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Destination: Bosnia-Herzegovina

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Europe’s Best Museums? They Have a Type.

What are the best museums and sights in Europe? Or, more specifically, what are the best types of sights?

I’m wrapping up guidebook research after spending 10 weeks on the road, split over three trips in Spain, Morocco, England, Denmark, the Czech Republic, Slovakia, and Hungary. Looking back, I realize that most of my favorite sightseeing experiences fall into a few categories that go beyond the predictable churches, castles, monuments, and big-name art museums. And so, I brainstormed this admittedly subjective list: not just a roundup of my personal favorite sightseeing in 2025, but also a broad-strokes look at five categories of sights that I find especially rewarding.

Whether you’re planning a trip to these destinations, or looking for inspiration for a trip anywhere, I hope these “types of sights” encourage you to consider some attractions that might, at first glance, be easy to overlook — but that merit some of your limited time.

1. The Endearing Local History Museum

In the sweet town of Keswick, deep in England’s bucolic Lake District, there are two options for a rainy day: Hike and get wet… or find something indoors. I opted for the latter and visited the Keswick Museum, which fills a historic Arts and Crafts-style hall in a lush park. I was unexpectedly charmed by how this place harnesses a chipper community spirit to make the story of this small town surprisingly engaging.

While modest, the Keswick Museum is more than the sum of its parts. It features a well-curated assortment of local artifacts, from a surveyor’s gigantic 1825 relief map of the Lake District (suspended on the wall) to a variety of items relating to the flourishing of Keswick as a tourist destination (including the earliest known guidebook to the town, from the early 1910s). The highlight? “Musical stones”: naturally resonant chunks of slate that someone has whittled down to the perfect tone, then set up as a xylophone for playing tunes. There’s also a gallery where museum volunteers take turns researching and installing their own temporary exhibits. How delightful!

Sure, they ain’t the Louvre or the Prado. But wonderful local history museums around Europe, when done well, can really bring a place vividly to life. Some, like Keswick, are in small towns or even villages. One of my favorites is the Herring Era Museum in Seyðisfjörður, Iceland, which explains how that little fish revolutionized not only the local economy, but made Iceland a financially viable independent nation. I’ve also enjoyed the one in Zermatt, Switzerland; the scrappy hilltop museum on the isle of Folegandros, Greece; and the Appenzell regional museums in the towns of Appenzell, Stein, and Urnäsch, Switzerland.

Others are in big cities, designed to help visitors get their heads around the local identity and the role that place played in the story of Europe. Excellent ones are in Zagreb, Croatia; Lausanne, Switzerland; Liverpool and Bristol, England; the Bryggen Museum in Bergen, Norway; the Musée Basque in Bayonne; and the Riverside Museum in Glasgow, Scotland.

2. The Single-Artist Museum

While wide-ranging art museums can be delightful, I find myself especially drawn to a museum devoted entirely to one artist, often displayed in the home in which they actually lived. In England’s Lake District, William Wordsworth’s Dove Cottage and Beatrix Potter’s Hill Top Farm both had me imagining the writer hunched over a desk, creating their masterpieces.

In Hungary’s Szentendre — just up the Danube from Budapest — I enjoyed getting to know the expressive, poignant sculptures of Margit Kovács.

In Córdoba and Ronda, Spain, I marveled at the works of two talented artists I’d never heard of before: Julio Romero de Torres and Joaquín Peinado, respectively.

On past trips to France, Albi’s Toulouse-Lautrec Museum deepened my appreciation of the works of an artist I only thought I was familiar with. And the former home of Claude Monet in Giverny, France, is a pilgrimage for lovers of his works, who stroll through the lily-padded gardens that inspired him.

The best example I visited in 2025 (and one of the best anywhere) is the National Trust’s tours of the childhood homes of John Lennon and Paul McCartney. After meeting at a suburban Liverpool train station, your small group hops on a minibus for the short drive to each house, where you’re welcomed by an impressively well-versed docent who does an insightful intro chat, then sets you free to roam the same halls, kitchens, bedrooms, and loos where two of history’s greatest songwriters spent their formative years. Not really a Beatles fan? The homes also provide wonderful social-historical insights into the everyday lives of working-class Liverpudlians in the 1950s. This remarkable experience combines being in proximity to tangible details — the pinups over John’s boyhood bed, the well-worn piano in Paul’s living room — with gaining a strikingly intimate understanding of two boys, becoming young men, who would change the world. For example, I learned that both Paul and John had lost their mothers at a very young age — perhaps providing them with an unspoken kinship that sustained their fruitful, fitful collaboration.

Another mind-blowing “one artist” museum I visited this year was the Robert Capa Center in Budapest, Hungary. I knew little about the Budapest-born photographer, but after spending an hour and a half here, I am a fan. Like a mid-20th-century Forrest Gump, Robert Capa traveled the world during one of its most tumultuous eras — documenting the Spanish Civil War, the First Sino-Japanese War, the Allied campaigns in North Africa and Sicily, the D-Day landings at Omaha Beach, the liberation of France, the creation of Israel, and the early days of postwar communism in Hungary and the USSR. He also snapped intimate slice-of-life portraits of Picasso, Matisse, Hemingway, Ingmar Bergman, and many others. The museum displays Capa’s most iconic images and tells the improbable life story of this eyewitness to history.

My all-time-favorite “one artist” home is devoted to an architect that many have never heard of: Jože Plečnik, who reshaped the Slovenian capital (and his hometown), Ljubljana, and also carried out major works in Prague, Vienna, and other cities. Still furnished with unique, Plečnik-designed furniture, one-of-a-kind inventions, and favorite souvenirs from his travels, the Jože Plečnik House paints an indelible and unusually intimate portrait of an artist.

Yet more “one artist” museums to consider around Europe: the Seidel Photo Studio Museum, in the Czech town of Český Krumlov; the Rodin Museum in Paris; the Salvador Dalí sights outside of Barcelona (Cadaqués and Figueres); the Ivan Meštrović Museum in Split, Croatia; the Charles Rennie Mackintosh House at Glasgow University in Scotland; the Rembrandt House Museums in both Amsterdam and Leiden, Netherlands; the Hans Christian Andersen House in Odense, Denmark; the Mozart sights in Salzburg, Austria; the Albrecht Dürer homes in Nürnberg and Wittenberg, Germany; Edvard Grieg’s Troldhaugen, just outside of Bergen, Norway; and The Secession in Vienna, with its Gustav Klimt paintings and distinctive “golden cabbage” dome.

3. The Single-Topic “Deep Dive” Museum

Some museums are a mile wide and an inch deep — trying to cover too much territory and doing none of it well. Many of my favorites take precisely the opposite approach: going all-in on a single, extremely narrow topic, probing the depths of all its fascinating details. (Of course, you could put most of the “single artist” museums, above, into this category as well.)

One of the best in this vein is the magnificent Vasa Museum in Stockholm, Sweden. The entire museum is literally and thematically built around a single item: the massive warship Vasa, which sunk to the bottom of Stockholm Harbor 40 minutes into her 1628 maiden voyage. More than three centuries later, the ship was rediscovered, raised from the deep, refurbished, and became the centerpiece of a state-of-the-art museum that tells the whole story and gets you prow-to-prow with the Vasa herself.

This summer, in charming Ribe, Denmark, I stumbled upon a museum devoted to hometown boy Jacob Riis (1849-1914). Despite the ticket-seller’s assertion that Riis was the most important Danish-American of all time, I was embarrassed to admit that I knew nothing about him. The exhibit set me straight, eloquently telling the tale of this Danish émigré who documented the plight of the desperately poor — mostly immigrants — who lived in the squalor of New York City’s tenements (and eventually published a seminal exposé, How the Other Half Lives). It was inspiring to learn how, by harnessing and pioneering the rapidly evolving medium of photojournalism, Riis brought about reforms that improved the wretched lives of the people he documented. Riis also became close friends with President Theodore Roosevelt, who called him both “the most useful citizen of New York” and “the ideal American.”

Sometimes that “single topic” is unexpected, even startling. The Museum of Broken Relationships, in the Croatian capital of Zagreb, displays a variety of items that each come with a complicated story of a now-defunct relationship — from a love-at-first-sight romance that burned out, to the loss of a dear friend or parent, to becoming disillusioned with a favorite politician. Touching, witty, and incredibly human, this museum is a good reminder to take a chance on sights that may seem quirky at first blush.

Thinking back on other examples of the “deep dive” style of museum, I realize the Netherlands is particularly adept at this approach: In Amsterdam, you have the famous Anne Frank House, of course, but also a Pipe Museum, a Houseboat Museum, and a Museum of Canals, while nearby Leiden has the Pilgrim Museum. Ireland also has a knack for these, from the Irish Wake Museum in Waterford to the Irish National Famine Museum in Strokestown to 14 Henrietta Street in Dublin; the Titanic Belfast Museum straddles this category and the next one. Others to watch for: the Paris Sewer Museum; the Viking ship museums in both Oslo, Norway, and Roskilde, Denmark (plus Oslo’s Kon-Tiki Museum); the Musical Instruments Museum in Brussels; the Olympics Museum in Lausanne, Switzerland; and some that are just plain bizarre, including the Phallological (Penis) Museum in Reykjavík and the Currywurst Museum in Berlin.

4. The High-Tech History Museum

Increasingly, history museums employ clever, high-tech innovations — location-sensing audioguides, sound and lighting effects, wrap-around films, interactive features — to bring to life a complicated or murky bit of history. Frankly, I’m on the fence about this trend: All too often, the whiz-bang gizmos act as a crutch, distracting from the thinness of the actual information. But when combined with impressive artifacts, compelling storytelling, and a clear point of view, these high-tech history museums can be mind-blowing.

Case in point: This summer I toured the stunning Moesgård Museum, just outside of Aarhus, Denmark. The museum was long famous as the home of the Grauballe Man, a remarkably well-preserved Iron Age corpse that was discovered in a nearby peat bog. In 2014, the Moesgård opened a gigantic new purpose-built building with a mission as grandiose as its architecture: combining astonishing artifacts — from prehistoric stone tools and mysterious barrows, to the Grauballe Man, to a perfectly preserved Viking boat — with evocative storytelling and high-tech methodology to create a powerful experience that kindles an appreciation not only for the story of prehistoric peoples in Jutland, but for human evolution in broad strokes. There are also two sprawling galleries hosting temporary exhibits that are at least as good as the permanent one. It instantly became one of my favorite museums, anywhere.

Another favorite is the Museum of the History of Polish Jews (POLIN), in Warsaw, Poland. Built on the site of the onetime Jewish quarter, POLIN is architecturally striking in itself. Inside, it employs a combination of thoughtful storytelling and state-of-the-art presentation to make the absolute most of the scant few artifacts that survive from what was once a flourishing culture. While so many Jewish-themed sights around Europe focus narrowly on the Holocaust, POLIN takes an expansive and enlightening approach to the entire Jewish experience in Poland.

Many of these high-tech history museums focus on one historical era — often World War II, including the Caen Memorial Museum in Normandy, France; the Museum of the Second World War in Gdańsk, Poland; and the Uprising Museum in Warsaw. The museum at the Culloden Battlefield, just outside of Inverness, Scotland, is one of the best of this type. Others are broader in their focus, including the German History Museum in Berlin and the Landesmuseum (Swiss National Museum) in Zürich. And some of the museums described earlier (including the Vasa Museum) could slip into this category, as well.

Artifacts; storytelling; high-tech exhibits: A museum that does all three equally well is rare. But when they hit — they really hit.

5. The Cross-Cultural Structure

Europe’s epic history is the story of successive civilizations layering one upon the other. Often, while a few artifacts survive from centuries past, most of what you see today dates from one or two discrete historical periods. But a few sights manage to capture a broader swath of history in stone, by simultaneously embodying starkly different civilizations in one cohesive structure.

The prime example of this is one of my favorite sights in all of Europe: the Mezquita in Córdoba, Spain. This gigantic structure — a massive box, 400 feet by 600 feet — began as a low-lying Moorish-style mosque, built around 785. Strolling through seemingly endless rows of 800 columns (spanned by graceful double arches), you feel you’ve stepped back to the age of Al-Andalus, when Córdoba was the capital of a sprawling Muslim realm.

But then you turn a corner and — bam! — you’re transported into an entirely different time and place: a towering 16th-century Catholic Baroque cathedral, stretching 130 feet into the air, that was built within that original mosque.

In Split, Croatia, the entire town center (filling the former halls of a Roman palace) gives you this same sensation of “layers of history” — especially the cathedral that sits upon Peristyle Square. The hulking, octagonal hall that forms the core of this building was originally the mausoleum for the Roman Emperor Diocletian, who was born nearby, retired right here, and notoriously tortured many Christians. But the frilly Venetian-style bell tower — and the rich golden decor inside — make it clear that those pagan Romans were soon supplanted by the Catholic Venetians, and later Croatians, who retrofitted Split to their own specifications.

In Pécs, Hungary, the main square is topped by another such structure. The Gazi Kasim Pasha Mosque — originally built during a period of Ottoman control in the 1540s — was later turned into a Catholic parish church (the Church of the Blessed Virgin). Today, its classic mosque architecture is still evident, and upon stepping inside, you observe a hybrid of Muslim and Catholic symbols and styles: striped arches over windows; a large prayer niche (mihrab) with a crucifixion above it; colorful Islamic-style stalactite decorations; and dome paintings that combine Christian angels with the geometric designs of Islam. On the wall is a verse from the Quran, translated into Hungarian and used for Christian worship — a reminder that, as fellow “people of the book,” Muslims and Christians share many of the same foundational principles.

Tangier — Morocco’s closest point to Europe — is another prime spot for these “cultural hybrid” sights. Just off the main square, you escape from the bustle of rumbling delivery vans and buzzing motor scooters into the tranquil garden courtyard surrounding St. Andrew’s Anglican Church — built on land that the sultan offered as a gift to Queen Victoria. There you’re greeted by gregarious Yassin, who wishes “peace be upon you” as he explains how, while the church’s architecture is mostly Islamic, it’s Christian in spirit: The Lord’s Prayer rings the arch in Arabic, as verses of the Quran would in a mosque.

Sometimes it’s not a building but a location. In the heart of old Sarajevo, at the precise point where Sarači street becomes Ferhadija street, you can look in one direction and swear you were in Istanbul, with its cobbles and market stalls; looking the other way, you could easily be in Vienna, with broad pedestrian boulevards and grand Austrian-style architecture.

And speaking of Istanbul, the ultimate example of a “cross-cultural” sight surely must be the Hagia Sophia: an early Christian church, later turned into a mosque, so influential that it became a template for many other mosques across the Ottoman Empire (including the one in today’s Pécs).

All of these sights are a reminder of the full complexity of Europe’s story — and of how few of those layers we actually see in our everyday travels… until we go looking for them.

What are some of your favorite museums in these categories? Or do you have favorite “categories” of sightseeing that I’m overlooking? Share your thoughts in the Comments.

Of course, all of the sights mentioned here — and so many more — are described in detail in our Rick Steves guidebooks.

If you’d like to hear more about my 2025 travels, join me on Zoom Monday, November 10 at 6 p.m. Pacific Time (that’s 9 p.m. Eastern) when I’ll be doing a virtual “Trip Report” for Monday Night Travel. It’s free, as long as you sign up in advance.

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Balkans Travel Tips

Are you thinking of traveling to the Balkans? I have some tips for you!

Last September, I set out on a trip to fulfill a lifelong travel dream: To explore the Balkans, from top to bottom, weaving together eight European capitals overland. My “Balkan Odyssey” — from the Alps to the Aegean, and from Lake Bled in Slovenia to Lake Ohrid in North Macedonia — was the trip of a lifetime.

Now that I’m back, I recently presented a Monday Night Travel report about that unforgettable journey. You can watch it here.

Putting this talk together was a complete delight. It reminded me of how the Balkans is  a fascinating, gorgeous, friendly, and wonderfully undiscovered and affordable corner of Europe. But the relatively few American visitors translates to a lack of solid travel information. I’ve prepared this post as a complement to my presentation, to share my itinerary guidance, favorite local resources, and other tips for traveling in the Balkans.

General Tips and Logistics

In our age of “overtourism” and soaring prices, the Balkans may just be Europe’s best-kept secret. However, you can’t paint the entire region with a single, broad brush. Croatia and Slovenia are in a category all their own: With their famous beaches and mountains — and being well-established in the EU, Schengen open-borders zone, and Eurozone (both countries use the euro currency) — they are far more “mainstream,” crowded, and expensive. My recent trip, and my Monday Night Travel talk, focus on the other six countries, which are less known, less crowded, and less expensive: Bosnia-Herzegovina, Serbia, Montenegro, Kosovo, North Macedonia, and Albania.

Here are a few general tips for traveling in the Balkans:

Sleeping: I used a wide variety of lodgings, ranging from simple, traditional guesthouses; to big, roomy, multi-room apartments (via Airbnb); to high-end boutique hotels. I rarely spent more than $100 a night, and often closer to $50. (Croatia, Slovenia, and coastal Montenegro, prices are at least double, and often much more at the famous coastal resorts.)

Eating: The Balkans may be Europe’s very best “budget foodie” destination. The local cuisine is rustic but utterly delicious. While each country has its own specialties, the Balkan region has similar elements, which may feel similar to what you think of as “Turkish” or “Greek” cuisine (since most of these areas spent centuries under Ottoman control). The handiest street food is burek, a savory phyllo-dough pastry typically filled with meat, cheese, or spinach. I begin each meal with a šopska salata — chopped cucumbers and tomatoes with a soft, salty cheese grated on top. Grilled meats are hugely popular, including minced-meat ćevapi (small link-like shape), pljeskavica (patty shape), and ćufte (meatball). These are often served with raw onions, the spreadable cheese called kajmak, and a flatbread called lepinje. The fanciest meal you can have is meat, potatoes, and other veggies slow-roasted under a metal baking lid called a peka or a sač. The region has many flavorful spreads, including ajvar (roasted red pepper and eggplant) and others that are similar to hummus or garlicky tzatziki. And every meal ends with a honey-drenched phyllo dough dessert — from baklava to kadaifi, and many more. The Balkans have a taste for unfiltered coffee (which you might think of as “Turkish coffee”), as well as variations on the firewater raki. Prices are low: A quick bite on the go rarely tops $5, and a sit-down meal might be $15-20 per person, including drinks. (As with other prices, double it — or more — in Slovenia, Croatia, and coastal Montenegro.)

Transportation: This is a real challenge, when planning a multi-country itinerary. Generally there are very good public-transit options within a country, but things become more complicated when you cross a border between two different, independent transit systems. Buses and trains are cheap but can be slow, with gaps in the schedule.

Driving: Renting a car is a tempting option, and gives you maximum flexibility, but two factors deserve careful consideration: First, while driving in places like Slovenia, Croatia, and much of Bosnia is roughly on par, difficulty-wise, with most of Europe (slick highways, well-marked roads, reasonable traffic), things get more challenging as you travel south. Albania, in particular, can be daunting for timid drivers. Country roads generally have light traffic, but there are lots of speed bumps; even small towns can come with loads of congestion (due to a lack of bypass roads); and fellow drivers can be, shall we say, erratic. And in towns and cities, all bets are off: Traffic laws are widely ignored, and lanes in historic town centers can be astonishingly narrow. In general, you’ll need to be a confident and capable driver, and make a point to drive defensively. Keep your head on a swivel and go with the flow.

International Driving: The other consideration for renting a car is the headache of trying to link up a multi-country itinerary. An “open-jaw” rental (picking up in one country, and dropping off in another) is convenient but often not possible, and always expensive. (I paid an extra $400 fee — about one-third the cost of my entire rental — to pick up in Skopje and drop off in Athens.) Returning to your starting point to drop off your car saves this fee, but between the mountainous landscape and roads of variable quality in this region, the miles don’t always come easy. Confirm with your rental agency that you’re allowed to drive in each and every country on your itinerary, which may come with a small extra cost (I paid an additional $10/day). You will need to have the “green card” (proof of insurance — essentially the car’s “passport”) and paperwork from the rental company that you’re allowed to cross. (Of the four borders I drove my car through, I was asked for this once.)

Hire a Driver: To fill the gaps — or even, potentially, for the entire trip — consider splurging on a private driver offering door-to-door service. While this can be expensive (figure at least $200/day, likely more), it makes things much easier, and it’s especially convenient if you’d like to stop to do some sightseeing along the way. I did this twice — between Sarajevo and Belgrade, with a stop at Srebrenica; and on the very long journey from Kotor, Montenegro, to Skopje, North Macedonia, to pick up my rental car — and I found it worth the expense to make the rest of my trip possible.

Borders: While crossing a border can be time-consuming, depending on traffic, it’s actually quite straightforward: Just wait in line, hand over your passport for a few seconds, and then often proceed to the next checkpoint to repeat the routine…and you’re on your way. Of the approximately 10 borders I crossed on this trip, I waited anywhere from 10 minutes to an hour or so. (Avoid very busy borders if you can, such as the one on the coastal road between Montenegro and Albania; in-the-know locals take the inland route instead, especially during peak vacation months.) Be sure to have your passport handy, along with your car’s “green card” (see above). Personally, I never felt in any way pressured to pay a bribe; given that the biggest delay was the line of cars in front of me, this wouldn’t have helped anyway.

Safety: I can only speak to this as a hardy male traveler. But my experience is that I feel at least as safe in any and all of these countries as I do anywhere in Europe. (You could make a very strong case that, from a personal safety standpoint, you’re much safer in Prishtinë or Belgrade than in Paris or Barcelona.) As anywhere, petty crime (from pickpockets to car theft) can be an issue, so keep your wits about you and secure your belongings. The US State Department has issued some advisories about a few of these countries (see the current list here). While worth knowing about and understanding, personally I take these advisories with a grain of salt. In recent months, Albania and North Macedonia have popped up on this list… as have Belgium, Denmark, and Spain. If there’s any heightened “risk” in these countries, it’s a history of political instability, which has the potential of flaring up from time to time; simply follow the news and be prepared to adapt your plans, in the unlikely event that troublesome protests or isolated scuffles pop up along your route.

Itinerary Ideas

With so many places to visit, and a wide variety of ways to connect them all together, there’s no one perfect Balkan itinerary. First, narrow down which countries you want to see. Then lace them together, with a sober reality check on how hard it might be to connect the dots (see the transportation quirks, above).

If you’re focusing on the more known, “mainstream” parts of the Balkans — Slovenia, Croatia, and a taste of Bosnia and Montenegro — consider this recommended itinerary. (This is very similar to our Best of the Adriatic in 14 Days Tour — a perfect way to see these popular destinations without having to do the planning yourself.)

However, the focus of my trip (and my Monday Night Travel talk) is getting off the beaten path. Specifically, my goal was visiting the eight Western Balkans capitals overland, with some interesting small-town and nature stops in between. For inspiration purposes, here’s how I connected those dots, in about three weeks.

I started my journey in Ljubljana, which wins my vote for the most charming, livable, and purely enjoyable small city in Europe. (With more time, you can side-trip to just about anything in Slovenia — from Lake Bled to the Julian Alps to the caves of the Karst).

From Ljubljana, it’s an easy train or bus trip to the Croatian capital of Zagreb. While Croatia’s coastline gets most of the tourist attention, Zagreb is a very enjoyable city, with lush parks, a charming old town, and excellent museums. You could linger in Croatia (see the suggested itinerary above). But in my case, I was eager to carry on deeper into the Balkans — so the capital was my only Croatian stop.

It’s a long day’s drive (or a fun and fascinating couple day’s road trip) from Zagreb through Bosnia-Herzegovina to Sarajevo. Worthwhile stops along the way include Banja Luka, Bosnia’s leading Serb city; the historic and extremely scenic town of Jajce, built upon waterfalls; and the fortified burg of Travnik.

Enjoy Sarajevo — really dig into what may be the Balkans’ single most beautiful, historic, interesting, moving, and purely enjoyable city. Consider side-tripping to the smaller town of Mostar (with its famous Old Bridge) and/or the poignant and powerful Yugoslav Wars genocide memorial at Srebrenica.

From there, it’s on to the Serbian capital, Belgrade, to dig into that bulky and fascinating metropolis. This is a great place to wander the people-jammed promenade to Kalemegdan (the park overlooking the confluence of the Sava and the Danube); visit the stunning interior of Sveti Sava; soak in some Yugo-history at the Museum of Yugoslavia, with Tito’s tomb; and try to finagle a visit to Tito’s famous Blue Train.

Speaking of trains: To head south, I opted to hop on the 10-hour scenic train through Serbia, then winding down through soaring Montenegrin mountains to Podgorica. (The train continues another 2 hours, all the way to Bar on the coast; for the full details on this very scenic train line, see this excellent article from the Man in Seat 61.)

Podgorica (formerly “Titograd”), Montenegro’s capital, has lots of Brutalist architecture; a tidy grid of planned streets, parks, and wide sidewalks; and the stunning Christ’s Resurrection church. From here, it’s a short drive to the Bay of Kotor, with its stunning wall of mountains enclosing a fjord and the fortified town of Kotor.

The next link in this itinerary — onward to Kosovo, via Albania — was the toughest part for me to figure out; I opted to hire a driver to make things easier.

Once in Kosovo, I enjoyed the capital of Prishtinë (with its “Newborn” monument, more Brutalist masterpieces, and delightful urban buzz); the historic Ottoman town of Prizren (with mosques, a hilltop fortress, and a classic stone bridge); and the rugged Accursed Mountains, which ruffle across three countries.

Also in Kosovo, I made a point to visit some of the important Serb landmarks within Kosovo, including three historic monasteries (Gračanica, Peć, and Visoki Dečani) and Gazimestan, the tower overlooking the historically charged battlefield of Kosovo Polje.

From Kosovo, it’s a quick drive south into North Macedonia and its capital, Skopje, with its mind-bending variety of “kitsch” from the Skopje 2014 initiative: grandiose buildings, countless statues and monuments, and broad squares… all of which are already falling into disrepair. Personally, I was more charmed by the bustling bazaar, across the river, which is one of the best in the Balkans.

After a quick stop in Tetovo to see the stunning Colorful Mosque, I lingered at Lake Ohrid — one of the world’s oldest and deepest lakes, along the border between North Macedonia and Albania. Its moody waters, historic churches (including the famous St. Jovan Kaneo), and pleasant resort-town bustle were a nice break between cities.

Then it was onward to Albania, which has recently been on the rise as a “budget beach break” destination.

I began in the capital city, Tiranë, which I found surprisingly cheerful and fresh-feeling, with enjoyable parks, generous squares, towering skyscrapers, and interesting museums (especially ones interrogating the legacy of the brutal communist dictator, Enver Hoxha).

Then I headed to the country’s fine mountain towns, each a warren of narrow, cobbled lanes huddled below a mighty fortress. Berat, the “city of a thousand windows,” was charming, but the real star is Gjirokastër, with its twisty and steep lanes weaving through its historic bazaar, and stunning views to the surrounding mountains.

From here, I side-tripped to a couple of those newly famous, up-and-coming beach resorts (about an hour’s drive away): Big, sprawling, concrete Sarandë; and smaller, dreamier Ksamil. Both had nice sandy beaches that were inviting on a sunny day. But the very crowded beaches, variable standard of accommodations, and noticeably lagging infrastructure made it clear that Albania’s tourism industry is still a work in progress. (Sadly, greedy hoteliers raised prices dramatically in anticipation of a busy 2024, which kept budget-minded travelers away and badly hampered the burgeoning tourism industry.) Nearby are the ancient ruins of Butrint.

Especially if you’re determined to really settle in and linger on the beach, you could flip this plan — sleep in Ksamil or Sarandë, and side-trip to Gjirokastër — but given the speedy nature of my trip, I was glad to circle back to settle in for another night at Gjirokastër, to soak in its charming atmosphere.

From here, I crossed the Greek border, and headed on to Meteora and Athens, to drop off my rental car and carry on to the islands. But if you had ample time — another week or two — you could make your trip a loop and take the coastal route home: Back up along the Albanian coast, around Montenegro’s Bay of Kotor, then island-hop up Croatia’s Dalmatian Coast to Slovenia, where you began. Phew!

I’ll stress again that this is an ambitious, fast-paced plan, designed to briefly touch down in as many places as possible. But this spine may inspire to you select which part(s) of the Balkans most intrigue you, and do a deeper dive. Consider splitting it up over several trips.

Resources

For Croatia, Slovenia, and the highlights of Bosnia-Herzegovina (Sarajevo, Mostar) and Montenegro (Bay of Kotor), all you need is our Rick Steves Croatia and Slovenia guidebook.

If carrying on through the other six countries, top-quality print information is limited. I found Lonely Planet’s Western Balkans guidebook somewhat useful as a starting point for trip planning, but their on-the-ground coverage is sparse and, for my taste, their opinions are too generic and muddled to be useful in prioritizing stops.

For a deeper dive into each country, Bradt has the most generous coverage of these lands, with dedicated guidebooks on Kosovo; North Macedonia; and Albania. While insightful and useful at times, personally I found these a little too dense and dry for my once-over-lightly trip.

Much better than guidebooks, to really get local insight on these places, I recommend investing in hiring local guides. In most of these cities, you can spend a few hours with a great local guide for around $50 (again, double that — or more — for Croatia, Slovenia, and Montenegro). I found guides in a variety of ways, whether through personal recommendations from my friends in the region or by scouring online reviews until I found a guide or company that matched my travel philosophy. While I had a couple of duds, most of the guides I used were top-quality; I’ve noted some favorites below.

The single best resource I found for this trip was the Sarajevo-based tour company called Funky Tours. Thoughtfully run by Ema, they offer a variety of tools for Balkans-bound travelers, ranging from day trips out of Sarajevo (including an outstanding visit to Srebrenica); to multi-day package tours; to a consulting service for helping you sort out the details of your independent trip; to fully custom study tours, where you tell them what you’re looking for, and they take care of the rest. Based on the exceptional quality of their advice and contacts, I recommend them most highly if you’re looking to invest in some expert help in putting together your dream Balkans trip — especially if you’re heading to the southern part of this region, where clear resources are harder to come by.

And finally, below I’ve listed a country-by-country grab-bag of the resources and other leads I personally found most useful in each place. This is just the tip of the iceberg; my sense is that there are wonderful guides, tour operators, hotels, and contacts all over the Balkans, but it can be challenging to find just the right ones for your trip. (Note: While some of the local guides have email addresses or even websites, many of them communicate primarily through messaging on WhatsApp; in these cases, I’ve given their phone numbers below.) Use this list as a starting point, and if you have any personal favorites in this area, let me know in the Comments, below.

Croatia and Slovenia: All of my best tips and leads are in our Rick Steves Croatia and Slovenia guidebook.

Bosnia-Herzegovina: Our Rick Steves Croatia and Slovenia guidebook covers this area, as well, but I’ll call out a couple of favorite guides: In Sarajevo, Funky Tours (noted above) offer excellent side-trips, including a well-designed side-trip to Srebrenica. Amir Telibećirović is a local guide who’s been partnering with us in Sarajevo for years (teleamir@gmail.com). In Mostar, Alma Elezović is a great guide (aelezovic@gmail.com), and her husband Ermin is a driver for trips around Bosnia (elezovicermin@gmail.com). By the way, if visiting Srebrenica — or even if you’re just curious about that harrowing chapter of the Yugoslav Wars — watching the Oscar-winning 2020 film Quo Vadis, Aida? is a must.

Serbia: On my previous visit to Belgrade, I enjoyed a tour from Srdjan Ristić from Explore Belgrade. On this trip, Serbian Adventure Factory arranged an excellent city historical tour for me with Marija, as well as a visit to Tito’s Blue Train. For a splurge-by-local-standards dinner of upmarket “New Balkan” cuisine, I enjoyed dining at the restaurant called Iva. And the best gelato I have had in the Balkans (outside of Ljubljana) is Crna Ovca, with locations around Belgrade.

Montenegro: The highlights of this country are also covered in our Rick Steves Croatia and Slovenia guidebook. Our longtime trusted partner in the area is Stefan Đukanović of Miro and Sons; they do a variety of trips around the country. On this trip, in addition to a fun and insightful scenic joyride with Stefan, I enjoyed an insightful tour of Podgorica with his guide Rajan. Also in Podgorica, I had a wonderful  dinner at Konoba Lanterna, with generous portions of delicious traditional food.

Kosovo: I enjoyed staying at the Hotel Gračanica, just outside Prishtinë, near a historic Serb monastery; the reception staff is exceptionally helpful, and the in-house restaurant served one of the best meals I had in the Balkans. In Prishtinë, local guide Ilir gave me a great tour of his “Newborn” city (+383 49 407 769). Prishtinë had so many tempting cafés and restaurants, it was hard to pick; on my brief visit, I enjoyed coffee and cake at Newborn Brew, and had a fun, trendy dinner at the bookstore-themed Soma Book Station. In Prizren, I enjoyed a delicious, traditional dinner along the river near the classic old bridge at Shpija e Kalter.  And the Accursed Mountains — at the intersection of Kosovo, Montenegro, and Albania — is emerging as a popular hiking destination.

North Macedonia: In Skopje, I wandered about 15 minutes from the main square to the trendy area called Debar Maalo, with several traditional restaurants featuring nice outdoor seating (including a few interchangeable places on Gjorgji Peshkov street). A little closer to the center, the big, traditional Old City House Restaurant felt very touristy, but the food was good. I learned much about Lake Ohrid — and North Macedonia in general — from local guide Džino Patel (dzingispatel@gmail.com). In the town of Ohrid, I had a great meal at Kaj Kanevche — quite touristy but friendly and with good traditional food right on the water just below the famous Church of St. Jovan Kaneo. In town, Bro’s Burger Station offered a fun and tasty change of pace from traditional food, serving American-style burgers with a Balkan spin.

Albania: In Tiranë, I was grateful for the help of local guides Eni (+355 68 900 9560) and Gazi (+355 69 631 5858). The city’s main square surprised me with one of the best bookstores (including lots of English books) in the Balkans, Adrion. In Berat, I enjoyed a tour from Erilda Krasi of 1001 Albanian Adventures (+355 69 883 1536). In Gjirokastër, I loved my stay at Tatiana’s guesthouse, Argyropolis Boutique Hotel (you can find her on Booking.com). Also in Gjirokastër, I enjoyed a great dinner at the traditional restaurant called Odaja, with a tiny balcony overlooking the busy bazaar.

Other Video Resources

My “Balkan Odyssey” Monday Night Travel focuses on those lesser-traveled southern Balkan destinations. If you’re craving more focus on the more popular northern countries — especially Croatia and Slovenia — we’ve archived lots of great content on those.

Start by checking out my team-up with my Slovenian friend and fellow tour guide, Tina Hiti, when we co-hosted a Monday Night Travel-style rundown of Croatia, Slovenia, and neighboring lands (from our 2023 Festival of Travel).

We’ve also filmed three TV shows in this region: Croatia: Adriatic Delights — You can watch the original show, or  the Monday Night Travel “watch-along” with Tina Hiti; Dubrovnik and Balkan Side-Trips (including Bosnia-Herzegovina and Montenegro) —  Original show, or the Monday Night Travel “watch-along” with  me; and Best of Slovenia — Original show, or the Monday Night Travel “watch-along” with Sašo Golub.

Happy Travels! Sretan Put!

I hope this rundown of tips, itinerary ideas, and resources whets your appetite for planning a Balkan Odyssey of your own. While it’s a little more complicated to plan a trip here than to the (overrun, overpriced) biggies in other parts of Europe, your effort is more than rewarded with a wonderful travel experience. If you have any guidance from your own travels to add, please suggest them below in the Comments.

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10 European Discoveries for 2025 — Balkans Edition

As the new year dawns, it’s time to plan new travels. Each year around this time, I share 10 “Discoveries” — lesser-known, underappreciated corners of Europe that might deserve a look as your travel dreaming turns to travel planning. And this year, my Discoveries come with a special focus: the Balkans.

Wait… the Balkans? Those Balkans? Absolutely, yes. A few months ago, I set out on an epic road trip from the Julian Alps to the shores of the Aegean, from sunny coastlines to frigid mountaintops, and from Lake Bled to Lake Ohrid… hopscotching through the Catholic, Muslim, and Eastern Orthodox worlds while linking up seven different capitals. This year’s Discoveries showcase 10 locations in 10 countries, combining new-to-me finds and classic favorites.

But the Balkan focus isn’t just because of my recent travels. If there’s a prevailing travel theme for 2025, it’s big prices and bigger crowds. In addition to its astonishing cultural diversity, its stunning landscapes, and its thriving cities, the Balkans’ great appeal is its undiscovered-ness. (In many places, I never saw another American.) And, while inflation is affecting every place to varying degrees, these destinations remain strikingly affordable.

There’s a good chance you’ve never heard of some of these places. But that doesn’t mean they’re not worth a visit. Join me on a spin through the Balkans… and discover something new.

Gjirokastër, Albania

On my Balkan road trip, nothing tested my mettle behind the wheel like driving to my traditional guesthouse near the top of Gjirokastër — the most appealing of Albania’s many historic mountain towns, huddled on steep slopes below a protective citadel.

From the broad valley below, I twirled up through Gjirokastër’s labyrinthine old town, inhaling deeply as I squeezed up lanes barely as wide as my car. (I had booked a subcompact. They gave me an SUV.) Summiting town, I was greeted by cheerful Tatiana — my very own temporary Albanian auntie — who made me feel instantly at home in her cozy, traditional, spotless B&B.

Like so much of Albania (and the Balkans), the historic core of Gjirokastër feels Turkish: cobbled streets, stony slate-roofed homes, soaring minarets, and a thriving bazaar. From the main intersection, with lanes spiraling off in every direction, you have exactly two choices: uphill or downhill.

Conquering Gjirokastër’s castle — racking up a day’s worth of steps in a 20-minute vertical climb — I looked down over the city’s rooftops, lined up against a jagged, cloud-catching ridge of peaks across the way.

Later that night, I found the perfect traditional eatery, which had just one tiny table on a miniature porch cantilevered over the bazaar’s busy main drag. Digging into an affordable feast of rice balls, meatballs in yogurt, and an intensely sweet, honey-soaked orange cake, I observed the touristic hubbub just below me. Gjirokastër is gradually becoming known, thanks to its cultural heritage, stunning setting, and proximity to Albania’s increasingly famous Adriatic beaches.

And yet, the place still has an uncorrupted, authentic soul. After dinner, in a needless rush, I hustled past a humble bar with tables facing the bazaar’s main intersection. The bar’s owner slowed me with a generous smile as he all but insisted I take a seat. After charging me less than a buck for an open-your-own-bottle beer, he joined some friends at the next table and savored that priceless twilight view right along with me. It seemed he was less concerned about making money than he was ensuring that this serene view wouldn’t go to waste.

Prishtinë, Kosovo

“I’ll meet you at the Newborn Monument.”

So pinged a text from my local guide, Mentor, as I drove through swiftly developing outskirts toward the center of Europe’s newest capital city. At the monument consisting of the word NEWBORN, Mentor eagerly greeted me, ready to show off his burgeoning hometown.

Prishtinë embraces its newness. Repeatedly, I heard the brag that Kosovo — Europe’s youngest country (independent since 2008, and still not universally recognized) — also has one of its youngest populations, with about two-thirds of its citizens under 30 years old.

As I explored Prishtinë, I immediately appreciated its appealing urbanity, optimism, and sense of forward momentum. The main drag, recently closed to cars, is a delightful pedestrian mall lined with plywood food sheds and picnic tables. Even its “old” buildings — such as the wonderfully weird, wildly eye-catching National Library, opened in 1982 — feel fresh and innovative: a Brutalist masterpiece with bulbous domes, all wrapped in metallic netting.

At the same time, I also sensed a deep devotion to the past. The ethnic Albanians who make up more than 90 percent of Kosovo’s population are, it’s believed, descended from among the earliest known peoples to reside in Europe: the Illyrians, bewilderingly ancient even to the ancients. And Prishtinë, despite its apparent “newness,” has a very old soul.

As if to demonstrate this, Mentor led me away from the thriving downtown and up to the very top of the main drag (passing the shiny office-tower parliament) to reach the old Ottoman quarter. Passing a duo of soaring minarets — each one marking a lavishly decorated mosque full of locals taking part in evening prayer — we carried on through old Prishtinë’s meandering bazaar streets to a fabulously well-preserved old Turkish house. Mentor lovingly explained each centuries-old item, as if tenderly flipping through the yellowed pages of a precious chronicle.

This parallel devotion to both old and new struck me throughout Kosovo, where visitors divide their attention between the slick new development of a fledgling country, and evocatively antique Orthodox monasteries and Ottoman-era towns (like Prizren). It’s one of the reasons Kosovo, and Prishtinë in particular, got under my skin… much to my (pleasant) surprise.

Logarska Dolina and the Northern Valleys, Slovenia

Curling along a ridgetop road at what felt like the attic of the Alps — immersed in 360 degrees of spectacular green hills, yawning valleys, and cut-glass peaks, just a few minutes’ drive from Austria — I pulled up the gravel driveway of a simple farmhouse. Inside the screened-in porch, I met a family of three from Canada: mom, dad, and teenage daughter, all digging into plates of hearty food.

The farmer who owned the place appeared and agreed to bring me a plate, too. As we all chowed down on oversized, pork-filled dumplings, my lunchmates explained that their guidebook had directed them up into these rugged mountains, at the remote northern fringe of one of Europe’s most underrated countries… where they were having the time of their lives. The experience left both my belly and my soul full — making me happy that my work is having an impact on at least a few vacations.

Just down the road, a local tip detoured me up a side valley to another tourist farm, this one specializing in artisanal goat’s-milk ice cream infused with local Slovenian ingredients: anise and honey, tarragon, dried pears, fresh-curd strudel. As a gelato aficionado, I had very high hopes. They were exceeded. (Another discovery for that guidebook!)

After a long day of heavenly views and earthy flavors, I made my way back to yet another rustic farmhouse, where I was spending the night. The Lenar clan (Urša and her parents) set me up with a woody room where I could step out onto a silent balcony to bask in sweeping views across the valley. Each morning, I savored the traditional folk-art decor of the breakfast room, along with farm-fresh eggs, home-baked pastries, and Urša’s gentle, thoughtful lessons about this region’s distinct farming and forestry methods.

Logarska Dolina specializes in spectacular scenery, in rustic lives that revolve around traditions, and in a refreshing lack of fellow tourists (other than in-the-know Slovenes…and a few wayward Canadians). As Slovenia’s more famous mountain resorts — Lake Bled, Lake Bohinj, the Soča Valley — are becoming, to varying degrees, more crowded, Logarska Dolina is a reminder that even a small country is never exhausted of its beckoning hideaways.

Belgrade, Serbia

Creeping closer and closer in rush-hour gridlock, I observed how the Serbian capital fills its long ridge with gray, uninspiring concrete. Traffic here is as heavy as it is unforgiving. Lush parks, genteel boulevards, and ornate facades are in short supply. The sidewalks are narrow and shabby and forever dribbled by air-conditioning units grafted onto ramshackle apartment blocks that stretch high into the sky, blotting out the sun.

Finally reaching my lodgings, dropping off my bag, and heading out to explore, I joined the people-parade on the main walking street, Knez Mihalova. And suddenly I remembered: Once you’re immersed in the urban jungle of Belgrade, the city abounds with charming details, intriguing detours, and an exuberant humanity. On this balmy evening, the entire city was out promenading… slowly making their way toward Kalemegdan Park, which fills a point surrounding Belgrade Fortress overlooking the confluence of the Danube and the Sava.

Sightseers find plenty to do here. Sveti Sava, one of the largest Orthodox churches in Christendom, is gobsmackingly stunning inside — shimmering with gilded icons and glittering chandeliers. Just up the street is the former home of inventor Nikola Tesla, now a museum. The Yugo-nostalgic can pay their respects at Marshal Tito’s grave and tour the fascinating, adjacent museum of Yugoslavia. Or simply prowl the cobbles of the traditional quarter, Skadarlija, buzzing with dueling Balkan folk troupes and interchangeable menus of delicious “Serbian national cuisine.”

Departing Belgrade, observing its blight shrink behind me, I thought about how few places provide a starker contrast between that first, distant impression… and the slow, satisfying revelation of experiencing it from within.

Istrian Interior, Croatia

Many years ago, when we were first brainstorming the itinerary for our Rick Steves Best of the Adriatic tour, we knew we needed a couple of nights in Istria — the wedge-shaped peninsula dangling from the northwest corner of Croatia, next to Italy. Initially I figured that stop must be in Rovinj, arguably Croatia’s prettiest coastal town. But then someone suggested that, instead, we should sleep deep in the Istrian interior. Why not settle into an atmospheric hill town with bucolic views and world-class restaurants, still just a short drive from Istria’s coastal delights?

It was one of those Eureka! moments that, instantly, just made sense. And it still does.

While Croatia is, deservedly, famous for its coastline, I always find myself looking forward to my time in the Istrian interior. There’s nothing like hitting the road for a giddy loop through this stunning, user-friendly region, with its cypress-lined country lanes, stony hill towns capping vineyard-draped hills, trendy boutique wineries and other foodie finds, and dark oak forests embedded with precious truffles. It feels like joyriding through a schlocky painting of Tuscany — but real!

And then, of course, there’s the food: Istria is one of Europe’s most abundant producers of truffles. These pungent tubers are grated like parmesan over noodles or steak. And you’ll also find them in cheese, salami, olive oil, tapenade, pâté, frittata, soufflé, and even ice cream.

Settling into one of my favorite Croatian eateries, in the hill town of Motovun, I perused the menu and made my selection. But then, the owner appeared tableside and turned the page. “Ah, but did you see the white truffle menu? We have some of the first white truffles of the season.”

Well, in that case… don’t mind if I do!

Sibiu, Transylvania, Romania

On the night of my first visit to Sibiu, several years ago, the town was throwing its first-ever Oktoberfest party. The main square was alive with festivities: carnival rides, little booths slinging traditional food, and a gigantic beer tent, rollicking with happy Romanians hoisting frothy mugs while swaying in time to the imported German oompah band.

Cultural cross-pollination is a hallmark of the Balkans, and essential to truly understanding the region. But it’s not always easy. Just trying to explain the various cultures that have called Romania home — Roman legionnaires, Germanic (“Saxon”) traders, two different factions of Hungarians, and, oh yes, the Romanians — can glaze over the eyes even of the most curious history student.

That’s why I appreciate places like Sibiu, which embodies those complexities in an easy-to-appreciate package. It’s one of many historically Germanic towns in Transylvania, Romania’s thickly forested heartland. Those rolling foothills and cut-glass Carpathian peaks on the horizon are easy to mistake for the Alps.

After communism, like so many other Romanian communities, Sibiu was in a shambles. But it was rebuilt and brightly polished, thanks largely to a visionary mayor, Klaus Iohannis — the first ethnically German mayor anywhere in Romania since World War II. (The city’s transformation and prosperity vaulted Iohannis to national prominence; he was elected president in 2014, and still holds that office.)

Today, among Romanian towns, Sibiu feels classy, stable, and sure of itself. Exploring Sibiu’s cobbles — wandering between its three grand, interlocking squares, enlivened by stately municipal buildings, café tables, and giant, looming churches, then wandering down its main pedestrian drag to a tranquil park that marks the former moat — I kept catching myself thinking I was in Germany. And in a country that’s still struggling to get back on its feet, emulating one that’s already affluent, well-established, and tidy is a shrewd start.

Lake Ohrid, North Macedonia

For my stay at Lake Ohrid, I “splurged” (by Balkan standards) on an apartment with a deck overlooking the lake. Each time I slid open that giant glass door, subconsciously expecting to catch a whiff of the sea, I was surprised instead to smell the unmistakable dank of freshwater.

Nearly a thousand feet deep, and among the world’s oldest lakes, Ohrid feels primordial… elemental. Looking out over the sea-like deep, you notice how this vast, moody, dramatic lake is big enough to create its own weather system. From miles away, you can see brief, intense squalls ripping across the water’s surface toward you, alternating with shimmering sunbeams, bright blue skies, and cotton-candy clouds.

Ohrid floods a gorge between wooded mountains along the border between North Macedonia and Albania. The lake, and the historic town of the same name, are a popular resort for visitors from around the Balkans. Holiday-makers promenade along the wide path that runs along its shore, venturing out onto crumbling piers to be immersed in lakefront splendor. Or they hike just around the bluff above town to reach the iconic, Byzantine-style Orthodox church of St. Jovan Kaneo, clinging to its own little niche just over the water. From here, a steep and winding path leads up to a partially ruined fortress, along its crenellated wall, then to yet more beautiful Byzantine-style churches and twisting lanes that, eventually, meander back down to the lakefront.

All of those churches are also a reminder that Ohrid is not just for vacationers; it’s one of those places that feels infused with an almost mystical aura, which has attracted settlers and visitors for eons. Following the shoreline highway, you can pull over to explore the rebuilt stilt houses suspended over the Bay of Bones, or to visit yet another historic church, honoring one of the Byzantine missionaries (St. Naum) who converted the Slavs and created the Cyrillic alphabet.

Yes, “primordial” is a strange way to describe a destination. But that’s the word that kept coming to mind on the shores of this bewilderingly old, mysterious, and tranquil lake.

Veliko Tarnovo and Shipka Pass, Bulgaria

There’s an atmospheric lane in the heart of Veliko Tarnovo that’s lined with smiling craftspeople, eager to show off their traditional art. Silversmith Todor creates intricate filigree jewelry. Nina and her son create pottery with patterns dating back centuries. Miglena operates an old-fashioned loom. Rumi carves wooden items. And Rashko painstakingly paints icons. Folk art, still being executed with pride and precision by modern people, is a hallmark of the Balkans. And this “Craftspeople’s Street” is one of the most user-friendly places to experience it.

Artisanal handicrafts aside, Veliko Tarnovo — appropriately meaning “Great City of Land and Water” — is among the most dramatically situated settlements anywhere. The city’s homes cling to the steep slopes of a gorge carved by the meandering Yantra River. At one particularly scenic riverbend, a gigantic sword thrusts up into the sky, boldly proclaiming a centuries-old dynasty that still fills locals with pride. And the cliff-topping fortress, Tsarevets, rewards hikers with sweeping views over the city… and the opportunity for kids-at-heart to nock imaginary arrows while defending the substantial bastions.

Connecting Veliko Tarnovo to the rest of the country is perhaps Bulgaria’s most entertaining drive, over the Shipka Pass. Along here, you’ll pass through Tryavna, a touristy village that abounds with traditional Bulgarian National Revival-style homes; a lavish Orthodox church celebrating the 1877 battle that forced the Ottomans out of this region; and a rotting-from-the-inside-out communist conference hall that looks like a UFO crash-landed on a mountainside, called Buzludzha.

If Bulgaria is one of Europe’s most pleasantly surprising destinations, then Veliko Tarnovo is one of its very best surprises — and a highlight of perhaps our most underrated tour, the Best of Bulgaria.

Podgorica, Montenegro

“You are probably wondering why you came to Podgorica, widely regarded as the ugliest capital city in Europe.”

These were the first words my guide, Rajan, said when we met. I admired his candor about his hometown; it was refreshing, if a little startling. And it opened my mind to what he said next.

It’s true: Travelers who come to Podgorica (pronounced POD-goh-reet-suh) are not here for beauty. After World War II, the city — then called “Titograd,” after the Yugoslav leader — was built essentially from scratch around the modest footprint of an old Ottoman town at the meeting point of rivers, near the base of a towering mountain range. Titograd was a showcase of Brutalism, the heavy-handed, concrete-happy, form-follows-function style that prevailed in Yugoslavia’s postwar boom.

Brutalism is about as pretty as it sounds…and it hasn’t aged well. The night before I met Rajan, at the end of a 10-hour journey from Belgrade, my train pulled into the Podgorica station just after sunset. The walk to my hotel took me through a neighborhood of towering, bare-concrete apartment blocks, on crumbling sidewalks, past seas of bare dirt and green weeds that crowded out sparse tufts of parched-yellow grass. As a first impression, it was, in a word, brutal.

And yet, as Rajan showed me around by the light of day, I found myself entertaining a thought experiment: What if Podgorica’s burly Brutalism and stark “Ex-Yugo” aesthetic is not a bug…but a feature?

While lacking the graceful arches, stately pillars, and fanciful flourishes that tourists associate with Europe, Brutalism is the essence of functionality. Those Yugoslav nation-builders, like today’s urban planners, faced a desperate shortage of affordable housing. In fact, these days Brutalism is in vogue among young architecture students. Seeing Rajan’s city through his eyes, I found myself appreciating the tidy, grid-planned streets; the broad boulevards with wide, tree-lined sidewalks that encourage strolling; and the strategic juxtaposition of important buildings: parliament, president’s office, ministries, embassies, municipal offices, all efficiently lined up in tidy rows.

Psychologists talk about “radical acceptance.” Rajan, quite radically, accepts that his city is no Prague or Paris. But what it is, is beautiful in its own way. By the end of our time together, we were brainstorming a “Titograd Time Warp Tour” — to really lean into what’s special about Podgorica.

As travelers, we often make snap judgments based on an unflattering first impression…especially in places with a hard history, like the Balkans. Podgorica taught me to keep an open mind and appreciate each place on its own terms.

Talk about radical.

Anywhere, Bosnia-Herzegovina

There’s no doubt that Bosnia-Herzegovina is a “must” on any Balkan list. But where in Bosnia, exactly?

I have already featured the wonderful capital, Sarajevo, on a past Discoveries list. Should I mention Mostar, the convenient-if-touristy “Bosnia with training wheels” city that’s close to Croatia’s Dalmatian Coast? Jajce, the historic town scenically built literally upon a waterfall, where Yugoslavia was born during World War II? Srebrenica, with its wrenching memorial to innocent lives lost in the Yugoslav Wars? Perhaps some remote but charming smaller towns or cities, or amazing foodie finds, or the Bosnian people themselves — some of the kindest, most interesting, most welcoming anywhere?

On the other hand…why choose? If you’re thinking of going to Bosnia, anywhere in Bosnia, you can’t go wrong. In many ways, Bosnia is the quintessence of the Balkans: a ruggedly mountainous, verdant landscape carved by rivers and mountain streams; an epic history, with more than its share of highs and (especially) lows; deeply flavorful comfort food at bargain prices; a complex mix of Muslims, Catholics, and Orthodox, which has left each townscape a jumble of minarets, steeples, and domes; and remarkably affordable prices — making this arguably Europe’s single best destination in terms of cost-to-quality ratio.

Best of all, especially outside of Sarajevo and Mostar, Bosnia has an unmistakable “undiscovered” quality. I’ve been traveling here for two decades; in that time, those showcase cities have become firmly planted on the tourist trail — but those tourists come mainly from the Muslim world, attracted by the promise of an accessible taste of Europe that’s also culturally familiar. (Sharing Bosnia with these fellow travelers is, in itself, a fascinating experience for a non-Muslim visitor from America.) And yet, if you get beyond Sarajevo and Mostar, you’ll likely discover you’re just about the only tourist, from anywhere.

Croatia and Slovenia are certainly the most accessible (and well-known) slice of the Balkans for first-time visitors. But If I had to nominate just one place to get a taste of this region — accessibly, affordably, unforgettably — it would have to be Bosnia-Herzegovina… anywhere.

I realize that some of these Balkan Discoveries might be a hard sell for someone seeking a more, shall we say, “conventional” itinerary. I had great trips in 2024, as well, to Venice, Amsterdam, Germany’s heartland, and the Greek Islands — all still marvelous choices. But as crowds and prices rise to unsustainable peaks in those mainline destinations, off-the-beaten-path alternatives seem more appealing than ever. And you won’t find much that’s more “off the beaten path” than the Balkans.

The Balkans are a big place. What tourists there are, are concentrated in a few very small areas. Whether it’s a remote alpine valley, a giant moody lake, a thriving-if-ramshackle capital city, a historic town that’s improbably built upon an unforgiving landscape, or a Discovery all your own, this region warrants exploration.

Be sure to share your own Discoveries in the Comments.

You can also look back at my Discoveries from 2024, 2023, 2021, 2020, 2019, and 2018… all still great choices.

If you’d like to hear more about my recent “Balkan Odyssey” — and more stories and photos from all of the above places, and more — join me on February 17 on Monday Night Travel (at 6 pm Pacific, or 9 pm Eastern). It’s entirely free — just sign up ahead, when the class is officially announced in a few weeks.

If you’d like to travel along with me in 2025, be sure to follow me on Facebook and Instagram.

And consider checking out my travel memoir, The Temporary European: Lessons and Confessions from a Professional Traveler.

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Coffee and Ćejf: How to Travel as a Temporary European

One morning in Mostar, I met my friend Alma for coffee. Not just coffee — Bosnian coffee.

Alma greeted me with her customary, exaggerated warmth: “Aaaaah, Cah-meh-ron! So goooood to see you, my old friend!”

I first met Alma years ago, when I was leading a tour in Bosnia and she was our local guide. She has a painful personal history and a huge heart, two things that seem to go together. Alma and her husband were living in Mostar with their toddler on May 9, 1992, when they were rocked awake by artillery shells raining down from the mountaintop. They persevered through the next few years as bombardment, siege, and street-by-street warfare ripped their city apart.

“Alma” means benevolent, soulful, wise. And Alma is all of these things in abundance. Anyone who meets her is struck by both her generousness of spirit and her forthrightness. Alma speaks her mind in the way of someone who knows mortal danger firsthand and no longer worries with niceties. And she has mastered the art of giving outsiders insight into Bosnian culture.

“Here in Bosnia, we have unfiltered coffee — what you Americans might call ‘Turkish coffee,'” Alma said as we walked. “But it’s not just a drink. It’s a social ritual. A way of life.”

We made our way through Mostar toward a café. The streets were cobbled with river stones — round as tennis balls and polished like marble — that threatened to turn our ankles with each step. Finally we reached a cozy caravanserai courtyard that felt very close to the Ottoman trading outpost that Mostar once was.

We settled in at a low table, and the coffee arrived: A small copper tray, hand-hammered with traditional Bosnian designs. An oblong copper pot, lined with shiny metal and filled with black coffee. A dish containing exactly two Turkish delight candies, dusted with powdered sugar. And two small ceramic cups, wrapped in yet more decorative copper.

The server deliberately poured coffee into each cup. I reached for mine too eagerly. Alma stopped me. “Careful!” she said. “Bosnian coffee punishes those who hurry, with a mouthful of grounds.”

Patiently, Alma explained the procedure — and the philosophy — of Bosnian coffee. “There’s no correct or incorrect way to drink Bosnian coffee. People spend lifetimes perfecting their own ritual. But one thing we agree on is that coffee isn’t just about the caffeine. It’s about relaxing. Being with people you enjoy.”

Alma paused for effect, then took a deliberate sip. Looking deep into my eyes and smiling a relaxed smile, she continued with a rhythmic, mesmerizing cadence: “Talk to your friends. Listen to what they have to say. Learn about their lives. Then take a sip. If your coffee isn’t strong enough, gently swirl your cup. If it’s too strong, just wait. Let it settle. That gives you more time to talk anyway.”

Looking around the courtyard, sparkling with mellow conversation and gentle laughter, Alma said, “This is a good example of merak. Merak is one of those words that you cannot directly translate into English. It means, basically, enjoyment. This relaxed atmosphere among friends. Nursing a cup of coffee with nowhere in particular to be — savoring the simple act of passing the time of day.”

Taking another slow sip, Alma noted that the Bosnian language is rife with these non-translatable words. Another example: raja. “Raja is a sense of being one with a community,” Alma said. “But it also means frowning on anyone who thinks they’re a big shot. It’s humility. Everyone knowing their place, and respecting it.”

But my favorite Bosnian word is ćejf (pronounced “chayf”). Ćejf is that annoying habit you have that drives your loved ones batty. And yet, it gives you pleasure. Not just pleasure; deep satisfaction. In traditional Bosnian culture, ćejf is the way someone spins their worry beads, the way he packs and smokes his pipe, or her exacting procedure for preparing and drinking a cup of coffee.

In American culture, we have ćejf, too. Maybe you have a precise coffee order that tastes just right. (“Twelve-ounce oat milk half-caf latte with one Splenda, extra hot.”) Or every weekend, you feel compelled to wash and detail your car, or bake a batch of cookies, or mow your lawn in tidy diagonal lines, or prune your hedges just so. My own ćejf is the way I tinker with my fantasy football lineup. (Should I start Marvin Jones or Jarvis Landry this week?) Or the way I chew gum when I’m stressed: Extra Polar Ice flavor, always two sticks…never just one.

Americans dismiss this behavior as “fussy” or “O.C.D.” or simply “annoying.” We’re expected to check our ćejf at the door. But in Bosnia, they just shake their head and say, “What are you gonna do? That’s his ćejf.” You don’t have to like someone’s ćejf. But — as long as it’s not hurting anyone — you really ought to accept it. Because everyone has one.

Reaching the bottom of my coffee cup, I noted that the grounds had left no residue at all. “When it’s done properly,” Alma said triumphantly, “you’ll never feel grit between your teeth. If you find a layer of ‘mud’ in the bottom of your cup, it means that someone — either you or the person who made the coffee — was in too much of a hurry.”

Setting down her mudless cup, Alma allowed the silence between us to linger for several long moments. She knew I was in a hurry to get back to work. (I am always in a hurry.) But she was determined to slow me down. We waited. And waited. I sat like a dog with a treat on my nose. My mind began to whirr: Is it easier to be soulful, more at peace with idiosyncrasies, when you’ve survived hardship? Or is this ritual pulling back the curtain on a Muslim worldview?

And then, as if pushing through turbulence on the way to blue skies, I felt myself calming. My pulse abated. I sensed the merak percolating around me. I tuned into the details flowing in the background behind Alma’s smiling face. It’s the first time that having coffee has slowed me down rather than revved me up.

Finally, sensing my peace, Alma took a deep breath and spoke: “Good. Shall we move on? What’s next?”

Alma is just one of the countless Europeans I’ve gotten to know over more than two decades of exploring Europe. Since 2000, I’ve worked for Rick Steves’ Europe, spending about 100 days each year on the road: researching and writing guidebooks; producing TV shows; and leading bus tours. That’s a grand total of about five years, over the last twenty, in more than 35 European countries (which — let’s be honest — is more than I once thought Europe even had). Over all that time, I feel that I’ve become a temporary European.

That’s the title of my new travel memoir. The Temporary European: Lessons and Confessions of a Professional Traveler was just published by Travelers’ Tales.

It took me a while to come up with that title. I began the project by collecting my favorite pieces from the travel blog I’ve been writing since 2015. As I refined those, I began to fill in some gaps with new writing. Over time a structure emerged, and the various writings began to cluster around common themes. But I just couldn’t figure out what to call the thing.

Finally, as I was wrapping up the book, I realized that a single thread unites all of the stories in my book: traveling as a Temporary European: Traveling with curiosity and empathy. Seeking to understand the lives of the people I meet…and trying on their ways for size, to see what I like (and what I don’t). I think any traveler can have a more rewarding trip by approaching their travels with a Temporary European mindset.

Take the simple act of caffeinating. In England, you might perk up with a cup of midafternoon tea; in Italy or France, you slam down a tiny mug of espresso standing at a busy counter; in Vienna or Budapest, you spend hours nursing a cup at a grand café, with borrowable newspapers on long wooden sticks. And in Bosnia-Herzegovina, as we’ve learned from Alma, you nurse a copper-clad cup of unfiltered coffee deliberately while chatting with friends.

A Temporary European assumes that other people’s ways make sense to them, and tries to understand why. If you barge into a French shop without saying Bonjour, Madame!, and find the shopkeeper unfriendly, imagine how you’d feel if someone did the same in your living room. If you’re in Croatia and people are cranky, trust them when they explain that the muggy Jugo wind puts everyone in a foul mood. If Germans are standing in the pouring rain, with not a car in sight, waiting for the light to change, wait with them while contemplating why rule-following is important to their notion of a successful society. And if an Italian barista grows agitated when you try to order a cappuccino after lunchtime, consider how having so much milk late in the day might be bad for your digestion.

Dubrovnik — on Croatia’s Dalmatian Coast — is a tourist hotspot. If the cruise ships weren’t enough to overwhelm the place, they’ve also become swamped with Game of Thrones pilgrims. When I’m in Dubrovnik updating my guidebook, I stop by all of the big sights: walking around the top of City Walls, riding the cable car up to the hilltop fortress, dipping into the sumptuous churches and quirky museums.

But my favorite thing to do in Dubrovnik is to have my morning coffee right along the main drag — early enough that most of the tourists are still sleeping in. A group of locals gather each morning at an outdoor café to chat and gossip and people-watch.

Sitting there with them, in the amount of time it takes to drink my morning coffee, I learn more about the real life of Dubrovnik than I do in several days of sightseeing.

Just before the pandemic, my wife and I took a week off to simply hang out in Provence. Every day, we went to a different market: even markets in seven days. But we really wanted to learn how to marché like a local. Mathilde met up with us one day and gave us some lessons.

First, learn how to recognize the difference between a farmer and reseller: If the producer displays a wide range of produce — especially bananas, mangoes, or other tropical fruit — they’re a reseller. Stickers on produce are also a sure sign of a reseller. Produce from a reseller can still be good quality, she stressed. But knowing the difference can help you choose more carefully. “A farmer picks their produce only when it’s perfectly ripe, to sell today at the market,” Mathilde said. “When picking for a reseller, they tend to pick it just before it’s ripe, to give it more time to be transported.” Connoisseurs shopping for today show up early and seek out farmers first; if they strike out, they turn to the resellers.

“For top quality, watch for a stand selling only one item,” Matilde said. “Only Plums. Just Berries. Apricots seulement. This is a very good sign.”

In Italy, my friend Virginia took me on a crash course for finding the best gelato. She showed me what to look for: small batches of homemade gelato, stored in metal bins, with muted colors. And she showed me what to avoid: big, colorful mounds of ice cream designed to attract children.

Finally, she explained that when she wants to assess the quality of a gelateria, she samples the pistachio — for a very specific reason. Gelato flavors all cost the same to buy, but the cost of producing each one can be quite different. Authentic pistachio gelato, using real nuts, is the most expensive flavor to make. Unscrupulous places cut the pistachio with other, fake flavors to lower their costs. A trained tongue can tell if the pistachio is real pistachio. And if it is, the rest of the gelato will be great too.

I spent a month one summer driving around Scotland to work on a new guidebook. Even when writing a book to introduce travelers to a new place — especially when doing that — it’s important to have a Temporary European mindset. And in Scotland, so rife with clichés, that’s especially tricky. I see it as my challenge, as a guidebook author, to deconstruct clichés. But here in Scotland, I was about to give up when I spent a day off going to a Highland Games in a little town nobody has ever heard of.

It had all the (seeming) clichés, yes: tartans, bagpipes, Highland dancing, feats of strength, and so on. But it was also, very clearly, a local event — designed to celebrate Scottish pride for Scottish people. And it helped me to see how even those clichés are rooted in authenticity: The tartan patterns were standardized and neatly organized, clan by clan, during Victorian times. Any gift shop in Edinburgh will be all too happy to sell you a tartan matching your surname (or any Scottish surname you happen to take a fancy to).

But if you dig deeply enough in Highland history, you learn that members of a clan lived in the same general area, with access to the same natural dyes — so they really did tend to wear coordinated colors…even if they weren’t in tidy plaid patterns. And all of those events of the Highland games were critical for showcasing skills important to Highlanders: dancing for dexterity; tossing around cabers and weights to show strength; and the hill race — in which runners do a few loops around the track, then run up to the top of a nearby hill, then back again — as a sign of endurance.

On another trip, I spent several weeks driving around Sicily, on a similar guidebook assignment. If you’re not mentally prepared for the experience, driving in Sicily can be mortally terrifying. It took me a few days to dispense with preconceptions about things like obeying traffic signs, or why it’s a bad idea to triple-park in the middle of a busy street, or the importance of cars staying in their lanes (or, really, the very concept of “lanes”).

But eventually I realized that if I’m the only one trying to use the roundabout “the right way” — then I’m the only one using it the wrong way. I came to accept that Sicilians just drive differently than I do; less “legally,” perhaps, but more intuitively. They see how fast you’re going, how big your car is, and where you’re headed next. They probably know more about your driving skills than you do. And they adapt — constantly, intuitively, and effectively. So if you go with the flow and follow along, you’ll do just fine. (Or, failing that, just go numb.)

Finally, on a guidebook-research trip high in the Swiss Alps, I decided to do an impromptu hike high above the Lauterbrunnen Valley. It was just me and the cows. As a cable car floated silently overhead — crammed full of tourists heading up to a James Bond-themed revolving restaurant on the mountaintop — I was thrilled to be striding across a meadow rather than squeezed in there with all of them.

I came upon a mountain hut with giant cowbells hanging on the rafters. I greeted three old-timers a hearty Grüezi! and helped myself to a little wedge of alpine cheese — made right there — from the self-service fridge. It was the best cheese of my trip, if not my life. And then, as I rose to depart, I found myself walking down the gravelly trail just as the cowhands were driving their herd back up to the hut I’d just left. I froze — surrounded, with cows on all sides of me. A bit frightened by the thousands of pounds of agitated beef plodding my way, I stand still — a rock in a stream of livestock. It was one of those beautiful travel serendipities where it felt like every decision I made that day conspired to put me in the perfect place, at the perfect time.

These are just a few of the travel tales you’ll find in The Temporary European. I hope all of these stories help inspire you, on your next trip, to slow down and take in all of those wonderful moments that blossom into a trip’s best memories.

What are your favorite examples of becoming a Temporary European?

The Temporary European, published by Travelers’ Tales, is available now wherever books are sold. (Well, that’s not entirely true. Due to supply chain issues, you may encounter shortages. But books are on the way.) You can get it now for 30 percent off, while supplies last, at the Rick Steves’ Europe online Travel Store. Your favorite local bookstore may have copies in stock, or you can ask them to order you one. The Kindle edition (and other e-versions) are available instantly. And Amazon should be stocked up again on the print edition soon. Enjoy!

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Jams Are Fun: A Rough Day on the North Sea

My wife’s Great-Great-Aunt Mildred traveled far and wide, long before such a thing was fashionable. Late in life, Aunt Mildred set about to writing a memoir. The title: Jams Are Fun. It turns out that, after seeing so much of the world, Aunt Mildred realized that it’s not always the big museums, the fancy dinners, the castles, or the cathedrals that stick with you most. It’s those serendipitous moments when things go awry. And so, in the spirit of Aunt Mildred, this post is part of my “Jams Are Fun” series about when good trips turn bad, and the journey is better for it…if only in retrospect. I wrote this a few years back, while working on our Northern European Cruise Ports guidebook, somewhere in the churning North Sea.

As I write this, my cruise ship is rocking violently to and fro. My mascot baboon — which my cabin steward cleverly made by folding a towel in a special way they must teach at cruise-ship steward school — is clinging to the ceiling in the corner of my room…going for the ride of its short life. In addition to the slight but persistent listing to port, with the occasional, violent bob to starboard, every ten minutes or so the ship shudders and shakes as if the captain just accelerated over a speed bump.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. I went to bed last night as we cruised out of the Sognefjord. Next stop: Norway’s other top fjord, Geiranger. But I awoke to news that, due to extremely high winds, they were cancelling the stop. And so, the captain turned this bucket around and headed back out of the Geirangerfjord.

The screaming winds managed to momentarily clear out some of the thick cloud cover we’ve been huddled under since entering Norwegian waters, shining a spotlight on wicked whitecaps all around us. The brief sun break also teased us with an enticing view of an idyllic Norwegian countryside of green forest, red cottages, and chalky gray cliffs. It was a Norway we would not actually visit, nor one we would see again for the rest of the day. This would be, in the parlance of the cruise industry, an unplanned and very turbulent “day at sea.”

As we navigated out of the fjord and into the North Sea, the seas grew dramatically rougher. All over the ship, subtle indicators popped up to hint that we were in for an even bumpier ride: Little plastic bags discreetly appeared in the hallways. All of the water was drained first from one swimming pool, then from the other, to keep it from sloshing out onto the deck. Precautions were being taken.

This was the first time I’d been on truly rough seas…and I was pleased to discover I was handling it relatively well. (My family lore includes the unfortunate tale of a friend who didn’t realize she was prone to violent seasickness until she boarded her honeymoon cruise to Bermuda — and spent the week hugging porcelain.) Maybe my 25 percent Norwegian DNA came with an iron stomach…and those sea bands don’t hurt, either.

In a bit of delicious serendipity, the afternoon’s scheduled entertainment was — I am not making this up — a troupe of Chinese acrobats. Now, I would pay any amount of money to see acrobats perform in these conditions. But this show? This show was free. As the time of the show drew near, morbid curiosity drew me down to the theater. But a polite notice explained that the show was postponed. Wise move, Chinese acrobats. So instead I strolled around the ship to survey the damage.

At this point, we’d left “rough” and entered “rodeo.” People were either green in the face or, like me, immune and chuckling at the absurdity of it all. Everyone — even seasoned crew — walked with the same unusual gait: first leaning a bit and plodding slowly to the right, then rushing with sudden urgency to the left, then slowly again to the right, and so on. I sat looking out a window for a while, watching through the fire-hose spray the mesmerizing rhythm of the railing as it teeter-tottered dramatically waaaay above, then waaaay below the horizon.

Curious, I made my way up to the top deck, and was surprised to find the door unlocked. I stepped outside and wandered around for a while — one hand in a death grip on the railing, the other in a death grip on my camera — feeling like the only person on the entire ship. Somewhere in the control room, I imagined someone watching surveillance feed of this idiot wandering around outside in the worst storm the ship had ever weathered…taking bets on when he’d be blown overboard.

As dinnertime approached, I wondered whether, like the Chinese acrobats, the main dining room staff would have come to their senses and just called the whole thing off. But dinner, much to my surprise and my delight, was on. I knew I was in for an entertaining night when I walked past a Dutch teenager who suddenly — and, apparently, with as much surprise to herself as to me — vomited a little bit into her hands.

Stumbling and careening to my table, I noticed that at least a third of my fellow diners had decided to skip it tonight. My waiter hustled awkwardly toward me — propelled by an unwanted inertia and briefly overshooting his target — to drop off the menu.

Now, I’m sure there was a good reason for the ship designers to locate the main dining room at the bottom-rear of the ship, directly above the engines — but on a rough night like this, it seemed like a cruel prank. Things were far worse down here than in my stateroom up on the eighth deck. The entire dining room tilted violently this way, then that. Every few minutes, the curtains slid themselves open and closed, as if possessed. At one point, a precarious angle sent plates and glasses cascading off tables. And periodically there was a deep, loud humming noise — as if the engines had been lifted out of contact with the sea, immediately followed by a sickening thud that shuddered the whole ship and rattled the wineglasses.

And then there were the diners. Those of us who had showed up for dinner tonight were, no mistaking it, here on purpose. We were not about to let this thing get the best of us. And yet, some of us must fall. The woman who sits at the table in front of me — who has this funny habit of staring off into space, which happens to be directly at me — began fanning herself with her menu. The sweet French lady at the next table got up after the first course and never came back.

Having grown up watching the movie Stand By Me, I kept envisioning a Lardass-at-the-pie-eating-contest chain reaction. So I made a game of it. Looking around, I tried to guess: Who would be the first to pull the trigger? Would it be the balding, bespectacled fellow who lifted his napkin to his lips for a suspiciously lingering moment after each bite? The young lady who kept coughing loudly, then swallowing and rolling her eyes? The little girl resting her head on the table? Or maybe…the American smart aleck at table 103, smugly pondering the suffering of others?

I think I psyched myself out, because suddenly I found it next to impossible to swallow. I wasn’t sick — just tired of proving I wasn’t. I decided that a violently swaying room full of gastrointestinal time bombs was not a smart place to be, and — like so many before me — politely excused myself.

Still hungry, I wandered up to forage at the 24-hour shipboard pizzeria. But, inexplicably, their lone variety tonight was topped with a less-than-appetizing combination of tuna fish, capers, and onions.

Oh, well — it’s bedtime anyway. If I don’t get physically tossed out of my bed, manhandled by Mother Nature while I sleep, I’ll wake up tomorrow in Bergen…and, hopefully, better weather. And if I’m lucky, maybe they’ll reschedule those Chinese acrobats.

(P.S. They did. And they were spectacular.)