Author: gingerinmontenegro

Ginger in Montenegro: she climbs the mountains and not only the mountains

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Ginger in Montenegro: she climbs the mountains and not only the mountains

Being awake these days has so many different meanings.

To wake up.

To wake up with a new day.

To wake up in relationships.

To wake up from my own dreams, that is the biggest trap I’ve ever been in.

To wake up from the misapprehension.

From falling in love. Because you should not fall anywhere.

From lukewarmness.

And then, after all that, to wake for real.

Oh, how many mornings I needed until I actually opened my soul. Only so I can see it. It was as all the world’s veils hid my gaze from the core and as if I had to remove the layer by layer.

How many cities, how many mountains, how many nights to close your eyes.

How many moments to open them.

And now I’m here.

Preparing the most delicious food I ever tasted, just before reaching the highest point of Mount. Durmitor.

Oh solitude, my sweetest choice.

I am a woman. All by myself in the very heart of this beautiful mountain and no, I can’t write. Every word I knew is lost in translation somewhere between the mountain breeze and this little heart of mine that I’m trying to save from the world below.

I would trade all those good restaurants, the flattering gentlemen and the smiles under which you can never tell what is hiding for one moment like this. Eye to eye, heart to heart with my mountain.

Actually, that’s exactly what I am doing now. Never supported escaping. Then… escaped.

The lesson I learned this time was that you have to recognize when the lesson is no longer a lesson, but simply a torture.

I love lessons. All my life I’m passing them, I’ve made a friend out of my enemy. But then I realized I have to pay attention to the crossings. Shades. It was not easy. But when you are in a deep shit, I beg your pardon, you have to know if this is the shit in which you have to swim. Because sometimes it’s there … only to swim in, which is not the point. The point is to get out of it and to see from the new, fragrant perspective why you were swimming.

That’s why my today’s message for you is: stop drowning in shit.

The shitty lesson is not good. And take the lead. Even if at that moment it seems like you surrender. Those are not lessons, those are impediments.

No, the civilization and the society in which you live are a big nonsense ( human stupidity is the only thing that is infinite in this little universe) and if you think that you are doing well in it, doesn’t mean that you are really doing well.

Until you enforce your rules for your own life, it’s not good. It’s someone else’s.

And until you realize that freedom is the only thing you should strive for, it’s not good. It’s not freedom.

I know what I’m talking about.

I’ve been working a lot on my waking and Mother Nature and traveling helped me more than anything else. But I wouldn’t be able to climb the tops or travel to the African tribes if I was listening to anyone around me. I had to listen to my heart. That was the only right choice.

Here in the mountains, thousands of meters away from anything that could stop me, I can grow without being interrupted.

I climbed the highest peak of Durmitor alone.

Rafted through the deepest canyon in Europe.

Passed only with my bare feet through the last canyon discovered on this continent.

Jumped from the highest bridge I ever saw.

And that was just the beginning.

Being a woman who conquers the streets of those wonderful cities in the high heels and beautiful gown is even more interesting when under ladylike appearance you are a lioness.

It’s nice to be just a woman sometimes.

But it’s even nicer to be a super woman.

To be the stunning little beast.

To choose the lessons tailored with your measures.

And peaks.

And freedom.

Freedom can only be absolute.

And you can live only once.

Only one sentence can be added after each story has ever been told.

’’And then she died.’’

Make sure you did the life well.

Dear diary: Kotor, 65 days left

Boka Kotorska travel poetry travel stories

Dear diary: Kotor, 65 days left

Bioenergetics say that the point where the most of positive energy in Montenegro interlaces is Gumno ( Lovćen), but the point from which Cattaro emerges indeed is the point from which evaporates the most incredible energy of a dead poet who fell asleep so we can sleep peacefully on his chest.

Do not be fooled, a dead poet is the most alive of them all.

Three years, or at this point of my age – one century, represents an illusion of time that I was ready to plant into the lion’s heart of this city. Although my heart, even before it went anywhere, cannot wait to return here. During these three years I welcomed so many beautiful and less beautiful souls to Kotor and to my life. I also greeted them. I craved to be alone here and that moment finally came. If I stayed alone in any other city, maybe I would not lean my head to its back and would not feel a joy of being there. Of it being there. Of us, finally alone, at the very end of the world. As two sweaty lovers, lighting a cigarette while lying on the bones of the Venetian Republic and writing their last verse.

We are so mad.

We foam with madness, laughter and life.

I am young enough to make a dead city alive and Kotor is old enough, so I can stay forever young. Perfect affair in which neither one of us is losing.

Last night, I called my brother:

-I can’t stand this anymore.

-What? – he asked.

-This amount of a beauty. I turn left and I see the most beautiful scenery I have ever seen. I turn right and oh! – I see the one even more beautiful.

-Is it always more beautiful on the right?

We laughed and I realized: this is the only city in the world that isn’t forcing me to look straight in front of me. It’s the only one that is freezing the time for me, so I can stand still, without staying at the one spot and finally – grow in myself to new heights. So I can write the history, as winners do, as Cattaro wrote it once.

kotor, montenegro

Marocco, Essaoura: travel poetry

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Marocco, Essaoura: travel poetry

I would give up all the rooftops of Essaouira for your shoulders

Sparkle in your eyes

And a slight hitch when my lips cross your spine

And yet I want you on the rooftops

Your kisses and domesticated seagulls




The language I do not understand

But that is warm and sweet

Things you are talking about must be wonderful

That’s the way you talk about me

I’m not afraid

I want some of the African sky

And your palms

For my hips

You’re the sweetest stranger ever walked down the every dream (I had)

Kiss Me

Love me through medina in Ramadan

While nobody sees

And everybody is looking


Fuck God.



Madmazel, are you okay?

travel poetry

Madmazel, are you okay?

On the corner of
Rue Saint Lazare and the NotreDame de Lorette
Traffic lights spill into too sweet French wine
Streets smell of Pervert
Or he smelled on them
Now I do
And everyone who should be here is here
Although we always crave those who are not
Don’t we?
Some is passing by
Asking for money for cigarettes
I take off my shoes
It doesn’t matter in which shoes you walk
When you walk down the streets of Paris
(for some of us)

I’m at my beginning
I’ve always been good at farewells
(Only then i am incredibly good)
I would make a poem from the last goodbye
But what shall I do with the beginnings
The beginnings are the confirmation that I will forget everything
Already loomed oblivion
Over carefree mornings
Dry wine
The hug in which i felt so safe
Your beautiful features and strong shoulders
The narrow streets and darkness where you loved me.
The road will make me forget
This lovely miles will make me forget
What caressed and what broke all my previous lives
That one with you too.
And I squeeze the remains between my knees
I keep memories
I keep Kotor
I keep places for which no one will ever know
Of which nobody will be able to remind me
So i write poems
I write poems for you
You have the poems boy
I got them too.

We, poets
We are fairies and witches
Psychopaths with the warm heart
Able to create the separate worlds
To freeze the moments forever.
I’m afraid to forget the story in which there is no more me or you
I’m afraid that the paper is not enough for it
But you said I am insane
while you lit a cigarette, not understanding any of my thoughts.
We, poets
We are fairies and witches
Psychopaths with the warm heart
Able to create the separate worlds
To freeze the moments forever.
In Paris, Lisbon, Barcelona
I am far away
Still not far enough
To escape the paper
So, on the corner of Rue Saint Lazare and the Notre Dame de Lorette, I have you.
”I love you” has happened
Didn’t it?
Just have to read two lines before.
I soak my thoughts with wine
I lean my them to the beginning
Over and over again reliving that story
(just one more time)
Cause i told you,
i like to make a poem for the end
To run through the poem
It to run through my throat,
Someplace between the end and the beginning
I leave it:
your lips on my skin
your sighs in my ear
your fingers in my hair
your promises
your attempt to be someone else for me
(as that could be easy)
your abandonment
your spite
you in me.
You died in me when i fell into the arms of Paris
I stabbed our chest with a pen
With some Koop island blues
With few drinks
And few cigarettes
Blurred view for a moment
And one:
”Madmazel, are you okay?”


Paris, June ’16.

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paris poetry travel wine

Porto, Portugal: travel poetry

travel poetry

Porto, Portugal: travel poetry

Porto is everything I could have never imagined. And nothing I tought it would be.

I hadn’t seen a single photo of the city before I went to see it.

I wanted our first encounter to be intact.

I wanted us to be strangers as once upon a time lovers were strangers before the first meeting.

And we were.

The strangers.

The lovers.

Who never went beyond the first touch.

Porto surprised me.

Guarded me.

As only a stranger could.

Was pleasant and gentle, asked me to stay.

Asked me to stay.

No one ever asked me to stay.

No one has ever played with my goodbye.

No one ever fooled me with that much wine.

I’m afraid I will never stay anywhere but I promised I’d be back.

To touch it once again.

It keeps the wine for me.

It keeps fado for me.

It keeps a dancing shoes for me.

The kind of a dance that can be danced only on the streets of Porto.

The kind of a dance I know only there.

porto portugal travel poetry

Have you ever been in love in Porto?

Have you ever been in love?

Have you ever let your joy not to be a hurricane?

Have you ever let the passion to end within you and break like a ripe apple, to never breathe out of your navel?

Have you ever allowed yourself to let off a silent scream downriver to the Atlantic Ocean?

Have you ever allowed yourself to forget under the arch of the city that drowned its pain in a barrel of wine and does not look like Venice at all?

porto portugal

Everything I didn’t know about peace,

Everything I didn’t know about the time standing still,

I saw in the city

Which river I crossed with the eyes closed.

Which river I crossed beleving.

One has to sleep through all the days in which is not bigger than a poppy seed.

One has to be a bird in a cage which door will not open from the outside.

One has to die and be reborn.

One has to drink and sober up.

One has to remain dignified and a women.

One has to breathe where breathing is easy.

I must never forget Porto.

I must never forget the tenderness and  lightness of being.

That much of the fish and wine, and the desire and peace.

That much of the peace.

There is no tears, no catharsis.

Just close my eyes and believe.

Just close my eyes and I’m there, still.

All of my nostalgia(s) I put into a fist.

All of my paths I merge into one.

All of my years I trade for the moment.

A moment on the bridge.


My hair is in the color of the roofs

My dress in the shades of Douro curls in the wind

My back is straight and I am mature in youth

All bridges lead somewhere

This had already led me away


And I’m not lonely

What’s scarier than that?

porto portugal girl

photos by my dear friend: Jelena Jovićević

Durmitor mountain: Devil’s lake

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Durmitor mountain: Devil’s lake

Once upon a time, in the years of the old legends, Greek Gods from Olympus mountain chose Durmitor to be their rest home. It’s known that in the old times Greeks lived in these parts, and it’s possible that they chose this mountain for their other Olympus. What can simple man say about this place of Gods and about all the region that surrounds it, watched out and protected by Gods themselves. The Gods care and protect it, together with fairies that live deep in the bosom of the mountain, with winged horses that fly from one peak to another.

Throughout its long history, many legends are told about Durmitor, its peaks, caves, lakes and heroes. I will tell you some of it, so when you visit this mountain and hear the thunder of horses in winter nights or fairies singing, you will know those are still all just stories and legends or maybe …?

Once upon a time, Jezera (Lakes, now large plateau), was all covered with pine forest. Then, a thunder roared, burned all the pines, and the wind blew the flames across the entire forest. The forest was then filled with all kinds of beasts and creatures. Beasts have fled to Durmitor, fairies to the clouds, and the devil, and his wife found the shelter in the lake, in the middle of Lakes. They made a delightful castle in the lake – all of the ice crystals and they live there to this day. This beautiful lake became a diabolical home, so they called it Devil’s lake. When you swim in it you can feel that it is the coldest Durmitor lake. It’s because the Ice Castle’s cold spreads everywhere. And when the young girl swims across the lake, the devil goes out from his castle, grabs her and drags her to the bottom, to his ice castle. If the boy swims, then the Devil’s wife grabs him and pulls him to her ice chamber at the bottom of the lake. Some say the devil usually occurs when the darkness falls, and even comes out on shore. Once they saw him in the form of a huge horse and sometimes he appears as the bull with huge horns. The bull eats a grass on the shore, passionately roars, blares and everything around him is trembling from his voice.

Beside the devil, there’s also a beautiful, red-coated horse. In the long, starry nights he emerged from the lake and made love to the mares from the flock of the celebrated Duke Momcilo, who lived nearby, in the town of Pirlitor. After their love act being consummated, he would kick the mare in the stomach to make her loose the fruit of their love act. But, once, when he tried to kick the mare, shepards came from the nearby hills, and forced a horse to return to his lake. The mare gave birth to the winged horse, named Jabucilo, on whose back Duke Momcilo flew from Pirlitor to Durmitor.

Durmitor mountain is the cradle of legends, the cradle of spiritual energy which makes me feel that I can be anything. That I can be the one with  Mother Nature, its leaves, water, sounds. That I can be endless. Growing up in the lap of the one of the most beautiful mountains in the world is an enormous honor. It’s a fortune for a little girl to be the fairy and to stay the fairy in this big, cruel world and to have all the mountain where she can escape when she needs a home.

When you go from Zabljak to the direction of Niksic, on the ninth kilometer you will see Vrazje jezero (Devil’s lake ), known as a cradle of winged horses.

Love letter to Lisbon

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Love letter to Lisbon

Lisboa, meu amor.

I have never finished a poem while I still laid next to someone. – one poet told me while I was laying on your docks. I couldn’t finish mine when I was yours. When you were teaching me your letters, when you embraced me so tightly that all I felt was an endless freedom. No one hugged me that strong that it finally felt fine not to breath. You taught me longing even before you welcomed me.

Ausiar – longing.

If it’s possible to long for the eyes lost into the melted sun on the miradours of Lisbon. I fell in love with those eyes faster than I fell in love with all those who were lost on me.

If it’s possible to long for Moroccan dresses that were hidding my skin from the streets of Lisbon, as if these streets did not know everything about it even before they touched it with its dust, and bid farewell with its hands.

I wanted to create the illusion in the city which had been built from illusion and what did I got? To be there even now when I’m miles away.

If it’s possible to long for a soul that is not my promised one and an ashtray above the navel – one that is still the center of my universe.

For the lips, police sirenes on the deaf streets in which I leaned my head on the palms of the city whose touch I feel on myself even now, when I walk through the streets of Kotor. Kotor saw others finger prints on my neck, but never remained silent in front of them. Kotor took his balms from the drawer of The Old Town and did everything, that it doesn’t matter how many cities I go through, I stayed untouched. Kotor is silent since I came back.

Lisbon will allow me everything:

Arrivals and departures, kisses on the balconies, rooftops and wine, fado and trams. Everything but oblivion.

You know,

Whoever you are, in Lisbon I would ask you to come to the end of the world with me, but we would be there already.

Then I would say:

Come, sleep with me on the airports.

But on which airport we should wait for happiness?

Someone is reading this, looking for some tips for Lisbon. I don’t have any. I have never had a tip for love.

Mothers, don’t let your daughters to go there, Lisbon is everything what a young girl should not know.

Daughters, don’t ask, pack your best dresses and go. You will make love to your own existence under the skies of broken hearts.

Mothers, if you let them, you will never see your daughters again.

Daugthers, you will never be the same.

When you go to Lisbon it’s hard to come back, even if another fairytale waits for you.

And now I know:

This will never be longing, this will always be saudade.


With my purest love, Jelena

only lovers left alive Cascais Cafe do Monte, a toilet

When you go to Lisbon, you have to listen to fado and to drink wine – he said

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When you go to Lisbon, you have to listen to fado and to drink wine – he said


”Lisbon has the scent of previous lives.

Lisbon is the phoenix.

Mad phoenix that makes love to its women and gives wind to the back of its men.

That morning in 1755, around 10:24 in Lisbon happened a great earthquake. It was followed by fire and tsunami.

One one other morning, in 2016, around 10:24, everything happened again. ”

I am writing a book. Finally.

All the cities on which breasts I had leaned my head awoke poetry in me. Lisbon brought me a novel, the one that I’ve been waiting for (way) too long and because of which I went there. But today I will not talk about it, today I have to say something else and to share with you what I promised in the previous post.

There comes the moment when you feel that the world you live in is not a good place. The people among whom you breathe are not good people. You’re scared and disappointed. You’re sick. You may ask. No need. You’ll never know. Therefore, choose the world that suits you. And the one where you fit in.

Then you close your eyes, take a deep breath and realize that you’re a bird. That you are more a bird than you are your own mother. You realize that your mother used to be a bird. That she’s not a bird anymore. That you can not stop being.

And if you can be a bird, you can be anything else.

Imagine a cloud, and bring your dreams in it, your friends, your joy and your shame, and be real, but in the world that you just made. And one in which you was before someone came up with. (Not you.)

So in order to live I had to convert the sense to banality. Just like I trivialize this text.

I am living proof that we are what we attract. What we invent. Not a single thing in my life led to what I am today. I have brought them myself where I wanted. Dragged them.

Someone once asked me what will happen when this bubble on which I sit breaks. Nothing. Because the bubble is me. We all break, don’t we? And that’s just fine. But let’s smell wonderful while we are alive.

Sometimes I would go (I go) from person to person, asking them to be kind and gentle, rinsing out salt, and salt is washed by the ocean. Bending wounds, and wounds are bended with forests. Lying that life is beautiful, the lies are told with the cities. As long as everyone would believe it is true. Because then it would be true.That is easy to live. Because then it would be. Then it is. Even easier is when you live between airports.

The life made of the verses is all I ever wanted.

The life made of the verses is tiring sometimes and demands that I always have a different face. But what is it for all those that I have? What is it for me when I am everyone? When I’m not afraid to be?

With my verses I sharpened my character. For them, I was also a girl and a woman, slut and a virgin, sad and happy, alive and someone who was not here for a long time. I was everything that I never was out of those verses. And then I was just me. With the verses I grew up into myself. I let them to lead me. Mine and other people’s. Verses of alcoholics, bohemians, travelers, saints, monks. Verses of strangers.

I told you for how long I was looking for the place where I could build a story for my second novel and that a poem of a stranger showed me the way. I promised I will share it with you. It’s something I will share before I say any word about Lisbon, because it’s everything I have to say about Lisbon today.

I read this poem, packed clothes and went to Lisbon to live it.

Because, why not?

(To my dear poet I said that it’s mine a long time ago)

It was mine.

It is.

The way the Lisbon is mine.

The way it will always be mine.




It is perfectly okay for you to go to Lisbon

And to never call back,

I mean,

Who would

When the foot touches eternity of the ocean

Watch out there are those frenzied trams

In narrow steep streets

And be sure to go to some musty basement to listen to fado

Fuck Stones, Clapton, Bowie and Smits

Fuck your electronic of which sometimes I want to throw up like after warm beer

When you go to Lisbon, you have to listen to fado and to drink wine

Cause only in the city where the ocean and river merge you can experience the full catharsis

There is no fear that your tears will sink the world

Trust me, even if you would cry out the sky, the water level would not sink New York,

Your pop art cradle will wait for you, just as Lisbon waited

Wear that little black dress for which I teased you that you are Audrey Hepburn from porno movies of the nineties

And nothing under it

Panties and a bra should stay on the dirty floorboards of the hotel room

It’s time to liberate that spirit of a naughty girl you carry within you

Damn it, wasn’t that the reason of your fantasies about sunset over the ocean and the fucking streets of Paris, Lisbon and New York

About the docks that smell of fish, salt and freedom

Remember your dreams while you drink with complete strangers

And when you hear the first guitar riffs accompanied by a voice torn with pain

Begin to live

Tear the past as old bills and receipts from the dry cleaning

I’ll tell you again, fuck everything that had once been and where you’ve been

Memories are just scars and anchors that keep us in the exact same spot

Kid, no one knows you there, feel free to get drunk at 12 pm

You can cry drunk at three over the phone to someone here

Can yell over the phone, “Fuck you, idiot!”

Or to simply send it away with the wind

Like the girl in one fado song you will hear

And yet, three minutes after that to meet complete stranger

But to smile to him like you know him for a thirty centuries

So if he smiles back, dance with him

At eight o’clock in the evening make traffic jam

End up as the main news in the local newspaper the day after

End up naked on a beach in his arms

Fuck as long as you have the strength

Madly, to the bones, to breaking ribs, to screaming and to the teeth thrusted into shoulders

Just the way this dark here remembers you

And when the sun comes up, roll up joint and beer

Cause otherwise you will throw up remorse and say

That’s not me

That’s not me

That’s not fucking me

I know you, I know you that much that I am almost sure that you will not go further from solo drinking and yelling into the phone

They will watch and tighten around your waist for nothing

They will pour into your ears lascivious offers and words of desire for nothing, you will still be here

Hey, you are going to Lisbon and you will never come back to Belgrade

At least not to me and to this years

One of us have to say that

When you go to Lisbon you have to leave yourself in Sarah Key suitcase in the attic

Don’t contact me ever again, or if you feel the need, just call and say, “Fuck you, idiot ‘

But only at night somewhere between four and five

It is okay and the only thing in the whole world that only we will understand

You know, I would love to hear you telling me that three words in all the languages in the world

Because that yours ‘’Fuck you, idiot’’ is more honest of all that ‘’I love you’’ I will ever hear

And it will be the first thing to crush not of cobbles of Dorcol, but of the ocean foam and the monument of Vasco da Gama

Stevica Rajčetić

photo by Jelena Jovićević

To be continued…

Traveling the world by following poetry

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Traveling the world by following poetry

Just like professor Keating from the Dead Poets Society said: “We don’t read and write poetry because it’s cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for. To quote from Whitman, “O me! O life!… of the questions of these recurring; of the endless trains of the faithless… of cities filled with the foolish; what good amid these, O me, O life?” Answer. That you are here – that life exists, and identity; that the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. What will your verse be?”

People on the street, in the park, while they walk, are followed by the imaginary music. Poetry accompanies me. However, I never thought much about the benefits of reading and writing, until I became the author of the novel I published two years ago and numerous verses scattered throughout the Internet, napkins and bank deposit slips. Never after I asked myself this question which now sounds absurd, because there is no verse made just for watching. Verse is an attempt of a poet to make a revolution.

I fell in love with poetry because of Antić and his stars and Bukowski and his whores.

Since then it’s been a lot. List of reading has gone to a brilliant heights, and on the way, slowly but surely, often shy, but with fervor, I made my revolution that has grown and taught me of a completely new, direct and simple use of poetry.

Poetry is, in fact, an amazing way to tell your story so that everybody hears, everyone understands, but also to take a break for a moment, forget to breathe, just as I forgot to breathe in the nineties, listening to Robin Williams in the role Keating.

Take me to the water is a novel that was the lymph which forced its way through my wound. After the greatest struggle of my life, the only thing that was natural for me, was to put my core on the paper.

After that, my growth as a writer in the public stopped – because, all topics seemed insufficient or less important. A novel in itself has the poetic moments that will probably be the part of every next. It is a paradox that, while I was writing a novel, poetry became my greatest love. And exactly that was the most important part of my life for the last two years, after Take me to the water was published.

Everything that happened before and during writing a novel, helped me to comprehend what is worth living for, and gave me the strength to live only for those things that for me are crucial.

From this perspective, it is paradoxical to seek strength in yourself to live your purpose, because any other choice would be more difficult and I really hope that all of you can make that step from triviality to the life with a purpose that you find deep inside, without twinge of environmental influences, your past, beyond the meaning and this world.

Why would you think you’re creatures of this world, or any other? The worlds are the limits, too.

I needed two years to mature from the being that was breaking the borders, to someone who really doesn’t feel that they exist at any level. I’m not saying I’m free. Free in relation to what? Freedom is the limit too. I want to say that I am present. Not in the world, but in myself. Therefore, in the world I have never been more present. In my friends, in my poetry, in all the cities that I love so much and that I allowed to be the home of my stories.

It seems to me that, until the end of the world and the end of time, I could be fed only with travels and verses.

This is exactly what I’m doing. Traveling by following poetry.

I found the way to weave two of my greatest loves into one that makes me what I am at the moment. What keeps me awake and eager.

At the beginning of this great journey I choose, was a man who inspired me and so many other people to travel, solo, without a lot of money. He followed the Sun (1000 days of spring), I follow poetry.

The story for the the second novel was born in me almost two years ago, and all this time I was looking for the the city that will be a home for it. That’s how my first solo trips began.

Last June, I packed up my life in my backpack and started with a trip through Morocco. Morocco was a journey on which I’ve found the path to my heart. If the core of my being is the Holy Grail, that’s where I found it. It prepared me for what was to come.

I fell in love with Fes, Marrakech, Essaouira, Sahara, Rabat … I went to every corner of this magical land, but the story I wanted to write did not find fertile soil for its roots. I did, that’s where I found myself and then left. I brought it with me. Became a traveler.

After that, Prevert happened. Paris happened. Paris is a city to which I would always come back and it brought poetry to me. Milan is also the city in which I created. But all these cities brought poetry to me. I wanted a novel too.

And then I read a poem. Random poem, somewhere on the Internet ( I will write more about that one). I read it dozens of times, but after the first time I knew where is the story I wanted to write. Where it’s born and dies over and over again, while waiting for me, madly in love with it, to go on the road and put it on the paper. To appease it and let it be outside of myself.

I read the poem, I booked the flight, packed up and went to Lisbon.

It was there.

The story.


To be continued…



Durmitor mountain: fairytales of valley Lomni do

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Durmitor mountain: fairytales of valley Lomni do

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If we would transform our lives into a mosaic of moments, it would be the most valuable work in human history. Long time ago, from one dear book I have learned  that the mosaic is a guide for the personal legend. That legend that we all have, while confused and discouraged we are looking for meaning that is so simple and too large to be visible to the naked eye. Some of us feel that the only purpose is to live that legend and to be happy. When you are happy, your mother is happy, and your child , and your friend is happy, nature is happy, the universe, and God.

Yesterday morning I woke up, enjoyed my bath gel with the smell of olives, until the water became completely cold , stopped by to buy espresso and took a bus to Žabljak.

This morning I was at the place where I haven’t been for the years, where not many people walked for the years, but long time ago there were the hosts and housewives, and children, merchants and shepherds.

That’s the place hidden in the massive of Durmitor mountain, place  where important parts of my character were made, where you can hear the crickets, as they sit on your shoulder, where if you take a bit longer gaze into the mountains, you can see the spindly deer running.

I feel so peaceful there, like that is not the part of this world. It’s so pure and out of any evil. I’m safe there. I’m myself there. Fu**ing fairy there. J

Durmitor is stunning, every part of it (I would say it’s the most beautiful mountain in Montenegro), but Lomni do is special for me. All that peaks, that amazing valley, the view, the smell and one of my favorite lakes – Modro lake. Modro lake is placed 800 m far from the road Žabljak – Sedlo – Trsa. It’s is situated 11 km from Žabljak town. Its altitude is 1609 m, the surface is 7300 square meters. Maximum depth of the lake is 3,3 m. Its coast is long between 630 m and 700 m and is mostly stable during the year, without any decreasing and increasing of water level. The wildest part of lake is on its southern side, below the rocky massif of Ranisava peak.

Man is a part of nature, and his war against nature is inevitably a war against himself, so this place, more than others, make you be in the peace with yourself, and every single person should feel the way I feel when I’m sitting on the rock above Modro lake, looking at the most beautiful scenery in the world. Feel endless. Small and infinite at the same time, cause we are small and we are infinite.

Today, when I got back to Žabljak, I felt something like that. On my way to buy bread, in front of the shop, on the bench was guy in his late twenties, with bright eyes, the beard, the dirty clothes, with hiking shoes and a huge backpack. He followed me with curious eyewink, and I wondered if he is traveling alone, from which point on the globe he arrived, if he was hungry. If he felt good in Montenegro, in Zabljak. With bread I bought Snickers, because when I was on the mountain in these boots and with that backpack, it was certainly the best snack in the world. I asked him if he was tired, I found out that his country is not that far away from Montenegro (Bulgaria) and gave him a candy bar. I will describe his face properly if I tell you to imagine Santa Claus when he was young – pretty face, good-natured, sparkling eyes and the beard – perhaps as many inches as cities he visited. He rolled a cigarette for me, we talked for a long time, and then parted .

My house smelled of homemade cookies with cinnamon, I made coffee with milk, listened I’m into you on repeat and smiled paying tribute to a wonderful, wonderful day.




Kada bi smo živote pretvorili u mozaik momenata, to bi bila najvrijednija djela u ljudskoj istoriji. Davno sam iz jedne drage knjige naucila da je taj mozaik putokaz za ličnu legendu. Onu koju imamo svi dok zbunjeno i obeshrabljeno jurcamo trgajući za smislom koji je tako jednostavan i prevelik da bi bio vidljiv golim okom. Samo neki od nas osjete da je jedini smisao proživjeti svoju legendu i samim tim biti srećan. Kada si srećan i tvoja majka je srećna, i tvoje dijete, i prijatelj ti je srećan, i priroda je srećna, i univerzum, i Bog, i sve čije si je srećno.

Juče ujutru sam se probudila, uživala u kupci sa mirisom maslina, sve dok voda nije postala potpuno hladna, svratila po espresso za ponijeti i sjela na bus za Žabljak.

Ovog jutra sam se našla na mjestu na kom nisam bila godinama, na koje nije mnogo ljudi kročilo godinama, a nekada je tamo bilo domaćina i domaćica, i djece i trgovaca i pastira.

To je mjesto skriveno u masivu Durmitora, mjesto gdje sam izgradila bitne dijelove svoje ličnosti, gdje se cvrčci čuju kao da ti sjede na ramenu, gdje ćeš ako se malo duže zagledaš u pravcu šume ugledati vretenastu srnu u trku.

Osjećam se tako mirno na tom mjestu, kao da ono nije dio baš ovog svijeta. Tako je čisto i izvan svakog zla. Sigurna sam tamo. Svoja sam tamo. Je*ena vila sam tamo.

Durmitor je nevjerovatan, svaki dio njega (rekla bih, najljepša planina Crne Gore), ali Lomni do je posebno mjesto za mene. Svi ti vrhovi, predivna dolina, taj pogled, miris i jedno od mojih najdražih jezera – Modro jezero. Modro jezero je skriveno 800m od puta Zabljak – Sedlo – Trsa, na 11km od Zabljaka.

Nalazi se na visini od 1609m, dok mu je površina 7300m2. Maksimalna dubina jezera je 3,3m. Obala mu je duga izmedju 630 i 700m. Tokom godine je stabilno i nema znatnih promjena nivoa vode u zavisnosti od godišnjeg doba.

Čovjek je dio prirode i svaki rat sa prirodom, rat je sa samim sobom, a ovo mjesto, više nego druga, čini da budeš u miru sa sobom. Svako bi se trebao osjećati onako kako se ja osjećam kada sjedim na stijeni iznasd Modrog jezera, posmatrajući najljepšu panorama svijeta. Osjećati beskraj u sebi. Jer smo tako mli, a tako beskrajni. Tako divni.

Danas, kad sam se vratila na Žabljak, osjetila sam nešto slično tome. Krećem da kupim hleb, a ispred radnje, na klupi, sjedi momak u kasnim dvadesetim, svijetlih očiju, sa bradom, u ishabanoj odjeći, planinarskim cipelama i sa ogromnim ruksakom. Radoznalo me prati pogledom, a ja se pitam da li putuje sam, sa koje je tačke na globusu stigao, da li je gladan. Uz hleb kupujem i Snickers, jer kada sam ja na planini u takvim cipelama i sa takvim ruksakom, to je zasigurno najbolji zalogaj na svijetu. Pitala sam ga da li je umoran, saznala da njegova zemlja i nije tako daleko, iz Bugarske je i poklonila mu čokoladicu. Njegovo lice ću najbolje opisati ako vam kažem da zamislite Deda Mraza kad je bio mlad – lijepo lice, dobroćudno, svjetlucave oči i brada – možda onoliko centimetara koliko gradova. Smotao je cigaretu za mene, pričali smo jako dugo, a onda se rastali.

Moja kuća je mirisala na domaće kolače sa cimetom, skuvala sam kafu sa mnogo mlijeka, pustila I’m into you na repeat i osmjehnula se odajući počast predivnom danu.