The Podgorica Positivity

A pristine Tuesday morning here, sitting outside at the Corcovado Cafe with a cappuccino having already worked out — before 9 am! — and finally feeling more or less on top of all my "to-dos." Yesterday I bought an airplane ticket from London to Edinburgh for the 18th, bought an airplane ticket from Edinburgh to Prague(!) for the 23rd, signed up for my first Prague tennis tournament in three months, reserved a hotel for me and some friends in Cesky Krumlov for May 28th, and made arrangements to stay somewhere around London for a week (first in Chislehurst, then in Chichester, then London proper for a few days).

This from a bridge downtown. This is a crazy green city!

All that plus walked to a park I saw from the taxi I took to the school last week which seemed to have — and, indeed, did have — a nice rubberized running path. I got lost, briefly, on the way home, which meant what should have been a 70-minute walk there and back was more like 90, but that's ok. Even more exercise, so I got myself an ice cream on the way back.

Looking backwards a day, on Sunday evening I met Jerry — the retired American Professor of Rhetoric who is traveling through the Balkans trying to decide where to plant his feet, and who lived in my apartment here before I did — and my airbnb host's father and brother for drinks. The conversation was not highly stimulating, but still fun being out with the guys, and I ended up buying a round of rakias for everyone. 

When in Rome ...

That, plus a final insistence by one of the others that we have one more round of beers than I was planning on, meant that even though we broke up around 7:30, I was a little wobbly on my way home. I stopped to get what they call "Šiš ćevap" (though I'm not sure why, since even though "şiş" means "stick" or "skewer," this is much more a flattened grilled meat patty sandwich in Balkan flat bread) and some french fries.  

Stick with the fries

It's the second time I've stopped for some easy fast food at this place, and both times been more than a little disappointed. I got a grilled chicken the first time, but since really beef is the classic version, I decided to give that a try the second time around. Turns out ... it wasn't the choice of meat that mattered. 

Ah well. The french fries were good. And I watched the Pistons lose and the Tigers win while chatting with friends and drinking a ton of water before bed. Which worked!

Boy. I can't say everything's perfect, of course. Of course. But man, I'm in a much better mood, and things are going ok. Makes me nervous even writing that, needless to say, but I've had enough posts-of-anxiety-and-uncertainty to justify the occasional post-of-happiness. Bien.

It's Raining (and) Cats and Dogs

A damp Sunday morning in green (and getting greener) Podgorica. I thought I'd take the upload some photos from recent days.

First let's visit another clothing store, shall we? 

Seems like the window designer is more interested in what the men look like out of the 

clothes the store sells than what they look like in them. Muscular legs though!

There are, in fact, lots and lots of cats and dogs wandering around here. Well, "wandering" may not be the best word. Mainly they're lying down, sleeping, or slowly lumbering from one resting place to another, nearby. But they're also inevitably friendly — cowed, a bit, and nervous, as if they've been rebuked in their lives many times — but I've never yet seen one of these animals bark or bare its teeth.

"Piggie," here — not a name I gave it — hangs out in the bar neighborhood

Catching some rays on my way to the gym

Of course, Cat No. 1 in my life is hanging out in Prague, keeping over watch over the small parade of guests who have been stopping in to take advantage of the temporarily available bedroom and apartment on U Rajske Zahrady. She and they have, over the last few weeks, done a remarkably good job at keeping me updated.

And yes, this entire blog entry is mainly an opportunity for me to post videos of my fantastic roommate.  Makes me smile, on this slow Sunday morning. Can't wait to get back there!

The Podgorica Penalty Box — But It's a Good Thing

Thank you, Chat GPT

Jerrold (Jerry). Mishka, my airbnb host's father. Pavle, my airbnb host's son. Andrija, the guy I've played tennis with. Cat and Mina, the two American women who invited me to speak at their school. Sonja, the young Russian barista at my favorite cafe. Valentina and Milica, the waitress and bartender at the bar I stop in and work at some afternoons. Rodsta, from the American Corner, who I had coffee with yesterday. 

Sonja, at the Corcovado Cafe, who tolerates my attempts to speak Russian with her

Not to mention the guy who owns the Blues Bar & Cafe who I had drinks with a couple weeks ago, the morning barista at the bar across the street from me, the lawyer I had drinks with three weeks ago, the acting coach at my class a few nights ago whom I sat next to and chatted with during a play last night, and another cool barista at my favorite cafe, all of whose names I can't at the moment recall.

Slowly but surely I'm starting to know people here. And, as part of that, I'm also no longer quite so blinded by the stereotypes and generalizations I had allowed myself to fall victim to my first few weeks, where it seemed everyone dressed the same (dark clothes on the men, always — usually sweatpants and track-suits —and dark beards), acted the same (intimidating, sullen, slightly rude), and overall made me feel fairly unwelcome. I've come to see that that was my problem, not theirs — my isolation and foreignness overwhelmed my patience and judgment, infected my understanding of this place.

But, especially as the weather has improved, so has my perspective. I'm seeing more men in shorts — reasonably enough — and thus am feeling more comfortable wearing them myself. I'm much more aware of the diversity, the good humor, and the friendliness that surrounds me. I'm starting to see the intellectuals and artistic types that I wasn't quite able to see before, and recognizing that not every bar and cafe plays loud thumping pop music — you just have to find the ones you like. 

I've also been thinking a bit about my mood. There's no doubt that this — the forced few months away from home — is a detour on the trip I wanted to be taking, but ... it's ok. For much of the past 5 years in Tucson I felt adrift, uncertain what my purpose in life was. I could entertain myself, certainly — a lot of tennis, seeing movies with friends, going for coffee or drinks — but overall I felt I was absolutely treading water, just ... doing nothing.

I became aware last week that that hasn't been true ever since I moved to Europe — and even during this unfortunate exile. I'm excited about being back in Europe, about the start-ups I'm hoping to move forward with, about being closer to Liesel and my European friends, about Catalina, and about my life in Prague. Certainly being forced to spend a couple months on ice is unfortunate, but at least I'm in the game. 

Catalina, today, missing me terribly

In other words .... I may in the penalty box for a little bit, but at least I'm still in the game. For five years I was watching from the sidelines, feeling a combination of self-pity, boredom, loneliness, and disappointment. Being in the penalty box is frustrating, certainly, unable to push things forward towards the goal, but ... at least I'm in the game, dammit.

The inside of the Brazilian-themed Corcovado Cafe,
where, for some reason, they use Costa Coffee mugs

Less than four weeks to go, and I sort of feel like we're starting to pick up speed — starting to roll downhill towards Prague. I think I'm gonna make it.

A Productive and Instructive Podgorica Day

Tuesday, April 22nd, was, for me in Podgorica, a fairly significant day. 

The Morning

A couple of weeks ago I sort-of made friends with another American here — Jerry, a retired Professor of Rhetoric and English at UMass Dartmouth, who is also killing time until he can return to his desired EU destination of choice — in his case, Maribor, in Slovenia. In fact, he lived at the very same airbnb I'm currently at before me — he was essentially kicked out by my reservation — and he had left a note in the apartment declaring his availability for a beer or to provide assistance. I had never contacted that person, but he saw me working at my favorite cafe one day, recognized me as another American, said hello, and that's how we eventually discovered our similar circumstances.

During that initial conversation I had mentioned my interest in helping out a local school here in some capacity, and he mentioned that he was going to be making a presentation at a local private high school soon, and he'd be happy to put me in touch with the two young American teachers there who had asked him to speak. A couple days later I was getting an evening coffee with Cat (an American from Atlanta) and Mina (dual-citizen from Podgorica and Philadelphia, I think?), and explaining a bit about my background.

They expressed their eagerness in having me speak to their kids about my experience as a business-owner and entrepreneur, and I, with some trepidation, agreed.

So, Tuesday morning I took a taxi out to the United Kids International — Montenegro school, where I was met by Mina, who — after a short coffee in the super-small teacher's lounge — took me to her super-small classroom, where, soon, the 10-12 11th- and 12th-graders filtered in. 

UKIM, to those of us in the know

Not a whole lot to report, honestly. It was fine — I have some experience in speaking in front of classes of kids, after all, and after a few seconds I got my footing and started to rock. 

I don't, of course, have a whole lot of entrepreneurial experience — starting (and failing?) CEE Legal Matters is the majority of it, plus the two current start-ups in Prague. So I focused a bit more on my story, and how my fairly eclectic and indirect life of adventure and travel has, in various ways, led me to where I am today. 

The kids were engaged — much more by my bizarre and humorous life story (moving to Hungary for a woman only to break up with her three days later, for example) than by CEE Legal Matters, but expressed enough curiosity and interest in the dinosaur cards and daily planners to suggest they got some value out of it all.

I figured, as it wrapped up, that I had at least kept them more-or-less entertained and interested — they asked a number of questions, laughed at the right places, etc. — which, for me, was enough. 

Happily, as they filtered out of the classroom, I noticed one of them, at the doorway, speaking to someone outside it — a classmate, another teacher, I couldn't tell — and heard him say, "that was the first guest speaker we've had all year I thought was really interesting." And he absolutely didn't say it for my benefit!

Do I think I changed his life in any significant way, or even "taught" him anything important? Nah. But we remember being students — a class that isn't boring is already a win. I'll take it.

Who could be bored?

After a bite to eat in the school cafeteria — pasta with cream sauce and for some reason fresh cabbage and corn — I got back in taxi, pleased with myself not only for surviving it, but actually perhaps being a little bit useful.

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The Afternoon

That afternoon — after a nap, of course — I put on some shorts and tennis shoes and resolved to find the American Corner that Jerry and a few others had mentioned to me. The American Corner here is apparently a creation of local host institutions and the U.S. Department of State (RIP), and is a large library of both books and DVDs and has some computers, and also hosts various classes, workshops, and guest speakers.

I felt a little under-dressed — my slipping-down-over-my-hips shorts and tennis shoes contrasted with the office-appropriate dresses and slacks of the three women working there — but they greeted me warmly, showed me around, and encouraged me to check out several books (which I happily did). After a bit, one of them told me there was going to be some kind of ... acting or role-playing workshop there that evening, and invited me to come and participate. 

That Evening

So, after dinner, I got in slightly more appropriate clothes and went back. I had been assuming that it would be a sort of class for non-native speakers, perhaps using plays as a way to help them practice their English. 

Nope!

Instead it was a full-on acting class, and I was just one of the 12-or-so students instructed first to stand up and "shake it out," then to spend five minutes or so walking around the room in one mood after another — one a person who's just gotten been told by a person he/she loves that that person loves him/her back, another someone who's just gotten terrible news and doesn't know what to do about it, etc. etc.

Then we were instructed to pair up and told to assume a character and interview each other, then summarize those interviews for the class. I decided to assume the character of a 75-year old Vietnam vet who insisted he did the right thing, felt no guilt, and had been representing "freedom" and "Democracy." The nice Russian woman (in the jean shorts in the photo) who was interviewing me was a bit taken aback and impressed by my aggression and militaristic confidence — I spread my legs aggressively to reflect my hyper-confidence. (I made a point of telling her, once we finished, that that was absolutely not me, and she reassured me she knew).

Then, for the next assignment, we were told to find a different partner, and I teamed up with Alexander (Sasha), also from Russia (on the far right in the back in the photo). We were instructed to prepare a dialog where "we are trying to reassure ourselves that something is ok, despite our real fear that it's very much not all right." 

I asked for clarification from the (American) instructor (jeans and olive-green shirt in front of the group in the photo) whether it was something that was "not ok" between us, or a problem we were facing together, and he said it was up to us. So I suggested to Sasha that we imagine a press conference of sorts where we had tried an experiment of some kind that had gone spectacularly badly — he could be the scientist trying to explain, I would be the PR guy trying to spin it — and we were trying to convince our investors and other observers that the problem wasn't as bad as it seemed.

I won't in any way say our dialog was the best, but I was pleased that while the others pretty much all went for melodrama — lots of angst and personal/family trauma — ours was significantly different, as it didn't involve conflict or ... I don't know. Resentment. It was also shorter — I noticed that the others kind-of didn't know how to bring theirs to an end, so I suggested that when one or the other of us said "fuck" that would be the end.

It was interesting. It was so intense that I don't really have a sense of how much time passed — one minute, five, or ten — but probably around five minutes. I tried fake bravado, insisting that it wasn't a "failure," but that processes like this take time, and we could learn a lot from the results of this test, stammering and trailing off now and then — but then, while he spoke, tried to express anxiety and unhappiness and real fear for our financial future. Finally, as he was trailing off, I said, "fuuuuuuuck" quietly, and that was it.

Kind of fun! And while some of the other, more traditional ones, were quite good — the final one of the day starred a Brit named "Rodney" (more on him later) being the director of a museum who was forced to fire his long-time colleague — I'm a little proud that we did something different and avoided cliche.

That was about it, and I headed out, honestly more than a little glad it was over — more on that later — but also glad I had done it. About 100 meters down the sidewalk Rodney yelled at me to wait up, and told me he hoped I'd come again next week. We walked a ways on, talking briefly, before parting ways, but we also exchanged contact details (his WhatsApp name, somewhat alarmingly, is "Rodsta," because of course it is). Yesterday morning I walked back to my cafe to get some work done only, when I got online, to discover a message from Rodsta to meet him and a friend at that very same cafe, for a drink. I had in fact walked right past them when I got here! So I got up, walked over to him, said hi, and then later we talked for 15-20 minutes.

Tomorrow night I'm going to a free play of sorts at the American Corner — purely as an audience-member, not a performer, thank God — and I'll see Rodsta there, and maybe some others from the class.

Rod is in back, wielding the chair, because of course he is

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I don't know if I'll be going back next week, though. For one thing, I'll be leaving the following Monday, so it would be the last time anyway — even Rodney's enthusiasm for having me come again dimmed  somewhat, when he heard I was going to be leaving so soon after. 

More importantly, I'm not quite sure how much I "enjoyed" the class. It wasn't what I expected — I sort of thought I would be going to help an instructor of some kind with some kind of language class, perhaps, using plays and role-playing, with us all sitting in chairs. I did not expect to be told to walk around the room and imagine/explore deep emotional moments in front of other people.

And I'm not really sure how much I liked doing that. Part of me felt awkward and uncomfortable dealing with strong emotions in front of strangers — but I assume that's fairly common. But, problematically, I quickly realized that some long-bottled-up emotions were stirring uncomfortably, like Godzilla awakening in the depths of the ocean. I felt it quite possible that they would come out weirdly, and strongly, in tears, in front of all these people I didn't know. 

I don't really trust pop psychology, and I'm not at all convinced that that kind of display would be good for me. I remember in high school once my mother and sister were in family counseling, and the therapist asked her to bring her son — me — to a session. I went, and before I knew it I was absolutely sobbing in front of her, with all kinds of unhappiness coming out of me. At the end of the session we walked out, and i whirled on my mother and said, "I am never doing that again." I never did.

I'm not claiming it wasn't a productive experience for me. I'm just saying it certainly wasn't a pleasant one, and I didn't feel significantly better when it was over.

And I got indications that this acting class could trigger a similar emotional release, which is certainly fascinating and instructive — really interesting to learn how these seemingly innocent role-playing exercises can tap into such powerful emotions — but I'm not really sure that's something I would feel good about if it happened. I need to consider. 

Aging in Podgorica (Part два)

I forgot to add, in that last post, my tennis experiences here. 

The "Small Plaza Cafe"

So right across the street from my airbnb there's a cafe/bar of sorts — Cafe Mali Trg — that in my first week or two in Podgorica I went to fairly often, to work online with a cappucino, or a Coke, or a beer. I go there less, now, that I've become a little more familiar with other/better options, but still sometimes.

There are, as far as I can tell, only two people working there, never at the same time. One a slightly over-enthusiastic-but-friendly guy, generally in the morning, and one a slightly sullen and quiet much younger guy in the afternoon and evening. This younger guy had some live tennis on the TV in the corner one afternoon and seemed fairly knowledgeable about the sports, so I asked if her played, he said yes, and we agreed to play sometime.

His name, it turns out, is Andrija, and he's 24, a little racist (the Turks here, he said, are "dirty," as are the Russians — I'm not sure, actually, which ethnic group he doesn't consider "dirty," but I haven't explored the subject much), and a little homophobic ("it's ok, you know, but they don't have to put it in our faces all the time"), but ... really, mainly he's just 24 and is convinced he absolutely knows how the world works, and is happy to make pronouncements about other people.

Anyway, we ended up going to a local indoor tennis court last week, and ... to nobody's surprise more than his own, I ended up beating him remarkably easily, 6-2, 6-0, 6-0. I'm not sure it was that close. 😃

The reason I mention it is he commented afterwards that I was much more mobile than he expected, and "I move really well for [my] age." I murmured that I don't know how much longer it'll last, but yeah, I still do all right. 

He also told me, the next day, that the other guys at the cafe/bar had asked him, when he got back, how he did, and he had been forced to tell them that — in his words — "he kicked my ass." They were, apparently, amused by this. "That old guy, with the gray hair?!?!" He had been forced to tell them, "yeah, he moves really well."

So that was cool. 

He wanted a rematch — I don't think he genuinely thought he could beat me, but he was eager to play when he wasn't hung-over and had a bit more of an idea what to expect. So we played again yesterday, at a different-and-this-time-outdoor court.

And I beat him 6-0, 6-1, 6-1. 😀

Afterwards we went out for some drinks, before I made my excuses so I could go home — stopping to get a pizza first, of course — and watch the Tigers game and then the Crystal Palace game, both of which were, this time, successful. A good day all around.

A Pilsner Urquell with Andrija at Big Horn

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I have no doubt most of you will roll your eyes at the fact that I care so much about things like this, but ... I still do, honestly. I'm acutely aware that my "youth," such as it is, will not hang around much longer. And that, of course, there are many many young people in better shape than Andreja who will not find my tennis skills and mobility quite as impressive as he does/did.

And several times my back has hurt in ways that have prevented me from exercising or running the way I want at the gym, and my sore shoulder prevents me from serving quite the way I want to, and used to be able to.

So I don't kid myself. But dammit, I don't want to be "old" yet, and so, even though my gray hair and, presumably, the lines on my face and growing gut and normal bedtime betray me ... I do enjoy that this young guy not only wants to play against me but can't beat me (or come close), but also asks me to get beers with him and is disappointed when I make my excuses and head out. Decrepitude and death are coming sooner rather than later, unfortunately, but they're not here yet.

Aging in Montenegro

 

Easter at the Ragina Glava pub in Podgorica

A few nights ago I dreamt that I — me, 57, the David you know — was going to meet friends at a bagel place on Washtenaw Ave. in Ypsilanti, Michigan (a commercial strip near where I grew up in Ann Arbor) ... pretty much across from where the old Wayside Cinema used to be, back in the 70s. (Where I saw both Smokey & the Bandit and Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, in fact!).

The Now Long-Gone Wayside Cinema

Anyway, that opposite side of the street immediately turned into a sort of ... long hallway/foodcourt (you know dreams are) ... and I walked a bit too far, realized I hadn't been paying attention and had passed up the bagel place, turned and walked back the other direction, missed it again, then stopped to consider my options.

I was sort of wondering if the bagel place had closed or moved, and I was getting out my phone to check it, and then wondering if I should tell the people I was supposed to meet that we'd be meeting at a different restaurant — perhaps one of the ones I was standing in front of. I was hesitating, certainly, but I wasn't ... bewildered or scared in any way.

Still, at this point a 30-something well-dressed black man down at the other end of the hallway, in front of a Cinnabon or something, said to a colleague, in exasperation, "every year I have to tell him this," and then, beckoning to me, yelled, "Sir! Sir! come back here, sir!"

The manager here took four steps forward and yelled down the hallway at me

I lifted my head up from my phone and walked back towards him, and he said, with an exaggerated sigh, "Sir, you come here every year, and every year I have to tell you that the bagel place closed because of Covid, and it's gone!" He wasn't angry at me (although perhaps a bit exasperated (which seemed excessive, if it was really only once a year he needed to have this conversation)), and he was genuinely trying to help. 

I wanted to say, "Oh, I don't remember that, but you don't have to be all condescending to me — I wasn't needing any help, and I was just trying to decide what to do next!" but ... I did realize that sounded very much like what an old person who in fact did need help might say, which made me both self-conscious and nervous, so I stammered ... and ... then I woke up anyway, feeling aggrieved and frustrated at how I had been talked to.

So I wonder: Is it ok to be upset at the assumptions younger people make about the need for assistance they're convinced we have — if that in fact only happens in a dream? How dare he? And ... yes, sure, I didn't remember him telling me about the store before, but ... that alone doesn't mean I'm forgetful, does it? Does it? And I didn't need his help — I was just standing alone looking uncertain not knowing exactly what I should do next!

I dream of a day where younger people are more patient with the slower processing of older people ... in my dreams.

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Maybe I was just prescient. 

That very same day I was working out at my gym here in Podgorica, having finished my run and time on the elliptical machine, all that was left on my admittedly pretty tame regime was to do some sit-ups on the little sit-up bench and then maybe find a machine to work out my arms and chest a bit. I do 15 sit-ups at a go, then stand and relax the muscle a bit before doing another set.

The Soko Gym, downstairs

The machines this particular gym has allow you to remove or add round weights to each machine, and those weights are distributed on various machines. Need to add weight? Go to a nearby machine nobody is using and take one of the 5 kg or 10 kg or 15 kg weights and add it to yours. Want to remove weight? Take it off your machine and put it on another.

Anyway, after my first set I stood up and walked over to a machine I've used before on which you sit and pull down handles from up above to — I just laughed out loud remembering this — work out your, I don't know, neck muscles or something. I wasn't going to use it — I was in the middle of my sit-ups. Just walked over to see how much weight was on the machine (I think it was like 30 kg on each side) for when I did want to use it, and wondering whether I would need to add more or remove some. In doing so I lazily pulled down on one of the handles — not sitting in the machine itself, or in any way indicating I was actually trying to use it — just trying to get a sense of whether the amount of resistance that was currently on the machine was good for me.

The kind of machine I'm talking about (not my gym)

But a young man who was working out at a nearby machine who I remembered later was one of the managers of the club, and who had actually taken my money and signed me up when I first bought the month-long membership, leapt to help. He stopped me as I was turning to go walk back to the sit-up bench and said, "no, no — if it's too heavy we can remove the weights for you!"

I'm afraid I sort of snapped at him. "I know, I know!" I said, dismissively, before realizing he was only trying to help and flashing him a thumbs up. "Thanks," I said.

It makes me laugh. He saw the old white-haired American — so clueless about so many things in Montenegro, for so many reasons, he assumed — walk over, hesitantly stick out a hand to try the machine, pull the arm halfway down, realize (he thought) it was far too heavy for him, and start to walk away. He was trying to help the old white-haired man by reassuring him they could make the machine easier for him!

Sigh.

But no, we're not done!

The very next day I was running on the treadmill at the gym — I was about 20 minutes into a fairly fast 5.3km run (at about 10.2 km an hour), and sweating up a storm — when the same young man walked up to my machine, and in a sort of surprising breach of etiquette, came and looked right at the dashboard of the machine to check out how fast I was running and for how long, then looked up at me, flashed a big grin, and gave me a big thumbs up. This time I smiled back, at least.

And I guess good that he was impressed, but ... I can't help but assume he wouldn't have done that for a 23-year-old. 

Ironically, both of these stories are about how I look, and a little bit about how he was taking ownership of me as a client and wanted to make sure I was enjoying my membership, which is nice, but ... sigh. I guess ... 23 I ain't.

Priyaniki and Patriarchy

 Found an amazing Ukrainian-and-Russian market right next to my apartment here last week, and enjoyed walking around seeing not just the same foods but the same brands I had once been so accustomed to. The same priyaniki, the same condensed milk, the same Russian chocolates, the same Baltika beer!

Priyaniki = Russian Gingerbread Cookies

Back in the day, one of the few Russian-made brands that even the expats agreed was quality

I was charmed, and happy. On my way out I asked the nice young man behind the counter if they sold borsch. I was unsurprised when he said no — why would a market have fresh soup? — but I was a bit surprised when he responded negatively to my inquiry about restaurants in town that had it.

I was surprised because I already knew of a restaurant near my previous airbnb here — over in the City Kvart district, compared to the downtown area I'm in now — that had absolutely delicious borsch, which I had not only ordered, but photographed. And which, when I had inquired about it, had been made by a Russian chef. I can't say it was the best borsch I've ever had — it wasn't even homemade, let alone made by Natalia Leonidovna Kisslova back in Vladivostok, which is officially the best borsch ever made in the history of the world — but it was the best restaurant borsch I've ever had.

90% of perfection

Obviously the guy at my nearby market simply doesn't know of that restaurant on the other side of town. But kinda cool for me to have superior knowledge on this one particular issue. Does that make me a local yet?

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They have some very cool building-sized graffiti here, including this piece, which reads (in Montenegrin) "Patriarchy is not dead yet, and we don't know when."

I thought this was a fairly surprising piece of agitprop, so I asked my airbnb host about it. She was actually fairly dismissive, explaining simply that this was a character from a popular TV show here, who had said that on the show. Frankly, I don't think this really explains much. Presumably that quote has some resonance to the people who painted this wall beyond "it's something a famous actress said on a show." Maybe my airbnb host said it to me because she thought *I* wouldn't be interested in more details?

I'll have to keep asking. 

Happy Monday, everybody.

Update and Flashback

It's Sunday afternoon, I'm at a local cafe where the young male bartender won't stop talking to me, making focusing on this a little difficult.  He's also already referred to "Biden and those criminals" (apparently because of the bombing of Serbia 30 years ago), and mentioned, inevitably, that he's ok with "the Gays" in America, but he doesn't understand "why they have to shove it all in our face?" According to him, "it's fine, but it's not natural, right? We know, men and women, get together to make children, so we know being gay is not natural, it's not normal. Right?"

I murmured noncommittally and turned back to my laptop.

I always wonder if it occurs to these people that a truly significant part of the world clearly disagree with this logic, so maybe they should at least hesitate before pronouncing it so enthusiastically.

Guess not.

Anyway, to get this out of the way: One week done, still no word from the Czechs about my appeal. That's not surprising — I would have estimated only about a 5% chance I would hear from them within the first week, and I assume only about another 10-15% chance I'd hear from them this upcoming week. But none of that has stopped me from checking my email 30 times a day. And if I don't hear from them this upcoming week I'll start putting a lot more pressure on each passing day.

Ah well.

Let's stop and think for a moment about some of my shopping options here.

We could start at Luka's Butik

Such exciting options we have here!

But we have the latest fashions from Milan too!

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So on a radically different subject ...

I was thinking of ... if I could live permanently in one day of my life, what day would that be? No need to raise objections — I understand many people wouldn't want to stay in one day, and the many other problems with this hypothetical. I know, I know. But ... humor me.

I'm not so much thinking of a specific day — no wedding days, or "that day my Dad took us to Disneyland," or anything like that. I'm thinking of ... a particular time in your life when you felt in control, happy, satisfied, and good.

My mind, in fact, went to ... let's say the fall of 1976. I'm nine-and-a-half years old, still going to school at the Mary Mitchell Elementary School in Ann Arbor, Michigan. My parents are both still there, and together — a couple months away from the news that we would be moving to Germany, with all the disruption that would entail. I was smart, safe at home, with an absolutely unchanging routine: Reading a lot, but also watching Batman reruns and the Spiderman cartoon each afternoon on TV, plus the semi-annual Monster Week on the 4:30 Movie, and then morning cartoons before going to Michigan football games with my Dad on Saturdays), as well as playing football with my friends every afternoon after school. I was both popular and successful at school, and although I would go home for lunch each day, I would stop back at my friend Erik's house on the way back in the afternoon with 2-3 other friends to watch a couple old Popeye cartoons before going back.

I was in the "Math B" group — the more advanced group in the class, though I once got in trouble when Luke and I were allowed to go back to our desks because we understood something the others still needed help with, leading Luke to say to me "there should be a Math C group!" which I thought was so funny I decided it needed to be said loudly, to the class, which got me in trouble, despite my protestations that it was actually Luke who said it first!

At some point, either that year or the year before, someone introduced soccer to us, so we picked that up pretty much full time during recess, in the process abandoning "tag" and its many iterations (Freeze Tag, TV Tag, etc.), which had occupied us before. As I was fairly athletic, this was fine by me.

I doubt I was the most popular kid in class, but I was close enough that I never worried about it or felt excluded in any way. Teachers loved me, as did the librarian at the Loving Branch, where I went often to pick up new books, which I tore through. I went to sleep each night playing records — usually a Mr. Rogers record, but sometimes Peter Paul & Mommy or something else. I also would sometimes sit on the sofa and listen to a record with my Mom — I remember in particular Helen Reddy records.

I had Beef Fondue on my birthday every year — my choice, of course — and three or four times a year my Dad would bring home fresh Fish & Chips from Lucky Jim's for us all. My mother's recipes that I loved included Topsy-Turvy Pie, Pork Chops Creole, and meatlof, and my Dad would pitch in sometimes to make tortillas and beans. On those nights when my Dad would make his Chinese food for guests they would make me a hamburger first (also my choice). On Christmas morning every year my Mom would make her beautiful Cinnamon Rolls.

One of my Dad's feasts, once I got over myself and started devouring them

Sometimes, on a Friday or Saturday night, I would gather with some friends to play Ghosts in the Graveyard or another variation I can't remember — one person hiding behind somewhere along a path the rest of us were required to run, starting and ending at a local willow tree, jumping out and trying to tag us. If he or she succeeded, then the two of them would hide in the path for another iteration, repeat and repeat, until there was only one un-"zombified" person left, forced to run the route by him-or-herself one last time. If that person made it uncaught, he or she "won." I don't actually remember any of us ever winning, though who knows. I do remember the people whose houses we were running among opening windows to yell at us to keep it down, which we always thought was unfriendly. But it was scary and thrilling, late at night.

In short, I was confident in my world and my friends, no real insecurity or uncertainty beyond the norm. My parents were together and — to my eyes, at the time, at least — comfortable, and I had everything I needed, in terms of food, clothes, love, and entertainment. I was confident in my intelligence and never really struggled at school, and was surrounded by people who liked me.

Table-top hockey in the spring air — image source John E. Stuckey 😀

Yeah. It's probably cheating to go so far back — far rarer would be periods in adulthood or even as a teenager when I felt so confident and secure. But whether it was my father's experimenting with photography (a period during which he came and turned the spare room in my classroom into a darkroom and taught my classmates how to use it, which reflected awfully well on me), or watching The Six Million Dollar Man with him every Friday night over popcorn and one — one — class of Coke, or sitting on the sofa and listening to I Am Woman with my Mom or spending a Saturday night at Luke's house or playing table-top football with Matt on a Sunday afternoon or loving every Gamera movie with the song about how much he loved kids they showed during Monster Week or having my Dad take me to the movie theater to see The Sting or Logan's Run or Star Wars ... 

Yeah. The fall of 1976 was dynamite. I'll take it. Man, the life I thought I'd live then, and ... if I could have bottled that confidence and comfort ... it would be pretty good.

I'd love to hear what your favorite/best time was, either with comments here or in personal messages. 

The Podgorica Parade — Catching Up

Miscellany, on a Monday afternoon.

Last Friday morning, while my airbnb host's mother was cleaning the apartment — as she insists on doing, once a week, and who am I to object — I took a walk to find one of the few pedicure places my Google Maps told me was close-by. (Yeah, yeah, but I get to pamper myself sometimes, here, and the amount of running I'm doing here at the gym is causing problems ... for the one nail a lot of running causes problems for). 

I didn't end up finding a place, but I did end up stumbling across Podgorica's Gintas market hall, which was fantastic. Almost nobody there late on a Friday morning, but a ground floor made up of fresh produce vendors — nothing exotic, but all lush and tempting (and pesticide-free) — and an upper floor made up of dozens (hundreds?) of Chinese-made clothes/electronic/kitchen-supply stalls. Track suits, shoes, shirts, etc. I hadn't known I was going shopping, so I settled for some olives, a pepper, a cucumber, and some fresh tomatoes, but I will definitely be going back. Fun place.

Photo doesn't do it justice, but check out video in link

Saturday I had the best work-out I've had in at least five years — more? — then showered and walked the 45 minutes over to the Big Fashion shopping mall to buy some jeans and books. Ultimately successful, though took longer than I expected and, as always, at-least-initially frustrating and embarrassing. Came back in time to watch a wonderful Crystal Palace game and then a Tigers win on TV. You could have a worse Saturday.

Pure excitement in Podgorica

Sunday passed slowly. Although Saturday had been sunny and warm — the best day of the spring, so far — Sunday was gray and cold, and the change in pressure clearly affected me. I woke up groggy and stayed so for much of the day. Emotions came in as the young woman taking care of Catalina sent me a wonderful video of her being brushed, which made me smile, but also felt a bit like a kick in the stomach. As a result, when a bartender I casually know here said that, although she doesn't drink, she knows all the drinks, and I asked her if she could make a White Russian, and she admitted she didn't know it, but then looked it up and asked if I wanted one, I said sure. That, on top of the beer I was already drinking, made the emotions of the cat video hit even harder.

I came home and had several bowls of my Dad's potato soup, which always makes me think of him, which made me sentimental there as well.

It was good soup though.

Anyway, then I watched a stupid Norwegian movie about Trolls called — wait for it — Trolls, before watching another Tigers' win and calling it a night.

Monday started off much brighter, though still cold, and I got some work done, had a good run, had coffee at my favorite place (and exchanged contact details with another American expat I struck up a conversation with, which might lead to a friend of sorts here), then came home to a good lunch and a nap. Now, now, just finished the weirdest pedicure ever — from an obviously gay very Balkan guy, with a woman getting a manicure five feet from me whose boyfriend kept coming in and hovering and laughing (at me? in general?), loud Arabic pop music, and the pedicurist's small fluffy dog, wearing clothes (of course) running all around. 

But what the hell. Life is about accumulating experiences, right? And while it wasn't the most ... relaxing pedicure ever, he made up for his lack in interest in making it soothing by being entirely committed to digging as deep around the nails as possible. My toes and feet are entirely clean and hang-nail free. I'll take it. 

Now about to retire home for a little more work stuff, then ... I don't know. I'm into a good book, I've started The Night Agent on Netflix, and the Tigers are on again. We'll see

Most importantly ... for some reason the Czech Ministry still hasn't written me about my appeal, although it's now been almost a day. :-)

Some random photos:

Lots of stray cats and dogs around. All very friendly and calm.

My favorite sports team: Sports Season, from South Campus, Czech Republic!
(An option at Pull & Bear at BIG Fashion. I didn't get it).

Monument here to Vladimir Vysotsky. Notice skull at the base, for some reason.

Drinks last week with Milan Keker, a friend of a friend.

My Appeal is (Finally) Lodged!

So my letter of appeal (and accompanying evidence) was sent off today, and should arrive at the Czech Ministry of Foreign Affairs tomorrow. At which point we can, after 2-3 weeks, start opening our email inbox with some hope again, to see if they've written to tell me they changed their mind and will give me the business visa after all. Or, I guess, that they're sticking with their original decision and declining the visa. We'll see.

Even if they don't give it to me, I'll be able to return on May 21st on a new tourist visa, so it's not make-or-break, but if that happens I'll only be able to stay 90 days — until late August — before having to leave again. If I get the business visa, I'll be able to stay (at least) an entire year, which would be wonderful. It's been so long since I've been able to just relax and sink back into my life. I'm looking forward to that feeling.

As for my chances ... who knows? I think my arguments in support of my request for a business visa are absolutely compelling, and I'd say, on the merits, I have a 90% chance. But of course chances of a formal appeal of this nature, in a legal/governmental/bureaucratic context, are famously small — no more than 5-10% chance at the most, so on balance ... I assume I have a 25-50%. And of course, you factor in the effect of our current President on the general level of enthusiasm for Americans right now, and ... ugh.

Oh, several people have asked me how long the appeals process will take, and ... I have no idea. I joke that I could hear as soon as tomorrow afternoon, but probably it'll take at least several weeks.

Before we move on from this subject, a brief summary of how efficiently and enjoyably this whole process has played out:

• After applying for the visa in early November, and considering the advice of my friends in Europe who insisted I would definitely receive the visa, I decide to move to Europe before a decision is made on it — the one mistake to which I will concede in this entire process. THEN:
• Although the Czechs have told me they would give me an answer after 90 days, they do not. My tourist visa expires after about 100 days, so I have no option but to leave the country, without any idea of when or if a visa will be coming, and thus any idea of how to pack or where to go.
• After another 28 days, the Czechs tell me that my application has been denied ... but only informally, and they tell me that further information about why it was denied, and how and to whom to appeal will be included in the formal letter coming soon.
• It's not until over a week later that they send the formal letter of notification to me, at the address I'm using in Tucson.
• They send it on a Wednesday — signature required — which means it doesn't arrive until SATURDAY, and instead of taking the envelope to the house to get a signature, the mailman leaves a card in the mailbox asking for a signature. The following day is — of course — a Sunday. Monday he returns to pick up the card, but without the letter, which he then only brings back the next day, Tuesday. Which means, because of the time difference, I only receive it overnight on Tuesday. 
• I scramble to prepare my response and all accompanying evidence I need, asking two friends and the lawyers at the Czech law firm who helped me register my Czech companies to provide letters of support. One of my friends — the one, ironically, who's on vacation in NYC and doesn't really have the time — gets it back to me almost immediately.
• The other friend forgets about it, then, when he does get it to me on Monday evening ... has forgotten to sign his letter. That's ok, though, because the Czech law firm, that was supposed to write a letter to the Czech Ministry of Foreign Affairs ... writes their letter in English. Neither of them can get me corrected versions until the next day.
• They don't get the letters to me on Tuesday until late morning, when it's too late for me to print them out before walking all the way across town to my dentist appointment, so by the time I do get to print them out that day's DHL delivery has already left. I stop by the Montenegrin Post Office to mail them there, and am told that they don't have express delivery to other countries, so it'll take 5-7 days. That's too long, because it puts the tenuous deadline in doubt ... and it means ANOTHER week until anyone can even take a look at my appeal.
• So I walk BACK all the way across town to the DHL office, arriving 10 minutes before it closes, only to be told that DHL can't deliver to a P.O. Box (which is all that the Czech Ministry has given me).
• At this point, David essentially has a break-down, not being able to fathom how consistently everything has gone wrong after that one first bad decision.
• I stop at a different Montenegro Post Office and send the letter after all, getting a receipt showing at least that I *mailed* it before the deadline. Then, that night, I decide to send the documents to my business partner in Prague and ask him to sign my name on my letter and put them all in overnight mail to the Ministry. He promises to do it before 10 am the next day.
• But then DOESN'T, and only gets it to the Post Office the day after — so, today.

So. Long story short ... after 140 days (the last 6 weeks of which have been spent living out of suitcase) the letter of appeal is in the overnight mail, and is scheduled to arrive tomorrow (with ANOTHER envelope containing identical documents also coming from Montenegro, to arrive next week, potentially confusing things).

I honestly can't wait to see what'll go wrong next. This is insanity.

I'm really hoping something will go right for me soon. I don't know what lesson God is trying to teach me here, but I hope Ive learned it. Hoping She'll recognize my submission and let up on me a bit. Please?

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On a much cheerier note, last week in Kotor with Liesel, in an attempt to economize a little bit, we had two of our meals at home — very Balkan meals, with ajvar, pickles, beets, bread, cheese, olives, roasted peppers, and tomatoes. And, I mean ... it was delicious, and healthy, with no fried foods or anything unhealthy at all. Just ... just fresh, and crisp, and yummy.

Delish Dish

So I've kind of kept that up since she left, and have been delighted to find these meals so healthy, so easy, and so delicious! Hope I can keep this up when I get back to ... to wherever I end up going. This is fun.