#bus station

LIVE

It’s times like today, sitting the bus station in Podgorica, Montenegro, on my way to Pristina, Kosovo, that I think to myself, “my life is awesome and strange!”

I’m sitting in the station bar, joined by three men at a table catty-corner to me. They all look ragged, and (of course) their story is unclear to me. Are they also transient travelers? I don’t think so. Is this their bar of choice on a Tuesday night at 8pm? That seems slightly more likely.

Despite these usual questions I ask while people watching, another thought is at the top of my mind- Why is one of those men wearing an entire jean outfit? Jacket and pants! Fashion in the Balkans confuses me- and not because of some “this looks better than that” ideal, but because it really shows how disconnected (consciously or subconsciously) this area is from the homogenized global norm.

All of this said, I think I’ve quickly grown to hardly question it. Point proven by the fact that a guy my age just walked into the bar wearing a full sweat suit, and all I noticed was the dog he brought in with him. A dog in a bar? I don’t know either. He quickly walked back out though- maybe he realized what we were all thinking.

Oh, but now we four patrons have been graced by the presence of an elderly man (almost said “gentleman” but I’m feeling a bit pessimistic at the moment and don’t want to assume too much) who has sat down behind me and begun to smoke. He is in the perfect position to read my writing… but I’ll gamble on language difference and his inability to decipher my awful handwriting. Of any of us, he definitely seems like the regular to the train station bar. I bet he could tell a hundred stories about this place- if only I could speak the language. What is the language here? Montenegrin? I will have been in 11 countries this month so have lost all memory of language names, currencies, borders, etc. And despite no shared language, I think I prefer my imagination right now.

On the small circular wicker table (the kind with a glass protector over it) my notebook is next to a single 1.5euro Niksicko (lines over both the s and c) 500ml ber bottle, half of the contents of which are poured into a small Coca Cola glass. It’s a fine beer- I won’t pretend my palette or beer memory is enough to prescribe more than that single complimentary adjective to it. I did think about ordering food as well. I am hungry, have a three hour wait, and an eight hour bus ride after this…but from the seven page menu, only two options were available. So I declined. I’ll find something else soon. Somewhere. Though then I’ll have to take out more money at the ATM. Decisions…

What’s nice about traveling is noticing all of these little things and random people. One gets in a mode of ultra-awareness of difference when going from place to place quickly. This enables a heightened sense of smell, deeper respect for the beauty of vistas, acknowledgement of people and their jean jackets a bit more. I think it’s because when we’re traveling we have the time to. We are passive. Taking the passenger seat to life happening around us. We are in others’ lives when we travel.

We of course still find things weird when we travel, but unlike at home we can’t dismiss it so easily as such. Instead, we spend time rationalizing, philosophizing, and hopefully not too quickly believing we “understand” it enough to move onto the next thought. This makes travel a humbling experience- forcing the journeyer to say “I don’t know”. It’s a transcendent juxtaposition between this forced lack of understanding and the heightened appreciation of the world’s beauty.

This exposure to the unknown (both places and people) is why some travelers love touristy places and others despise them. Don’t you think? Too much difference can be overwhelming. Too many travelers are weak.

(side note) The jeaned man just left. He was carrying a 2 liter soda bottle filled with a clear liquid. He walks with a limb, has a scruffy face, and hair to his shoulder. His one friend has a kind of fanny pack hanging from his neck. The other is carrying a briefcase. Understand them better now?

I find it funny that places like this bar (I’ve realized now from a sign on the door that it’s called “Aperitiv Bar”) were once new! All shiny and quite possible fashionable- at least by local standards. Maybe this simple blue carpet, the bar with green opaque-because-of-bubbles glass, or these dark brown wicker table sets were the “hit new thing” once. Maybe everyone came to Aperitiv Bar- and slowly they have stopped- other than Mr. Jean Outfit, ancient old Mr. Smokes and SitsTooClose (oh I guess he left too), and the occasional random American on his way to an even more bizarre location.

I wouldn’t be surprised if this cigarette-aged bartender woman was being chased by these men some 20 years ago. They do say that bartenders have the best stories…

Who knows? I guess I do have 2.5 hours more to figure it out. Though soon, after a few more gulps of Niksicko (don’t forget those lined consonants) I will find another strange location, but with food, and there I will once again try (and likely fail) to make sense of my surroundings.

But (closing thought) isn’t the point that through failing to make sense of others we get a new piece of the puzzle to make sense of ourselves? But do we learn it immediately? If yes, then what have I learned from Mr. Jean Outfit? No, I think it cooks under the surface for a while first. But then how are these strange moments while traveling connected?

Do they make us who we are? Or do they simply show us?