Funny enough, the idea of a big trip began where it all began—back in one of the places I call home: Serbia.

It’s from here that I’ve been plotting itinerary dots on the map.

Every time I return to Serbia, there’s a familiar expectation. People assume this is the place I still call home, that Serbian remains my primary language, that Serbian food is my favorite, and that the landscapes here are the most breathtaking in the world.

But the reality—for me—is different. Things aren’t always quite as they’re “supposed to be.”

The hardest part? I don’t even find it natural to speak to my kids in Serbian. I don't think it represents my being. Nor I am able to express all the range of emotions I feel in Serbian. The food, though comforting, can feel repetitive so I often crave a bit of Indian spice or a touch of Japanese flavor in my daily meals. And while the flat lands of Vojvodina are beautiful, it’s only when they’re not littered with garbage that I can truly admire them.

Today, I went on a gravel ride with Nenad, pedaling through lush, green landscapes. It was stunning—until we passed a dead pig dumped by the roadside, and saw a cat casually snacking on the lungs of another dead animal. This, too, is Serbia.

I love Serbia for the emotions it stirs in me: every time a neighbor treats you like family; every time they lay out everything they have on the table without hesitation; every time people shake my hand with a strong, steady grip.

I love revisiting the places that hold the memories of those I’ve loved. I visited my grandpa’s workshop today. It looked as if no one had set foot in it for years. Tools and bits of wood were scattered across the floor—his aging legs hadn’t allowed him to bend down and tidy up. The drone gadget cap I designed for a drone company and gifted it to him was still there faded by the sun. It used to be black, now it was pale yellowy grey and consumed by the sun. He wore it proudly. His shirts, the ones he used to wear while working in the garden, were hanging on the door. I took one that reminded me of him. I smelled it—and it was still wearing his scent of bee wax and cologne. The smells evoke the deepest memories.
So I cried and I cried and I cried.

Then Axel came in. He was amazed by the place, the mess, the spiderwebs but also frightened to see his mum crying like a child. He said, “You’re crying because you won’t see your grandpa again, but we can still do some work using these tools.”

So I showed him around my favourite tools from childhood—pointing to utensiles I didn’t even know the names of. His tiny figure stood in the same space where my grandfather once built beehives, picture frames and engineered toys for the kids.

A tiny room: this was his world.

I want to see the world, then choose where mine is. Maybe it’s in a tiny room, too.