Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
work. While traveling, I'm often struck by how people give meaning to life by producing
and contributing.
I didn't take a photograph of the embroidery. For some reason, I didn't even take
notes. At the moment, I didn't realize I was experiencing the highlight of my day.
The impression of the woman's tenderly created embroidery needed—like a good red
wine—time to breathe. That was a lesson for me. I was already mentally on to the next
thing. When the power of the impression opened up, it was rich and full-bodied…but I
was long gone. If travel is going to have the impact on you that it should, you have to
climb into those little dinghies and reach for those experiences—the best ones won't come
to you. And you have to let them breathe.
Most tourists stick to Montenegro's scenic Bay of Kotor. But—inspired by my back-roads
Bosnian experience—I was eager to get off the beaten path and headed deep into the
rugged interior of the “Black Mountain.”
I climbed 25 switchbacks—someone painted numbers on each one—ascending from
the Montenegrin coast with its breezy palm trees, bustling ice cream stands, and romantic
harbor promenades into a world of lonely goats, scrub brush, and remote, seemingly
deserted farmhouses. At switchback #4, I passed a ramshackle Gypsy encampment. I
thought about how, all over our world, nomadic cultures are struggling; they're at odds
with societies that demand fences, conventional ownership, and other non-nomadic ways.
I wonder how many nomadic cultures (American Indians, Eskimos, Kurds, Gypsies) will
be here in the next generation.
At switchback #18, I pulled out for a grand view of the Bay of Kotor and, pulling on
my sweater, marveled at how the vegetation, climate, and ambience were completely dif-
ferent just a few twists in the road above sea level.
At switchback #24, I noticed the “old road”—little more than an overgrown donkey
path—that was once the mountain kingdom's umbilical cord to the Adriatic. The most
vivid thing I remember about my last visit, decades ago, was that a grand piano had liter-
ally been carried up the mountain so some big-shot nobleman could let it go slowly out of
tune in his palace.
As I crested the ridge, the sea disappeared and before me stretched a basin defined by
a ring of black mountains—Montenegro's heartland. Exploring the poorest corner of any
European country can be eye-opening—but Montenegro's is more evocative than most.
Desolate farmhouses claim to sell smoked ham, mountain cheese, and
medovina
(honey
brandy), but I didn't see a soul.
