all sorts of terrain | mostar

In all the years that Ellie and I have been friends - 11 of them! - we only traveled together for the first time a few weeks ago. When I shot her an email at the beginning of the summer singing Bosnia's praises and saying she should come visit, I didn't expect her to jump at the chance like she did. She found a ticket from New York to Zagreb, Croatia for just over $600, and we started planning a weekend in this neck of the world together.

We met up in Mostar, Bosnia and Herzegovina's crown jewel. Lucky for us, her sister Christian decided to come last minute, and my roommate this summer Ana joined us, too. The four of us had a rough itinerary - a handful of places and sights we knew we wanted to see. They were all incredible - from the ruins of Poticelj to the truly awe-inspiring Dervish Monastery in Blagaj to the out of this world beauty of Kravice Waterfalls. But my favorite things weren't in the guidebooks or on our itinerary. We stumbled upon them while wandering, while walking and talking and drinking wine and making memories.

One was an old red truck parked in front of Nuic Winery. The red was in perfect sync with the green of the vines behind it and the fading blue of mountains in the distance. There was construction off to the side and a mechanic's shop around the corner. The truck wasn't intentionally left there to add to the image of a rustic winery. It was there to haul things, to make it over the uneven terrain to get work done in the fields and in the shops. As we were reminded at another winery that day - most things that look romantic at a vineyard, at least at a vineyard here in BiH - take an extraordinary amount of hard work - of manual labor. That truck was perfect because it wasn't posed. Wineries here are a work in progress. I found being at the beginning of something, seeing it raw and dirty and rough around the edges, absolutely captivating.

On Saturday evening we walked through Mostar to find a craft beer festival we had heard about. The walk took us by the famous Stari Most bridge and near war-torn buildings and through a market area. Ana and I were drawn to a little shop run by a local artist. His paintings lined the shelves. We each bought one, and it felt personal - a very special souvenir by an artist I'll remember. We missed the beer festival, but we saw sidewalk popcorn stands and two brothers peddling pedicabs, the older holding the younger's hand across the space between their steering wheels, making sure he could keep up.

We passed a cemetery on a quiet residential street. I noticed after the first few graves that each life ended in 1992, the year of the siege of Mostar. Some tombstones were elaborate and others nothing but a bed of rocks to quietly mark the loss of a loved one. A fresh bouquet of flowers rested on one plot that was overrun with weeds, no tombstone present. The wounds of the war are fresh still, scars still visible. I hoped for peace for the families and a new, beautiful future for this country - one that honors those who died in the atrocious fight to carve it up.

I loved, too, a lunch that Ellie, Christian, Ana, and I had on a cloudy, rainy morning. We found a sidewalk grill and ordered burgers and cevapi. We ate at a table under the cover of an umbrella. "A one-star meal with a 5-star view," Christian said, echoing a sentiment Ellie's and her parents often expressed on trips growing up. We sat by a bridge, the view spanning the dramatic, crystal clear Naretva River and mountains for days.

It was a weekend of making new friends and catching up with old ones. Of drinking wine straight from the barrel and acting silly, having serious conversations, exploring new places, and eating new foods. Mostar easily wormed its way into my heart, but this weekend was all about the company.