Luke, around the world.

Just like in Matt Sweeney’s song. The sea has been my home for the last eight years.

I need the sea and I am unsure what to choose. A Polish girl I met while in Bosnia tells me to circle back to Croatia, she’s there, she’s renting a flat in Makarska. I have to decline her offer; I’m not afraid that she would steal my kidney (or worse), but I am being pulled south, there is so much more to see in the Balkans, and then there’s Greece, Turkey, Georgia…

Instead, I start heading towards Montenegro. It’s cheaper but just as beautiful, with an awe-inspiring shoreline and quite a lot of history hidden among breathtaking landscapes. There’s Herceg Novi, there’s Tivat, there’s Kotor, but I am going straight to Budva.

Budva is just as spectacular as the previous cities my bus went through. It’s a perfect combination for people who want to have both the sea and the mountains in one picture. At the same time, I can’t help but think that in its atmosphere, Budva tries really hard to be wannabe Italy, and the restaurants imitating the cuisine from the other side of the Adriatic, with better or worse results, are a glaring example of that. Nothing that I haven’t already seen back in 2009 or 2010, during a trip to Italy with J and her parents.

But I am all for second chances, so I start exploring it a bit more, forgetting an earlier promise to myself to sit my ass down and have some rest. The second day of my Budva stay, I decide to take a walk across the Mogren beach towards the Mala Ponta viewpoint. The sun is blazing and I see a lot of people on the beach, seemingly frozen, all looking at some unspecified point in the distance. Soon it becomes clear, someone’s been drowning not too far from my destination. One boat arrives, then another, a bigger one. It’s hard to see what’s going on, but judging by chaotic movement on both boats, a CPR is in progress.

The boats leave after some time, people on the beach return to sunbathing or sipping overpriced, water-diluted drinks, and I resume my little trek. I am still thinking about the floater. Did they swim too far? Did they slip off the rocks I am now heading towards? Are they still alive? When I read about people ‘finding difficulty at sea’ on ToM website, is this what the journalists always mean?

Sure enough, the rocks are quite slippery. There is a young woman in front of me traversing the same route. Her movements are quick and nimble, like a doe’s. I cannot be a majestic animal due to my fear of heights, but somehow I manage to get to the viewpoint in one piece. I am scared to approach the edge; I don’t want to be the next guy fished out of the sea. Sometime during this trip, I will fully overcome my fear, maybe fall in love with parachuting. Budva is not where it happens, though. After a while, I start walking towards the city.

The Old Town of Budva is quite small, but extremely charming. It fits the jaw-dropping landscapes surrounding it, somehow it is their necessary element; a compact, ancient town. A busker is casting charms on the passersby. I am alive, alone, happy.

On my third day, I decide to look for a waterfall located just outside of Budva. The weather is my ally, no more of that scorching sun, a bit of rain and wind to help my little ascent into the area where the mountains begin. At first, I have no luck finding the waterfall; I can hear it whisper, but its location eludes me. After a while of pushing uphill, I start thinking I overreached and as soon as the thought has entered my mind, I find a sign.

Google Maps is useless so I go downhill and take a turn I previously considered incorrect, as it led through some construction materials dump. Bingo! I can soon hear two other trekkers, some girls speaking German, who beam at me and ask in perfect English if I am looking for the waterfall. Of course I am, and they tell me it’s just down this steep path. They warn me to be careful, as the rain made the ground muddy. I thank them and they soon disappear on their way downhill.

It takes me about two minutes to decide to risk it – it’s not a broken leg I am afraid of, it’s ticks. The path is indeed very steep and slippery, so I have to desperately hold the reeds and grasses growing on both sides of the passage, just in case I skid down. And with thick verdure, there is a good chance of those little Borrelia-carrying critters coming in tow.

I manage to avoid sprained ankles, broken legs, and gliding down the slope on my ass, to see a cute yet not necessarily inspiring little trickle. It’s the journey that counts, right?

The rest of my stay in Budva is marked by shivers and low-grade fever; the first infection of my trip. I mostly stay inside, trying to figure out the best way to get through the Balkans. Only occasionally I get out of my room to walk along the shore, just to realize once again that I cannot live without the sea. The sea has been and my confidante and has seen me at my best and worst. The Mediterranean and its spawn cast an unbreakable spell on me a long time ago. Sooner or later, we will be reunited. But first, the trip.