So long, Croatia.

View from the bus (Dubrovnik to Split).

Friday, I woke up at 5 am. My bus was scheduled to leave at 8 am. I am mental, I know I am. Even with all this traveling, catching buses and trains nearly every other day, I am still obsessed with getting there on time and not rushing, and so I always leave myself plenty of time, most of which I end up spending sitting in the station, twiddling my thumbs, which just adds to my travel time. But I am calm and happy sitting in the station, twiddling my thumbs, knowing that I am there on time. I can't help it. I always wake up twenty times during the night making sure I don't oversleep. Sometimes I am glad that I am traveling solo because then other people aren't aware how crazy I really am. But now you know.

I woke up extra early because I wanted to shower, and then I had to pack because I had washed a bunch of clothes and half of them still weren't dry after two days. My room was a drafty 60 degrees, to the point where even the clothes I didn't wash were starting to feel cold and damp. And then I wanted to catch the 6:30 am bus to the station that came by my villa hourly. I couldn't handle taking the 7:30 which would allow me virtually no waiting time, and you know how I feel about that.

So there I was, with all my bags, some of my clothes still damp inside (yes, I had to wash them again later), sitting in the bus shelter, watching the sun come up, and my bus goes right ahead and passes me. The driver looked right at me. Maybe it was a mirage, so I waited for another ten minutes and nothing happened. So with my luggage, I decided to climb down the zillions of stairs to get into the main town, where there were other buses running more frequent. I was pretty calm about the whole thing, and feeling pretty proud of myself for not freaking out. Then again, I had given myself three hours.

So I hopped on another bus. "This goes to the bus station?" I asked the driver. He nodded. And so we rode along and we came to a stop where there were many buses, which I took to be the bus station. The driver watched me in his rearview mirror as I scrambled off. He drove off without saying a word. It was not the bus station. Bastard! He knew where I was going! What is with these bus drivers?

Sick of the bus, I started to walk, asking everyone if I was going the right way. Everyone I stopped along the route told me to go straight for 10 minutes, even if I had already walked for 10 minutes. When I finally got there, I was dismayed to find that nothing was open and my breakfast would be potato chips and Twix, which felt like a real low point. Because I am insane, despite all that mishap and folly, I still waited at the station for about 25 minutes.

I boarded the bus to go back to Split when suddenly I had that feeling, that twinge in my throat, that I was getting sick. It could go either way. That did not make me happy. With Dan meeting me in Budapest, this is not the time to be ill. As the bus drove along the edges of mountaintops, overlooking the shiny blue sea, I became sad because I could see that it was a beautiful day--it had been raining the last two--and I was going to spend all of it sitting in a bus or train.

I arrived at Split and I had about two and a half hours to kill before my train. The sun was scorching and I was overdressed in my corduroys and black sweater. I started to sweat. I started to feel nauseous. I was so hot but there were goose bumps on my arms. My bags might as well been filled with bricks. I walked to this restaurant I liked close by to the station and it was closed. None of the cooks had shown up, the guy at the door told me. No, there was nothing around that was any good.

So I trudged my way back to the main part of town, where I was harassed by people asking me if I needed to rent a room. They wouldn't leave me alone and I suddenly felt so ill, I just swatted them away like flies. "No, I don't need accommodations!" I huffed. One guy even came up to me twice, not believing me. "Are you sure?" "YES!"

I managed my way back to old Fife's. The waiter recognized me--I have been there three times in the last week and I tipped him very nicely last time--and he was talkative and happy to serve me. Funny how each time I go there they go from downright rude to sincerely nice. I ordered vegetable soup and some fish. No wine today since my stomach was flip-flopping from the bus ride. Instead I downed a mini-jug of water, and I felt a little better with a full stomach.

Then I sat outside on the bench, facing the water, letting the sun shine on me, knowing that this is the last time I will feel this sun and warmth for a long time. My hair is starting to grow out and my bangs are starting to get in my eyes all the time. Today, they formed one large curl. At that moment, I couldn't stop thinking about it, and so as I sat in the sun, I just smoothed out my hair out in annoyance and wondered what happened to the calm Yvonne of this morning.

Me and my curl in Split. Look at that thing!

I boarded the train to Zagreb which was actually a bus for the first few stops (don't ask, it happens to me all the time), and watched my last Croatian sunset through the window. Soon the outside became so dark I couldn't see a thing, but could feel the train tilting and winding through the curvy mountains. At one point, I peered intently outside and could make out white snow on the ground. It was official: I was going back to the tundra.

I arrived in Zagreb, weary, my legs and butt hurting for sitting so long. I had finished my book, my ipod died, I had spent the last two hours of the trip just sitting. I found my hostel where I am spending the night, which was sort of like deciding to find rest in the middle of a frat party. When I got there, there were a bunch of people sitting out front, drinking and screaming and laughing, which could be heard inside. The guy working there seemed ready to head out and join them. I crawled into bed at 11, listening to the party below, then woke up to drunken snores from all the guys sleeping in my room. I left at 6:30 am, while everything was still asleep, managing to bump into some random guy sleeping in the hallway and avoid the bloody tissue sitting on the counter in the bathroom. It felt like a surreal dream.

I managed to take the longest train from Zagreb to Budapest. I know you can get there in about 5 hours, my train took 7, stopping at every single town in the country of Hungary. I had nothing to do except sleep and write down Polish vocabulary. It was about 100 degrees in my train cabin but that only seemed to bother me. I wasn't feeling that sick anymore, but I didn't feel my best. When I arrived, my body ached, I smelled, I was hungry for real food. I was happy to be in Budapest.

I traveled a total of 932 kilometers, equivalent to 17 ½ hours total on a train or bus (plus waiting in the station), in about a day in a half. But it is all worth it. A glimpse at the city looked promising, and I am waiting patiently for Dan the man to arrive, which makes it all worth it in the end.

Zagreb at 6:30 this morning.



Lots of travel ain't pretty. At least the curl is gone.

Friends again.

Sarah and Tim from Split met up with me on my last night in Dubrovnik. They had just come from Mostar, which they said was nice but still looked war-torn. They talked about buildings scarred with bullets and many grave sites with the deaths dating in the 1990's. It sounded like the place was a little depressing now, but could be quite terrific in the summer. (I would have joined them but it just didn't fit in my schedule).

We had a lovely seafood dinner. Tim's risotto was in a black sauce, which looked kind of Halloween-y, but he thought it tasted good. Afterwards, we stopped for a drink at this place called Fresh, an obvious traveler's hang-out, and then headed to an Irish pub despite Tim's protests. We should have listened to him. Some guy played UB40 on a synthesizer, while this random girl writhed around to the music and two drunk guys danced with each other. It was really random. But it was great to see Tim and Sarah.

Tim has a few more traveling days and then will go live in France. Sarah is continuing her around-the-world trip and will be in New York the end of December. We plan to meet then.

Seafood dinner.



There's weird people in here. Is it Tim? Naahhh.

Wet stair-y place.

Who needs a stairmaster when you got these?

It’s a good thing that I practiced climbing all those bell towers. Dubrovnik is a city full of stairs. My villa where I am staying is perched on top of a mountainside among other similar-looking villas and there is a maze of stairs crisscrossing through them. It is all downhill going into the Old Town. Going back to the villa is not an inviting option.

It was pouring rain when I got here and when it tapered off, I walked down the stairs, streams of water coming down with me, and wandered around the old town of Dubrovnik. The city is next to the sea, completely enclosed in a very old fortress. Inside the fortress walls is a little white place, buildings and streets made of marble and limestone the same color as The White House. My first mission was finding something to eat and I wandered into a pizza place and sat alone until a couple from Australia waved me over and we had a nice meal together. They were doing some traveling of their own, hoping to settle in Scotland and work for a while, which they say is pretty common thing for Australians nowadays.

By the time we finished, the city was wet and dark, and so I decided to walk around some more and then see a concert by the Dubrovnik String Quartet in the very old St Saviour Church. The church was very small, the acoustics amazing and the foursome played by flickering candlelight, creating an enchanting vibe.

I headed back to the villa where I promptly got myself lost, where the rain promptly decided to fall even harder. Every staircase looked the same, every villa looked the same. Some streets were marked, some were not. I could not find any of the streets where I was on my now-soggy map. Making wrong turns meant that I had to walk up and down hundreds of stairs. It was a better workout than going to the gym. When I finally found the villa, after 40 minutes of stair-climbing, I was soaked and frustrated. I flipped on the television and stared at amazement at the blatant porn that was on regular tv.

The next day, I was looking forward to a full day, but I ran into a problem: It's called All Saint's Day, which is a big holiday here, which means that lots of things were closed. I wanted to walk on the castle walls. Closed. I wanted to see this exhibit on war photography. Closed. I took the chance and walked to the Museum of Modern Art to find it open where I saw a fascinating exhibit of the great photographers of the 20^th century. My favorite was the pictures of New York from the 1950's by Henri Cartier-Bresson, where I was able to pick out the vintage Times Square and Park Avenue with glee. My sister would like the dog images by Elliot Erwitt. My favorite being a tall, somber dog sitting in a parked car, looking very much like he is driving the vehicle.

I sat in a café and read and listened to an old man talk to himself. I don't know what he was saying, but it sounded loud. And soon enough it was just me and him in the café. I took that as a sign to leave.

I went to the Memorial Room of the Defenders of Dubrovnik, which commemorates the young people who died in the war against the Serbs in the early 1990's. The room was filled with photographers of about 200 men who had lost their lives in the resistance. It is hard to believe that the place where I am now was under siege less than 20 years ago. They showed footage of the war, the posh and beautiful streets where I walked the past two days littered with debris, statues and parts of the fortress broken, buildings completely destroyed by fire. They have done a great job restoring everything, so now you can't tell that anything happened here, but after seeing that, I walked through the town with a new perspective.

This place, filled with long tight alley ways, a million stairs, the impending walls would be a frightening place to be in war. I imagined people running through the streets, hiding in the nooks and crannies. The city was held hostage for over a year, and the residents lived here with limited water, electricity, food, and yet it somehow survived. I thought about Milos, the friendly owner of my villa, who told me when I first arrived that he has lived here all his life and he told me many reasons why it is a great place to live. I am sure that when a city goes through something like a war and makes it, you can't help but feel a sense of pride about the place where you live.

White city at night.


The Old Town.

Fortress by sea.

Lots of these guys here.