I had a list of places in my notebook, with a little space beside each. I thought I would fill it as I went: what I saw, what I felt, what I didn't want to forget. Montenegro had another idea. First it took away my opening sentence. Then it took away my urge to look for a second.
An imagined story inspired by original Travel2City photographs. The four scenes bring together separate stops and seasons, rather than a one-day itinerary. The character, incidents and indoor viewpoint on the storm are an artistic interpretation.
At Ostrog, I opened my notebook before I had properly looked around. A white wall rose out of the rock, and below the walkway the valley disappeared into mist. I wrote the date. Then I held my pencil above the paper for so long that I noticed my own breathing. People passed quietly; someone adjusted a coat, someone paused by the wall. I stepped out of the way and held the notebook against my chest. I didn't need an opening sentence. I needed to look up at last.
By the sea, the sky darkened so quickly that the words “pleasant breeze” in my notebook began to look like a bad joke. From a dry room behind a closed window, I watched a dark funnel over the water. A cup warmed my hands while tiny drops on the glass joined into longer lines. For once, I had no urge to describe nature beautifully. Seeing it was enough. My notebook lay closed beside me, its calm beige cover looking almost comical in the middle of all that drama. Outside, the sky had the floor. For now, I took a sip.
In Podgorica, a small stone bridge stopped me. It was barely visible among the trees, and light fell in uneven patches on the rocks beneath it. I sat to one side on a dry stone. I took my notebook from my satchel, changed my mind, and took out an apple instead. It was a little bruised, but it tasted wonderful. After the storm's performance, this small afternoon felt unexpectedly precious. Nothing happened that called for a grand heading. Leaves rustled by my feet, branches leaned over the water, and I ate the bruised half as well.
“Today, just a bridge, an apple and me. Quite enough.”
In Virpazar, the boats lay so still that their own reflections seemed to hold them in place. Bare branches repeated themselves upside down in the calm water, and the bank smelled of cold air and damp leaves. I pulled my coat around my shoulders and opened the notebook. There was more space after the dates than I had planned. Once, that might have disappointed me. Now I slipped the pencil between the pages and closed it without adding a sentence. For a while, I watched the nearest boat gently rock. I knew exactly where I was. This time, the paper didn't need to prove it.
“I remember. Even without a note.”
From notebook to book
The Map with No Last Page
The world of Travel2City continues between the covers of a book. Discover The Map with No Last Page and more illustrated journeys.
