I made it back to Belgrade.

Tassi got the call Wednesday morning, so after she went and picked up her visa at the embassy, we left for the lab to get our PCR tests, then to the bus station where we found out we’d have to take the night bus at 7 pm. That would have, under normal circumstances, meant that we wouldn’t arrive in Belgrade until 2am, but seeing that out bus was an hour late, it was closer to 3:30 by the time I checked into my hostel.

I already hated Belgrade, and my last few days here have given me little more reason to like it. 

First, all of my money got stolen out of my bag while it sat on my bed, and the hostel owner told me I made it up, even though he was actually the one telling an increasingly twisted story about a possible thief that was impossible to decipher, to parse out of it which parts were true or no.

And then some Ukrainian kid stole my phone charger right when I couldn’t really afford to replace it.

And then I got turned away, two days in a row, when I showed up at the vaccination site.

On Friday, my first attempt, they told me to try the next day. That they were already finished but I could try again.

Saturday was worse. I went a half hour early, and at first it seemed promising; a woman was just about to usher me into a tent to fill out some form when another stopped her. “Do you have residency?” she asked, and when I shook my head no she broke the bad news. Serbia was no longer inoculating tourists. Though they were touted world wide as offering the shot to anyone who cared to show up, that it was merely a rumor at this point. It was now illegal.

I started to tear up. And I tried to swiftly think of a way to reason with her: I’d take any brand, I’d come everyday, I’d only take what was going to expire or what was left over. What actually made it out of my mouth was just the word “please.”

I’m not sure what happened, but they told me to come back the next day.

And I did.

And because that kid stole my charger I almost got lost on the walk there: it’s a 45 minute walk from my new hostel across most of central Belgrade, and without a map I nearly didn’t make it. When I had already been lost for about ten minutes, I thought about just going home. 

But then, in the distance, I caught a glimpse of the fountain in Slavija Square, and I while I didn’t know what time it was nor how late I’d be arriving, I knew exactly the way from there. 

And when I showed up the same woman who told me it would be impossible looked left, then right before waving me into a tent. And there another woman helped me to read the simple Serbian form that was required before you were inoculated.

And then I went into a little trailer where a doctor asked me a few questions: do you have any allergies, do you have any symptoms? No, no. 

And even then I wasn’t sure if this was merely some kind of screening before I’d just be asked to leave and return later, until she asked me to remove my hoodie as to expose my left arm.

And when she removed the needle from me and asked if I was okay I burst into tears.

I have spent the last year dreaming of this moment. Even when covid vaccines were only speculative, I hung onto this nebulous day, somewhere in the future, when I’d finally get it and my life would return, somewhat, to normal. 

And the last year has been so goddamned scary; those lonely months in Johannesburg and those tragic weeks in Egypt, and all the time I’ve spent in the Balkans chasing this goddamned shot. And then it all hit me, all at once, how so much I’ve endured and how many of those fears can end now. 

“Are you okay?” they kept asking me while I struggled to breath beneath my tears. 

“I’m fine,” I finally managed, wiping my eyes with the backs of my hands, “I’m just so relieved.”

And I am. I AM SO FUCKING RELIEVED, and I may have nothing left but it’s hard to care when in three weeks I’ll be fully vaccinated from the very thing that’s plagued me, and the rest of the world, for far too long.

I’m ready, now.

I’m ready to really get started.



So. Some stuff happened.

I’m back in Skopje, having just returned from Tirana.

Let me explain.

Last Tuesday, fearing what was laid out in a somehow simultaneously vague whatsapp message that was circulating that was supposedly outlined by the Sebian government and new lockdown regulations in Macedonia, Alex decided, around 11 in the morning, that we should leave for Tirana immediately. I agreed to go. 

And with my memories of my time there – of lounging about upstairs at Art Hostel with my girlfriends and spending long, balmy mornings with coffee and way-too-many-ciggarettes on their third floor deck – I was eager to take the opportunity to return.

So I packed my things in a hurry, and we fled in a cab to Struga to meet the slight bus that would usher us there. Struga is super close to the Albanian border, so it wasn’t long before we reached it; it wasn’t long before I continued on to Tirana while Alex was held at the border.

Now it seems fucking prophetic that I said, just the day before, that I was willing to walk from him at any time, because there I was, faced with the choice to either grab my things and return to Ohrid with him, or continue onto Tirana to surprise Dylleyne.

I chose the latter.

And now I’m back in Skopje, back in the Favella with my girlfriends, regaling them with stories about what an asshole Alex turned out to be; how he used every opportunity to try and monopolize my body and time, and how his constant drunkenness contributed to this. 

But what’s very crazy is that soon, likely sometime this week, I’ll be returning to Belgrade with Tassi.

Belgrade. The first city that I’ve so holistically maligned since Paris destroyed me when I was still only 20. 

Because, you see, there seems to be a slim chance that I can really, actually, get the vaccine there. And this year has been too hard, to uncertain, too terrifying to pass up that opportunity.

Let me explain.

It was back in December or January when Lovage first told me that it looked like it might be possible to get the vaccine in Serbia. She sent me a link where you could fill out a form to express your “interest” in receiving the vaccine. I’ve basically heard nothing. I emailed them a couple of times to see if I could get more information, and didn’t hear anything specific back.

But then I met Tassi. She’s been living in Belgrade since she first got stuck there over a year ago, though she only yet has a tourist visa. She’s already had her first dose, and when she returns to Belgrade, though we’re still unsure exactly what day that will be, she’ll get her second.

And she did this via a method that had never even occurred to me: she just showed up at the vaccination center and asked for it.


Right now the three of us are all in Skopje, meaning Tassi, Nalini, and I. And as soon as Tassi gets a phone call from the Serbian embassy here to alert her that her residency visa is complete, she’ll swiftly retrieve it, we’ll get our noses swabbed, and high-tail it for Belgrade.

And I don’t know, y’all. I’m scared. I’m scared because I fucking hated most of my time in Belgrade, and I don’t even know if showing back up will mean I’ll even get this shot.

And it’ll cost me nearly $100 just to get back there that I don’t fucking have.


If there’s a chance, even a slim one, that I can put even a small part of the fear and uncertainty of the last year behind me, if I can at least assure that I don’t have to fear the virus anymore, isn’t it worth it to try? 

It’s just crazy because when I left I swore I never wanted to go back, but now I realize how I might be able accomplish something I’ve literally been dreaming of for over a year in exactly the wrong place.

So. I guess some stuff has happened.

It could be as soon as Wednesday, though I’m not yet sure. But it looks like I’ll soon be crossing back across the Serbian border, headed for Belgrade.

But goddamnit. For all that I already dislike it there, Alex fucking loves it. And because he can’t get into Albania, he could also show up in Belgrade at literally any time.

But remember that bitch I dragged out of that hostel in Stari Grad because I assumed she, too, was part of out kibbutz? At the very least I’ll know that I wont see her, because I know for a fact that her Serbian visa has now expired. 

I’ve weighed the pros and cons, and I’ve already decided I can’t not go. But. A lot of those decisions are hinging on the factuality that I can get the vaccine.

What if I can’t?



Years ago, after a not-too-trying but really jarring breakup, I bought a one way ticket to Panama and decided to backpack through Central America. It was only after I got there that I realized I was doing it the opposite way that everyone else does.

See, as it would seem, most people started in Mexico, and slowly made their way through this skinny part of the world before boarding a boat to Cartagena from Panama city. It only took me a few days traipsing about the city aimlessly to realize that there was a huge part of the culture of traveling there that I was left out of by going south-to-north instead.

But the Balkans, in any direction, is exactly like this.

The cool thing about traveling around here is that you can do it in any order, at any speed, and you will invariably run into the same people everywhere, or at least someone who knows them.

There are a couple of auxiliary cities to this: largely because of Turkey’s budget airline combined with current Coronavirus regulations, you can add Istanbul, for sure, to this list. 

Back when I first got to the Balkans, I ran into Anastasia, who was my roommate back in Istanbul, where we lived in the very same hostel that I first met Alex.

And now I’m here in Ohrid with him, drinking way too much and, honestly, wondering if this is going well.

This morning, I did the same thing I usually do. I woke up in the morning, grabbed my laptop, and headed downstairs to make coffee. When I turned from the coffee pot, I saw Alex strolling in to say good morning, apparently having woken up about 15 minutes after I had.

And then he kissed me. At 8:30 in the morning in the middle of the kitchen.

And then he proceeded to annoy the living shit out of me while I was trying to work this morning. I’m pretty sure I said “Sasha, I have to work,” at least 15 or 20 times. But here’s the thing.

He doesn’t actually give a shit about me or my work.

And so a day into this experiment, this one where I left my girlfriends whom I fucking love back in Skopje to come meet a man a handful of hours away – albehim an age appropriate man, finally, that I’ve known for months – I’ve realized that I’m not here to forge some kind of relationship, or even rekindle the friendship we had back in Istanbul or Belgrade.

I’m here to get eaten out and then gracefully take my leave.

I’m here until Thursday. I already have my return ticket back to Skopje, and honestly, I’m cool with lounging by this lake for a few days and drink rakia with my coffee in the morning. But this is not something that will continue after that.

And it’s too bad because it doesn’t have to be like this. This behavior that, quite frankly, I’ve already endured too much of from him, this pseudo-controlling bullshit where he believes he can dictate what I will and will not do with my time and my body doesn’t even have to occur.

Tonight while I was cooking dinner, I literally had to tell him: “look dude, you don’t get to tell me what to do. I’m not your daughter, and I’m a person.” And the look he gave me in response belies that he has no intention, whatsoever, of stopping. There was no indication that he even knows what I mean.

But hey. I tried.

Nalini always says that the Balkans, at least right now that so many of us are reigned in here by a web of regulations, are like a Kibbutz. While I never got to experience this phenomenon in Central America like I could have, I’ve certainly had a crash course over the last handful of weeks.

And this exactly has been my favorite part of the last few months: the ability to have or find a friend everywhere you go, to have a support system ready to embrace you when something goes wrong. And I guess that’s why, back in Belgrade, seeing Alex’s face made my last two horrendous weeks there fade away, simply because his face was familiar. 

But someone simply being familiar just isn’t enough to excuse their behavior. 

Back in Tirana I wondered if my (not too) brief fling with the Italian made me wonder if I was capable of making acceptable decisions surrounding these kinds of nomad trysts. Like, was I still recovering from crippling isolation in Johannesburg? Was I still letting loneliness lead my life?

But I’m telling you that if I had to, I could walk from this right now. And I will if I need to before Thursday. 

And while I’m legit fucking sad that this probably wont pan into anything, it was fun for a second. It was fun to get called away to a lakeside mountain town to trade stories of borders and planes and these times that we’re all enduring together. 

And I think, when it’s all done, that will be my favorite thing that I take with me.



Nalini got here this afternoon, my friend from Israel that I met in Tirana. And I guess I should tell you that here is back in Skopje.

I left Belgrade a couple days ago. Things had turned around somewhat – I had run into Alex and Augustina, and even managed to make a couple new friends – but I had already decided what Belgrade was in my head, and I couldn’t be swayed from it. The only Belgrade I will remember is too cold, to expensive, and apparently too unwilling to administer a Covid vaccine to me with a tourist visa (I filled out the form in January, I’ve never received so much as an email back.)

Or so I thought. There was a blonde girl on my bus; I saw her on the platform in Serbia and I saw her again at the border crossing. And then, magically, there she was checking in just before me when I walked into my hostel back in Old Town. 

I knew we were friends after a single beer.

And now I’ve had the pleasure to add someone to our roster: Tassi, from São Paulo. And within hours of the three of us being all together we knew that whatever the fuck we were embroiled in, we were doing it together. 

Between three days with Alex back in Belgrade and a few days with a new friend in revelry, it was fucking rough getting up yesterday for Никола’s basketball game. And did I drink again tonight instead of doing laundry and cleaning my room? Oh, yes, totally. 

Am I behind on work? A bit, but Nalini and I intend to rectify that soon with a trip to Skopje’s supposedly incredible coworking space/coffee shop, The Public Room, so were all good on that front.

When we all came back into our dorm tonight to got to bed, Tassi told us that when she was a kid, her mom used to tell her to clean her room saying “your room is like favella, it’s like favella in here!” and after days of neglect piling on neglect, all of our things are strewn everywhere.

Dirty laundry mixed within our sheets and errant hair ties and panties tossed neglectfully on the floor.

But yeah. Maybe we’re poor, and maybe we’re messy, but this is our favela. We, its faveladas. 

And quite frankly, we’ll clean it when we chose. 

And if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to try an go to sleep now. And I will do so knowing that my sisters will be here when we all wake up in the morning.



So we just spoke of why and – in the specific example of the Balkans – how groups of women travelers inadvertently create communities, even when they span countries or regions. This can be incredibly useful: need a recommendation for a hostel, a city, a cheap flight, or the best route? You can simply consult your network.

But the insidious part of these networks is when they work in reverse.


Meaning: when someone unworthy name-drops people in your circle.


You see, this works like a reference. If you meet someone new to you but they know your friends, it works like a tacit endorsement. A reference, if you will. And if someone names enough people in your circle of friends, your ad-hoc but necessary community of women that you’ve forged around yourself in order to stay safe, then you may assume that they’re one of you.


And look, I think in most cases I still will. I’m not saying the last week has ruined my life or my outlook on being or traveling. But fuck me: I just spent the last week with the most selfish, entitled, lazy bitch I think I’ve ever met in my life.


During a week where I’ve had more work shoved into too few days to a capacity that I haven’t experienced in weeks, she proceeded to make literally any and every noise within the one-room apartment we were sharing. This began when she rose in the morning and never ended until she’d fall asleep at night, and was a combination of whatever the fuck was coming out of her devices or, when that would finally cease for a minute or two, some really poorly sung song that literally no one needs to hear.


And when it would stop for more than 30 seconds or so, I could be nearly assured that she would be shortly on her way to wave her hand in my face until I removed the headphones I was invariably wearing to try and drown out her constant fucking noise. And I know what you’re thinking: Just ignore her and keep working! I tried that, and she shook me by the shoulder until I answered her.


In the evenings I was treated to her screaming and crying into the phone with her far-flung boyfriend while she oscillated between making baby noises and bursting into maniacal laughter at a decibel usually reserved for drunkenness or drug use.


I went to the grocery store with her once, and she tried to add things to my basket like I am her mother. I had to take her to the front of the store to show her where to get her own, and had t actually say to a grown adult: “you have to buy your own food.”


She had a complete meltdown when I hadn’t heard of a brand of chips. 


Read that again.


She told me a story once, it was about a hostel in Belgrade she had volunteered at for a month. She told me about how everyone there was so rude, condescending, cliquey and mean. But after spending a couple of days with her, I realized that it was waaaay more likely that they weren’t like that at all.


They just didn’t like her. And I don’t fucking blame them.


So earlier today I lied to her and told her I was going back to Macedonia and instead I headed to the one place in town that she so maligned that I knew she wouldn’t be there.


And who was there to greet me? Friends. Friends from Skopje and Istanbul and Tirana. Behind the front desk was Augustina, whom I already knew, and I asked her what she had thought of this bitch while she was working there.


“Oh my GOD,” she all but screamed, “she’s so fucking selfish,” and I was like, dude, I know. 


There are two stories here.


Check their goddamned references.


When someone manages to drop some names of people you know? Maybe message them real quick to make sure they’re legit before you take them under your wing like a goddamned baby bird. I wish I had in the beginning rather than finding out from my friends, literally while still in the thick of her bullshit, that none of them actually like her. Oops.


Ask yourself if you really like traveling.


The saddest part of the whole situation was watching someone devolve into a person they don’t need to – and might not – be. She frequently referred to traveling as her “dream life,” but as evidenced from her behavior: she fucking hates it. 


She has immense amounts of trouble thinking and adapting on the fly, she hates walking more than a block with her backpack and just generally had way too much stuff, she spends most of her waking hours talking with people from her home country, and she cries every night. 


And I know Instagram may have taught you that everyone loves traveling, but the truth is, most of y’all don’t. I’ve been trying to tell y’all this for years, and mostly what I hear back is that you’d do anything to be able to have my life. But guys.


If you wanted it, you would have it. But the honest truth is that you probably want other stuff more and that’s why you have that instead; things like security and romantic relationships and a house and kids or pets or whatever. Hear me when I tell you that I have to actively eschew all of those things in order to live like this, and I do so eagerly and readily.


And I know that even if you’ve managed to turn your life into a nomadic one, you may be swayed by sunk cost fallacy to dig in despite your distaste for it. That you may get out here and realize you miss the comforts of home, but decide, for whatever reason, that you’re not going to return.


You should.


So if you’ll excuse me, I’m being handed a beer by my Russian friend Alex whom I first met in Istanbul. I would normally wrap this more poignantly, but since I’m being pressed to extricate myself from my laptop I’ll leave you with this:


What do you really want?