Back To My Home, I Dare Not Go.

After being completely disgusted with an electrolyte mixture called Orosal 65 (hasn't this country ever heard of Gatorade?) I was presented with news of my father and mother going to visit their cities of parental origin for legal document reasons.

My father travelled to Murovac (Moo-row-vuhts), in the northern area of Montenegro to visit his mother's grave and renovate it with a new headstone and concrete walls, as well as to get documents and visit other families. It's basically still a farm village, primitive but effective.

My mother then later went to Prokuplje (Proh-koop-lyeh) in Serbia, to visit some of her father's relatives, check on property, and also deal with legal documentation. I'm pretty sure it's a rural area as well, a farm village with minimal outside world contact besides groceries and basic technology (maybe two people have television).

Meanwhile, I slowly recovered over three days, and mourned my loss of beach time. Nothing would be able to make them up to me, and in my sulking I realized I would just have to give more effort into my later days, and in some way try to recreate the waves I never saw.

Oh well, at least I wasn't sick anymore. Any more Orosal or little tablets that I had to pop three a day of, and I would have gone off my rocker. As fun as that would be for artistical masterpieces, it wouldn't be very practical in day to day life. Such a bother.

I haven't travelled very far past Sutomore and Bar in Montenegro, not even to my birth city of Cetinje and it's amazing chapels and mountains. I can wait until I'm older, but my curiousity gets the better of me to what lies nearby in other cities, and my will to travel just keeps growing bigger.

Not to mention, going back home to Canada is approaching even closer, and the differences will soon start to take effect...