The road to Sarajevo curls through the mountains. It snakes into tunnels and cuts along the pale rock. I spent most of my journey with my face pressed against the glass of the bus. I was half afraid, half exhilarated, looking at the long drop from the road to the waiting river below. I felt so sure that nothing could ever be as beautiful as this. 
(photo cred: my program coordinator)
I left Belgrade at 8:00 am in the morning, a stuffed carry-on and a bag full of чипс (chips in cyrillic) and воће сок (fruit juice). The fourteen of us SIT students headed for Banja Luka in Bosnia, and then to Sarajevo.
We passed into Croatia and queued in front of the border patrol to get our passports stamped. I hoped from left to right foot, trying to warm myself in the chilly air. With each passing day the weather tempts us with warmth and then delivers a burning chill.
It wasn’t until 4pm we reached Banja Luka, to the beautiful Ferhadija and the smell of ćevapčići. We stayed only two nights but we spent the time exploring the city, visiting mosques and
learning about the Dayton Peace Accord.
I watched several dozen older Bosnian men play a large game of chest in the park and I wandered for hours through the streets to finally end up at the top of the mall in a roof top restaurant.
We left as the clouds rolled in and the barest touch of rain began to fall.
I wanted to sleep of the bus to Sarajevo at first. I had spent the previous night singing Mama-mia songs in the hotel room and drinking Lav with my fourth (fifth? sixth?) order of ćevapi.
Less than an hour into the trip someone gasped and then I heard the breathless “wows” and “ohs”. The road was thin, our bus was large and the curves were sharp. I let go of the thought that any minute we could teeter off the mountain or smash against the rocks.
Beauty like that demanded my attention and it didn’t let me think much beyond, yet I still felt the exhilaration of being so high.
I pressed my iPhone against the glass of the bus, trying desperately to get a clear photo unimpeded by the thick layer of dust covering the outside window. I wanted to ask the driver to stop- please stop so I could take this in and hold this moment as long as I could- but instead I settled into the fact that I would eventually try to re-imagine the scenery and fail to detail its brilliance. 
We stopped for a while at a ‘vodopad’ (waterfall) and I felt very much in love with the country. The sounds of our footsteps tapping along the cobble path, the wind stirring the autumn touched trees… I wish I was a poet so I could give it justice. 
Arriving in Sarajevo was
like climbing out of a bus and entering another world. The streets are white with the slightest tint of grey patched throughout, like a beautiful quilt that’s faded with eternal use.
Sarajevo lies at the bowl of a valley surrounded by the Dinaric Alps. The mountains smile like crooked teeth, rising and falling and reaching to the sky, covered in green trees and white crosses. 
Our hotel was at the center of the city, piled in between the patchwork of side streets. That first day was cool and crisp and I snuggled deep into my scarf. I broke off with several of people from my group and we lost ourselves in the many paths, our attentions grabbed by the many street vendors and elegant buildings. We found ourselves climbing the steep streets and soon my lungs began to burn. I shed my coat, my sweater, my scarf and climbed through the streets with a red face and puffed cheeks and sweat clinging to my neck. We made our own road up for what seemed like an impossible lengt
h (but was only seven miles we later found out). We finally stopped several hours later and looked down at the city below. I felt like I had accomplished something even though in reality all I did was climb several very large hills.
Fields of white crosses stretch along as far as the eye can see. The Siege of Sarajevo. I wish I had photos to share- and even then, I wish those photos could do it justice.
I felt, perched from such a high place, how very easy it would be to lay the city to siege. It wasn’t until the next day I heard the firsthand stories of what it was like. Its a strange feeling, hearing about the atrocities that happen during your life time. I encourage anyone reading this to read and learn about what happened in Sarajevo during the 90s, and about a siege that lasted almost four years.
I feel that I may no longer be the same person, that perhaps I have lost something (or is it gained something?) during my climb above the city.