Luke, around the world.

I haven’t enjoyed Budva long enough, and I already have to go to Podgorica to visit the embassy. The presidential elections, an important event for the highly polarized Polish society, are happening this weekend. The division is an almost perfect fifty-fifty, so every vote counts, and the choice is between a pro-European candidate (sadly not leftist enough), and a former hooligan, no kidding! At this point, I could add my two cents about the recent decline of political debate, but the truth is, the longer I travel, the less bothered I am. Being stuck in one place sometimes makes people fixate on pointless, unproductive discussions, especially about politics. I am not interested in them; it’s the road, the highway, the forest, the mountains, the sea that fill my heart completely.

It doesn’t mean that I can’t, or shouldn’t, cast a vote.

There is a small queue at the embassy. Other voters seem to be in good spirits. A statistical truth: voters abroad are more likely to choose the liberal and leftist options. Perhaps it’s due to being exposed to other cultures, nationalities, and ethnicities, perhaps it’s the travelling bug that makes them more open-minded and tolerant. I know it did wonders for me. There, a simple X in my candidate’s box, and I am done with the civic duty.

I am meeting A in the evening, and looking forward to it. Our goals align – we just want to talk, listen to each other’s stories, and have a stroll. Podgorica is not really beautiful, no offence, and she bursts out laughing. Decrepit, post-communist blocks, the main square devoid of any charm, a general feeling of disarray… But that’s where she settled down after being a nomad for a very long time.

A is from Ukraine and she’s telling me the story of how she left the motherland, many stops on the road, across the ocean and within Europe, and then, the most unlikely candidate to put your bags down, Montenegro and its ugly as hell capital. She is a dance teacher, lives with her ma and kid, and tonight, she wanted to do something out of her routine. So we talk, and amble along the Millenium Bridge, which has been the only impressive piece of Podgorica architecture so far. Let me show you something a bit nicer, and we leave the bridge and walk along the river.

You know, living here is not too bad. I am not Montenegrin, but it’s close enough. We are all Slavs, and when I see a bunch of guys walking in my direction at night, I somehow feel less troubled than in the West, she says as a group of rowdy teens pass us by. We both laugh, and I almost forget how close it is to the preliminary election results. But the meeting with A is precisely how I like my meetings, no pressure, no expectations, no hidden agenda, just two souls randomly getting together to broaden their horizons.

Eventually, she has to take a cab and I decide to walk back to my apartment. The sun has gone down, it’s getting close to the exit poll results. Once released, they are promising, slightly in favour of the pro-European candidate. A plot twist awaits: according to the late poll some two hours later, the hooligan is very likely to win. And he eventually does.

I am a bit saddened by this fact, but then I am still going around the world, and I have prepared myself for the next day. The plan is to see the Nijagara waterfall, I shit you not, the name is real. A city bus takes me to a nearby village, and from there, it’s a rather short walk to this hidden gem of Podgorica and its surroundings. A warned me the day before that the river and the waterfall may be dried out due to an unexpectedly rainless spring, but fortunately for me, there is enough water forming a crystal clear lagoon at the top of the waterfall, and then steadily falling over the edge to converge into a little brook trapped between two rock walls.

I spend about an hour by the waterfall, walking up- and downstream. Then I need to catch a bus back to the city center; it doesn’t arrive. It might be my overreliance on Google Maps (again!), I might have incorrectly chosen the street parallel to where the return bus route actually is. Waiting at the bend of the road, I soon make a new friend, a stray dog who keeps barking at all the privileged dogs guarding the village houses.

It’s between half an hour to an hour to get to the city border, and seeing how the bus is MIA, I decide to have a walk through the Montenegrin countryside. The views are excellent; there are sheep and cows grazing behind rudimentary fencing. There is a vineyard with some hillocks in the background. The dog, whom I name Ginger, is following me. Sometimes he disappears around the corner but then comes back to make sure I am still there. I guess he likes me, I guess he instinctively feels that I am a good candidate to take him in. If only I could, dog, if only I could…

I reach the stop within the city limits. Fifteen minutes later, the bus previously missing in action appears, and I can take a ride back to the flat. Seeing me disappear inside the vehicle, Ginger makes a desperate run for it. I apologize profusely, doggo. You were a great companion, but there is nothing I can do for you. 

That’s it for Podgorica. It’s probably the ugliest city I have seen so far, one that lacks character and soul. My vote didn’t help after all. The dog couldn’t be saved. Sometimes the stars just don’t align properly. There’s always tomorrow, though.