For two days now I had been shaking with fever under a layer of five blankets. That was the maximum number of blankets I could find at my humble stay, where I was now alone, my brother having felt the irresistible need to leave sooner and do something with his life. Very much unlike me, who at this point in time lacked similar aspirations.
Five blankets… they were suffocating me under their weight, but it wasn’t enough. I knew how these things went. And recently they had been going on way too often. After the fiasco in Niš thatnight, while driving back home I started feeling the forays of shivers. I kept telling myself it was just the adrenalin from all the shit that had happened, but deep down I suspected I was in for a game of sweating and shuddering. And I was right. It started the very same night. That first day I spent in bed. The next day I started feeling better and as I was worried that the huge amount of money paid up front for ski gear and ski-pass would go to waste. Conscious of my sorry income levels, in a complete idiocy I decided to ski again. And boy did I ski! In a total blizzard, ice sticking to my clothing, I glided down the slopes. Occasionally I would get stuck, almost upside down in the snow, because you could no longer tell the track. I can’t say I didn’t enjoy it somewhat, projecting my idiotic adventuring fantasies. But I was totally alone on the mountain in this fog and freezing wind, this whiteness of it all. Probably because nobody normal was interested in that kind of fuckery. The result was another two days of fever and sweating. There was no chance of any more skiing. I just hoped that I would recover in time to drive myself home and that no one would have to come to rescue me. Me the great adventurer who went skiing and totally fucked himself up with common influenza. And so there I was, sweating for two days straight, barely able to leave the bed, drifting in and out of numbing tv programs. As I hadn’t left the room for two days, my kind hostess came to check on me. When she heard what was at hand, she went and brought back a plate of smoked ham and cheese, leaving it in front of my door. I was so knocked out, with so little appetite it took me another two days to finish it, but I was forever grateful to her for this. On the third day I felt better, and on the fourth I knew I had to move. I got up late… sort of packed up… but not really, nothing was ready. I had promised my parents I would be home by seven pm, I planned on taking off way earlier, so I could drive through Djerdap gorge and see all that is to be seen there. However, it was already noon and all these ambitious plans had been kissed goodbye several hours ago. Still, I was in a frenetic, almost insane hurry in my surreal attempt to, as usual, make up for the precious time I had wasted.
I stuffed the rest of my things into the suitcase, literally stomping the top down with my foot. In a paranoid frenzy I was checking around the room if I had forgotten anything. I got down to my car, threw in the backpack and then remembered...
I still owed the ski rental guy money!
In all the fuss with returning the skis earlier than planned, because I got sick, he returned me more money than he owed me. Also hadn’t managed to get my ski-pass card refunded. FUCK! Still in a rush I was calculating in my head is it worth going up the mountain for any of it. The money I’ll get as refund minus what I owe… I will be maybe three hundred dinars in plus, that is how much the fuel will cost me to go up and down… - Fuck I owe the guy, I should give him the money. Fuck it is already 3 pm! - - Ok, I will quickly go up, do what I have to, come down again and then go home. -
I just need to pay my hostess first.
On the Old Mountain you could rent a stay with locals down in one of the many villages. The stays were modest and you had to drive all the way up to the ski track every day. But it was very cheap, which was a determining factor for me, since all this ski stuff was way beyond my financial abilities.
My stay was in one the houses along the road that led to the top of the mountain. Beside the house there was a perfectly clear stream from which the entire village was supplied fresh water. I had my room with shared bathroom and kitchen on the first floor. The room had two old beds, one of which my brother left a few days ago. There was an old crt tv and a terrasse with a single door. The windows were loose and squeaky. The kitchen was mostly one induction stove in the hallway with some cutlery and plates. The bathroom was either poorly heated or not heated at all. But it was all very clean and well-kept with a lot of attention. We didn’t mind the lack of luxury.
The very next house was a huge freshly built lodge, made of that bright, almost yellow wood. My brother and I went one evening for a drink there. It was a very nice place with a large common room in the center. There was a bar, fireplace, lazy bags, a ping pong table, hammocks hanging off the celling… People were nice and hospitable. Once we took our drinks and settled on a couch, a guy in his forties approached us, asking us where we were from, were we skiing etc. He was snowboarding himself, was very stocked and happy about it all. He talked about the freedom he felt here in the nature, in the mountains and how nothing could compare to that.
- This is it man, freedom man! Freedom! -
He seemed like a very friendly and openminded character. The entire crewof people around the place seemed that way, like a bunch of hippies skiing and smoking pot in the middle of the Serbian wilderness.
My big suitcase and the rest of the things were now in the back of my banged up, frozen pick-up. I went down to the ground floor where my hosts resided. I knocked on the door and entered a small, tight room, practically filled with one table covered with red and white tart oilcloth. Only a very short hallway separated the room from the outside, so it was chilly. In the corner there was a classic Smederevac wood stove, there were a few more chairs and maybe a dresser and that was it. The room had another door leading to the rest of the house, there was a doorway, across from the entrance, covered with some old cloth or what use to be a blanket. My hostess emerged, and behind her, past the cloth, I could see a huge pile of wood, that my hosts were diligently burning, frequently inquiring if I feel cold.
My hostess looked like a typical Serbian homemaker from a village. A middle-aged woman, quite blocky in stature, with a solid physical strength that she used daily to get through her hard domestic chores. She had a common women’s shorter hairstyle and wore some sort of customary housework clothes, a simple skirt, with a blouse covered in many layers, finishing with a woolen pullover and a typical silk like scarf. She however always looked cheerful and in a good mood.
I greeted her and she greeted me back with a smile.
- Have you recovered? – She asked smiling
- More or less… yes, I guess I have… - I answered back
We exchanged some small talk. She asked if I was ready for the trip, if I was satisfied with my stay, if the weather had been good enough. I responded positively to all questions, taking the opportunity to thank her for the meat and cheese she left for me, really trying my best to emphasize how much it helped.
Amidst it all she was constantly apologizing that she couldn’t let me book for another few days. The day before I was inquiring because I was considering maybe waiting for a little bit more until I have recovered fully.
- I am really sorry but the Bulgarians have already booked everything in advance, it is their holiday you know, they reserved it much earlier. -
She was both really sorry and also panicking I will somehow insist and pressure her into it. But I had already given up on the thought and assured her it was all good.
After this short intro, it was payment time. I sat, or rather squeezed myself between the right wall and the desk, sitting down on a long bench. My hostess sat down across the table from me in a slightly nervous manner.
While I was in Niš, I filled up the gas tank and I cashed up practically all of my remaining credit card money. According to my calculations, I had just enough to pay my stay, the exact credit amount for the road tolls, and maybe a few hundred dinars in cash, for some food or drink for the road.
I felt both satisfied and nervous at the same time, because while I’d managed to settle all my expenses, my now empty bank account was already giving me the good old feel of a financial noose around my neck. It wasn’t choking me but it was there just enough to torture me with its presence. A rather familiar, thoroughly hateful feeling.
And so, in that financially ambivalent state, on to the worn table between us, I counted for my hostess, the exact sum of money for the stay. All the while being a little bit anxious about it, worried that I might have miscalculated something and I wouldn’t have enough cash.When I started adding tax fees, she interrupted me, almost ashamed, and told me that I didn’t have to add a tax fee for my brother.
- God forbid, I will charge you for him as well! -
I was never a good trader. In Serbia when you purchase something outside of the regular channels of commerce, you are expected to bargain, the philosophy at work is – everyone fights for himself. In my mis-calibrated manner I always felt awkward about it. It almost seemed like an insult to offer a lower price than the seller thought his ware is worth, let alone less than I myself might think it be worth. A terrible feeling of unfairness would always creep in to me, though I knew this is how things worked and that the person on the other side is surely not going to give me any quarters.
I knew my hostess would almost certainly not pay that tax fee to the state, but still I felt the need to leave her that money.
The usual back and forth insisting ensued. In alternation I was pleading and convincing and my hostess categorically refused with nervousness.
At one point it seemed to me as if she is going to crack and accept the money, but in that moment like when you’re finally getting something that you wanted, realizing you really don’t, I backed.
There was a moment of silence and she nervously reclined:
- Do not worry, I wouldn’t even charge you your own tax to begin with, but you know how it is… -
We starred at each other nervously.
This whole trip was on the very edge of my financial abilities. In general, I found this crazy James Bondian idea of mine to go and ski idiotic. I didn’t like skiers, the whole culture seemed snobbish and I definitely did not have enough money for it, but something just flashed in front of me and the idea was affixed.
My hostess had already offered me a discount price of 12 euros from the original 17 a night she was declaring online and now she didn’t even want to charge me one of the tax fees.
All of this enabled me to stay here two weeks, for less than 200 euros. Still thinking of staying an extra day for full recovery, I asked around with the hippies next door as well. The cheapest room they had was a 50 euro double bedroom and they weren’t eager to give me any discount for being alone in it.
The small pile of bills, that were in that moment spread out on that table in front of me, meant that for the same money, I wouldn’t be able to stay with the hippies not for even four days. And this woman looked at that money as if I spilled out a whole small fortune for her.
The truth is, when I calculated my expenses earlier, I was also wondering if she would ask for my brother’s tax, hoping she might not.
I felt terribly ashamed… of my financial noose around my neck, my bonvivanian ideas and my skiing aspirations. I wished very much to give her more money, at least for that tax she refused. Damn it I wanted to leave her all the money I had.
But I couldn’t.
I had just enough for the agreed amount. That tax she didn’t want, will be just enough cash to pay the road tolls in case I miscalculated and didn’t have a dime more on the credit card.
I was sick of skiing.
I accepted her offer, kept the tax money, paid up the rest and said my goodbyes. One last warm handshake with a sincere smile, once more repeating my gratitude for the meal she left for me while I was sick. That was all I could do.
I went out outside, it was chilly and refreshing, I could see my breath turning into vapor, but the Sun was shining bright and the snows were melting revealing long, green, wild mountain grass. It occurred to me that back home it was already planting time. I had promised my father we would revive our lawn this year.
I looked around once more, as I usually do before leaving a place that remains significant to me for some reason or another.
A small shaggy village, with its house and their occupants scattered around the road that led all the way up, up to the ski tracks.
My hostess’s house, the stream, my father’s pickup, down the road to that big yellow lodge where hippies were probably still smoking weed, playing table tennis and talking about freedom...
- Fuck you hippies, you’re probably all software engineers anyway. -
I jumped into my car and rushed up the mountain.
To be continued...