A Blizzard in Zagreb

"...they will let no drop of pleasure go to waste. It is good to wear red and gold and blue and green: the women wear them, and in the Moslem bazaar that covers several acres of the town with its open-fronted shops there are handkerchiefs and shawls and printed stuffs which say 'Yes' to the idea of brightness..."

And so I made the bus to Zagreb, a very long, very slow journey, but a beautiful one when there was light. I watched Sarajevo trickle away, the buildings shrinking, the groups of houses becoming more sparse, and then nothing. The white mountains.

It was another winter paradise. Clumps of snow clinging to fence posts, ink-black trees draped in frosty ermine robes. I plowed through Shardik, getting close now to the end and feeling very personal about it. I read some marvelous essays in a book called Winter by Adam Gopnik. I had packed it hoping to read it in the snow, and I got my wish.

I played a little "hidden picture" game on my Kindle.

Many peaceful hours spent reading and dozing. I slumped low in my seat and let my legs straighten out in the aisle. Others did the same. We ate our almonds and drank our water. We made one of those corrupt little rest stop breaks where the driver gets a few lipa for every kuna you spend. He drank coffee and watched us over the rim of the mug to see what we were buying.

I bought a bag of nonsensical chocolates and some potato chips shaped like chicken legs.

The border was one where you have to get out of the bus and face a grim dude. This one was particularly tight, though nothing like the Serbian border, and they isolated us from one another and searched the bus. No problems, though. It was late in the evening.

We got to Zagreb around 9pm, and I stretched my weary legs and got a cab. No ripoff this time, just nice and easy. My host was nowhere to be found, and the snow was really coming down. I was sure I was in the right place, but he wasn't there.

Once again, my bags and I were alone. But this time, it was perilous to be outside. Harsh, cold wind. Heavy, wet snow. More coming down all the time. Huddled in a stairwell waiting for my host. And then... like a doorway in the side of a mountain opening to reveal a procession of the fair folk, a massive wall-sized entrance slid back and there stood salvation. 

Salvation had Coke-bottle lenses and fingerless gloves. He let me in, showed me the space heater, and went back to Whoknowswhere. Strange little apartment in the back of a pizza place. Interesting little walk through a courtyard with a Pepsi sign buried in snow. 

There was a bowl of fruit, but it was fresh when Cato was a pup. Is that an expression? There's an expression like that. Dusty, dry apples. Hard, shriveled orange. No worries. The plan was just to crash here, so I had gotten the cheapest place. 

Early bus in the morning scheduled for Pula back on the coast. Running out of days, so I was really trying to max everything out. Showered in the little airlock-sized bathing tube and crashed. There's nothing like doing nothing on a bus for nine hours to tire a man out. 

Woke up to the sound of bells. Zagreb loves them. They're mad for bells! Considered running out to take a few pictures. I was right in the heart of the action, but the bus to Pula just a few hours away, and it was sooper cold. Still snowing hard. 

Figured I'd make coffee, but no electric kettle. Maybe I could use that mummy fruit as kindling. 

I remembered the old ways, found a pot, filled it with water. There was an electric stove, but the dials don't indicate which was the front or the back burner. It was just a bunch of circles, like a child's guide to shapes. 

The dials just said 1, 2, and 3 on them. Is 3 the hottest? I require the hottest for boiling. Placed the pot on a burner, turned the dial to 3. Waited. The other burner groaned. That meant it was the one that was on. So I turned the other dial. LOUD popping sound, and I was in total darkness.

In retrospect, I should have just moved the pot to the burner that was working. But, why would I assume a blackout if you tried to cook two things at once? No windows, so no light. Or, rather, there was a window, but a giant Ikea closet has been placed in front of it. Slowly felt my way back to the bed.

My laptop had some charge in it, so I used the light from the screen to see. I held it up and swept the room looking for a fusebox. High on the wall, I found one. Old. Plastic. A few holes in it. No exposed wires. Used the laptop to find a chair. Stood on the chair. Plunged my hand into the Soviet-era fuse box and flipped every switch. Nothing. Stood on the chair with the laptop. Found a secret switch. Flipped it. Light!! I earned myself some coffee, but I don't dare try to make it now.

I felt like all the training I'd done with my "find things in pictures" game had at last paid off!

Went out to find a cafe. I thought I'd seen one through the hoarfrost the previous evening. My vision was true. Fought through the snow, and made my way in. People were stamping snow off their boots. 

There was an interesting bit in that book of essays where it said the Russian government in the 1950s had to put out propaganda saying that Russian soldiers had beaten Hitler and not the Russian Winter. There was legitimate concern from the government that people were giving the snow too much credit. 

On a day like today, I could see why. What I couldn't see was that it was going to have a serious effect on the rest of the trip. I was like, "Oh, sucks for photos!" and not, "Wait a minute... is this going to... make it hard to... drive?"

Snagged my bags, threw the key under that giant wall-door and grabbed a cab. There was one right there. He took me right to the station. I saw so many statues clothed in snow. Beautiful, really.

Got my ticket to Pula and waited. Bought some more burek. Cheese and onions this time. It was good, but I was trying to think of what it would be like back home. I was deliberately chowing down on bus station food, the equivalent of old pizza and wrinkly hot dogs. But, since it was new to me, it was all wonderful. 

How I would laugh at someone coming out of the Greyhound ticket office raving about the delicious nacho cheese they'd just eaten. 

Gypsies were really swarming here. Target-rich environment, I reckon, and the cold had forced everyone inside. 

A reminder of the plan: I had a ticket to Pula, roughly four hours away. I was going to explore it for two hours and take a two-hour bus to Rijeka where I had a room booked. I wanted to sleep in Rijeka, because in the morning they were having a massive children's carnival. Costumes, parades, wild crafts and singing. 

Wiped the burek grease off of my lips, rolled over to the platform, and a very powerful looking driver person with a NASCAR-style jacket covered in bus logos was like, "Cherry orchard rack of lamb," and I was like, "Sorry.. Pula?" and he was like, "Camptown racetrack miss congeniality," and I was like...

And a cool dude in sunglasses and a fur-trimmed jacket was like, "Bus late. No problem." 

So I waited in the warmth. The same gypsy cruised me twice, until the driver was like, "NAY!" and she fucked off miserably. Pigeons were loose in the waiting room and there was bird shit on the seats.

Eventually, without too much delay at all really, the bus pulled up and we boarded. We took off dreaming of Pula's famous amphitheater. 

I finished Shardik! 600 dense pages of fantasy philosophy! I ended up loving you, you dear old brick. You old bruin. Never speak to me again. 

Slept as the hours ticked away. Woke up in Zagreb. Record scratch! How could this be? Was it maybe just a station that looked exactly like Zagreb? Noap. Apparently while I slept, we turned all the way around and came back. The blizzard had closed the interior of the country.

Holy shit. They gave everyone all their money back, but... I wasn't getting a refund on the four hours I'd lost. In the confusion, I even left Shardik on the bus and couldn't give it a proper burial. 

So... I went back to the ticket office, and I was like, "Where can I go?" and he was like, "There's a city called Noplace. Let me teach you a Croatian word, it's "Highwayclosed."

So... I was just... in the bus station waiting to see what would happen. I was there for hours. Reading, writing, drinking fancy crafted coffee, and waving off gypsies.

There was every form of begging imaginable. There was the scam where you come up crying, there was the scam where you just glare with your hand shaped like a cup, there was the scam where you drop off a sign-language alphabet card and come back to collect it. Has that one ever really worked? And, of course, there was that same lady who had been buzzing around the station since the early early morning. Her thing was to wave a religious post card at you and croak. 

The one that got me was a little kid. He was wearing a cheap 70s-style Halloween mask and sang in a "duh duh duh" voice, like it was the laziest recital of some old tune. Coming out of that plastic freak mask, though, it was legitimately scary. It was something my senses couldn't ignore, something truly weird. 

It was like something out of that old Donald Sutherland movie, the one where he chases a dwarf through Venice. 

After he finished "singing," he just stared at me. Eyes moving behind the mask's eyeholes. Then he yelled "MONEY!" in high-pitched English, and my hand was in my pocket and the coin was out and in his hand as quickly as possible.

After many hours, snow falling outside the large windows of the bus station, they reopened some roads, but not to Rijeka or Pula. Only back to Split. And so... I took what I was offered. The other alternative would be to stay the night in Zagreb, but that could mean being stranded again. So, I pretended the lyrics to the scary clown child's song were:

Go back to Split, sleepy Yankee

Give me a coin, and I'll thankee. 

I also decided he would count as the children's costume festival. I sure know how to make myself feel good. I recognized that the days of get up and go were behind me now. Made peace with it and boarded the bus. 

Off to Split. The roads were terrible, and the driver skidded more than once. Would we turn around again? Noap. We would stop at another ripoff road stop, though. I bought expensive almonds, and the driver beamed at me. We got stuck in the driveway, the wheels just spun in the snow. They figured something out. We switched buses in the dark. 

I read a marvelous book of short stories by James Salter. I read a weird collection of fragments by James Kelman called Greyhound for Breakfast. The title story was awesome. Arrived in Split, a very very familiar bus station. I was able to book a little room near a statue of a golden donkey. 

I had seen it a few days ago. It felt good to know it. It was "my" donkey.

The host greeted me with homemade crepes filled with local honey from the hills. It was late. I slept. Warm and weary.

And then I spent a very restful, very beautiful final day in a city I felt I knew.  Made cherry tea, did laundry. Bought a sweater from a soldier. Bought some oranges and lavender from an old woman in the market. Ate risotto and zucchini in a small cafe. Read short stories and napped. Drank more cherry tea and read some essays. 

And that was it. That was Croatia. A really great trip full of surprises and emotion. I won't forget the way I felt in Mostar or Sarajevo. I'll treasure the rare opportunity I had to run the walls of Dubrovnik alone. Another inspirational visit to Eastern Europe. 

Thanks for reading, fools. 

Sniper Alley and What I Found There

"Courage is not simply one of the virtues, but the form of every virtue."

Woke up nice and early. Everything over the last few days was working very nicely. I was making my buses. I was having the time to see what I wanted to see. A few snags waiting for keys or with finding rooms, but nothing too nagging. In Sarajevo, I got eight hours of sleep, woke up, armored up and went out.

It's a big city with distinct flavors. There's the Baščaršija, the old market in the old town, and there's big, modern Sarajevo with its Olympic and war memorials. It's all mostly in a straight line, but it's a long straight line. Miles of things to see. I chose to extend that even more by visiting a cemetery on a hill I had seen yesterday.

My cozy room was closer to the old town, and I planned to pop back there for breakfast. I had to catch that bus to Zagreb at noon too. So.. for whatever reason, the plan was to see the cemetery and old town, eat breakfast, go back out to the modern city, close to the bus station, then go back to the apartment and get my bags, and take a cab to the bus station.

Some backtracking there. Not the most efficient plan, but it's what I did.

There was no one around. It was 7am. Misty. This is a city of stray dogs, and if you thought the stray cats were sad. Dogs have visible emotions and seem so much more vulnerable. I hated to see them wet and dirty and sad looking. Hungry. I didn't have anything for them.

And yet, they played with one another and chased one another in little packs. Some had little tags on their ears. There must be some sort of plan for them. Crossed the river and made my way to the cemetery. It was way up on a high hill. The houses in the hills were colorful and clustered together like a cubist painting. They looked like spaces on a game board.

An old man in a long black jacket came out of a doorway and walked by me without speaking. In the cemetery, a woman was visiting a grave. The newer headstones looked like fence posts or coffee stirrers. The older ones looked like pumpkin but were, in fact, turbans.

I walked through the quiet space and watched deep-throated birds going about their birdly business. I noticed slowly and then all at once that almost all the death dates on the tombstones were the same. 1994, 1994, 1994, 1995, 1994, 1996, 1995, 1994. Reading them like that, I just started sobbing. I leaned against the wall of a tomb and wept.

It was very different than the feeling I got in the Polish cemeteries (where all the death dates were in the 1940s), because, maybe, the world has done a lot of analyzing of the Holocaust, a lot of culture and discussion around it, so I was a little more...prepared for that, I guess.

These were from the 90s for fuck's sake. Our lifetime. Not some black and white History Channel bullshit. These people were shot while I was renting videos. They had to be buried at night, because the people burying them would otherwise have been shot themselves.

Can you imagine? Having to put on black clothing and drag your brother's corpse up a hill just so you could bury him without being yourself murdered. Terrified and digging. Crying. Digging. Waiting for your turn.

So, very sobering, and I guess I needed the release. There was a lot of surprise emotion there. Headed back down and dipped into the Old Town. The hill was a lot to climb, and it was getting closer to breakfast time. I couldn't help but stop for some Burek, though, which is the local dish. It's, like, mincemeat wrapped in phyllo dough. I'd had a version of it in Croatia, but this was the real thing.

It's kind of like a corn dog, I guess? No. It's like a tubular meat pie. I don't know. It's good. It was a good breakfast at a quiet little diner. Coffee is a hassle here. There's something called Bosnian Coffee, which they warn you not to drink. They talk about it the way Thai people talk about the spicier range of their foods.

It's like, "oh, you can't handle it, little boy." It's supposed to be a big, thick, slug of mud. I didn't try it. Your options in Europe in general are either powdered mix or something crafted by a master jeweler who doesn't think you deserve it and which you're expected to take all day appreciating.

So, this Bosnian blob coffee seemed interesting, but I just got some water. Like a person!

The town was starting to come alive. The pigeons had returned to Pigeon Square, and the rug dealers were starting to flap out their rugs. Passed the bead shops and the copper shops and the evil eye shops and made my way, like a good hobbit, to second breakfast.

My host wasn't there, but the table was all set for me with a proper European breakfast, which is toast and a million things to spread on toast. Jam, cheeses, butters, chocolates. I made room for an orange and a nice jammy slice of bread.  I wrapped up a bunch of bread a cheese for later. I would want it on the bus.

Then doubly fortified, I headed back out. It was starting to rain.

The guide book, so helpful everywhere else, got kind of vague here with references to "the road," and using nicknames for places instead of street names. I didn't want to ask anyone where "Sniper Alley" or "Runner's Street" were.

Man, I saw a big ol' buncha tombystones up there on the hill up yonder. Where'd they all get shot at? I want to take a pitcher!

Winged it and saw some interesting things. A sad memorial to dead children that looked like a half-finished sand castle, an eternal flame, and one of the "Roses of Sarajevo."

When the city was being shelled, it messed up the pavement, and they filled in the holes with a red resin. They were all over the place, but there's a movement in recent years to forget about them. People are picking out the resin. I saw plenty of spattery pot holes where it had been picked out, where the "roses" had been "plucked."

I see both sides. You need to remember, but you also don't want it to define you.

It was cool to walk around in a city that wasn't catering to tourists. I saw all sorts of real stuff. Two men huddled around the same newspaper, one reading aloud to the other. A man struggling with files in a briefcase, an actual briefcase. It was all so beautiful and real.

Giant Communist-era statues flanking city buildings. Mosques and churches and Times Square-style buildings with electric billboard walls. Near the Holiday Inn where all the Western journalists holed up during the war, I made a left and hung out on the Woodrow Wilson promenade, a beautiful tree-lined walk along the river.

My goal was to find a large ironic statue called the Monument to Canned Beef. Found it!

But it had been badly vandalized. Probably by the same people who picked the resin out. I've read that the Siege of Sarajevo was an old-fashioned style attack where they surrounded a city and tried to starve them. The only way for food to get in or out was for the UN to airdrop canned beef in at night and hope the people collecting it didn't get sniped.

It kept people alive, so I can see wanting to memorialize it, but I can also see younger people not wanting to have a giant can of SPAM standing in for their bravery.

Rain was hard now, and I'd seen everything on my list. A really interesting place, and I was glad it called to me and glad I came here. Croatia had its charms, but they seemed like fantasy. Bosnia was beautiful in a much more human way.

Ducked into a bank and had an amusing struggle to transform a bill into coins. I wanted one of each coin and there was a language barrier, but the teller was in a good mood, so it all worked out. Long walk back to the apartment, short goodbye with Edith (thanks for the bread and cheese, Edith!) and into a cab.

There was a bad traffic accident up ahead and the rain was bad, and it took forever just to get moving. The bus to Zagreb was leaving in thirty minutes, and the station was fifteen minutes away. We sat without moving for ten. I decided to let myself get nervous.

This has certainly been a city of emotions. They all came out in Sarajevo! The driver finally cut across a bunch of back alley stuff to get me to the church on time. I was grateful. Five minutes to buy a ticket and get on the bus.

A gypsy was like, "Argle bock," and I just gave her some coins, then I was terrified I'd given her the coins I collected from the bank. But no time!

Giant line at the ticket window, and unlike everywhere else, they don't let you into the bus area without a ticket. Most of the time, if you're scrambling you can just buy the ticket on the bus.

By some magic, four people in front of me were all together and bought their tickets at once. I had two minutes. The counter lady was like, "It is leaving now, you must have ticket now!" and I was like, "I sure know that," but... she wouldn't take my Kuna or my card. She would only take Convertible Marks.

I was like... uhhhhh, and she was like, "Cash machine!"

And I ran out and prayed my card worked, and the card worked. Tore it out of the slot, scraped my bag back in there, pushed the old woman who had taken my place aside, and grabbed my ticket. Thank god the card worked.

Ran ran ran through the checkpoint. Flew flew flew for the bus. Made it.

I gasped and heaved in my seat, and we took off. Eight hours later, I was going to be in Zagreb, a choice which would, in effect, end the trip. Had I known, I might not have been in such a blind panic to get on that bus.

It will soon be told.

The Kind Old Women of Sarajevo

"We need something to help us pass on to another dimension. The creation of an androgynous thought that leads to a superior mind. When you are linked to everyone there are no enemies."

The trip was at a crossroads. I ate oranges in my room and thought out the remaining options. The end game was a festival in Rijeka, but I had three days to get there. Rijeka is a coastal town in the Northwest and Dubrovnik is way South of there.

To get there straight from Dubrovnik would require a long ride past cities I'd already explored. The key was Zagreb in the North. If I could get to Zagreb, I could easily dip down to Rijeka and even see scenic Pula in the bargain.

To get to Zagreb, I could fly ($50! One Hour!), which was tempting, since it was cheap and fast. Or... I could take the slow route: bus to Sarajevo, spend a day there, and take a bus to Zagreb after that. The way that would work out would render Zagreb nothing but a crash spot, but there wasn't really anything appealing about it anyway.

Sarajevo, on the other hand, promised exotic delights. And I was so moved by Mostar, I wanted more of that Bosnian flavor. So... a long ride to Sarajevo it would be. Tightened my straps. Bid Dubrovnik and my patron Saint farewell, and back to the bus station.

It felt like the right choice immediately. The ride there was ripped from a Hans Christian Anderson story. It was nearly like a picture print by Currier and Ives. Bright white covering solemn dark trees. Fuzzy rivers in the distance. Distant bridges out of focus.

Once you get away from those warm coastal breezes, the interior of the country is free to be as cold as it likes. And as you weave up up up through the mountains, it really exercises that right. Read more Shardik (end already!) and a misogynist Noel Coward play called Blithe Spirit.

A German woman and her two children sat behind me. The boy kept practicing his English in the sweet high voice of a child. It would be a bunch of Teutonic murmuring and then, "Eat. Play. Drink."
She doted on them. Listened to them. Seemed happy to be traveling with them.

At a brief stop (I got good at understanding the language of the drivers. When they said something like, "Powzuh, Dessa Minuta" I could tell it meant, "ten-minute rest"), we got out in the snow. She bundled them up with their little scarves and hats.

I watched an animal roast at the rest stop. Someone had built a tiny snowman with twig arms. Everything but the spitting coals was still and quiet.

Drifted the rest of the way. The driver and his buddy chattered in Croat (or Bosnian?) and the little boy read aloud: "Ron told Harry he was worried it would be posha." He stopped, "Posha, poshen...poison!"

I listened to more French music. Ate some almonds and... Sarajevo. A real city. None of this seaside bullshit. People work here. People walk the streets here. Old trams rattle by with "FUCK" spray painted on the side here. Big orange letters.

In the last few moments leading to our getting off the bus, the German woman introduced herself and started a very friendly conversation. Why had she taken so long? She told me she was staying in the Old Town and was looking forward to... well good bye.

What stories I might have learned!

Found a taxi. Creepy old dude who asked for a bunch of money. I had read it was much less, but I didn't argue. These people are poor and the "outrageous' price they ask amounts to being ripped off for less than three dollars. Let them have a score and brag about it.

Except... he had no idea where he was going, kept stopping for directions, and insisted I get out when he was tired of looking. He just dropped me off at a street that had some of the same letters as the street I needed. Charged me double and left me high and dry.

I was in some sort of suburb. It had been cool to race past buildings and parks and cemeteries, but... we screwed the cab into an alley, he cursed and ground the gears, and now I was... here. No phone. No internet.

I just pushed the doorbell on the closest building. Figured I'd throw myself on the mercy of the court. No answer. An old woman with a head scarf and no teeth came limping by. She was like, "Osh Kosh, Wisconsin Orchard?" and I was like, "Uh..."

She put down her grocery bag and hit a different doorbell than I had pushed. An old woman came to the door. "Shishta?"

I showed her the address I was supposed to be at. The first old woman said, "Oh. Oh, is far. You need taxi. 1516 is good taxi. Very good. Call 1516."

I was like, "Uh..." and the second woman went back in her house. It was just me and the first woman. She kept smiling. "1516, very good taxi. You want to go far."

The second woman came back with a phone. She was calling the taxi! The first old woman nodded at me and said goodbye. The phone woman motioned me into her home. I was suddenly in a Bosnian stranger's home with tile floors and crystal glasses and little rugs and wooden chairs.

She brought me water. It tasted like the water of human kindness. Neither of us spoke the other's language, but neither was afraid. The taxi showed up, and she made bird sounds and I was gone. Goodbye old women.

Driver got me there in two seconds, and magically the few coins I had left were the fare almost exactly. Walked up the hill to see my host, Edith, smiling from a window. "You are early!" she shouted down. Somehow that was true.

Supremely charming woman in a thick green sweater. Real style. "You'll want breakfast in the morning, of course," she said. "Will nine o' clock do? I'll lay it all out, you will eat it, and you will not touch the dishes."

VERY cozy warm little room. I sank into it. Got my camera stuff together and went out to see if there was any light left. The goal was to find the Latin Bridge and the plaque commemorating the death of Franz Ferdinand. The apartment was very close to "Pigeon Square," so there I went.

Noisy marketplace, towering mosques, lively streets, and what I'd been craving: Doner Kebab. I ran in and ordered the biggest pouch of it they had. Hunched in a corner, puffed up with all my layers of clothes, and ate and ate. It was excellent. Warm and spicy. Fragrant onions.

He was waiting for me when I walked out. Wiry little street whippet in a bright yellow track suit. Twelve years old, maybe thirteen. "How was you sandwich. I see you eat it." Fine, thank you. Have a good day. "For me is long time no sandwich. My father, he is ten years not living. My mother, she is five years no work."

He must have seen me exchanging my dollars for Convertible Marks.

I'm very sorry. Good luck to you. "This your first time Sarajevo? You are America, yes? America has no problem money. You give money yes?" Take me to the Latin Bridge. If you take me to the Latin Bridge, money yes. "Yes? Money yes? Where do you want to go, the what?" The Latin Bridge.

"Lati....OH, Catta Dala! You want Catta Dala. I take you Catta Dala, and money yes." He took off very quickly. He got so far ahead of me, I thought about ditching him, but I'd obviously been on his radar for a while, and he would easily find me again. He was a streak of yellow flashing past the old women with their bags of lettuce and the old men selling long strings of beads. He would look back every now and again and shout "Catta Dala!"

Maybe Dala meant bridge here? The language is different. None of my Croatian phrases are having any impact here. I had a few tiny coins and a few large bills. I was worried the coins wouldn't be enough, and I wasn't going to give him a large bill.

He tore around more corners, but the yellow made him easy to follow. We were nowhere near the river now, and I know the Latin Bridge crosses the river. It's a bridge. Coffee shops. Rugs for sale. Copper plates for sale. "Catta Dala!" he gestured at an enormous church. Why did he? Why were we?

Catta Dala. Katedrala. Cathedral.

I gave him the coins. He ran off without counting them. When I am retired, I will open a deli called "Long Time No Sandwich" and the special will be the Catta Dala with provolone.

Found the plaque. Explored the city aimlessly. My energy faded with the light, so I went back home. I piled on the blankets and curled up in that furry bed. There was a soft purple glow from the window, and the call to prayer lulled me to sleep. In the morning, I would wake up very early and climb a hill to a cemetery. I pictured myself doing it. I envisioned it. I slept.

The Walls of Dubrovnik and the Bay of Kotor

"I have crossed the mountains of Gelt and hunted the long-horned buck on the plains of Kabin. And I have crossed to Deelguy and stood two hours up to my neck in the Lake of Klamsid to net the golden cranes at dawn."

Thunder. You could tell from the sound of it, that the sky was black. Then it wasn't. Lightning. I did the old trick where you count the space between the two. The storm was moving away. Loud rain, gutters emptying into the hard marble alleys. Everything was washed clean.

Dubrovnik was nice enough yesterday, but I wasn't overwhelmed by it. Maybe I was spoiled by Split. Does Dubrovnik's reputation stem from it being a popular cruise stop, and the boat people hadn't seen anything else like it back in Idaho?

God, though, it was so beautiful seeing the people running around for their festival yesterday. I saw a sweet little girl holding holy candles to her throat, one on each side. St. Blaise is the patron saint of throat ailments and speech impediments. Her face was so full of hope and belief. She wanted everyone to see she was doing it right.

Loved watching a fussy priest scurry across the plaza, his robes billowing out.

The plan was to see the city walls and zip over to Kotor, Montenegro. That would be a two-hour bus ride with the only available return bus leaving two hours after that. So... two hours on the bus, two hours in Kotor, and two hours back. Would I do it?

It was still very early. I rolled back over. Woke up to the sound of drumming and some kind of cannon fire. Whatever it was, it was the same thing I missed yesterday. Grabbed my little Russian navy sweater, pulled on my jeans and got out there. 7am. The rain, so fierce just a few hours ago had stopped.

In the plaza under the bell tower was a marching band, about twenty dudes in traditional costumes, and a line of dudes with wooden guns. A man with a sword would indicate a soldier, and the soldier would fire. That was the noise. It was very loud up close.

There was no one there. It was like they were doing it for themselves. The drummer started, and they all started marching. I followed them.

I followed a marching band around the walls of Dubrovnik.

At specific checkpoints, they would stop and fire the guns. The rifles were loud, but survivable. These dudes in goofy hats at the end, though, had these crazy hand cannons that woke up the world. Crowds were gathering now. After the second checkpoint, I figured I'd seen it all, so I ditched the circus, bought some bread, and walked around.

The cats were waking up, and I had bought a box of cat food at the store. One of my jacket pockets was full of kibble. I made a million friends. With all the action outside now, the town was deserted. Just me and the cats. One little lavender and orange guy was very vocal about his appreciation.

A Scandinavian-seeming tourist came out of an alley and whistled at a cat. I offered him some cat food, and when he refused, I felt ridiculous. I went to see if the walls were open yet. There had been a locked gate yesterday.

It was still locked. I sat down and read about the city in my guide book. The forearm of a statue I had seen earlier was used to determine a standard measure of length. Rope and wood and cloth and whatever was measured in "elbows." Wild.

Unabomber-looking dude came up and unlocked the gate. The Walls are the main attraction here when they don't have a parade, so I was excited to see them. They cost money, but the gate dude was moving on up some other stairs. The ticket booth was unmanned. Should I... sneak in... and feign ignorance? Could I claim I was disoriented by the cannons?

Why is my heart so full of deceit? Why is my first thought always to be a sneak? From whence comes my snaky soul? Friend to cats and criminal to man! I waited for the ticket booth to open.

Nobody came. I took a few steps toward the entrance. A sign read: "For the Festival of St. Blaise, the Walls will be free today." How do you like that? Climbed up on them.

They exceeded the hype. What a beautiful city. What a magnificent experience. Winding around above the city, protected by the walls, ducking into little forts and guard towers. Everything spread out before you. The sea. The sky.

And I had it all to myself.

In the distance, a cable car took men into the hills. Birds soared high and disappeared. I was the king of the castle. I was the last line of defense. I won't say something cheesy like "I felt connected to history!" but it was every "build a medieval village" activity book and King Arthur coloring page I'd every enjoyed as a boy brought to life.

Perfect day and no crowd. Having fooled around inside the city yesterday and having followed those goofy flag people this morning, I "knew" the city. I felt oriented and knew what I was looking down on. God, it was fun to duck behind the fortifications and pop up pretending to pour oil down. The way these things twisted around, there's no way anyone was sneaking up on this place. Or taking it.

They film Game of Thrones all around here, so I made a little video of myself singing the theme song. All the towns bells began to ring in the middle of it. The parade was coming back in. From high above, I watched them stream into the city and down the wide main avenue. They were headed back to the cathedral.

I've never chosen a patron saint, so there's an opening. I choose St. Blaise. I hear you get a nice white dress and a party on your confirmation.

A stirring hour circling the city, and I went back to the room. I had thirty minutes to catch the bus to Kotor. Would I do it?

I did it. (Saint) blazed out of there, grabbed a cab at the ancient gate (Autobus Stadion! And Autobus Step on it!) and made the bus. Not sure what instinct reminded me to grab my passport on the way out, but it was a good instinct. Montenegro is another country.

Very easy ride over there along a beautiful coast, with the beauty only increasing as we approached the Bay of Kotor. The border check was the wave of a matador's flag. Easy. BUT, when it was revealed by the appearance of my passport that I was an American, this dude, another passenger, had plenty to say to me.

When the bus is empty and the next person who gets on sits next to you anyway, you know they're a lunatic. This is true in every country and on every form of public transportation. Sometimes they are merely touched with lunacy and not full-blown moon-crazy, and I was fortunate he was one of the milder cases.

Before the border, he hadn't spoken, just sat next to me breathing, but now:

"Well, I don't like the way America treats the world, and I guess you're going to get special treatment around here. Nothing better happen to you or America will cause trouble for us." He was a big man. His glasses had round frames. His sleeves had pockets in which were stuffed blue Sharpies. I have never seen sleeves like that before.

Instead of arguing with him, I just asked him where he was from.

"Well, there's a question! Where is anyone from? I can tell you this by way of answer. I live in Canada." His accent was Eastern European. "And even though I live in Canada, they stop me at the border coming from New York and back home. There is no open border, you know. They asked me what my purpose was. They asked me why I had been in the States. And do you know what I told them?"

Vacation?

"No. I told them I was in the United States to buy Milky Way bars."

I laughed, and he frowned. I had thought he was being sarcastic, but...

"They opened my bags and they found my fifty Milky Way bars. But, since the label on a Milky Way says 'made in Canada,' I had a lot of explaining to do. They wanted to know why I had left Canada to buy Canadian chocolate. They don't know that Milky Ways are the only chocolate bar that is made in Canada but not sold there, and they don't know that Milky Ways are my favorite."

I told him I thought they were good.

"You must never leave your credit card. You think I am joking, but in America you must always escort your card, or a waiter will steal it. You must follow them. You must always escort your card."

I told him I would try to.

"Here it is safe. There is no crime here because the villages are small and there is too much shame. Shame keeps them from stealing."

I thought I was going to enjoy his company all the way to Kotor, but he bailed in some no-town. I watched him make his proud way across the street, and then we were off. It only occurred to me a while later to check my pockets. Wallet still there. Passport still there. Shame had done its work, and he hadn't robbed me.

The journey to Kotor was astonishing. Carving a little curve around mysterious islands with benign stone goliaths surrounding you. A massive round-topped mountain rose over the others like a domed ivory church.

We arrived right on time, which was important, since I only had two hours. Booked it out of the bus station and hustled to the old town. Just steps away, really. The main draw is the crumbling fortress in the hills. You climb these marble stairs forever and get treated to marvelous views.

It's like a mini-Dubrovnik, but it's smaller and less... preserved. Much less of a Disney feel, though. A lot of Dubrovnik feels like the Croatia ride at EPCOT, but Kotor felt real. No goofy costumes here. Just people trying to scratch yams out of the dust with sticks. In Dubrovnik, I kept waiting for Grimace or Donald Duck to come out waving.

Long climb up the mostly shattered stairs. Very clear and beautiful. I was breathing hard from the climb. It was not easy. I was alone, so of course I fantasized about turning my ankle and being trapped up there bleating like a sheep for hours.

At the mid-point is the Our Lady of Health Church. The perfect stopping point for a fat American who had already circumnavigated a city today. I tagged it and went down.

That all took about an hour, so I had an hour left to explore and make the bus again. Quick little ramble around a scattered little town. No tourists, but around a corner were one million cats. The mother lode. At least twenty. I was prepared for them. I still had that jacket pocket full of kibble.

It was the miracle of loaves and fishes. Their kitten's kittens will speak of this day. I loved trying to make sure everybody got some. Even the sick-looking ones. Especially the sick-looking ones. Stray animals will break your fucking heart.

Some of them were wet and dirty. I saw a badly wounded cat in Mostar I couldn't write about. He sat so still. Suffering with such dignity. Oh, the world. It was heartbreaking. Feeding these guys won't help him. Loving Ruggles won't help him, but it means there's love somewhere in the world. I don't know how to articulate it.

They were really swarming me, so it was hard to get the picture. I had thirty minutes, so I ducked into a pizza place, It was the only thing open. I realized I didn't have any Montenegrian (sp?) money, so I asked how much the special was in Euros.

"It is the same," said the waiter, "The Euro is our money."

I got something called The Sara Special, which was enormous with crazy cheeks of meat all over it, blobs of sour cream with olives, and an egg over easy vibrating in the middle. It was cut all wonky. No triangles here. It was hilarious and delicious,

Wolfed it down. I ate with my wristwatch on the table staring at me. Booked it back to the station.

I made it!

I wanted to doze on the ride back, but it was too beautiful. Read more Shardik, Really liking it now. It got me. I can't imagine anyone I know reading it, though. I wonder what books they've read that they think I'll never read.

At the station, I scrimped a couple of Kuna by taking a city bus instead of a taxi. Fun to be with real folks. When we got to the gate, the parade was limping out. It was all the same people. Had they been firing those guns and marching in circles for eight hours? Is this what it means to serve St. Blaise?

I hope he takes my age into consideration.

The Journey to Dubrovnik

"You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth. The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far. Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness; For even as He loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable."

There was lightning in the distant hills on the ride home from Mostar. I arrived in Split to darkening skies and made my may home for sleep. The Super Bowl was scheduled to kick off at 1am local time, and I had to catch the 7am bus to Dubrovnik.

So, I figured, sleep now, and stay up through everything else!

There was a casino on the outskirts of town showing the Big Game, a party hosted by a local "American Football" team called the Split Seawolves. What a hoot. I figured I'd do it and maybe come away with a Seawolves jersey.

The invite read:
"Come around 23:30 - await you promotional price of drinks, voucher of £ 35 for a game in Wettpunkt-in and a super team and a huge video wall on which we are transferring! #Nichi will fill stomach"

Sounded good to me.

Set the alarm, and dozed off a little worried about available cash. If my ATM card didn't work in the morning, it would be lean times on the rest of the trip. Sure #Nichi would fill stomach tonight, but what will I eat in Zagreb in four days?

Sleep. Sleep. Awakened by heavy-metal thunder. This is no weather to visit a casino in. Rolled back over. Woke up around halftime of the game. Shared the agony of the terrible loss with Mike, who was online back in the states. He and I have been together for for some infamous defeats, boy. It's almost a theme of ours.

I wonder how the Seawolves took it.

Still raining hard and I was still worried about whether or not the ATM card would work, so I figured, just get out there. I made some of that powdered coffee, bundled up, and got out there.

I also took the leather bag Ruggles ruined. Figured I'd leave it somewhere dry for someone else. Maybe someone with the patience to unstink it. Farewell, bag. RIP. RI... cat pee, that is.

Went out in the blackness. Found an alley and ditched the bag. The three 24-hour bakeries were open, and there was a bank machine between them. I held my nose, I closed my eyes, I took a drink. Bills came pouring out. Magical bills! I was rich again. Celebrated with a big old sausage roll and some baklava.

Getting pretty sick of phyllo dough. Everything here is baked into it or wrapped with it. I like the taste, but I just want a donar kebab, you know, I want to bite something and not have it crunch.

Back home for the last time. Made sure I was all packed up. Stole a roll of toilet paper in case I got the sniffles again, took the jar of almonds the host gifted me with, and zipped on out of there. Stuck the key in the mailbox.

Farewell, Split. You were cool on your own, and the ideal launching pad for adventures outward.

Dark walk to the bus terminal, but a very familiar one by now. The leather bag was gone already. A good find for someone, though they'll soon discover it's no bargain! The paw of Ruggles strikes from worlds away!

It was too early for the ticket counter to be open, but the driver sold me a ticket. No problem. You're not allowed to bring suitcases on the bus, though, so he charged me for that. Again, no problem, I had all that money now. Why, I could even afford an expensive necktie if I wanted one.

You see, Croatia claims to have invented the neck tie. I guess the story goes, a bunch of Frenchies liked the way Croatians wore their scarves, and started doing it that way, and the way the French pronounced "Croat" sounded like "Cravat," and the cravat is the precursor of the necktie.

Seems legit.

A bunch of stores has necktie-shaped doorknobs even. Everything was a million raccoons, though, 

Quiet little ride to Dubrovnik along the glorious coast. It's as pleasing to the eye and uplifting to the soul as anything there is. The mighty sea, the patient rocks, the steely green and prideful blues. White clouds above and white foam below. 

I read more Shardik. I had taken a break from it to read The Thin Man, which I completed in one sitting. Enjoyed it very much, of course, but now back to this big red brick. I chose it because Richard Adams said it was his favorite thing he'd ever written.

Maybe authors like their rough children the best. They need them more.

My host in Dubrovnik was a man named Zvonko. He had to work in the afternoon, so it was important the bus be on time, but the bus was running very late. One of the reasons is, there's a weird little postage-stamp sized plot of Bosnia that juts into the Croatian coast. It's sort of hilarious. 

It's there so Bosnia can have a port, but also for some other obscure reason. So, even though I was going from one Croatian city to the another, there was a passport check.

When you cross a border on a bus, the process usually works like this:
1) An armed guard from the country you're leaving boards the bus and collects everyone's passports and ID cards.

2) The bus then drives across the line into the new country while the border cops run the names to see if there are any fugitives.

3) The cop gives the stack of passports back to the driver, and you take off again. That's mostly how it goes.

Of course, you get nervous the bus will leave without your passport, but it doesn't happen. When the driver has them back, the process for returning them is interesting. If the driver has a buddy, the buddy walks up and down the aisle passing them back, calling out the names.

If the driver doesn't have a buddy, he hands the stack to whoever's in the front seat, and he takes his and passes back the stack. You get to see everyone's stuff!

On the ride back from Mostar, the driver had a buddy. He was having fun with it, calling out the names and running over to the person the passport belonged to like it was a game show. I was listening out for my name, of course. Would he pronounce it "See-mahn?" or "Shemmin?"

My ear was tuned to that, so I didn't recognize that he'd been calling "my" name for a while, but he was pronouncing it "Barack Obama." He was just standing next to my seat holding it out and saying, "Barack Obama" until I was like, "wha? Oh, he means me!" I was the only American on the bus, so that's the name I got.

No jinks quite as high here, though. Pretty routine. No stamps, just a flip-through and a hard stare. Then you park at something called the Supermarket Orca, which is a convenience store that gives a portion of its sales to the bus driver. So there's every incentive to park there for a while.

It had wi-fi, though, so I wrote Zvonko and told him I'd be late. Lucky. I went for coffee, but the coffee bar allowed smoking, and it was like walking into a wall. I backed right the fuck out. So fucked up to think I lived the first half of my life that way. That was just how it was when you went anywhere.

The movies make the 40s and 50s seem romantic, but the clubs where Gilda sang must have been hell.

Eventually, the driver couldn't squeeze any more profit out of the visit, so we sped on and reached Dubrovnik at last.

Cabbed it to the Old City where I was staying. Zvonko had to bail for work, so I had to meet his dad instead, but daddy needed an extra hour, so I finally got that coffee. I entered through the Pile Gate (as did hundreds of tourists also there that day) and enjoyed the big, old feel of the place.

Giant wide, marble avenue called The Stradun. It was lined with flags for The Festival of St. Blaise, which was totally happening.

Coffeed up, met the old man at the drawbridge, and tried to nap, but I heard drums and bells, so I rallied and went back out. Right away, I saw a man wearing a Sibenik cap. It looked just like mine!

Very cool old city that rewards exploration. It all looks the same at first, crooked staircases leading to cafes, charming boutiques selling neck ties. Terrible restaurants offering regretful meals. Wide plazas. High bell towers and charming clocks.

Everything was strewn with fresh garlands for the festival. I ate some chicken stuffed with shrimp. It was a million dollars, and I felt fooled. Tired, though, and making poor decisions.

Took some more shots almost pathologically and passed a grocery store. Something about its normalcy helped me refocus. I bought some oranges and some toiletries and made myself go back to the room to sleep.

Started to rest. In the morning, I was prepared to climb the walls and see what this place was all about.

I heard cannon fire and laughter outside. Bells. Should I.... Stop it. Stop it. Dubrovnik would be there in the morning. It's been here for centuries.