I delighted in having a row to myself on the wooden dgħajsa boat that sailed past the fortified Maltese city of Birgu, my fingers trailing in the azure water as nearby travelers chatted among themselves. For the first time in a year I was able to get lost in thought; time stretched beautifully so far from home. The golden hour lit up the tawny limestone jumble of buildings that made up Valletta just across the water.
I was at the start of a 10-day cruise aboard the Viking Venus, which would hopscotch from Malta to Montenegro and up the Dalmatian Coast of Croatia. It had been no small thing to get here, involving a costly expedited passport renewal and daily PCR tests—in addition to agreeing to leave the ship only as part of organized excursions, and meeting Viking's vaccine requirement. But stepping aboard a 745-foot ship filled with at-your-fingertips service and elevated food was the perfect way to regain my sea legs as a traveler; the daily dose of salty air, relentless sunshine, and Old World cities to explore each day proved to be a much-needed salve.
In Montenegro, our first stop, my fellow passengers and I hopped aboard a bus that drove through hairpin mountain roads snaking from the Bay of Kotor—a fjordlike formation, known as a ria—to medieval villages high above. As our friendly guide orated about the tiny nation's history, we stopped at roadside huts proffering homemade prosciutto and olives. Locals ceaselessly whizzed past us, honking squeakily, with an ease only a lifetime of driving such a route could bestow. Our adrenaline crested as we reached a viewpoint where we could see the speck of our ship waiting patiently below, the verdant slopes descending toward it.
As we inched up Croatia's Dalmatian Coast, I boomeranged to and from the ship each day, following my whims: One morning I joined an activewear-clad group in the black pine forests of Paklenica National Park; the next I hopped on a small speedboat trip to the island of Hvar for a leisurely exploration of the bright white stone alleys, seaside swimming ladders, and tangles of bougainvillea. After a guided walk along the medieval wall surrounding Dubrovnik, I experienced the simple pleasure of happening upon a souvenir shop, where a veteran of the Croatian War sold woven pieces adorned with his wife's skillful embroidery; in Zadar, I stockpiled affordable olive oil infused with black truffle, grown farther north in Istria, to tote home to New York.
At one point, I peeled off at the end of a group tour, opting for the hour walk back to the ship instead of riding the bus with everyone else. When the coach pulled away, I briefly wondered if I'd made a mistake, given that I had no phone service and zero Croatian kuna. I meandered along Dubrovnik's rocky outcrops, the ship coming in and out of sight as I passed clusters of teenagers sunbathing by the water's edge. I followed a group of young Spaniards through a hole in the old city wall to a no-frills waterfront bar. In front of me, a swimming ladder jutted out of the sea below. Peeling down to my bathing suit and casting my bag onto the dry rocks above, I jumped in. As I bobbed on the surface and blinked back the salty water, I was exhilarated to realize that nobody in the world knew exactly what I was doing.
