A Grain of Salt

Last summer, I stayed on an island in a neighboring country, in a small apartment villa owned by Ivo, a man born there who now lives in Zagreb. One morning, he overheard me telling a friend that I simply don’t function until I’ve had my homemade Turkish coffee. These days, everything on the island is modern — espresso machines, brunch concepts, cocktails — but not everyone still makes traditional coffee at home.

From the next morning on, coffee was waiting for me every day. No questions. No special story. Just a small gesture from a man who had listened. By the third morning, Ivo and I were sitting together over that same coffee, talking about the island, Zagreb, Montenegro, people, habits, summer, life.

And that is exactly how the most beautiful travel stories begin.

Something similar happened in Ulcinj. The people I stayed with welcomed me with cold watermelon, homemade lemonade, rakija, and meze on the veranda. Day after day, I stayed longer in conversation with them, until I learned they were returnees from Vienna who had decided to come back to their sea and their hometown. Today, of course, we are still in touch.

A few weeks later, I slept in a tent under the stars at the Bogićevica katun. Raba from Plav, a woman I had never met before, invited me into her hut for coffee as if we had known each other for years — without introduction, simply: “Neighbor, come have some coffee.” She showed me around the katun, told stories about her family, the mountains, and life, and that evening prepared lamb cooked in milk... The warmest, most natural, unforced hospitality, as pure and sincere as the surrounding nature itself. Hygiene at the highest level and a feast on a mountain without electricity. There is nothing there except a small solar panel used for the refrigerator and charging phones, which only get signal when they climb high above the katun. But with Raba, there was always plenty. Raba is my friend today. How good people rejoice in other people.

And then this winter in Kolašin. The ski season had luckily stretched on, so there was still snow in the mountains, while in the valleys those who know nature and that region were already picking young spring herbs. After skiing, Dragica — the woman whose apartments I stay in whenever I’m in Kolašin, whom many affectionately call “the mother of all skiers” — brought out young nettles and wild garlic, freshly picked spring greens, along with a little Celtic salt — “to make it healthier.” And once again, that same feeling of care from people who remember small things.

I remember the owner of a small boutique in the old part of Montpellier, on a street I walked through almost every day. On the first day, he addressed me in Russian, completely convinced I was Russian. I didn’t correct him. For days we talked in Russian, laughed, spoke about life, until on my last day I finally showed him on a map where I came from. He laughed sincerely. He himself was not originally French either — somewhere in his family there remained Slavic roots that, perhaps, recognized something familiar.

A friend of mine once said to me in America, slightly amazed as he watched me effortlessly talk every day in my poor English with strangers and seemingly uncommunicative Americans (what prejudice can do...), he said: “You’d strike up a conversation even with a billboard.” I don’t think it’s about me, but about the energy we send out.

I don’t remember only places. I remember people longer. And when I think today about all the destinations I’ve visited, I realize I didn’t remember interiors, star ratings, or addresses the most. What stayed with me were the people. Their attention. Their simplicity. Their humanity. Maybe those small gestures of kindness are the grain of salt that gives life its flavor.

Because just as even the best-prepared dish lacks that one grain of salt to achieve its full taste, so too journeys and places often lack those “small things” from which friendships, conversations, and that rare, sincere closeness between people are born — the most valuable kind of memory.