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Hotel Durmitor: Searching for trust in a city of rust

I’m a writer who never writes about nostalgia. About any kind of nostalgia.

A few nights ago, as it usually happens during the night, I was missing one’s hands.

Oh, how they knew to touch, to carry all the weight of my gray days on their palms. That night I almost felt them on my waist, on my skin, and everywhere my memories drifted. Even my memories are blind and deaf under the surge of nostalgia that I feel when I see him. And I see him often, even now when he’s on the other part of the country.

My novels, my poems are all based on love, passion and death. But not even during those nights could I ever write anything about nostalgia. It has always been a subject of which I had nothing to say. When it comes to overcoming and letting go, all I have to say is: keep quiet and put up with it, this too shall pass.

However, today I want to pay a tribute to something that is forgotten. Maybe it will be easier to write about when I’m not the forgotten one.

Or not.

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It is a national treasure of Montenegro, one of many that is left to decay and oblivion.

All my life it’s here, 300 meters from my house, and every day I’m the witness of it’s destruction. One collective suffering.

Back in the time Hotel Durmitor was wonderful, lively place, with 650 workers and a rich offer. Now, Hotel Durmitor is a ghost house.

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Montenegro is a beautiful country, but I think that there is no other nation where people care so little about their home. In general, unintelligent nation and insatiable government. They don’t sell the land anymore, now they sell the spirit and identity.

It seems that me and Hotel Durmitor, while drinking coffee in it’s ruined lobby, accept deterioration with the hope that the same will not happen with everything around us.

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The only thing that comforts me is that when their tits, brands, empty talk and deeply rooted nihilism rot, my mountain will still be there.

There’s a song that I’ve heard recently, so tender and harmless, such as those common morning coffees SOKO – First love never dies.

Dear melody fills the blue room, and it’s funny to me that I found it right here. In my life the concept of the blue room has always been a refuge.

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I close my eyes, I hear the birds and the trees, and beautiful, pastel curtains, the sound of fine crystal, the smell of fresh cakes and peace.

Here we are, quite alive.

I never let myself miss my past, to the past I can always go back. I go back often, to be reminded.

Remind myself what is the value of all what I have gave and lost.

Remind myself what is the value of what I still have.

Remind myself that I can’t be satisfied with wrong stories, cause I  know how I used to be loved.

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Comments (8)

  1. Beautiful post! It’s so sad to see culture die quietly, with no one to fight for it. But at least you remember, and you’re showcasing your beautiful part of the world (seriously, your posts make me itch for the mountains of Montenegro!)

  2. Sjajan blog imaš i sjajne slike samo tako nastavi. Ovo je tuga. I nažalost, mnogo takvih zdanja ima širom bivše Jugoslavije. Ja imam dva na samo par kilometara od moje kuće (slučajno pisala o jednom ovde: http://skitarnik.blogspot.rs/2015/04/kakva-je-veza-izmeu-prolecnog-umora-i.html) nisu poznati ali bi mogli da budu. Bili nekad… A onda, pogledaj i šta je sa čuvenim odmaralištem KUpari u Hrvatskoj. Tuga i glupost….