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port was a jumble of shouting and confusion, and they waited for hours outside the gates until nightfall.
At the small hotel they’ d booked, our host greeted us with a“ strategic” baby octopus salad. After his wife— a formidable woman with a smile as big as her presence— said goodnight, he brought out his own homemade Rakia. We toasted, talked, and laughed long into the night, stealing hours from the rest we badly needed.
In the morning, I felt calm and euphoric. We rode slowly north toward Tamare, an enchanting, half-empty village hidden among the mountains.
That evening unfolded in the courtyard of our guesthouse, again with Rakia flowing and impromptu duets echoing into the darkness. Someone began singing old Neapolitan songs; soon the few tourists in the village joined in. It felt like a celebration of being alive.
At dawn, light-headed with joy, I plunged into the cold, clear stream that ran beside the village— the kind of water that wakes both skin and soul. Then we mounted up again and headed for Guca.
The Albanian SH20 wound through the highlands, smooth and seductive, each curve opening to a panorama of cliffs and rivers. Pigs wandered freely, watching us with curious eyes as we passed. Montenegro, though, was a different story: the roadworks
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