When the ceremony began, I deliberately stood a little farther back. It felt awkward to stand in the front row, but I also didn't want to be too far away. I still don't understand spoken Montenegrin particularly well, so it helped to watch the presenters' lips. I didn't want to miss the moment when they called my name.

At some point, the initiative was seized by a man who might have been an artist, a visitor, or simply a random guest. He was not entirely sober. A can of beer rested in his hand, his speech was somewhat disjointed, and his face had turned red from the heat, which by late May was already reaching thirty degrees Celsius. This guest decided to inform everyone present which works were genuinely good and which were complete nonsense.