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The train I boarded at sea level on a grey autumn morning had been chugging up the Montenegrin hills for more than an hour, slowly gaining altitude on the sheer cliff face to my right.
Below, massive 18-wheeler trucks servicing the port town of Bar resembled toys. They were skirting the fringes of the turbulent Mala Rijeka River, which, from altitude, began to resemble a trickle.
