Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
I came into a village that looked like it had no commerce at all. Stopping at a lonely
local tavern, I asked the bartender, “What do people do here?” He led me to a big, blocky,
white building resembling a giant Monopoly house. He opened the door and I stepped in-
side, under tons of golden ham aging peacefully. It was a smokehouse—jammed with five
layers of hanging ham hocks. My new Montenegrin friend stoked up his fire, filling the
place with smoke. More industry than you realize hides out in sleepy villages.
Up here, the Cyrillic alphabet survives better than on the coast. Every hundred yards
or so, the local towing company had spray-painted on a rock, “ Auto Šlep 067-838-555.”
You had a feeling they were in the bushes praying for a mishap. Pulling off for a photo
of the valley, I noticed a plaque marking where Tito's trade minister was assassinated in a
1948 ambush.
At the end of the road was Cetinje, which the road sign proclaimed as the “Old Royal
Capital.” I'm nostalgic about this town, a classic mountain kingdom (with that grotesquely
out-of-tune grand piano) established as the capital in the 15th century. Cetinje was taken
by the Ottomans several times. The rampaging Ottomans would generally move in and
enjoy a little raping, pillaging, and plundering. But, quickly realizing there was little he-
donism to enjoy in Cetinje, they basically just destroyed the place and moved out. With
the way clear, the rugged and determined residents filtered back into the ruins of their
town and rebuilt.
Today Cetinje is a workaday, two-story town with barely a hint of its old royal status.
The museums are generally closed. The economy is flat. A shoe factory and a refrigerator
factory were abandoned with Yugoslavia's breakup. (They were part of Tito's economic
vision for Yugoslavia—where, in the name of efficiency, individual products were made
in one place in huge quantities to supply the entire country.) Kids on bikes rolled like
tumbleweeds down the main street past old-timers with hard memories.
At the edge of town is the St. Peter of Cetinje Orthodox monastery—the still-beating
spiritual heart of the country. I stepped in. An Orthodox monk—black robe and beard
halfway to his waist—nodded a welcome. A service was in progress. Flames flickered on
gilded icons, incense created an otherworldly ambience, and the chanting was almost hyp-
notic.
I stood (as everyone does in Orthodox worship) in the back. People—mostly teen-
agers in sporty track suits—were trickling in…kissing everything in sight. Seeing these
rough and casual teens bending respectfully at the waist as they kissed icons, bibles, and
the hands of monks was mesmerizing. If you saw them on the streets, you'd never dream
that they'd be here standing through a long Orthodox service.
For the first time, I understood what the iconostasis (called a “rood screen” in Western
Europe) is all about. Used long ago in Catholic churches, and still today in Orthodox
churches, the screen separates the common worshippers from the zone where the priests
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