My passport was set to expire in four months. In Montenegro, the Eastern European Balkan country where I live, one’s passport must be valid for 3 months past your travel dates and/or the dates you are applying for residency. I’ve lived here for nearly two years and it’s time for my annual renewal for legal residency for another year. Which meant I’d have to present my passport.

When it comes to staying in any country over 90 days, each one has its own set of rules. Everyone thinks, “what’s the problem? You’re American. Don’t you just breeze right through the system?”  Well no. It’s true that Americans don’t need a travel visa for most countries.  But this visa only allows us to stay for 90 days in most countries.

To get my passport, I must miss a day of work to go to the embassy in Podgorica, which is two and a half hours away by bus in normal months. Right now, we’re in the tourist season, so the bus ride could take up to four hours or more due to heavy traffic and accidents that occur along the narrow, windy, mountain roads between Tivat and Podgorica; the capital city.

So, last week, I got up at 4.30am to get to the bus by 6:00am so that I could make my appointment at the United States consulate by 8.30am. I was prepared; comfy shoes and clothes laid out the night before, my cat-Cinderella, fed and watered, phone charger, sunscreen, sunglasses and hat packed. I made it to the bus station with some minutes to spare. However, I’d forgotten to go to the ATM the day before and only had my credit card and 7euros cash on me.  

When I arrived, the night crew was just leaving at that time of the morning. There was a man walking around sort of giving orders instead of people at the window ready to sell tickets.  I asked him to buy a ticket, and he said I’d have to buy it from the driver. Which meant probably cash. I was one euro short.  If the bus arrived on time, I’d have just enough time to run to the nearest ATM. Naturally it was out of cash. Like a drummer who can’t keep time or scissors that cannot cut.  You had one job ATM.

When the bus arrived, I pulled out my credit card and tried to give it to the bus driver hoping against hope that he could take a credit card. “Nema.” (which means NO) I pulled out my 7 euros.  He counted them and said “Osam” (which means eight). I showed him my card again and said “ATM Budva”, indicating that when we stopped in Budva I’d go to the ATM and get the extra euro.  He waved me on but complained for so long and so loudly that the two women sitting behind the driver’s seat moved further back in the bus.  I sat there and did not give one flying shit whether he was angry or not.  Nor did I give a single care about how anyone on that bus felt about me. 

This new attitude of not having a single care about what others think of me has evolved from 1. having tried every way possible to please some people who will not be pleased, 2. discovering that those who were placed here to love and support me sought to undermine me behind my back, and 3. the opinion of others has no bearing on one’s life. This revelation, among other world shifting discoveries, sent me on a six year walk about that has landed me in Tivat, Montenegro.

When I arrived at the bus station in Podgorica there were three dogs running through the parking lot and bus platforms and a young girl wearing a goth style dress made of polyester and clunky four-inch heels. I couldn’t imagine a more uncomfortable outfit to have chosen on such a blazing hot day.  Watching her clunk along weaving through the panting dogs and passengers disembarking in the scalding August heat caused me to wonder how people can be completely impervious to the conditions around them. Then I self-reflected about my “screw you” attitude to the bus driver even though I owed him a euro.

I photographed a statue to put on Instagram. I cut through a little park where there was a small grove of Osage Orange trees. Their giant seeds had fallen randomly on the ground like neon green Bacci balls.  They reminded me of home.  Of the fund-raising benefit for the Native American people protesting the Dakota Access Pipeline. It had been held in Fort Smith. I’d gone to so I could donate wool boots to the people who were riding out the winter during the protest. I wondered if the Osage Orange tree is named for the Osage tribe. As much as I adore being surrounded by languages and cultures that aren’t like mine, still, it felt so good for just a second to be near something familiar. I missed the trees of home. I stood still and enjoyed their vibe.

Normally the embassy sees Americans on Tuesdays. This was a Monday. As usual, when I’m nervous about something, I over plan. I’d overcompensated so much that I’d arrived an entire day too early. Like the time when I was about ten years old taking swimming lessons. The day came for our test. We were to demonstrate how we could jump off of the diving board and then swim to the ladder on the left side and exit the pool. I was so terrified that I wouldn’t be able to swim the distance from the landing point to the side ladder. I overcompensated to such a degree that I landed with my arms and chin on the left side of the pool.

The man at the window called to see if I could come in even though my appointment wasnt until the next day. I was allowed in and went through the metal detectors. The two guards were so sweet. “Lady, do you have any weapons?” “Please place all electronics, iphone, ipad, Applewatch, in the bin lady.” Their love for America was palpable and appreciated. This was in 2024. As an American abroad, like all immigrants, I’m surrounded by those who have to constantly wonder if we are being blamed for what the minority of our country perpetrates or if we will be shown affection for what good things our country represents, (or used to represent in the case of America), to that individual.

Inside, I was the only one with a blue passport, an American passport. I felt all the love, jealousy and hatred all at once.  I went through the process, paid the 125 euros and they said in a week to 10 days, your passport will arrive.

I headed back to the bus station.  Went to the window to buy a ticket back to Tivat.  They did not accept credit cards but said I could step over to the machine and buy one online. I went through the prompts on the screen and just then, the electricity went out.  Not uncommon in Montenegro, especially during tourist season where the infrastructure is overly stressed.

It came back on after about 5 minutes. But of course, the online ticket machine did not boot back up.  I searched for an ATM.  There were three.  The first one did not work, the second one did not work, thankfully the third one did. There was an hour and a half time gap before the next bus so I texted my director that I would not make it back in time to teach my classes.

Finally on the bus and after about thirty minutes into the trip we hit a standstill and had to wait for another thirty minutes for two wrecks to be cleared. One more wreck before leaving Budva before we made it home. An eight hour round trip home and a bone-weary walk up the hill to find Cinderella waiting and ready to eat again.

The new passport arrived yesterday which meant another round trip to Podgorica to pick it up. I’d prepared myself for several imagined scenarios of why it wouldn’t arrive in ten days as promised and celebrated the fact that my fears this time were unfounded.  I’d planned to get the 7:30 bus, but I was so exhausted from the previous day of hoop jumping, (standing in line at the post office for 45 minutes so I could pay three kinds of taxes for the privilege of a work contract that will allow me to stay in this beautiful country for another year, walking over to pay for the required insurance, taking the papers to the police station only to be told that there was yet another paper I needed from my employer, no, not that one, another one still) that I allowed myself a few extra minutes which meant that I would have to catch the next bus.

I got to the bus station in time to take the next bus, which was around 8.30. This time I had my 8 euros cash ready. We sat there for about a half hour. A teenaged girl and I searched for the key to the bathroom, but it had been lost.  The bus finally arrived about 45 minutes late.

We got to Podgorica; I felt comforted that I knew the route to the embassy by heart now. It was blazing hot, but this time I’d brought my crappy umbrella as a sunshade. I got to the consulate, and I had this irrational fear that they were going to take my old passport, and I wanted to keep it because I had a decade of stamps and memories there. But, of course, they didn’t. They gave me back both passports and I hiked it back to the bus station.

I had worn a pair of cute sneakers that I’d bought in Istanbul. They had a nice thick sole, so I thought they would be super comfortable, but they’re way more cute than comfy. They’re made of vegetable-dyed kilim rugs and have this beautiful bronze grosgrain ribbon lace. But they were not made well in the interior, and they were rubbing a huge blister right on the heavy, thick pad of my foot underneath my toes. Naturally I could’ve taken a cab but I’d hit my threshold of paying out and paying out and decided to enjoy the exercise and save a few sheckles.

I got to the bus station, and, of course, the next bus was not for three hours. Three hours I had to wait at the bus station. So, I went to the bus station café for some lunch. I sat there alone, and two taxi drivers sat down at my table. We didn’t speak. They just sat down, and then a couple of other cab drivers joined my table as well. They were all speaking Montenegrin.

Having traveled solo for six years, I learned how to just be next to strangers but not necessarily engage, and when you don’t speak the language, you really can’t engage. So, I took the opportunity to just listen and try to pick out the Montenegrin words that I could understand. Six euros, five kilometers, how are you, sit down, “sedi, sedi”, sit down, tourists, payment, Budva, 9 kilometers, how are you, how are you, “Kako si”, how are you, “Kako si”, how are you, “polako, polako”, take it easy, take it easy. 

I ate my bus station vegetarian sandwich made with beautiful homemade bread. My phone was dying, so I searched for an outlet. I went to the little store in the bus station and asked if I could charge my phone there, and they said no. I kept searching around the walls of the bus station and found a plug hidden beneath a dead payphone. I stood there on my one non-aching non-blistered foot and charged my phone. As the hour drew near I headed towards the platform and witnessed some excitement. A backpacker tried to jump the turnstile without a ticket. Right in the faces of the young men who were the ticket takers on that shift. They wrangled him back over and laughed to themselves and at each other at the nerve of that guy. I stared at the clock. Finally, I was on the way back to Tivat.

An older man who I’d noticed earlier, got on our bus.  I’d noticed him because he walked with a cane, wore camo pants and shiny shoes and spoke in a loud and strange sounding voice.  He kept poking out his thumb and putting it up to his mouth as if to signify that he wanted a bottle of something to drink.

We’d made it about halfway to Budva, an hour from my home in Tivat, when the bus broke down. Some of us got off the bus. There were around seven British 19-year-old boys who seemed to want the entire bus to hear their inane conversation, which they pronounced at the top of their lungs. Luckily, they stayed on the bus. I got off and talked to a Danish kid in his early 20’s, a similar aged Frenchman, an Indian couple who lived in the UK, and two young 16-year-old Montenegrin girls who spoke some English.   We took turns rolling our eyes at the situation and looked around.

There was a Polish woman and her daughter, and I spoke my broken Russian to her, and she spoke her Polish to me, and I understood that she was saying she was Polish, and they had rescued a puppy from the forest, and she was telling me how they had taken it to the vet. Her daughter was handling the puppy and spoke some English. She told me how they were going all the way from there to Poland on buses or something like that.

We all stood around for about an hour. Some of the people managed to hitchhike a ride to Budva, the next city. There was an elderly woman on the opposite side of the road, in the middle of nowhere where we’d stopped. She had a scarf around her head and seemed to have been hitchhiking for a long time. Nobody would pick her up.

The bus driver opened the back of the bus and the side panels and talked on the phone. There was a police officer on our bus. He and several other men investigated the bus with the driver. The policeman eventually hitched a ride with some passersby. The elderly woman still waited for a ride.

As the time ticked on, the situation became more humor inducing by the minute. I mean, it could have been really sucky, but me and the Danish guy and the French guy hung out, and we started laughing. We were like, “oh my God, it’s like we’re in some crazy movie, you know. Where the passengers are in some deserted area for hours, and the sun is beating down, and we’ve come down to the one last bottle of water you know. Where everybody starts fighting or laughing or singing or falling in love or sharing food or giving orders.”

We started making up all these funny scenarios. A young Montenegrin guy chimed in about a Serbian movie that had this sort of stranded bus story line.  I told him that I’d recently watched The Wayward Bus based on a Steinbeck novel. The film was made in 1957 with Jane Mansfield and Joan Collins. The bus full of eclectic passengers was named “Sweetheart”.

The French guy and the Dutch guy and I continued to talk and share stories. The French guy was from Bordeaux, a place I’d visited when I was on tour with a Honkey-Tonk band in the early 2000’s. The Dutch guy was from a small city/large town about 40 minutes outside of Amsterdam. I asked him if the town had a large public concert hall. He said yes, I said Harlem.

He was surprised that I knew of it. But, the aforementioned band had toured the Netherlands as well and we’d played that hall in Harlem. We’d opened for Lucinda Williams and I’d met her in the bathroom that night. Meeting the Americana legend was exciting and telling her that I was a fellow Arkansan was a magical moment. As well as performing with the Dani Leigh band that night, a songwriter friend from our shared time in Austin Texas had come along on the mini tour. Our lead guitar player and drummer backed him up on his new record and the audience dug in hard. It was a wonderful memory prompted by such a funny situation. The guys looked at me as if I was from outer space. It did seem strange that I’d performed in both of the places which these strangers lived. They tried to find references for the music genre I was describing. Not exactly mainstream. Female Dwight Yokem meets Willie Nelson and Waylon Jennings.

Several teaser buses had come and pulled over, and we all ran over to them thinking we’d been rescued. Finally, our bus arrived. The French guy and the Dutch guy got off in Budva and we said our goodbyes to each other.  Me and the Indian couple and the Polish girl and her mom and a puppy they’d rescued on their hikes in Montenegro made it to our destination, Tivat.

I got off the bus and mentally prepared myself for the 20-minute walk up the hill to my apartment on my aching foot when I realized that I didn’t have anything for dinner. I went into the large grocery store that’s connected to the bus station and felt sorry for myself as I hauled the heavy bags up the hill on my damaged foot in the blazing sun at the end of my 12-hour day. 

It was around 6:30 pm and the sky had been threatening rain the entire ride from Podgorica. I was worried about my cute but super nonfunctional handmade shoes and my Italian leather satchel, a beautiful gift from my former boss, getting rained on. Could’ve taken a cab while at the bus station for God’s sake. Trying to save 10 euros while risking 300 euros worth of handmade shoes and bag requires some introspection on my part.

I’d left my crappy umbrella at the table full of cabbies. They yelled after me that I’d forgotten it.  I pitched it in the trash can on my way out.  It truly was on its last leg.  As was I. One of the cabbies smiled and said in English “I kiss your hand.”

I finally made it to my apartment, opened the door and Cinderella was so happy to see me. I dumped the groceries down, and 30 seconds later it began to rain. I sat in the floor and gave her some pets while I took off my shoes and thought about the double rainbow over the beautiful ancient walled city of Budva on the way home.  I celebrated the rain holding off until I reached home.

I made some pasta and was happy about the giant bottle of olive oil that I’d just hauled home on my bum foot because I’d found it for such a good price. I thought about the groovy window full of old Bosch radios I’d seen in a store window that day, the chick on the giant four-wheeler with her long blonde hair blowing beneath her helmet riding through the traffic of Podgorica, the cab drivers, the man with the cane and the funny voice, the fleeting connections and how strange, wonderful, and sometimes lonely my beautiful quirky life is.