Two cars ahead of me.
A policeman walks toward me and asks for my passport. He returns to the office, the car in front of me moves up to the passport checkpoint, and I follow. I wait a few seconds and then stop in front of the booth. The officer hands me back my passport through the window of the booth.
“Is everything okay?” I ask.
“Yes,” he replies and waves me through. First gear, I move forward slowly, looking for Montenegro’s border checkpoint. Where’s the border? Maybe it’s just ahead. Not clear what’s going on here. I’ve driven five kilometers, maybe I missed it? No, I didn’t miss it. There’s no other border checkpoint. Strange.
I arrive at the nearest town past the border and stop at a café in the square to plan the next leg of my route. A young, well-dressed woman is sitting at a table on the café’s terrace.
“Can I order an Americano?” I ask the guy behind the bar.
“Yes, sit wherever you’d like; the waitress will come to you.”
I sit outside facing my motorcycle, taking a moment to look around. A minute later, the well-dressed woman approaches me to take my order. This is how I like it: arriving in a new country, sitting back, and planning my route. I open the map. Bosnia is here; there’s a route through the mountain range and another along the coast. If I ride through the mountains, it will be very cold. These are high mountains, and some are probably snow-covered. It’s best if I ride along the coast.
I check the distance. Oh, the country is tiny. If I ride straight through, I’ll reach the Bosnian border in three and a half hours. In that case, I’ll take my time. I’ll ride to the city of Bar, settle down by the beach, and continue to Bosnia tomorrow.
“Can I get the bill, please?” She hands me the bill on a small white note.
“Please pay at the counter,” she says.
“Half an euro,” the guy tells me. Yes, that’s what I heard—half an euro. I head out toward the coastal road. The road is narrow, passing through small towns. There’s nowhere I feel like stopping, and no particularly special views, so I’ll keep going to Bar and find a place to stay the night.
I think this is Bar. Yes, a relatively big city. I pull over to read about the city. Interesting—the old town is one of Montenegro’s historical landmarks. Worth a visit. I turn right toward the old town and start winding along the road climbing up the ridge. Oh, the view from here is beautiful. Is that the Adriatic Sea? Yes, it is. From up here, it looks different. Another sharp turn, and there’s the old town. Wow, it’s beautiful here.
The city is surrounded by walls; the street roads are made of stone, as are the houses. I wander through the alleys of the town—small shops, cafés. The city is built on the slopes of the mountain, and the mountains to the east give it an extra sense of grandeur.
It’s time to find a place to sleep. I don’t think there’s any rule against pitching a tent on the beach. From the winding road, I can see the marina and the port. From here, it’s clear that the area is crowded—I need to head north, away from the city. I turn left onto a path leading to a small grove between the sea and the road. What a great spot I’ve found: a small clearing, close to the city. Perfect.
I turn off the engine, check the ground with my boot, clear away some small stones, and lay out the groundsheet. Then I set up the tent on top. Two men are walking along the path coming up from the beach. They stop near me, smiling and speaking in a language I don’t understand. I smile back and continue getting organized. It’ll be dark soon, and I want to finish before then.
I finish setting up, but they don’t leave. One of them steps closer to me with a smile and speaks in a language I don’t understand.
“English, English,” I say. He comes closer, takes out his genitals, and smiles.
“Listen,” I say in a language he doesn’t understand, “go over there, I’m not into this.” It doesn’t help. So I gesture with my finger: “Me, me, nooo.” Then with a fist, I signal “boom boom.” Now he understands and moves away from me.
I don’t feel comfortable here. I pack up my gear and start the motorcycle. Before moving on, I search Google for a nearby hotel. In a nearby town, there are guest rooms for €14 per night. That must be a mistake. I call.
“Hello, hello,” I say in English, but he responds in a language I don’t understand.
“Excuse me, sir, do you speak English?” I ask a man passing by.
“Yes,” he replies. I hand him the phone to speak with the guest room owner, who arrives within two minutes. He translates: the price listed on Google is €14 per night, but since I came directly, the price is €12 per night.
“I’ve found a good place,” I think to myself. I follow him up the stairs. It’s clear this is a family business: a couple with a young child and six guest rooms on the top floor. He opens the door to the room—what a great room. A shower, toilet, kitchenette, two beds, and a balcony with a view of the sea. I’m happy to have the chance to be here.
My stomach signals it’s time to eat. I ride for three minutes to a street along the beach. Wow, how beautiful. A paved street, with shops, cafés, and restaurants lining the left side. I think: what should I eat, what should I eat? I’ll go for schnitzel, steamed vegetables, and fries.
The restaurant has a few tourist couples and some local couples. The combination of pleasant music, the sea, the absence of noise, and glasses of red wine on the tables makes me feel calm and relaxed. I order a glass of red wine and feel I’ve come to the right place.
The couple at the table next to me asks for the bill—it reminds me that it’s already midnight.
I ask for the bill: €14. Again, the price surprises me. I head back to my room, and through my thoughts, I know I’ll stay here tomorrow as well. I’m too tired to think anymore. I’ll go to sleep.
The light wakes me up. I didn’t close the curtain before going to sleep. What time is it now? 8:30. I’m debating whether to continue to Bosnia or stay another night here. What’s the rush? A room for 12 euros a night, cafés, and restaurants by the beach just three minutes away. I go downstairs, and the landlord comes out to meet me. “I want to stay another night.” He doesn’t understand me, and I don’t understand him, but with hand gestures, we manage to communicate. He’s happy, and so am I.
I do my laundry—it has plenty of time to dry.
I take my laptop and head to the café. Sitting at a table by the sea, I have so much to write about. The sun is already high in the sky. I sip another cup of coffee, sinking into my writing, when a plane flying overhead distracts me. Afternoon has arrived, the sun is in the west, and it’s getting a bit chilly. I move to the nearby restaurant. I order a vegetable pizza and a beer. The pizza arrives just as the sun touches the sea, painting the sky in orange hues. All that’s left is to pull out my camera for the perfect photo.
The room feels like home. I’m happy to return, take a shower, and relax. I already know what I’ll do tomorrow—I’ll stay here for another day.
In the morning, I go back to the same café. In the afternoon, to the same restaurant. And the sun sets at the same time. Perfect—what more could a person need?
I would have stayed longer, but the call of adventure urges me to move on. Tomorrow, I’ll head toward Bosnia.
I leave the curtain open. The morning light wakes me up. On my way to the motorcycle, I pay 36 euros for three nights, start the engine, and ride toward Bosnia.
I leave the curtain open, and the morning light wakes me up. On my way to the motorcycle, I pay 36 euros for three nights,
start the engine, and ride toward Bosnia.
The road climbs high into the mountains, creating a unique and captivating atmosphere. I stop by the side of the road to take in the view, which makes me crave a coffee break.
The moka pot releases the pleasant aroma of fresh coffee.
I sit on a wooden bench, gazing at the scenery.
A little further, and I’ll reach the border.
The short road to the border is packed with natural wonders. The autumn colors paint the mountains in shades of red and yellow, and the clear river flows through a narrow canyon.
The short journey is full of natural marvels, and I keep stopping to take pictures.
Before I realize it, I’ve crossed a rickety wooden bridge with a sign that reads: “Bosnia.” I’ve arrived at the border.
