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A conversation ensued and after a few minutes I was told that it would be 12 Euros. After hauling my panniers upstairs and securing my bike in the hallway behind the “porn star” velvet curtain, I hosed off in the bathroom, put on my freshest pair of pants, and walked into downtown Shkoder. I wasn’t be swarmed by children, nor were old women starring at me as I walked past.But I didn’t need to pay now, the old man explained. My tour guide then pedaled off on his bike and I was left alone with the innkeeper, who walked me upstairs, past rows of scantily clad women hanging from posters on the walls. Without my bike, I was just another resident, walking the crumbled streets of Albania… I made my way through trash covered streets, across police controlled intersections, and past both cars and donkeys parked on the sidewalks until I finally reached the center of town.Suddenly, an oncoming car peeled to a halt in front of me. I pulled my bike to a stop and asked, “Are you alright?
It is very slippery.” I waved at the man and thanked him for the warning.
But even with so few people crossing the border, the wait took a good half hour.
Cars leaving Montenegro were forced to sit idle at a small bridge, about 100 meters away from the actual border station.
Unfortunately, the bank across the street was closed and the ATMs in town only accepted VISA debt cards, which was unfortunate, because I was only carrying a Mastercard.
Finally, I went into a nearby tourist agency an asked the gray haired woman behind the desk if she knew where I could get some money.