're welcome to come," Mia invited me.

"That sounds wonderful. Yes, please."

Mia called her mother to ask if there would be enough food for one more person.

"Who is it?" Mia's mother asked, thinking I would be one of Mia's old friends.

"Someone I met today," Mia replied.

"You're just like your father!" Mia's mother laughed.

"She says that because my father was always bringing strangers home," Mia explained. "An example, in the 90s, during the war... our family was poor, we barely had enough food for ourselves. But my father, one day, he came home with a mother and her four small children. I think they were Bosnian refugees. And they stayed with us for a whole month." 

The meal was glorious. Partially because the food was delicious, and partially because I was sharing a family lunch with strangers who were treating me like family.

This is when life is beautiful.