Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
I left Sarajevo for the hilly and beautiful terrain of Montenegro, taking a small mountain
road that had been suggested to me by a young couple in the capital. Controlled by the
Slavs, the Romans, and ultimately, the Soviets, the land that is Montenegro has struggled
for centuries to find itself. The more countries I visited, the more I began to view them as
people. Some, like France, were confident in their identities. Others were still reeling from
recent traumas, trying to figure out who they might be in times of peace.
I rode through one of the many mountain passes that twist and turn through Montenegro
only to realize I wasn't going to make it much farther without gas. The bike started sput-
tering, and I switched it to reserve, barely making it to a mountain village. After meeting a
number of townsfolk who didn't speak English, I finally came across one who did. Sal had
lived in New York many years before, until he ran into some problems with the chaps at
immigration, who had
politely
urged him to return to his homeland.
“You go to restaurant in town,” he offered, showing me on my map where I might find
this local establishment, “and talk to my nephew. Bekim. He maybe help you.”
I arrived at the small café, where, once again, no one spoke English. But I was able to
figure out one thing: Bekim was not there.
I sat down outside and began preparing to spend the night in Kindness One. I could feel
a chill entering the air and already knew my night would not be as pleasant as the one in
Lake Como. Not that my night in Lake Como had been particularly pleasant.
And then a small and sturdy man walked up to me. He spoke in thickly accented Eng-
lish: “I heard you're looking for me.”
“Are you Bekim?” I asked.
“Yeah. Sal tell me you're traveling with your bike. You had some problems or what?”
Major problems
, I thought to myself, and then I remembered all the stories I had heard
so far along my journey—my sea mates being separated for months and years from their
loved ones, the young fencer whose father had just died, the story of Edis and his family's
sacrifice for their people. Maybe my problems weren't so major after all.
“I've basically run out of gas, and I'm on reserve. You're like an angel. I'm serious. I've
been sitting here so long . . .”
Bekim smiled sheepishly. Shrugging his shoulders, he offered me gas and a place to stay.
I had no hesitation in hugging this random Montenegrin man. Joy sometimes does that to
me. I wasn't all that surprised to learn that Montenegrin farmers aren't big on hugs. Vodka,
yes. Hugs, no.
