Split, Croatia

Might as well continue the trend of naming journal entries with corny manipulations of city names. I was going to name the last one, “Hungary? Try The Magyaroni” but that’s a little too, um, cheesy. Either way, right now I’m in beautiful Split, Croatia, where it’s sunny, dry and about 80 degrees. Besides being an important port town and a gateway to the gorgeous Dalmatian islands, Split has a Mediterranean party atmosphere and a maze-like old town. Last night we dined on top-notch seafood at a classy joint overlooking the harbor for less than you’d spend on a McDonalds Filet-O-Fish meal back home in the States.

Last night in Budapest

We left Budapest after a fantastic sendoff, headed for Croatia. The ride in our trusty Czech station wagon took us through up-and-coming parts of Hungary that featured giant Tesco and Auchan soccer-mom supermarkets, and other, more depressed areas that don’t see many tourists (or money). Especially in gypsy towns, pretty much every driveway has a roadside stand selling huge jars of honey and very suspect-looking blocks of cheese.

Croatia is just starting to recover economically from the war, but the progress is impressive. They are building a highway network that’s just as nice as any highway I’ve seen in Western Europe, but it’s evident that they’re still working out a few kinks. For example, once you cross the border, you’re immediately given a tollway ticket. Between there and two toll points, there are no gas stations and no ATMs. So unless you come into the country with Croatian currency, you’re stuck putting the tolls on your credit card — which would be easy enough if they all took credit cards! The first one did, so it went well… but number two was a mysterious cash-only toll plaza. When we informed the attendent that we had zero kuna to our names, he replied in English with a hilarious Eastern European accent with what has become the quote of the trip: “That is not my problem. That is your problem.” Luckily, he accepted our mangled, leftover Euros, or I might be writing this update from the Zagreb County Jail/Saloon Megaplex.

Plitvice Lakes, Croatia

We camped in one of Croatia’s more war-torn regions near the crowded Plitvice Lakes National Park. The park is famous for its dozen or so breathtaking lakes with clear, deeply turquoise water, connected by series upon series of waterfalls. Parts of the park still contain landmines from the war, so most of the hiking is done on long boardwalks going over the lakes and waterfalls. This means highly concentrated tourist traffic: at one point we had to wait three minutes just to cross part of the path as hundreds of people streamed across. The lakes were worth it, though… I think I took more than 100 pictures in eight hours. Camping was fun as well, despite a few chilly nights… doubling up the 60-cent sleeping pads and adding a little more pillow height helped things out a lot.

More Plitvice

The drive to Split was unusually scenic, on par with the train ride from Paris to Nice. Leaving a forested inland area, we hit a patch of terrain not unlike southern Utah, featuring large, sparsely-vegetated, rocky hills and red sand. Closer to the water, the palm trees started and civilization once again reared its head. The coast is not quite “coastly” as there are hundreds of islands blocking the full view of the sea, but it’s beautiful nonetheless. The water, even in a major urban center like Split, is transparent. Looking out at the islands, I was struck by bold, vivid hues: the blue of the sea, the green of the trees, the gray of the hills and the bright red of the rooftops. It’s a sight to remember.

Old-town Split

After some haggling, we found a great private room for a few nights right in the middle of the old town, only a block from the waterfront and two blocks from the main inland promenade. The air just felt like Vegas last night, even down to the hilariously bad band playing American classics ranging from Layla to Creedence.

It’s about time I did some exploring. There’s a park outside the city center — right on the water — that I’m going to check out. And then maybe I’ll work up the guts to get a haircut from a Croatian barber with whom I have little to no chance of communicating verbally.