After a 14 hour bus ride from Leskovac, Serbia, to Podgorica, Montenegro, I hopped another bus to Bogatici (just south of Niksic) to visit Monastery Ostrog, which literally grows out from the rock face and dates back to the 1600s.

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“Say I chose Mostar!” Irena said. “No one will know.”

But I will. So I’m fessing up. This is the deal.

Yesterday afternoon, Irena picked Miglaj, Bosnia, from the hat, but both she and Sladja have since persuaded me to change my plans. I will still go to an “M” place in Bosnia Herzegovina but it will be Mostar. The girls have told me about the Ostrog Monastery in Montenegro and for some reason, I feel I should go. Not sure why but it seems right.

Like Americans and September 11, Sladja will never forget March 23, 1999. After all, she would have a birthday to celebrate four days later.

“I had fireworks for my birthday,” she said, but without a sparkle in her eyes.

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It’s amazing how much you’re concealed from the outside world when you live in America. And maybe it’s not just the U.S. Maybe it’s England and other countries, too. Or maybe it’s just because I have plenty of other things to keep me occupied that I don’t pay much attention to everything that’s happening elsewhere. If nothing else, this trip is highlighting just how little I know about what happened over here in the Balkans. There’s plenty of reading up I’ll need to do when I return.

Last night during dinner, the staff of Roma Parigi picked out my next place: Leskovac, Serbia, which is where I am now. I arrived approximately one hour ago after a three hour bus ride from Kumanovo and checked into the Hotel Beograd, a dark and dingy looking building but the room is clean. Having a quick coffee at the only internet place in town (access is free here, too) before heading off for a nose around.