How a Life of Adventure Taught Me What Really Matters

Getting out of despair and learning to love life - Part 3

*This is the third essay in my series on Getting out of Despair and Learning to Love Life.

Part 1: How I Avoided Getting Killed and Killing Myself

Part 2: An Overthinker’s Guide to Making Life-Changing Decisions

As I stared at the in-flight entertainment screen, my heart dropped to my feet.

We were approaching Sri Lanka.

"Where the fuck am I going?"

A few weeks ago, I wouldn’t have been able to point out Sri Lanka on a world map. And now, here I was—about to land there, carrying everything I owned, trying to rebuild my life from scratch.

For two years, I had been trapped in Montenegro, wearing a bulletproof vest, waiting for the day I could leave. That day had finally come. But instead of relief I felt uncertainty and fear.

Last time, our story ended with me finally making independent decisions, finally jumping into life, which led to me quitting my job and leaving my home.

I’m increasingly aware that, as I share this journey with you, I’m leaving out many potentially interesting moments—things that happened before, in between, or alongside the events I describe. But, as I’ve said, I’m not attempting to write my autobiography.

Although those two years I spent trapped in my room deserve their own reflection, my focus here is on the journey that followed.

Also, saying goodbye to my mother at the airport was one of the most difficult and important moments of my life. That day will always be an integral part of who I am. But it was so emotionally intense that, for now, I’ll skip ahead—to Sri Lanka.

This time, I’m telling you about how an Australian gentleman taught me a lesson I didn’t yet know I needed.

I landed around 1 AM and, after picking up my bag, got into a car with a driver I had arranged through a Facebook group. It’s a two-hour drive from Colombo, the capital, to Weligama, my first destination.

For the first thirty minutes of the ride, I was on high alert, hoping this wasn’t a setup that would leave me stranded in the middle of the night with no money, phone, or belongings. But exhaustion from over thirty hours of traveling was stronger than my paranoia. The driver was kind, and soon, I stopped thinking. I just looked out the window.

I was in Sri Lanka.

It was too dark to admire the natural beauty that's otherwise visible alongside that entire route.

When I arrived at my accommodation—a three-story family house split into guest rooms—it was too late, or too early, to do anything but sleep. The room wasn’t like in the photos, of course. My toilet was home to insects of various species and a couple of geckos, a sight I wasn’t used to. But none of that mattered. I had left Montenegro.

The next morning, I stepped outside and walked onto the beach. That first morning walk is something I’ll never forget.

The warm sand, the sound of the waves, the humid air, the blue sky - all of them were like a proof from a higher force that, yes, I'm finally free.

Most of that first day, I explored Weligama on foot. In the afternoon, when I briefly returned to the guesthouse, I met another guest—an Australian gentleman in his 60s. Let’s call him Jack.

He was a polite man with a welcoming face, relatively short, always walking around in speedos. His tan was so dark, the Jersey Shore crew would envy him.

It was apparent that he was hoping for a longer conversation when we met in the front yard. But being the hard-shelled Montenegrin that I was, I gave a respectful "hello" and moved on.

Later that day, I went for another walk on the beach. That’s where this chapter of the story truly begins.

Our guesthouse was just across the street from Weligama Beach. When I say across the street, I mean I could walk out of my room and onto the sand in under 60 seconds.

As I stepped onto the beach, I noticed Jack standing alone, facing the ocean.

He had a funny way of standing with his feet almost double shoulder-width apart, and hands on his hips.

But nothing else was funny - my mood shifted. The whole day, I had been feeling euphoria of having escaped my old life. However, in that moment, I felt something else.

Jack looked lonely. He looked lost.

I wondered: How do you end up alone in your 60s, in a beach town full of wannabe hippie surfers in their 20s and early 30s?

But I caught myself. I had just left my family and friends behind with no idea when I’d see them again—maybe I was projecting my nostalgia onto him. For all I knew, Jack might be the most fulfilled person I’d ever meet.

It made sense.

I continued my walk.

The next morning, while preparing breakfast in the common kitchen, I wasn’t lucky enough to escape human interaction. Jack caught me where I couldn’t escape.

We exchanged names. When I told him I was from Montenegro, I was surprised—he knew about it. More than a year would pass before I met someone else who had even heard of my country. But Jack had traveled the world. He had visited Yugoslavia (a country Montenegro was a part of) before it fell apart in the 90s.

He told me he was stuck in Sri Lanka.

Originally, it was supposed to be a short stop on a long journey. But with Covid restrictions still active in many countries, he was unable to continue. The plan had been to get to Georgia, buy a used car, and drive through Europe, spending time in the Balkans. Bosnia and Herzegovina was the only country from former Yugoslavia he planned on visiting.

Now, after talking to me, he was considering revising his route. He asked if we could sit down later so he could ask me about Montenegro. I said yes.

A couple of days passed before we met again.

We both happened to be heading out for a morning walk when Jack asked if I was free to meet at 5 PM. I agreed.

That evening, Jack was prepared. He wore glasses and, for the first time, I saw him in something other than speedos. Shorts and a shirt.

What followed was two hours of Jack’s life story.