I woke up on Monday morning with some flashes from something that probably happened the night before. First of all I see my best serbian best friends. Then the parents of one of them and my own one are sitting around a table next to a swimming pool in Stari Grad. Then tasty cebapcici, bacon, chicken (meat, meat, meat) and unbelievable bread. Wine from Monte Negro. The talk starts to be louder and everyone starts to feel relaxed. I keep translating from Serbian/English to Spanish. Then more wine. Then I see my father holding a Kalashnikov while “The No Smoking Orchestra” plays the song that repeats the name of that famous russian weapon all over and over. Then my friend’s father (who used to sing in a chorus) starts singing serbian traditional songs. Clap, clap, clap. More wine. Sweets. Hugs. It is getting dark. Rakja. My serbian improves. Chats about montenegrian and serbian people between some representatives of both groups. Then we all realize how mediterranean people are in oposition to northern european: Feeling mediterranean, feeling serbian, feeling… Full. Now it’s dark. We start thanking each other and saying good bye not with distanced hand-shakes but hugging, touching, and huge smiles. Way to Terazije. Wishing a good trip and, once again, way up to Molerova. Before I went to sleep, I thought I probably found myself during the translation.