Second Holiday

'From the backseat, a family of four showed me the middle finger. I walked on.'

In one marine cave, I saw a nest teeming with black bats. I took a video of it and sent it to my mother with the caption, ‘Beauties.’

In the third month of our relationship, my girlfriend Masha and I were having dinner, when she said, 'I only get one holiday per boyfriend.'

I looked at her, confused, my mouth full of pasta and tomato sauce. 'How come?'

'Don’t know. Always been like that. One holiday, one Christmas. One year.'

I thought about it. 'I guess we could take another holiday,’ I said. ‘Time to break the pattern!'

And just like that — cue Sarah Jessica Parker voice — after we’d barely returned from a family trip to Turkey in one piece, Masha and I booked another flight.

This time to Montenegro.

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If you’re not from Eastern Europe, you might be wondering. Why go to Montenegro when you can go to, uh, Italy? Somewhere definitely European, somewhere you’ve seen in the movies or on your friends Instagram profiles. 

The answer is, in short, visa. 

Where I come from, Montenegro is one of those big three holiday destinations –alongside Egypt and Turkey – where you don’t need a visa. And if you say you’re Russian, people give you wide-eyed looks. But not the American wide-eyed, which says 'If-it-weren’t-for-us-you-would-be-speaking-German!' but the 'I’ve-always-wanted-to-visit-Moscow-and-Saint-Petersburg-Russia-is-such-a-beautiful-country!!!!' 

It’s one of those rare places where a stranger in a cafe can pull out their phone and start showing you photos of their niece on holiday in Ekaterinburg, pride lighting them up like a Christmas tree. It’s where I — and so many other Russians — feel something akin to pride showing up at passport control.

In other places, including the UK, where I live now, I almost feel like I am apologizing every time I take out my burgundy red passport, with its golden inscription, RUSSIAN FEDERATION. As if I need further reminders of a shithole I escaped from. 

My passport would be thoroughly inspected and I would stand there watching with envy as the luckier people walked through e-gates, scanning their fancy American, British, and Canadian passports. Then I’d take my rightful place in the All Passports queue – alongside people from countries I am terrified of visiting.

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Our Airbnb hosts in Budva – one of the larger cities in Montenegro – were a nice older couple from Belgrade, which was just a couple of hours away. The man, Nikolai, looked like he’d been run over by a truck, though his wife, April, was striking in her colorful dress and makeup. She smelled nice and radiated warmth and love, like spring itself, even though she was my grandmother’s age.

In the former Yugoslavia, Nikolai was an engineer, like all other men, and April had built a career in journalism. They recently retired and used their savings to buy a second flat across from theirs, with two balconies overlooking the Adriatic Sea. Their plan, they told Masha and me, was to give this flat as a graduating present to their daughter, who was closer to our age. But when the daughter refused to return — preferring the nightclubs of Milan to their parents’ homemade ajvar — the flat became handy as a source of pension income. The only one they would get living in Montenegro.

They met us on the staircase — the apartment was on the fifth floor, no elevator — and the moment she saw us, April cried, 'Oh, what a beautiful couple! And so young!'

'Thanks,' I said, red-faced, either from carrying two suitcases up five flights of stairs or never quite knowing how to behave when people give you compliments about your age.

We walked inside, and immediately, April led Masha by the elbow into the kitchen, showing her around the house, whereas Nikolai asked me to follow him on the balcony. Once we were alone, he closed the door, and croaked, 'Where did you park?'

'Uh, right here,' I said, pointing downstairs, to a narrow road with no signs that led up the hill on which our apartment building stood.

Nikolai put his hands to his face and shook his head. 'No-no, you not do that. Big fine. Big fine. Need other parking. I help you.'

'Thanks,' I said, and watched as Nikolai dialled someone and began screaming into his phone in Serbian. 

There’s a common misconception among non-Slavic people that all Slavic languages are the same but they are not. It took me a year to learn rudimentary Ukrainian and standing there, on the balcony, with the blue sea on the horizon, watching Nikolai torture his phone, I must confess, that I only understood the curse words. 

Meanwhile, April and Masha were in the bathroom. As I escaped into the living room, leaving Nikolai alone on the balcony, I heard April’s faint whisper to my girlfriend, 'If you have–’ she said, lowering her voice as if telling a state secret, ‘–you know what…that’s where you dispose.' 

I coughed to inform them of my presence and pretended I heard nothing.

---

Half an hour later, Nikolai and April were still in our apartment, telling us about the location of additional drapes, towels, best places to visit, places to avoid, and asking us about our plans for the trip. When I stopped responding, they offered us coffee.

'I am sorry, I think we’re tired,' I said finally and looked over at Masha for support. 

'Yeah, we’ve had a long flight,' she echoed, catching my drift. 'We’ll probably just unpack.'

April smiled, knowingly, and pulled on her husband’s elbow. 'Alright, then. Nikolai, come home. Let’s leave the beautiful couple to themselves; they want privacy, can’t you see?'

Nikolai, who seemed to not know how to smile, kept still, staring at his phone.

'Nikolai?'

He turned to his wife, then back to me, and said, 'I will come. Later. About parking.’ 

'Thanks, Nikolai,' I said.

When they left, we locked the door on two bolts. After making sure it was properly secured, for the first time in what seemed like an hour, we exhaled.

'God, that was nice but a little intense—' I began saying but didn’t finish because there was a knock on the door.

I looked through the keyhole. It was Nikolai.

I opened the door and Nikolai was standing right there, the tree of a man, smelling like dead skin and garlic. 

‘Yes?' I said. 

'Serge, it’s about parking. I found spot. Good spot. VIP. Only 10 EUR per day.'

'Perfect. Let me shower, and I’ll fetch the keys and come down,’ I said. 

'Good. My friend meet you there, by the cemetery. Have good shower.’

---

After settling in our apartment and taking a quick shower, I descended the five flights of stairs and walked into the Montenegrin heat. The second I stepped on the road, I was almost hit by a taxi racing uphill. The driver honked, stopped, cursed at me in Serbian which I now knew I understood, and kept on driving. From the backseat, a family of four showed me the middle finger. I walked on.

On the adjacent road was a red church and a little cemetery. I scanned the gravestones, calculating how many years people lived before they kicked the bucket. That’s a hobby of mine I do every time I visit a cemetery. Not that I visit them often. 

Sixty-eight. Seventy-one. Ninety-two, wow. Forty-four, oh.

When, in ten minutes, Nikolai’s friend still didn’t show up — and I was afraid I might get a heatstroke on Day One — I called my new host.

'He’s not here,' I said.

‘Uh,’ Nikolai grunted into the receiver. ‘Gypsies are gypsies. I call him now.' Then he hung up.

I looked around. Across from the cemetery was a patch of grass with two cars and a thin wire thread going from one rusty pole to another, like a makeshift gate that was probably permanent. I turned back to face the cemetery. Sixty-eight. Seventy-five. Ninety-nine.

Suddenly, a warm hand touched my shoulder. I jumped away, startled. 'Oh,' I said.

A Romanian-looking man with a scar on his left cheek gave me his meaty hand. He introduced himself by a name I wouldn’t be able to recall even if I were tortured. Let’s call him Klaus.

'I’m Klaus, nice meet you. Parking?'

'Yes,' I said. 'Parking.'

'Hundred euros.'

'Why a hundred? And where’s the parking?'

He gestured towards the patch of grass with a thin wire thread and began counting on his fingers. 'Ten one day, ten two day, ten three day, ten four day…'

'I am here for seven days,' I said, cutting him off. 'Ten times seven is seventy. I give you seventy euros. Okay?'

He looked at me, puzzled, as if I had just told him the formula for curing cancer. Then he sighed and reluctantly said, 'Okay.'

'Is this even secure?' I asked, overlooking the rusty pole that held the wire on what seemed like scotch tape. 

'Oh yes,' he said, looking at the patch of grass with a boastful smile, the way people do when they witness their child being successful in at least something. 'Very secure. Private. VIP! Best.'

I guess you get what you get, I thought. Unwillingly, I passed him the money. Klaus fumbled with something in his pocket.

'Here.' He passed me a metal key. 'To open gate.'

When I later told Masha the parking story, impersonating Klaus, Nikolai, and exaggerating the details, she laughed. 

Then she added, 'But look at the bright side. At least it’s in a quiet area.' 

---

We spent our second holiday traveling around Montenegro by car. The roads in Montenegro were tiny, and people drove as if they had nothing to lose. That is, overtaking by crossing to the opposite side of the road, swerving right in front of you, and honking aggressively when you were driving just 10 mph over the speed limit.

Masha and I visited the Blue Cave, where we were taken by a private boat, and got a chance to swim in the crystal blue waters and inside the marine caves. In one cave, I saw a nest teeming with black bats. I took a video of it and sent it to my mother with the caption, ‘Beauties.’

I’d been to Montenegro a few times growing up. First time, when I was twelve, to attend my grandfather’s confirmation wedding with his second wife. I remember being stuck in a hotel room with my aunt, who was three years older, liked to sneak away to parties at night, and pleaded with me not to tell her parents that she smoked. There was a time right before I flew to Boston for college, when I completed an online alcohol awareness quiz that placed me in my university’s AA group. It was the last time I filled any kind of form truthfully. Finally, the last time I visited this country was with my ex, back in 2017, when I again flew to visit my grandfather, though this time he was there hiding away on a yacht from people he owed money to.

Even though I traveled a lot as a kid, it always amazed me how useless that is. As an adult, whenever I come to the same place I’ve been to with my parents, it’s like I’ve never been there before. Sure, you might say, ‘The benefit of traveling with your kids is that they know what’s out there!’ Maybe. But the more I travel, the more I realize that everything is quite similar. As one of my friends used to say, ‘The grass is still green, the sea – wet, and rocks are just like rocks.’ 

I recall one early dark morning in 9th grade, when my Russian physics teacher went on a rant and said that travel is for older people. ‘When you are young, you have to work. When you are old, that’s when you have time to enjoy travel.’ I remember hearing her say that and smirk. What a sad old witch, I probably thought. But lately, I’ve been wondering whether she was right. Whether travel is one of those things you’re expected to do, a source of FOMO or another form of consumerism. I’ve known people who travel only to places their friends have been, just to check it off their ‘list’. They’d visit a temple in Bali and instead of learning about the culture or enjoying the sight of it, they’d post it on Instagram with a caption, ‘Spiritual awakening. #lifeistravel.’ 

Other times, I’d be on holiday and I’d notice kids sitting beside their parents, their faces stuck in screens, their backs turned to an important historical monument. I’d look at them and wonder if when I have kids, I will take them anywhere with me at all. 

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In the morning of our last day, I placed my 'parking key' inside one of the rusty poles that held the thread wire to our 'VIP' parking and texted a thank you to Nikolai and April.

'You are very welcome. Please come again,' Nikolai texted back.

'What amazing hosts,' I told Masha.

'It’s like we’re their grandchildren,' she replied. 

In the end, both of us were secretly happy that we were going home. 

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