Una, The One and Only

Like everything else in the Balkans, the Una river's name has a legend behind it - this one from Roman Times.  "The one and only," a foot soldier declared when spotting the river. He had never seen anything quite like it.  Even though there are 7 major rivers in Bosnia and Herzegovina and around 28 smaller ones, the Una is widely considered unique, a treasure, almost mythic. They say that it's a place of meditation and enlightenment.  We met it at the very end of the second rainstorm in two days. We'd just been thinking that the sudden, intense showers had made us feel our first real sense of "summer." Standing at the side of the Una, we had a realization, because I guess that's just what happens on this river. What had given us that familiar feeling of summer was all the green. The Northeast corner of Bosnia is a constant landscape of lush fields, and after weeks of Mediterranean climate, it felt familiar. It felt like summers throughout our lives.  And there it was, the Una River showing its powers of enlightenment right off the bat.

For most of its 132 mile length, the Una is surrounded by gorgeous, untouched nature.  It's as if people have known that if an eyesore was built by the Una's side, she'll punish them by reflecting their mistake back clearly and brightly.  The water is remarkably glassy, its reflections are a stunning study in symmetry above and below the horizon line.  It's also so so blue that when a duck glides over its surface, it's as if its tail is pulling down a zipper sewn into blue satin.  Down at the very bottom, the riverbed is smooth limestone.  Shelves of it can be seen raised up above the water in some spots, giving the river a unique and intriguing look.  It feels more like a mountain river than a valley river.  The dense forest rising up on each side, painted in the river's reflection, only adds to that feeling.  It is truly beguiling.

Fish can be seen darting around in such abundance that you feel like you could just throw a net or even a hand in and come up with a shiny, slinky fellow.  If it were only that easy.  This fishing house, set up on stilts, stands behind a roadside restaurant named "Stari Mlini," (Old Mill).  The restaurant's building, much newer, also stands in the river on stilts, between which mill wheels turn.  We'd gotten out of the car to look at it and were then distracted by wildflowers and these amazing blue dragonflies with velvety indigo wings.  Beyond them, we spotted the wooden relic out there alone.  The green river grasses have grown up at the same rate as the structure has broken down.  Even a river can sit still for a moment, this scene communicated to me.  My own little lesson from the Una, from which Bosniaks have been drawing inspiration and wisdom for centuries.

Young couples sit on the banks, staring in to see how good they look together.  Maybe they drop a pebble in to distort the reflection, so the rings of their two faces move in toward one another.  To see what their children would look like.  This young boy came to shore in his skiff, using a thick stick as a paddle.  His two friends stood on a bridge above him, poking fun at his makeshift oar.  This isn't to say that the locals' relationship with the Una is purely serene, contemplative, laid-back.  Rafting is exceedingly popular and big, heavylooking rafts were strung upside-down to the tops of vans that past by.  We saw one red tray carrying a sixpack of yellow helmets cruise by, but were a few days too late for the big spectacle that is the annual Una Regatta. 

Thousands of participants from here and abroad take to the water in rafts, canoes and kayaks, conquering the many waterfalls along the Una's course. It is a non-competitive "race" that takes 3-5 days. It's a celebration of the river, a bowing down to its powers and probably just a really great time. We went to Bihać to inquire about the event, and were welcomed by a sign that read "Bihać: A City in Love with the River."  There would be no point in specifying which one.  The river is the Una, here and throughout Northeast Bosnia and Herzegovina.  She loves this country as much as it loves her - which can only be assumed by the way she keeps bending toward it.  For most of the Una's length, the river runs right along the border of Croatia and Bosnia.  At three different points, though, it deviates from this clear path and curves in to the nation that adores it so much.  Bihać is situated at one of these points, a very pleasant, small city/large town with short, simple bridges arching over the river and picnic tables, parks and cafes edged up to the waterside.

Many say that the people of Bihać are the most ecologically minded Bosniaks in the country.  So, they don't just profess their love of the river, they really let it guide their decisions.  Which is wonderful.  Unlike other beautiful bodies of water we've visited recently, the underwater inhabitants of the Una are not currently at a risk of endangerment.  While fly-fishing is a popular recreational activity and fishing is touted as a unique tourist experience, the licensing system is responsible.  Unska pastrmka (Una river trout) are widely available on riverside menus, but larger species like carp and the prized grayling are left more to the fishermen themselves. Let them eat carp!  I'm happy with pastrmka. The trout of the Una happen to be uniformly plump, pink-fleshed and delicately flavored.  Trout is something that carries a huge dose of terroir and you can taste the purity of the Una.  No muddiness or earthiness, these trout taste like crystal blue water.

In Bosanska Krupa, we came across the young boy pictured earlier while walking across a wood-planked bridge, trying to get a nice photo of the three yellow, red-roofed houses set on stilts above mills.  Their placement is at the end of a mini peninsula, their surrounds are wholly water.  Across the way, a castle sits atop a hill.  Old guns, painted blue, point down directly at the quaint trio, an unfortunate coincidence.  On the other side of the hill is an amazing sight. A mosque, a Catholic church and an Orthodox church stand literally side by side, or at least across the street from one another.  Following the waters for a few days, visiting it at one spot or another, letting it speak to me like the locals told me to, I really felt that the wide expanse of the river right at this point had to do with that successful coexistence.   There's just something very magical about the Una. 

Rooms With a View (and a Hotplate)

This was our living room for four nights.  That yellow block in the top left hand corner of the bookshelf is a collection of National Geographic magazines from the 70s and 80s.  "My grandfather ordered English versions in the mail!" Djeordj told us when we pointed them out.  "We cannot throw them away.  They are like memories!"  Djeordj (pronounced George) had an endearing way of sounding excited about everything.  Once he left, we fingered through the rest of the library: old VHS tapes, paperback romances in Serbian, a totally inspiring cookbook from which a recipe handwritten on a piece of paper fell when opened.  I was half-expecting there to be a yellowed wedding album tucked in somewhere.  Private accommodations are plentiful in Montenegro - we didn't stay in a single hotel in our entire two weeks.  Why would we with options like this? 

This rental, technically named Reževići Apartments, was found on booking.com.  The description said "One Bedroom w/ Balcony and Sea View" and photos of the interior won us over.  A "kitchen" had been listed, but photos only showed a white mini fridge anachronistically sitting in the living room.  Walking in, we saw it there.  No sink or stove to be found.  "Oh that!" Djeordj laughed.  "My mother says that we need two fridges.  I do not think so, but it is what my mother says, so."  With that, he brought us out to the balcony (our balcony) to solve the Mystery of the Missing Kitchen.  A sink, dual burner hotplate and second fridge were right there outside, coupled with our better-even-than-advertised sea view.  We fried fish in the sunset, made lime-basil potato salad and Njeguski fruit salad with salty skin and wet hair.

When we made the booking, we thought "Rijeka Reževići" was the name of a street in nearby (and much bigger) Petrovac.  It's actually a pretty little village - a clump of stone houses and lush oleanders high up above a beautiful, secluded rock cove.  A long staircase takes you down to the pocket of beach which - amazingly, has a great little restaurant tucked right into it.  Being on 'our cove,' as its been lovingly dubbed, it really hit us how important rentals in family homes are for Montenegro's future.  It's a way of utilizing the buildings that already exist to fit the 1 million tourists who flock here every summer (more than double the country's resident population).   It's tourism without development. Especially on the coast, this feels so important.  On each side of Rijeka Reževići,  to the left, right and across the road behind, there are big half finished complexes.  The coast no longer looks the way it may have in one of Djeordj's grandpa's National Geographics. 

Choosing rentals is also a way of putting money right into the pockets of Montenegrin families, who earn about 40% of the EU average, instead of the foreign investors that have built all the resorts.  Renting out rooms has become an industry of its own in Montenegro.  Anyone with a child off at college becomes an entrepreneur.  A lot of those children, like Djeordj, are the ones you post links on booking sites, get business cards made, speak English and handle communication with renters via cell phone and email.  Mostly, though, its an on-point sale. Woman wait at bus stations with photo albums filled with pictures of their offerings.  Signs are posted on doorways.  In Budva, along the main coastal road, a young man in short red swimming trunks and sunglasses sat in a lounge chair.  He was there every time we drove through with his "SOBE - APARTMANI" sign resting up against his steadily tanning ankle.  He looked like a strange cross between a lifeguard and a hitchhiker. 

Rentals are so numerous and actively promoted that when our host mother in Kolašin came out to wave us into her property, I was worried it was just someone else trying to get our business.  Turns out, we were in the right place.  And what a beautiful one.  Their high season is winter, its a ski town, but people like us also come to hike in nearby Biogradska Gora National Park.  To have a few days inland as respite from the coast.  "How much are they charging for an apartment in Budva?" asked the English-speaking niece of our host family.  She was just visiting for the weekend, fleeing the concrete heat of Podgorica for some crisp mountain air.  She was translating the question for her aunt.  We hadn't stayed in Budva, but reported that our little piece of cove heaven had cost nearly double her place.  Not all one bedroom with kitchens are created equal. 

This was just a simple bedroom with an adjacent kitchenette, all we needed for two nights in the mountains. And why would we complain about the less-than-inspiring kitchen after a warm welcome of rakija, strawberry cake and stove-top-popped popcorn.  And a goodbye made of berries, picked in the backyard by the visiting niece's two young children.  Renting private accommodations isn't just a budget option or responsible tourism, it can also feel like a homestay... with a little distance.  We love homestays.  Some of the best moments of this entire trip have been in places like dung-heated Xinaliq and the Arbajter's deer farm.  But sometimes, it's also nice just to have a little more privacy.  To be less doted upon.  To have a simpler breakfast.  Since every place we stayed had a minifridge and a hotplate, cereal and a can of instant coffee become Montenegrin additions to our backpacks.  Carrying them around reminded us of the good ole camping days of 2011.

Since rental rooms and apartments are available absolutely everywhere in Montenegro, you can drive around until you find somewhere that pulls at your heartstrings and then decide to spend a night or a week.  That's just what happened to us in Rose.  All by itself on the northwestern corner of the Lustica Peninsula, it sat simply and prettily.  We wanted nothing more than to stay the night and a "SOBE" sign posted on the door of Aragosta tavern gave us a glimmer of hope that it could be possible.  Sasha was called to help us when we inquired with the waiter and, sure enough, they had a room for one night.

Even in a room situated above a restaurant, we had a hotplate, fridge and sink.  We didn't use any of them.  We simply walked downstairs and sat at an outdoor table alongside the poor fools who actually had to go sleep somewhere else that night.  Shrimp buzarra with risotto, char-grilled octopus with blitva, a bottle of rosé, because it only seemed appropriate. It was a feast.   After our dinner, we changed back into swimsuits and dove in for a night swim.  Jellyfish, used to having the sea all to themselves under the moonlight, zapped at our legs.  We were too full and happy to care, the only people in the water - maybe even in the whole Mediterranean Sea at that very moment.  Probably not, but it's wonderful to think.

Rose is a special place.  So is Rijeka Reževići.  Both feel like discoveries and give you the sense that you have them all to yourself.  Being in a rental only adds to that feeling.  Coming home, unlocking your door, grabbing a cool beverage out of your own fridge.  Heck, being able to start a sentence with 'coming home' at all. After our late night swim, once we were all dried off and tucked in, we realized that for the first time in all our days on the coast, we could actually hear the water lapping up against the shore.  Rose may be the only place in Montenegro where this is possible - where you can sleep right on the edge of the water and it is quiet enough to hear the movement of the sea. And to think of how many people visit and just figure there is nowhere to sleep, not noticing the simple sign that reads "SOBE" or not knowing that that means "rooms." Exploring Montenegro just wouldn't be the same without them.

Montenegro's Best Beaches

In seaside Montenegro, it's rare to find a place where swimsuits aren't appropriate attire.  In restaurants, bars, at crosswalks and in cars, in supermarkets and boutiques, everyone wears them.  Budva is a city where the bikini is the default dresscode, where people walk on the sidewalk in trunks, carrying their shopping.  One half expects to see lifeguards set out as traffic police.
Montenegro might seem like a beach lover's paradise - it has the blue water of the Adriatic, dramatic coves, lots of sun, bountiful seafood and throngs of young people.  But, to tell the truth, it can be a little difficult finding a good spot to lie down by the shore.  Most of the coast is too rocky and cliffy, a lot of the best beaches are overdeveloped and over-packed.  To find a perfect idyl takes some time and patience.
We traveled much of the short seashore, but obviously didn't make it to every stretch of sand - here, though, are our favorite Montenegrin beaches.

Sveti Stefan is one of Montenegro's most iconic sights, a little protrusion of red tile and white stone jutting out into the warm water.  The beach here is sandy, protected and kept very clean - apparently.  We never set foot on it, though we passed it every day for nearly a week. It's impossible not to include, though, because of how pretty it is, and how majestic is the setting.
Unfortunately, the parking situation is a nightmare and we were deterred by both the other drivers and the extremely hazardous turnoff.

For a few days, we bought our milk and yogurt in Petrovac, at a grocery store full of sunburned families in flip flops.  It's a family resort, with a promenade full of strollers and more sunblock than tanning lotion.  Petrovac also has one of the most scenic town beaches, with rocky isles just beyond the bay and high-sided bluffs set on either side.  The sand is reddish and fine, there are lots of appetizing cafes the water is clear.

A very foreign concept to most Americans is the idea of renting a beach umbrella and loungers - but it's the default way for European sun seekers to set up camp by the shore.  At home, we either bring an umbrella or go without shade, and tend to lie on towels.  Here in Montenegro it's possible to lie by yourself, but it's seen as somehow cheating.  Most people pay the few euros for shelter and comfort.

Down beneath rows of kebab stands and backed by minarets, Ulcinj's Mala Plaza has a distinctly Albanian feel.  This close to the border the music changes to more warbled tones, the language landscape shifts and the visitors are almost all from Kosovo and Albania.  Ulcinj has its own energy, a cultural hedonism mixing Islam and bikinis, halal and beer.  The remains of an old castle buttress one side of the beach, the sand is pleasant, the vibe is more boisterous than other Montenegrin beaches.

Tiny, beautiful Rose (pronounced like the wine) is at the remote tip of the Luštica peninsula, jutting out into glass-clear waters and more in touch with the sea.  We stayed the night here, eating great seafood at a waterside konoba and smelling the fresh wind off the open water.  In the country, it's known as a somewhat glamorous locale, but it's not big enough to get overrun.  Diving from the pier into the water is like finding a pocket of heavy, cold atmosphere - the light from the surface dances on the deep rocks, one can see fish darting in the depths.
The only problem is that there's no real "beach."  People lie and swim from the concrete platforms, in a way that reminded us of nearby Croatia.  Tanning on concrete feels like a more extreme form of intake, as though the sun is hardened as it strikes and ricochets from the plane. Where there's no sand or pebbly wash, this is what one has to make do with.

Far away from the sea, in water much calmer and environs less visited, the beach at Murici, on Lake Skadar, felt like a refuge.  Fishermen docked their boats there and the pace was as slow as the days were long.  The light faded gradually from the sky in the evening, leaving us feeling drained and peacefully silent.  Sleeping here is limited to camping or bungalows, the resorts of the coast feel like a different concept of "waterside."
We loved the beach, though it's gravel (to be truthful) and the water is shallow for a very long ways.  It's a sliver of hospitable shore in a landscape dominated by cliff and rock, algae and weeds.  The freshwater swims we took felt luxurious after so much Mediterranean salt.

The most prototypically "perfect" beach in Montenegro is almost certainly Przno beach - not the oiled up, hyper-touristy strip in Budva with the same name, but a different Przno.  Tucked away in the last, wild bay before the Gulf of Kotor, it's visited mostly by Montenegrins in the know and adventurous tourists with their own car.
Here, the water is very shallow for a long way, but the powdery, white sand and calm ripples make it worth the effort spent wading.  Because the beach is so sheltered and the water is so easygoing, it's a popular place for families with young children.  There are picnic tables in the woods around, and a shady, open-air restaurant tucked into the fig trees behind.  Przno is the kind of tropical beach that would be loved anywhere, from the Caribbean to the South Pacific - the shallow, aquamarine water and soft sand feel familiar in a postcard way, the view is of gentle lines, the umbrellas are (at least) well spaced.

Swimming at Drobni Pijesak, looking back towards the mountains and scrub, one can truly feel that they are somewhere remote.  It's one of the few nice beaches in Montenegro that doesn't yet have a forest of condominiums behind it, and it's hard enough to get to that it remains mostly uncrowded.
With white pebbles and a verdant frame, Drobni Pijesak is undoubtedly one of the most beautiful on the coast, but there is very limited parking nearby the water, so most have to walk a precipitous path down from the main road.  It's a trek steep and long enough - about twenty minutes - to keep away the crowds, and there's a nice little cafe tucked into one corner.

Down a long walkway that begins amid stone walls, passes through thick oleanders and then weaves under pine boughs, our favorite beach was also the harshest textured.  The little strip of rock and pebble hidden below Rijeka Rezevici isn't perfect to lie on, but it is a wonderful place to sit, swim and eat.
The water here is full of boulders that hide schools of minnows, quick bream and mullet.  There are hundreds of sea urchins, too, and an altogether wild feel that makes this little cove feel exciting.  It's the world of shipwrecks and skinned knees, of a secret pocket of Adriatic life.  The water is wavy and redolent of salt, there are rarely more than twenty people.

At Balun restaurant, tucked just above Rijeka Rezevici's beach, we ate expertly cooked meals of fresh seafood and fresher vegetables.  Approaching the restaurant, the trail through the woods enters Balun's vegetable garden: vines hung with tomatoes and dusky peppers, rows of lettuces, stone-edged plots of roots.  Our affable waiter told us that they employ one man solely to haul all of the rest of their ingredients (and alcohol) down to the water every evening - and to trudge back up with the trash.  It's a steep, fifteen-minute hike.  "Strong legs," the waiter said.
We ate silky cuttlefish risotto one night and a melange of grilled squid, octopus and carrot during another sunset.  The tables are painted wood, set out under the stars.  There are paintings hung on trees.  The sun's last blazes are especially vibrant here.  The clientele is always excited - it feels magical to have found this place, this beach.  It's so isolated and thrilling, a piece of the Adriatic where the breeze and the bobbing boats inspire energy instead of sloth.  

Montenegro's Churches in July

We've fallen into a lazy rhythm here in Montenegro, of soaking in the sun and expelling the heat back into the starry evenings.  This is a place to swim and walk slowly, and to look at things with the uncritical eye of a tourist.  What can we do in such a beautiful place but enjoy ourselves?  It's hard to react to this place with anything but stupor.  It's too hot and pleasant for anything else.
So, making our circuits around and above the shore, moving inland into the mountains and greener land, we've talked about little and noticed mostly colors and smells.  One of the things that stands out has been the meshing of architecture and rock, and the way the colorful light washes over it all.  The Cathedral of St. Tryphon is Kotor town's most picturesque church.  Built in 1166, it was damaged by an earthquake in the seventeenth century - it got its cockeyed look from the rebuilding process.  The towers don't quite match, the facade is handsomely asymmetrical, the setting is remarkable.  It's one of only two Catholic churches in Montenegro.

In the rocks and yellow grass above Kotor, one of Montenegro's most evocative buildings stands sentinel.  Looking out over the bay, built almost flush with the cliffs around it, the Church of Our Lady of Remedy isn't very big, but it's steeple punctuates the view perfectly.  This is the stuff of postcards and guidebook covers, the kind of chapel built less for worship than inspiration.

Around the bay to the northwest, past patches of hollyhock and flowering orange trees, is one of the largest religious buildings in the Adriatic, the not-really-that-big Birth of Our Lady church in Prčanj.  It's a pretty, blue-bordered church in a small cluster of roof tiles and bathing platforms. It's not nearly as large as one might think it would be, though it did take over 120 years to build. This side of the bay is less built up and has many beautiful, old stone houses on the waterfront. The calm waters there are never roused into more than a quiet lapping, the shallow spots are full of families swimming and playing together.

Up close, the church is almost overpowered by the lascivious blossoms of dozens of oleanders. Old couples stood on their porches in the close environs, fanning themselves and watching us carefully.  The tourists that come to Prčanj are almost all looking for a sunbed or a grilled fish - on the steps of the church, a few surprised men sipped beer and waved to us guiltily.  The place has the air of a forgotten, tropical mission, faded by the sun and just a few years from succumbing to the weeds and salt-air.

In a high, craggy valley, where the sunlight seemed collected as though in a bowl, we came to this grass-roofed, abandoned chapel.  Not far from the water, yet still at an extreme remove, the place had the emptiness of a dessert.  In the rocks around, a few horses and mules stood in what shade they could find, too hot to graze, their necks bent under the strain of July.  A crude wire hook held closed a gate across the church's doorway.

Inside we found a wooden ladder and wheelbarrow.  Also, a much-crumbled stone altar and the remnants of once-blue frescoes on the ceiling.  It was shady and cool, a tiny crossed knave. There were a few cigarette buts on the floor, but no beer cans.  The place was more cave than church, a tiny refuge beside the "ladder of cattaro," an ancient trading route now reduced to an outline in the scrub.

Montenegro's capital, Podgorica, is a spread-out place on a high plateau, far inland.  We talked to one woman from there who said that everyone leaves in the summer - it's too hot, too dusty, too dry.  The city streets were fully blanketed by a mid-summer quiet when we passed through.  This man and a robed priest were forking hay nearby the Cathedral of the Resurrection of Christ. Around them were battered dumpsters and parked cars, a kind of meshing of agriculture and urban blight.  The church, built in 1993, looked more like a municipal building than anything - like a police station set down on the edge of town and given a dome.

Looking like something found at low tide on a barnacled rock, Holy Sunday Church is a tiny speck off the coast near Petrovac.  It was built, some say, by a Greek fisherman who was shipwrecked there and believed that his survival was a miracle.  From beneath a beach umbrella on the shore, the church blends in the with the rock below it.  From the coastal road, it's a little red-roofed speck. Seagulls and sailboats whorled around it, the Adriatic was impossibly blue.

The Rich Waters of Montenegro

Well, let's start with the present, actually.  On the Bay of Kotor, masts shoot into the sky, another layer in the breathtaking sundown silhouette.   It's a little like looking out at a forest in the winter, bare of leaves, offering views out at the sky and mountains beyond.   Montenegro may be named for its most famous mountain, but its name has been newly defined as 'a stretch of Adriatic coast.'  How could we not visit the Maritime Museum in a place like this?

I'm a fan of maritime museums, filled with anchors and model ships, old maps and navigation instruments.  There is something always so familiar about them, elements that carry over whether they are in Cape Cod, the South of France or former Yugoslavia.  It only makes sense that life at sea would have a a universal sameness, a blurring of borders.  One big difference between maritime museums place to place is the location in which they've been set up.  It's always very telling.  In Paimpol, the Musée de la Mer was housed in a former cod-drying factory - apropos to their particular seafaring history.  The Maritime Museum in Kotor is appropriately housed in an old mansion.

The naval history of this country, with its prized Bay and Adriatic coast is undeniably intriguing.  Its history, separate from inland Montenegro due to the fact that it changed hands oh so many times, has given the coast (especially the Bay of Kotor) a unique cultural identity.  But there's another angle that's hard to ignore.  There's the naval, cultural, geographic and political importance.  But there's also the economic.  The past, present and future of Montenegrin maritime as inextricably tied to wealth.

The Maritime Museum here is noticeably devoid of any photos of plucky fishermen.  Is it bad that I hear "maritime" and think of striped-shirted sailors singing songs and drinking out of mugs?  (Yes, essentially Popeye.  For Merlin, 'maritime' means 'naval,' which is a more intellectual definition, but equally incomplete).  The interior and exhibitions in this gorgeous 18th century mansion feel very noble, refined.  High society.  The walls are decorated with paintings of battles and famous sailings, done by the most acclaimed sea-painters of the day.  There are guns inlaid with mother of pearl, used to fend off pirates, and complete drawing room sets from other wealthy families from the coastal towns of Prcanj and Resin.

The large-scale model ships, some coming up as high as my shoulders, were the most amazing pieces in the museum. The grand, well-crafted boats easily outshone the dozens of military models in glass cases.  Outside the museum, beautiful boats pulled up, as pristine and lovely. Each one, set side by side, modeled a different look. People posed for pictures beside this yacht, which had hung a sort of battle flag for the Wimbledon Men's Final that was going on. St. George's flag, flown during English sporting events, supported Andy Murray (a Brit) in his war against Roger Federer (the eventual victor). I couldn't tell you which boat felt more real to me, the 4ft tall model from centuries ago or the yacht with classic Titanic-like smokestacks. They both were sort of surreal.

The economy of Montenegro is not strong.  It's a poorer country than one would think gazing at the yachts and looking at hotel prices in Budva.  Almost all development in the country since its independence in 2006 has been focused on the capital and the coast.  Poverty can be mapped out pretty much according to elevation on a map of the country. Higher you get, higher the economic strife.  At sea level, people are the most well off, and the prosperity declines as you move north, away from the coast and up into the mountains.  The United Nations estimates that somewhere between 45 - 60% of the nation's poverty exists in the Northern mountain region, as far from the coast as you can get, in the places we could see from our doorstep in Valbonë, Albania and Rekë e Allagës, Kosovo.

In 2008, Montenegro received more foreign investment than any other country in Europe.  Most of the billions came from Russia and were centered on Budva.  The global financial crisis has obviously affected international spending and Montenegro's economy has taken a big hit.  Still, there are certain projects that are continuing - including the ongoing development of Porto Montenegro in Tivat, on the Bay.  It's a superyacht super playground that has the mission of transforming Montenegro into "the next Monaco."  Being as the personal income tax rate was just lowered to 9% and any investment of (only) half a million euros or more buys you Montenegrin citizenship, Monaco-like status may be more within reach than one would think.

Port Montenegro took an old naval shipyard named Arsenal, cleaned and snazzied it up and turned it into the best fight Montenegro may have for forging its way into the economic future.  In Kotor, the superyachts dock for a little less and have to make due without golf courses, shopping malls and luxury hotels right on shore.  This is more like a parking lot with a stellar view. From 1955 through 2000, the Bay was filled with a different sort of large boat. Jugooceanija, a wildly successful shipping company essentially owned this water until corruption charges brought it down, taking hundreds of local jobs with it. Tourism has helped to employ some of those people again.  Above, local children play on what may or may not be a relic of those days. 

Portraits of the richest shipowners of the 18th and 19th centuries line the hallway of the Maritime Museum.  These men were from Russia, Austria, Italy, all places that had control of the Bay at one point or another.  Nowadays, men and women from Russia, England, America and wherever else sit for dinner at Galleon Restaurant.  It is a wonderful restaurant and its yacht-owner draw is easy to see.  It is upmarket, fancy by Kotor standards and offers incredible views of the diners' babies sitting pretty out on the glistening bay.  A view out over modern Montenegrin maritime - in line with tradition, in a lot of ways.

Gypsy Kitchens: After-Beach Blitva (or, Lime Basil Potato Salad)

These are the kind of meals accompanied by the smell of salt water and the slanting, still-warm sunlight of high summer.  It's the kind of meal to eat in a swimsuit, with dripping hair, in a group of friends.  There is a reason to envy the people of the Balkans, who have Montenegro as a playground.  It's not the beaches - everywhere there are beaches.  It's not the sticky bars or sunburns, the mosquitos or busloads of Russians.  No, the reason to envy is the seafood; simple, charred and slicked with olive oil.
There is a part of the Adriatic seaside where grilled squid are as common as seashells, baby red snapper appear crisped by the plateful and octopus tentacles make knots on every table.  From Croatia down through Montenegro and into northern Albania, the seafood is generally the same - shrimp, cephalopod, grilled fish; all very simple, all served with not much more than a slice of lemon and a pile of blitva.

Blitva is boiled by the potful in every restaurant in the region.  Essentially, this is a dish of garlic, chard and potato, cooked together and drizzled with olive oil.  It's great, it's filling, and it can get kind of boring.  This is our second blitva July, and, after a week spent hugging the mediterranean and eating lots of seafood, we were ready to dress up the recipe a little.  Our version was made for a Montenegrin evening spent cooking out on our rental balcony, using a tiny hotplate, watching the sun set as some little sprat-like fish sputtered and sizzled in the pan.  What we wanted from a side dish was: bright and herbal flavors, a bit of a tropical feel and (really) something different.  So, here's our experiment, a potato salad with basil and lime that we've named "after beach blitva."

We experimented with blitva last summer, in the sweltering seaside resort of Opatija - there, we put it on a plate with cous-cous stuffed squid, standing around a barbecue with some family and drinking lots of strong liquor.  That time, we cooked carrot and red onion in with the standard chard and potatoes.
By rights, this latest version shouldn't be called blitva at all, because the name actually means "chard," which there is none of here.  Calling a potato salad by another name is fine, but calling something chard when it's not… well, it's a liberal definition.

Here are the familiar elements: boiled potato and garlic.
Here are our deviations: lime (juiced), celery root (chopped and raw), red onion and - the biggest transgretion - fresh basil instead of chard.  None of it was cooked, except for the little boiling potatoes, and we also mixed and served the ingredients cold, so that they'd stay fresher-tasting and snappier.  The onion and celeriac add a little texture and crunch, the basil adds flavor and greenery, the lime gives it a very bright note - what a success!

This is a recipe to futz around with, not to let lie, so here are some of our ideas for the brave: mustard would have been good added to the dressing, or some other spice, like chili paste, sambal oelek or horseradish.  Ginger could give it more flavor, and cilantro would be an easy addition.  Chili oil could be substituted for some or all of the olive oil.
As it stood, the easy play between starch, lime, garlic and basil was enough for our plates, and was cool comfort beside our fried fish and sea breeze.

Like all potato salads, the most difficult part is cleaning and cooking the potatoes, which isn't difficult at all.  We kept the skins on - the cardboard box we'd picked them out of at the market was a mix of colors.  After cooking, we let the potatoes cool to room temperature so that the basil wouldn't wilt.
For the dressing, use three ripe limes (the brighter green a lime is, the more un-ripe it is, some yellow is a good thing), olive oil and salt, plus whatever spices or other flavors you're going to add.  We mixed the garlic and chopped onion in with the oil so it would incorporate better, but otherwise kept it simple.

Here is the recipe, to be used as a base for greater things or to be followed for a simple, summery, seaside accompaniment:

After Beach Blitva or Lime Basil Potato Salad
Ingredients:
- 1 1/2 lbs. small, boiling potatoes, well-scrubbed and cubed.
- 1 celery root, peeled and roughly matchsticked
- 1 medium-sized red onion
- 3 cups fresh basil
- 3 ripe limes
- 3/4 cups olive oil
- 2 or 3 large cloves garlic, crushed and minced
- salt


Method
- Clean the potatoes, cut into one inch (really, about 3/4 inch) cubes, boil in salted water until tender. Drain and let cool.
- In a large bowl, mix together oil, juice from all limes, garlic, onion and some more salt.
- Add potatoes, basil and celery root, mix all ingredients well.
- Serve cool alongside simple fish, cephalopod or crustacean.

 

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