Vlada

The new government made several good moves - from relaxing the guards of Sinjajevina to the trip to Brussels. What is more important is that we finally have a prime minister and ministers whom we think are telling the truth, who are not hiding anything and who we believe will at least make an effort to make everyone in Montenegro better off, not just them, their relatives and close ones, party or other line, people. Whether they will succeed in this is another question, because no Montenegrin government has had this many opponents.

We have forgotten what ministers look like who are not arrogant, who do not think that they are God-given and that "the people's cattle are ugly".

Until now, decent and modest politicians, not only in Montenegro but also in the region, regularly lost the battle with the arrogant and ill-mannered. It remains to be seen whether Montenegro will be a beacon in this regard, a new modus vivendi in the hilly Balkans.

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No one would blame the previous government for not imposing sanctions on Russia. It is absurd that many would resent the current government if, as it should, they are abolished.

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I often think of my parents in December. Mother was born in mid-December 1927, father died at the end of December 1999.

I materialize my father the most when he is standing in front of the oil tank and warming himself, holding the history book from which he will teach a lesson to the students in the gymnasium tomorrow. Mother couldn't resist asking, with that blue smile: "Will you learn that history again, Pavle?" I don't think he ever went to class unprepared.

As time goes on, I look more and more like him. Not because I'm ready to go to the Radio, to "Promenade on Thursdays", because I mostly improvise, but because I'm winter-weary. Whenever I huddle in front of the radiator, like these days, I think of my father, but also of that unusual word - zimomora (shivers, chills)...

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"Bar Stories 3" should appear in front of readers at the beginning of next year. The story "Savo and Kolja" is the motto of the book, but also of (co)life in Bar:

With nothing, Kolja escaped from Enver Hoxha's Albania to Bar, saving his life. Because of his honesty, value and wit, the Rams loved him. Out of charity, they called him Kolja the emigrant. He lived hard in that scarce time, eager for everything.

Some people were sitting at Om's in the tavern, in Stari Bar, drinking and smoking. Kolja would have given anything in the world for a cigar, but he didn't have any money and he was ashamed to ask, he still didn't know almost a word of the Serbian language. That's why, contrite, he headed towards Podgrad to his rented room. Savo Prelevic saw it, followed him and so that no one could see, he shoved two boxes of "Boke" into his pocket. When he came to his single room and lit a fire, it seemed to Kolja that there was no Montenegrin or Albanian richer than him. He swore that Sava would never forget this gesture.

For a long time, those two packs of tobacco burned Koljo, who, in the meantime, settled down and formed a nice family. Until the day when, pushing two pigs, he came in front of Sava Prelević's house.

His wife opened the gate for him: "What is it, Kolja?"

"Two pigs for Sava."

"He's not here and I don't have any money."

"Savo paid them a long time ago, spent them on health."

Kolja knew that Savo was not at home. He was on "re-education" on an island in the Adriatic Sea.

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I rarely go for a walk in the evening in winter. And if that happens, I first head across Vladimir and Kosara Square, decorated with New Year's lights, to recharge myself, like a battery, with electricity, light illusion and children's murmuring. The only thing missing is the chestnut seller under the notice board of the Cultural Center, so that I can triumphantly return home with warm chips in my hands, as if I had planted, harvested and roasted them, and not just bought them.

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Even though I'm well into my seventh decade, sometimes I feel like that stubby-toothed boy from Popovići, especially when I'm having a hard time and when I'm expecting my mother to appear from somewhere and say: "It's all going to end..."

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Separated on three sides of the world, longing for each other, and before these holidays, we take comfort in the fact that we are on Facebook every day, for at least two hours, and that we are not touched by Radoslav Petković's words that there is no greater distance from oblivion.