The Surprising Way I Was Saved From a Customs Inspection Gone Sideways
Arriving in Montenegro, the country that until 2003 was part of the Federal Republic of Yugoslavia, feels like a return to simpler times. From the three international airliners simultaneously disembarking at golden hour, and hundreds of foreign visitors casually strolling across the tarmac to an unceremonious concrete building that welcomed visitors to a 30-minute customs line, Tivat immediately differed from the standardized welcome of most European airports. As we slowly snaked our way forward toward passport control, it felt like a pretty laid-back welcome to a seaside paradise.
As soon as I handed over my passport to the agent, I got the sense, however, that everything wasn’t right. He intensely thumbed through the pages several times before signaling to his colleague. This person led me to a small room on the side of the baggage carousel. Behind closed doors, I sat by myself, staring at a worn-out couch with a red pillow and walls that likely hadn’t seen fresh paint since the Milošević days, as everyone else filed out of the small airport.
Another officer entered. He placed my weekend bag on the desk in front of him.
“Where are you coming from? Where are you going? Where are you staying? Who are you with? Why are you here?”
I told him I was coming from Paris, going to Nikki Beach Resort and Spa, and meeting a friend who was coming from Croatia. I’m a journalist, and I’m here to write about Montenegro.
“If you have something to tell me, you will tell me now. After we find what we are looking for, I can’t help you. There is a car waiting to take you to the hospital. We will take this to the end.”
I had nothing to tell this man. There was nothing to find inside my bag or my bowels. And yet, far outside of my comfort zone and the European Union, this still didn’t feel like a guarantee for a good outcome.
I’m Finnish and my country’s consular guidelines state that you follow the instructions of the border guards and contact your local embassy if the search escalates to an arrest. At that point, they will assist you with a translator and a lawyer.
“If you have something to tell me, you will tell me now. After we find what we are looking for, I can’t help you.”
For the next hour, I did exactly that. I tried my best to stay calm as the official took inventory of every single item in my bag, naming every article, like a cognitive test of sorts: contact lens solution, nail clippers, conditioner, Q-tips, ear plugs, eye cream, nipple pads.
He looked at the silicone pads, then me. The pads appeared to require further explanation. I tapped my breasts.
“I guess we’re both learning new things today,” I said. He looked at me, expressionless.
I smiled. Not broadly. The last impression I wanted to give this official was that I was flirting with him. It was purely an “I’m being cooperative” smile.
Over and over again, this man traced every seam of every item of clothing I had brought. He smelled my dresses, my underwear. He disassembled my hairbrush. I asked him if there was any particular reason I was held back.
“There is always a reason,” he said. “Why do you have a brand-new dress?”
I explained that Nikki Beach was hosting a white party and I hadn’t owned anything white. I could tell he wasn’t particularly interested in my weekend itinerary. He had already found my second passport.
“Why do you have two new passports?”
Because I am a dual citizen, I always travel with both my Finnish and American passports. They had happened to expire around the same time. In my head, I recalled long-running jokes about me being a super spy. Somehow, these did not seem funny enough to repeat.
There was no one at this airport except for four customs agents and me.
When we eventually got to an Altoid box with an assortment of pills inside my toiletry case, I died a little.
“Ok,” I started. “This is vitamin B. This is milk thistle.” Should I have explained that it’s to ease a hangover? “It’s for your liver. The rest are breath mints.” Why did I have to carry so many tins of breath mints? Goddamn conference swag.
“Why do you carry your pills in a box like this?”
Because I needed four pills for four days, three officers went off to swab my vitamin B stash in the adjacent room, and I was left alone with a female officer who asked
me to take off my clothes so she could pat me down. Drug searches are nothing if not thorough.
“Sorry,” she said, not sounding very sorry as she traced the edges of my panties.
“It’s fine,” I said. Nothing about this was fine.
Suddenly, my phone rang. Anna, the marketing manager from Nikki Beach, was calling. Where are you? I gave her the quick gist, trying to sound as neutral as possible. She said she would handle the situation. The phone rang again. I handed it over to the officer. Montenegrin conversation ensued.
“In 15 minutes, you’ll be out of there,” Anna assured me when I talked to her again.
But not before I was asked to sign a document in a language I didn’t understand.
Having literally seen this very special episode a million times, it was the first time all night that I told them no. They read the document to Anna over the phone. It said that they had found nothing. No drugs, no money. Nothing. I signed. There was no copy of the document for me to take with me, nor did the officials allow me to take a photo of it.
I gathered my Altoids, antihistamines, and contraception pills and left the customs office. By the time I was out of the tiny, dilapidated room, I was too flustered to read the signs for the exit. I meandered around this minuscule maze of an airport until one of the four officials showed me the door. I immediately found my driver, Nikola, who had waited for me for over an hour, not knowing where I was.
“It’s ok. You’re in good hands now,” he assured me before telling me he was also interrogated about his connection to me. We laughed about it on the way to the hotel, the way you react when you have no other emotions at your disposal. Having never been through an experience like this before, we now felt connected in our troubles–if not in some government database.
TivatOlga_Gavrilova/iStock
When we finally got to Nikki Beach, I was greeted with a big hug.
“You’re among friends,” Anna said. She and I may never have met before tonight, but in the past hour, it felt like we had become exceptionally close.
“Tell only your best friends” is the tagline for the Nikki Beach franchise. If I had previously not quite understood the purpose of traveling abroad to culturally ambiguous resorts, I now know what they provide: a safe haven. Not just safety in a crisis–although the staff’s vigilance in keeping track of me in what they say is a highly unusual situation certainly was helpful. What they offer to most of their clients is comfort, with a hospitality standard and a brand identity that you can really lean into.
Previous experiences with Nikki Beach had taught me that this franchise of casually cool beach clubs and resorts represents fun–like Fun with a Capital F, where dancing on a table at some point during your visit becomes mandatory. But in Montenegro, the fun has been tailored to the more chill clientele, a mostly late-40-somethings crowd from neighboring nations who love to sit and chat over dinner and an exceptionally well-curated bottle of tequila, wine, or a hookah. That doesn’t mean that the Nikki Beach resort in Montenegro isn’t Fun with a capital F. Its patrons enjoy all-night dance parties with elaborate performances, live musicians, and a set from a top DJ that culminates in fireworks as much as anyone. Just not every night.
Over a dinner of fresh seafood prepared right in front of us–and a very robust lamb shank, which the resort has added as a local touch–Anna and I went over the carefully curated weekend itinerary. Never in my life had I been so grateful to have decisions made on my behalf: A beautiful breakfast buffet, a soothing spa visit, a seamless boat or car transfer, an impeccably organized tour of nearby UNESCO heritage towns Perast and Kotor with a local guide–in brief, an introduction to the “best of” features of the area that eliminated all possible hiccups of a do-it-yourself adventure. I went to bed feeling reassured that the rest of the weekend would be better than its welcome.
Perastgalitskaya/iStock
Having checked in after dark, I was amazed to wake up to the most breathtaking views. These green, lush mountains looked like something out of a Hawaiian postcard. Nothing about the area felt over-developed, all the houses looked cohesive with their white exteriors and terracotta roofs. The waterfront was completely silent. After last year’s trip to Albania, the lack of opportunistic infrastructure surprised me. How did Tivat Bay look as if Dubrovnik and Old Town Corfu had a lovechild?
My last morning, I woke up at 5 a.m. with a heart-pounding fear that my passport hadn’t been stamped upon entry. Thankfully, it had. Nonetheless, when it was time to leave, I felt the Nikki Beach team shore up around me. They were going to get me out of Montenegro quicker and less stressful than I got here. I, of course, sailed through passport control without incident (no one cares what you’re taking out, it seems), getting to spend nearly three hours in an echoing blue concrete hall with hundreds of other passengers: business class, economy class, the whole lot. Here, we were all equals.
I texted Nikola that I’d made it to the gate.
“Just like that? That’s boring.”
Terribly so. Exactly the way you want your beach vacation in an under-the-radar paradise to be.
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