The moped tears through Kotor's Old Town, their bag bouncing on the back rack like it's having a better holiday than they are. They sprint across cobblestones that are criminally slippery, scatter a rack of "I ❤️ Montenegro" postcards, and narrowly avoid a gelato cart whose vendor shouts something Montenegrin that sounds deeply philosophical. The rider — a wiry teenager with the nerve to glance back and smirk — banks around a medieval corner. They follow, lungs burning, only to find a dead-end alley containing three pigeons and zero moped. From somewhere above, an engine putters. They look up. The moped is on the city walls. On the actual thirteenth-century ramparts, thirty feet up, chugging along the battlements as if this is a perfectly reasonable road. Their passports are up there. Their snacks are up there. And the cat watching from a doorway looks entirely unsurprised.