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dubrovnik. heaven on earth, 18 hours a day

When you’re driving into Dubrovnik, you don’t see it coming. Even when you cross the modern, soaring bridge that looks like wishbones, you’re still wondering “where’s Dubrovnik?  Then you drive around a few more curves, take the Dubrovnik exit, look down the windy road, and gasp.    It’s a huge walled city/fortress built on top of cliffs and rocks overlooking the Adriatic. Everything around it is a jewel toned–the lush green suburb dotted by colorful flowers, the sparkling azure Adriatic..

In fact,  the only thing ugly in Dubrovnik is my mood.

katherine rolling eyes at us under photo of man rolling eyes

It’s about 8:00 PM and we’re about three hours later than our scheduled arrival time.

My dad is checking in to the hotel but there seems to be a problem.  But when I ask what the problem is, my dad screams across the lobby (even though I’m only two feet away) for me to” shut up and fetch his goddamn glasses from the car!”. How rude. How disrespectful. How crass. I scream some shrill obscenity back at him, but try to do so tastefully.

After dropping my bag in our room in the scullery maid’s quarters, I storm the old city gates (the Hilton is conveniently located just outside the Pile gate) and head for the nearest ice cream stand. Like any good bartender, the ice cream guy tries to distract me from my problems. He flips my scoop of forest berry into the air and catches it on my cone. I regress about 40 years and giggle in appreciation of his skill.

My cone and I stroll the Stradum, a wide main promenade of shiny marble slabs that gleam like ice. We look in store windows. We get kicked out of europe’s oldest pharmacy (they don’t allow cones, which I consider racist in this day and age). We climb the tiny sidestreets leading up hills to a series of outlooks that are just slightly different from the last one, but all worth seeing.

We pass a wall and a gate, taking us to Dubrovnik’s small stone harbor. I didn’t notice at the time a hulking beheomoth cruise ship lying quietly in wait to devour Dubrovnik tomorrow morning before scuttling off to Venice for her next meal.

The next morning I make peace with the family over breakfast at 8:30, hit the old city by 9:00, by 9:30 I have a brand new tee shirt and a pistachio ice cream cone and all is right with the world..

Then the crowds start pouring in and I get a chance to see the ugly side of Dubrovnik. Between the hours of 10AM – 4PM, the jewel of the Adriatic becomes the jewelry store of     the Adriatic.

Hundreds of cranky men of various nationalities line the Stradum, waiting impatiently outside jewelry stores for their wives. The theme is so prevalent, I start filming them. While capturing one such cranky man in front of a jewelry store. He looks at his watch, “tsks” and glares inside the jewelry shop. Then he makes a threatening gesture in the window and starts to walk away. It isn’t until he stops and storms back that I realize I’m filming my Dad.

After he destroys the video tape, We manage to drag mom out of Richard’s jewelry boutique #3 in Dubrovnik for a refreshing beverage and snack. But we lose her again at Trinity Jewelers and just hope she knows where to return when it’s time to leave Dubrovnik.

It’s hard to believe that 15 years ago the Yugoslavian army left this place in ruins. It’s only from the wall I can see the only visible effects of the war. The predominantly, redder colored rooftops indicate where reconstruction was needed.

The hour and a half walk around the wall also provides eight million of Dubrovnik’s finest views and is best in the morning or late afternoon when the sun isn’t raging. You’ll get an inside look at 1200 years of history as well as a peek at modern peoples’ kitchens and backyards. Someone even has a little orchard growing on the rooftops of Dubrovnik.


cocktails on the rocks


I also recommend walking through t

he old town early in the morning or late at night when you can hear your footsteps echo; A 40 minute boat ride to the town of Cavtat during the 10-4 Dubrovnik tourist hours, Have lunch on the harbor; Back in Dubrovnik, Have a drink on the cliff rocks on the outside of the Dubrovnik walls facing the sea in the afternoon.

Dubrovnik is a testament to forgetting the past and moving forward. They’ve survived foreign invasions that are hard to imagine. And yet here she is, a beacon on the Adriatic, glowing with the hope that no matter what destruction may befall us, pleasure and beauty can always endure. Sure, there are still grim reminders from past onslaughts. But the tour bus will pick them up by 4:30.

See more pictures of Dubrovnik

the lavender fields of hvar

I’ve been wanting to go to Hvar ever since I knew there was a Hvar. I think the clincher was “the island is covered in lavender fields which scents the air”.

I’m not an island person, but I’m a sucker for a good smell. And lavender has all these amazing properties, aromatherapeutically speaking. It picks you up and calms you down. It’s not only a disinfectant and repels bugs, it also soothes, balances and restores the spirit. It even cures headaches when rubbed on temples and nausea when rubbed onto the fifth chakra (which is the throat…or Achilles tendon, I just rub it on both to be sure). Just think how great it’ll be to be naturally surrounded by it. It sounds like the herbal good smelling therapeutic equivalent of a speedball or Irish coffee.

Hvar itself is an emerald green island under aquamarine skies surrounded by a sapphire sea (in case anyone wants to commemorate the trip in jewelry).

The port in Starigrad looks like a big skating rink, which makes me nervous right off the bat. We aren’t staying in the old town here, so we should be able to find our hotel easily. Unless all the buildings look like skating rinks.

It’s about an hour and a half boat ride from Split to Starigrad, Hvar. And a winding 20 minute drive from Starigrad to Hvar town.

I become downright jittery when the arrow pointing the direction of our hotel, the Podstine, indicates it has only one star. The car trembles with the force of my mother’s shudders.

We pull over so we can regroup from the shock. Our eyes are hollow with horror as we imagine the implications.

Finally Dad breaks the silence and posits tightly, that ”at 200 a night, it can’t be one star. It must be a mistake” Yeah. I rejoin, feebly, saving my strength to break the waves of queasiness lashing at me. I unroll the car window desperately, remembering that the Lavender air should help sooth my nausea. I don’t smell the lavender. The fields must be further inland.

Up until now, I’ve been using the bottle of lavender essential oil strictly for medicinal purposes: repelling bugs, swabbing pink spots on cheeks. But right about now I really need a balancing, soothing whiff. I rub a dab into my temples and breath deeply.

The Podstine is modern and blends in with the stone cliffs overlooking the Adriatic From the lobby off the tiny road.  The hotel is built down, into the rocks, rather than on top of them. The lobby is on the top floor. So are our rooms. Nice, big, bright, clean rooms. With big balconies and sea views. Downstairs there’s a restaurant and café with tables on the deck. And a lower deck for lounging by the side of the world’s most gorgeous swimming pool—the Adriatic, It’s very nice.

Katherine on balcony of podstine hotel, relieved.

That’s one more potential disaster averted.

It’s a pleasant 20 minute walk from the Podstine into Hvar Town, yes, another medieval village. We chose not to stay in the Old town this time because I’d seen Hvar Town on an episode of “Wild on” and decided it would be good to sleep at a safe distance. A good choice since at 3 in the morning you can still hear music blaring from the direction of Hvar town on the hotel balcony.

But Hvar town is cool with the big fortress on the hill above the small harbor. And of course, the little shops. And sometimes the square becomes so happening, it doesn’t seem like the small town can handle it. Like the night they had Miss Croatian Universe Pageant. We catch a part of it on the way back from dinner one night. Katherine becomes offended by and wanders back to the hotel ahead of us. After the Croatian Stephen Tyler performance, the pageant continues. We watch until mom becomes offended that Dad is enjoying it.

Hvar is a good place to read, swim, and wander medieval streets and shops, eat ice cream, nap. But it’s so pretty, you’ll want to nap with your eyes open.

But there is one problem: the air is NOT scented with lavender. Apparently some big fire destroyed all the lavender fields on this side of the island three years ago.

This could be a problem because I was counting on that lavender scent and its soothing properties.

Now you may wonder why I need to be soothed. Hasn’t everything gone remarkably well? Even my biggest concern (plitvice lodging) has turned out happily. Hvar is blissful, what the heck am I so stressed out about?

Perhaps you don’t understand the anxiety involved in waiting for something to go wrong You know it will. It’s only a matter of time. In fact, by your schedule, things should have gone to shit at least twice by now. This is unsettling. You don’t want to be caught off guard. God forbid you should be too happy and comfortable when it happens. And you can’t help thinking that the longer you have to wait for something to go wrong, the worse that something will be.

Mom swimming in the Adriatic

My family feels it too. And the stress of having nothing major to complain about shows itself in little ways.

My dad simmers with anger because the hotel waiter serves us too much food.

My mother sighs and sadly reflects that my grilled lobster looks better than her grilled lobster, Katherine announces that if she sees another grilled fish she’ll puke. I splash lavender oil on all seven chakras.

When my elbow hits the knob that adjusts the water temperature in the shower, giving me an unwelcome blast of cold water,  I curse god’s tyranny and shower myself in lavender oil.

Sure, we may look rested, tan, well fed and healthy, but we are obviously at the ends of our ropes. And we reek of lavender.

When I get to the check out desk with my luggage, my dad and the guy with a cold sore are conspiring. If we leave now, drive an hour and a half to the other ferry port, we can catch the 11:30 ferry on the other side of the Island that takes us to Drvenek which is only a half hour ferry ride and we’ll end up an hour and a half closer to Dubrovnik than if we ferry back to Split and drive from there as originally planned. It’ll save a lot of time. But we have to go now. There are too many numbers in this plan for my little brain to process.

I ignore the nagging sense of foreboding. There’s something about the math here that isn’t adding up. But I’m a mathematical moron, so I defer to the wisdom of my dad and cold sore guy. Cold sore guy must know more about getting around Croatia than I do. When I look at the map, it almost makes sense. And maybe we’ll see some lavender fields.

We race the island’s narrow winding roads to catch the ferry. Well, my mother is driving, so we race in a safe, leisurely manner. We elected mom to drive the narrow, windy roads. figuring she’s going to be clutching, steering and pumping the breaks no matter who is driving. So we might has well let her actually drive. We’re hoping this will give her a sense of control. On this outing she vacillates between taunting the asshole on her tail to pass her or cursing the old goat in front of her who is driving too slow.

We’re in the middle of nowhere, Hvar (who knew a little Island could be so big?) By now it’s only an hour until the ferry leaves. We’re supposed to be there an hour early and god knows how far the damn ferry port is from here. From every point we see a bay that “must be it.” that isn’t.

Despite the fact I’m sweating lavender, I open the bottle for a few more drops. And at this moment, the car screeches to a halt followed by thud and impact. I pull my neck out trying to catch the lavender oil bottle which has been jolted from my hands.

Everyone in the car is checking their most valuable possession to make sure it’s okay. Mom is checking her lipstick. Dad is patting his Cal Bears fall football schedule. Katherine is checking her face and boobs. And I’m grieving my last drops of lavender which are now a part of the floor mat.

I don’t know whose fault the accident was. I was too busy trying not to be car sick at the time to notice.

The Bosnian guy who slammed into us is nice and concerned. But his wife sickens me. She’s so busy protecting her own ass from possible litigation, she can’t see my suffering. Here I am with an empty lavender bottle and a stiff neck and she’s blithely saying “at least everyone is okay.” Then she tries to imply that my stiff neck and lost lavender are the result of my own negligence because I wasn’t wearing my seat belt. But I was. Jesus, whatever happened to humanity and compassion? My neck feels pretty much better. So feeling fairly certain I won’t be able to sue her for making me an invalid, I can pretend to have lost movement of my entire lower body whenever she looks at me.

We take care of the business and continue to the ferry, knowing deep in our souls that we’re screwed. The feeling is confirmed when we turn a corner, expecting to see the harbor ahead and being faced with a long narrow highway of bumper to bumper cars, all waiting to get on the 25 car ferry.

Judging by our count, we’ll have to wait for two more ferries to get on. The third ferry today departs at 6:30PM. It’s 11;30 AM and the perfect storm has just converged.

Rage short circuits my brain. I’m quiet, but I know sparks are flying all over the car. I want to destroy everyone responsible for this. Starting with the guy with the cold sore guy back at the hotel. Do we have time to drive back, torture him thoroughly and still catch the later 4;30 ferry from Starigrad? The thought makes me carsick. My neck hurts. This is all THEIR fault. Everyone elses. Nobody appreciates me. I’m an idiot. I should never have listened to dad and the guy with the cold sore. I’ll probably GET a cold sore. I’ll need lavender for that cold sore I’m going to get and now I’m out. And mom and dad and Katherine are breathing what little is left of MY scented air! It’s so typically thoughtless. We’re stuck here in the car. For six hours. But nobody stops to think that maybe I NEED that air? Jeez, do I have to actually sit here for 6 hours with these barbarians? Katherine sighs. I glare at her and she sighs again. A big sigh. That’s unnecessary waste of my scented air. MOM! Katherine is pigging my air. Like they care. They’ve always liked Katherine better than me. Why? Why am I forced to endure being stuck on the tip of this godforsaken island, with nothing to do except check out some goddamn lavender fields?

up plitvice lakes without a paddle

I planned this little three generational Croatian adventure. Airlines, hotels, car rental, ferries, you name it. The only place I hadn’t nailed down at least a month in advance was Plitvice Lakes in Croatia. The three huge hotels in the actual national park are handled through the national tourist office and I was told by email, all booked. But “with my patience, they will give me some ideas for other accomadations.” What they didn’t tell me is that I’d have to be patient until the moment we get here.

Nobody I ever met has even heard of Plitvice Lakes. How can it be booked? It’s about four hours from Rovinj, south and inland to Plitvice National Park and World Heritage site. It’s sort of in the middle of nowhere, so the risk is high. It’s supposed to be spectacular. I’m not a woodsy type of person, but for some reason, I mus see Plitvice Lakes. Somehow it will all work out.

After four hours in the car I’m getting a little panicky. There sure are a lot of empty tour buses driving out. Does that mean nobody came or they’re all staying at one of our hotels? What if it’s another three hours to Plitvice the hotels are all booked and we have to find a place to sleep in the dark? What if we can’t find a place and have to sleep in the car? Someone please just throw me off this spectacularly gorgeous waterfall now! Hey, we’re in Plitvice.

They weren’t lying. The place is beautiful and the three huge ugly hotels with separate parking for tour buses really are booked.

Which leaves us two options: go to the tourist office and find lodging or drive through the valley haphazardly looking for houses advertising sobe, zimmers and kamere for the night.

Of course, we make the obvious choice and spend the next hour on the road, discussing the various merits of places with sobe zimmer and kamere signs as we drive past them.

Then we decide that this isn’t really furthering our cause and venture into a few of the nicer looking driveways. Only to be rebuffed. Sometimes they hold up a “No” sign. Sometimes they shake their head and glare. We even get chased down one driveway. We can’t help but take it personally, even though the places really do look full. My mother takes to muttering “yeah, well, screw you, too!’ as we beat our retreats.

This leaves us no choice. Somebody is going to have to get out of the car and talk to a Croatian.

I’m tired and blame not having reservations here on Croatia. And I blame mom and dad, of course, because this whole trip is their fault. If they weren’t paying for this trip, we wouldn’t be in this mess.   Let them deal with it. I’ve dealt with everything else. I’m too frazzled and frail and delicate to cope any more. Katherine stays in the car in solidarity with my frazzled, frail delicateness…or maybe just to stake out her spot in the car to sleep tonight.

When mom and dad emerge from the tourist office looking triumphant, my heart leaps in hope. “There’s a house with two sobes with bathrooms and everything. Right over there” (they wave vaguely in a direction). My heart sinks in despair.

Our lodging is supposed to be about 20 minutes outside the park, way up a winding road on cliffs we could easily fallen to our deaths from. I’m happy to say we don’t die and find the place relatively easily.

It’s almost disgustingly picturesque. A small farm with a vegetable patch, some chickens, ducks geese, pigs, turkeys, goats, kitties, dogs and a brand new litter of three rolling puffs of fur. It’s a veritable petting zoo. We’re overlooking a gorge or valley or some other natural formation I don’t know the name of. I’ll tell you one thing, no tour bus could get up here.

The rooms are fine. Probably 1/2 star.   There are some ants but we give them a good splashing of pure Croatian lavender oil and hope they’ll go away, The environment is a lot nicer than the groddy hotels that rejected us. And everyone knows that the scent of lavender is balancing and soothing.

The smiling proprietress gives us a short tour in Esperanto. She points to herself and says “Mama”. She points to my mother and says “Mama”. She points to the puppies’ mother and says “mama”. We now know everything we need to know and settle in for the night.

I take a deep breath of the lavender scented room.   As long as these aren’t flesh eating ants, I think we’ll be okay.


you gotta love these quaint goddamn medieval villages

We’re spending three nights in the village of Rovinj. Our hotel is in the middle of the medieval old town where attempting to maneuver a car gives mere mortals a nervous tic. You don’t see many SUVs let alone Hummers in this part of the world.

The Angelo D’Oro, is probably the closest thing to a boutique hotel you’ll find in this neck of the woods. It’s a converted townhouse. Homey. Small. Decorated with antiques. It’s got a garden where breakfast, drinks and dinner is served. There’s also a tiny covered porch area near the roof great for kicking back and enjoying the view or a book.

The other recommended hotel options are outside the walls of old Rovinj in big old communist block buildings which offend our sensibilities. The main downside is instead of having the luxury of a paved path to a pool, our hotel choice forces us to walk up the narrow street past the church courtyard to the edge of Rovinj and climb down some rocks to swim in the Adriatic. Here, People sunbathe on the rocks that jut out from the cafes bars homes and churches overlooking the sea. They look like happy flesh colored seals in unbecoming bathingsuits. I love the picturesque-ness of it. And the sight confirms my deeply held belief that humans are not meant to be a sunbathing species. But damn that water looks good.

I particularly like the outdoor market in Rovinj (just outside the wall). The fruit and vegetables all look particularly luscious, big and ripe. And they have great looking bottles with herbs and fruits in them that facinate and tempt me even though deep in my heart, I know they’re grappa. It’s the only market I’ve seen that sells colorful strings of various whole, raw seasoning…laurel, different colored hot peppers, garlic and other stuff that are really beautiful in the simple arrangements The first day in Rovinj we bought fruit and stuff from the market and had lunch on the hotel roof porch.

I’ll always remember Rovinj because my first work of art is acquired here. For my birthday present (like the trip isn’t enough) my parents bought me An oil painting done by a local artist of a couple of rowboats parked in front of a pair of shuttered townhouses in “downtown.” Rovinj. The painting seems kind of impressionist, so I particularly like it. But I’m sure I’ll curse is existence when I have to take it back to Paris, or worse, the US (not going to think about it).

On our second morning in Rovinj, my dad and I break from the pack and drive to Pula to see the ampitheatre and a medieval village or two. We find our way easily and check out the well preserved remains of the roman colloseum. It’s up there with Rome, Verona, but this is probably the nicest location. Kind of a northern Naples. There’s an old town, an old church, an old forum and old medieval streets. And the school where James Joyce taught for five minutes and developed an aversion to the region (he must have had the same problem with Zagreb airport we did).

On the way back we take the scenic route. The road winds along a rocky green shores dotted with picturesque medieval villages and steeples. It’s a Sunday but we figure we’ll stop at one of the little restaurants in one of the villages for lunch. Obviously, my dad and I are the crazy adventurous ones in the family on this trip.

We wisely opt for parking outside our chosen village and look for our restaurant. We can’t find it and everything looks closed. We look confused and an Italian family visiting Croatian relatives offers to show us where the restaurant is by walking us there.. It gives the 10 year old girl a chance to practice her English. She is also the only one in the group with any crossover translator abilities (except me, with my new Auvers inspired gift for mime).

After a few minutes of trying to draw the girl who has clearly been put on the spot out of her shell, she tells me haltingly in English that “it is very important to be good at another language.” I nod encouragingly. “ Yes! That’s very good! And true!” Unfortunately, those are the only words she knows in English and 10 more than what I know in Croatian or Italian.

Nonetheless, It’s a lovely interlude. Visualize it: two families from different cultures strolling along the Croatian coast (maybe in silhouette) together on a Sunday afternoon. One of them is gesticulating wildly.

The restaurant is closed like everything else in this damn medieval town. We escape to the car before the family can invite us to have lunch with them. All this pantomiming is more exercise than I’ve had in years. I’m physically and emotionally exhausted.

We escape to the car, and the moment I let my guard down, I take the wrong turn.

I’m suddenly driving in the pedestrian area of the goddamn medieval village, with no apparent legal exit (of course there’s no legal exit, there’s no legal entrance). And since it’s Sunday, there are no helpful vendors directing me towards the correct exit in an effort to keep me from backing into their displays. Fortunately, there are a couple of kids and cops out, who direct us when we get our car wedged between several goddamn quaint medieval buildings. Is the air-conditioning on? I’m sweating like a pig.

On the way back to Rovinj, all I can think of is how nice it would be to have an ice cream cone and a paved path to a swimming pool. But noooooo, because we’re staying in a goddamn quaint medival village I have to walk up the street carrying a towel and climb down some rocks to swim. Which also requires wearing a bathing suit in a public place.

Once we get back to Rovinj and have a quick lunch, I resolve to brave it. The street, stairs and rocks are easy. It’s the bathing suit and water part that are hard. I finally am in position to dive in. I dip my foot in and goddamn, the water is cold. Goddamn unheated Adriatic water. I take the plunge and dunk my whole body in. It’s blue. It’s clear. It’s refreshing. I’m swimming in the Adriatic. I can see my feet and fish. But they’re not scary fish (in fact, they look delicious). My feet are another story.

I look up and see the quaint little medieval village looming above me. The sun sparkles on me and the water around me. Goddamn, this is good.


ljubljana and other tongue twisters

The first thing I learn in every language is the all-important “thank you.” It makes a big difference. Even if you slaughter their language, the natives invariably appreciate the effort.

In Slovenia, the word is “Hvala” (which sounds like kvWahla, with an almost silent “kv”) It means “thank you ” in Croatian too. That and a border seem to be all the two places have in common.

Here’s another tidbit I picked up while trying to buy an ice cream cone: While Croatia and Slovenia together are smaller than California, both of them use different currency. Neither uses the Euro, mind you. I’ve crossed three borders and currencies in the past 36 hours..

My little brain short circuits when I try to translate Euros to Kunas to the Slovenian money which I can’t even remember the name of, let alone its value.. I’m sure the process takes up at least 16% of the 15% of my brain I actually use. Which means I have to make some choices. I can live with the fact that I usually wind up smiling stupidly while holding out a handful of money to a hopefully kind cashier who picks the correct amount from the pile in my hand.

The point is, Hvala is a tough word and I’m still having problems because the H sounds like a K which is silent. So I vary it, trying to hit on the right one by trial and error. Kuala, Voila, ala, aloha, huvula, hvwa-lah. No matter how I say it, It usually elicits a smile, if not outright laughter.

But on the way to Ljubljana, I resolve to do better. I’m going to learn a new Slovenian word.

Today’s word: Ljubljana. The capital of Slovenia. Population 1,970,570 people. Its symbol is the dragon, for the four fabulous green bronze dragon statues guarding the gates.

We’re staying in the Grand Union Hotel, which sounds like a US supermarket chain. It has a little more charm than the grocery chain and it’s the nicest, best located hotel in town. But it ain’t what you’d call a boutique hotel. I don’t think they’ve discovered them in Slovenia yet. But maybe it doesn’t matter because Slovenia is kind of a boutique country.

Ljubljana has everything a popular European city needs (except boutique hotels). There are tree lined canals. Quaint Medieval buildings. A big old ornate church in the town center. Little footbridges. Overflowing window boxes. The obligatory castle on the hill, but in Ljubljana, the hill is more like a cliff and particularly dramatic looking. There’s an outdoor market and fashionable little shops, always a winning combination. It’s not unbearably crowded. But it has a good, young energy in a Prague 20 years ago kind of way. It’s also got a mountain range in view and is only a 45 minute drive to the Adriatic coast, Italy, Croatia, Hungary or Austria. The environs are a spectacular combination of the Alps and Mediterranean shore, green, clean and temperate. It’s got cloudlike mounds of multi-colored ice cream for 200 of whatever the local currency is a cone…which is really only 50 cents. Why don’t I live here?

I’ve been pronouncing it “Lubjana,” But when I think about it, my pronounciation doesn’t make sense. why would one “J” be silent and not the other?. My dad has been pronouncing it “Loobiana” and my mom and niece have been avoiding the word completely replacing it with “the next place” or “the city” and “where we are now.”

The correct pronounciation is Looblanah.

Okay, now that I’ve got that word down, I’m going to try something more difficult. Like “Hello.” spelled “Pozdraveljena.”

I practice with the waiter. Postravlajenna. He smiles, but I know I don’t have it.

I practice with the ice cream vendor. Postrivlijina. He looks bemused.

I practice in my sleep. Posterdravlasange…postradravalinia…portolavenya….

I practice with the parking valet. Postravahlenah (I think I’m getting closer)

I practice with the toll collector. Postrahdravlenah.

He gives me a “by jove, I think she’s got it” grin and Postrahdravlenah’s me back and says “Hvala” as he takes the toll. I say “hvala” back. My first full Slovenian conversation! It’s a small step, but I’m thrilled. I’m hesitant to say goodbye to my new best friend.

But I must. The Adriatic awaits. I step on the accelerator and we cross the border back into Croatia.

paris – zagreb

I’m off to Croatia to meet up with my parents and my niece Katherine who are flying in from California.   I’m excited to be flying somewhere exotic without the requisite jetlag (2 hours from Paris to Zagreb!!!!)

Everything goes smoothly. The driver is waiting outside at the appointed time. It’s early and there’s no traffic to Charles DeGaulle. Check in is easy. Security lax (despite the fact that I’ve never seen so many Muslims at an airport, even in Cairo). But I’m able to stifle my pre-programmed fear. After all, what terrorist would bother with a puny little flight to Zagreb (I’ll ignore the whole Croatian war thing)

The airplane is empty (apparently, nobody goes to Zagreb). I have a window seat, it’s a mostly clear day and I can see Paris and the Etoile d’Gaulle as we haul away from the city. Gorgeous. And just about the time the stewardesses hit the aisle with their drink trays, the turbulence begins (it’s uncanny how it always hits when the drinks are coming). And this is some pretty rocky turbulence. My yelps echo through the near empty plane.

It’s pretty much an hour of turbulence. I’m not sure whether I’m more afraid of dying or throwing up. As we start our descent, I press my nose against the window trying to find telltale signs of the big city, but all I see are trees and fields and a few scattered farms and houses. As we get lower, the houses become a little closer together, but I see nothing resembling a city. Yes, I see a small town with a big church ahead, perhaps that’s the suburbs. But the next thing I know, we’ve landed. In an airport that’s smaller than a New York City block. Heck, from what I can tell, Zagreb is no bigger than Central Park.

I exchange a few Euro for Kuna to get me to the Regent Esplanade where my parents are already checked in. I have no idea what the exchange rate is and wonder when Croatia will join the EU and get with the program on the money thing. I take the money with out a clue of whether I’m being ripped off or not. I’m remarkably calm for someone who hasn’t done her homework on the language or exchange rate. I’m starting to think maybe I prefer being in places that are totally foreign to me because ignorance really is bliss. Well, blissfuller.

I’m still wondering where Zagreb is as we drive past fields. Sure enough, as we pass some really ugly buildings, I see the old church and within seconds, we’re in front of what they probably call a fin de siecle hotel in a not so fin de siecle sitting. We literally are on the other side of the train tracks.

We pull in and the porters and my dad are all waiting for me. I quickly discover that this is definitely the right side of the tracks. . The lobby is lovely. Check in is easy. And what a room! Huge, nicely decorated with a beautiful bathroom and fabulous Ferre and Bulgari toiletries. The mini bar is stocked to the hilt and there’s a big bowl of fruit on one of the tables. I’d always heard complaints that the hotels in Croatia left something to be desired, but I can’t find anything to be desired in this room. I wish we were staying in Zagreb longer than one night.

I know the flight was only an hour and a half, but I have reflexive jet lag and take a nap.

When I wake up, it’s dinnertime and my mom, dad and I wander through the old town looking for our restaurant. The town is full of the most sumptuous looking ice cream stands. Piles of piles of fluffy multi-colored ice creams, store after store. I’m perfectly willing to forgo dinner and just park in front of one of these stands.

We find our restaurant and have a good dinner that I can’t finish because I’m still nauseous from the flight. Dinner is followed by free after dinner drinks gratis from the waiter, who just had a baby. I discover I hate grappa, but have to finish the drink or insult the waiter’s child. Now I’m even more nauseous.

Maybe a little ice cream will soothe my stomach. We head back to the ice cream stands (I’m sure there are other stores and people to watch, but I’m too mesmerized by the ice cream to notice). I’m so overwhelmed by the options, I suffer a pre-ice cream brain freeze and order chocolate.

We go back to the hotel and for the first time in 4 ½ months, I watch TV. CNN. Fortunately, I drift off to sleep before I get too pissed off.

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