After enduring a hazy, smoke-filled flight followed by a cold, dark, car ride, I was immensely grateful for the warm, bright welcome at the end of our long journey.
Flinging open the door and ushering me and the children into her cozy living room, Stan’s cousin Stanojka, in best Montenegrin fashion, had laid out a mezze spread for our arrival—smoked meats, homemade cheeses, pickled salads, and fresh-baked bread, too. Having long ago given up trying to figure out just what time it was (Should I reckon by California time or local time or shoot for something in between?), I told the children to eat whatever they wanted.
They chowed down with abandon on the homemade bread (delicious) and the fabulous dessert (a multi-layered nut torte with chocolate cream in between—the best of European desserts. I wanted it to be the first Montenegrin recipe I made but, alas, it was not handmade by Stanojka but by her friend who regarded the recipe as a family secret. Sigh.).
With hunger abated, I glanced around the living room with interest. For all the grime and garbage and graffiti outside the flat, the inside was tidy and warm. I’ve since learned that many of these apartments follow the same basic layout: small entry hall or corridor with doors opening up into a bathroom, kitchen&living space, and bedroom(s); a quite efficient layout. The open floor plan didn't exist here—it provided neither the privacy nor easy-to-heat qualities necessary—every room closed off to other rooms to keep hard-fought heat (via wood-burning stoves) in where people actually are.
The living room furnishings were simple: two large slip-covered couches (routinely used as beds) lined up end-to-end on one long wall, with a dining room table in front of one couch and a wooden coffee table centered in front of the other. Opposite the couches was a wooden wall unit which held an old TV, company-best dishes and glasses (prominently on display), odd treasures (a particular favorite of the kids was a little metal bird that could be stood upon its nose), a few tired plastic red flowers providing a spot of color, and in the section nearest to the kitchen, all the “drop-in guest” goodies—store-bought chocolate and cookies, ready at a moment's notice. Tucked in the corner of the living room was a giant 5-foot stuffed bear. Yes, I wondered about that.
The dining table, normally pushed up against the short wall to be kept out of the way, was pulled out and turned to take advantage of the couch seating, necessitating fewer chairs to seat us all. The children loved the novelty of this—eating on a couch! It was like straight out of the Bible or something! Our two year old was especially thrilled: He would take a bite and then crawl back and forth across both couches. This was the free-est eating experience of his life—not a high chair in sight to be strapped into.
We were finishing our meal when Stan arrived. After he grabbed a quick bite of the not-to-be-missed torte, we tackled putting the kids to bed. (“Tackled” is the right word because while past midnight local time, it was only mid-afternoon California time. Ahem.). In a typical gesture of graciousness, our hosts put our family into the two bedrooms; they would spend the night in the living room. No amount of arguing or pleading our willingness to be the ones inconvenienced made a difference.
The kids slept two to a bed, the baby slept with us, so we took up all 3 real beds. As we readied to say final good-nights, Stanojka threw open wide the windows in the two bedrooms. I was speechless. Seeing snow on the ground, I was torn on whether to politely go with the flow or to say something.
Struck with visions of children-turned-icicles, I quietly urged Stan to let it be known that we sleep with windows closed. He did so and another shocked silence ensued. The wheels of Stanojka's mind were turning: What kind of parents make their kids sleep in stuffy bedrooms instead of letting in the refreshing air? She assured us that the blankets (one! (only!!!) per bed) would keep us warm.
With our desire to be good guests (especially on the first night), we acquiesced, but I was convinced that it would be for this one night only—after an uncomfortable night of sleep as ammo, I'd be able to fire a surer shot tomorrow. After all, I often slept with more than one blanket living in sunny Southern California.
To my utter astonishment, that single blanket more than sufficed, and we stayed toasty warm under the covers. This was but the first of my “things are really done differently here & I don’t know it all” moments.
Thus ended the first night in our new homeland. The first day was still to come.
