BRNA, ISLAND OF KORCULA, CROATIA - DEEP THOUGHTS

by Dan Winters (posted by his more techy savvy daughter)

We bagged the drive from Split and the chance to visit more Roman ruins at Ston and took the ferry directly to Korcula. This saved three and a half hours of driving and the danger of visiting more Roman ruins in Ston. We almost flunked Ferry 101. They said to go to pier 24, 45 minutes early. We arrived and there was a line of cars, but no Pier 24 sign.  We worked out our way up car to car, but all the drivers were from a country other than Croatia and knew nothing. Anxiety reined. Finally, an English women put it all in perspective, "Don't fret, Love. If it is mucked up, we mucked it up together." Despite being there an hour early, we were the last of 40 plus vehicles on board. I don't know, maybe it was alphabetical. We sat on the covered upper deck and watched the backpackers sleep, the Germans eat, all nationalities selfie, and the handsome romantically named islands of Hvar, Brac and Vis slip by.

 

On Korcula, we are staying at the (not making this up) Hotel Feral. Websters says that feral means "...having the characteristics of a wild beast". There were no wild ones at the hotel, but there were quite a few domesticated ones around the pool. The hotel sits on a quiet bay and we took off a couple of days to just chill. We had time to think about some strange stuff we thought we had observed. Here goes:

 Puzzling Croatian Behavior:

1.      Dangerous Gearshift Disability. Twice we asked our guides to drive our rent-a-car. Twice they were unable to master that complex modern gadget: the automatic transmission. By the way, the automatic was invented in 1921. Each guide, lifelong manual guys, tried the manual clutch/gas start up thing, but with the brake pedal and the gas pedal resulting in the engine roaring and the car shotgunning forward when the non-clutch brake was released. One said, "There is a brake on somewhere." We thought, "Yeah, under your left foot." Another guide, in order to slow for a stop light, downshifted from drive to park at 45 miles per hour. We thought, "If you touch the gear shift again, no tip."

Bobbers everywhere

2.      Excessive Bobbing: At the Feral, most of our hotel mates took dips in the bay that bordered the foundations of the hotel. It was warm, smooth, luscious. But no one swam; they bobbed. Everyone, hundreds of people, all genders and ages, freakin' bobbed. No getting your hair wet. There were a few minor exceptions: some light dog paddling, a couple of ladies boldly side-stroked, and one mad man did the breaststroke. A revolutionary, innovative and very brave women put a face mask on, actually put her face in the water (but not her hair) then did a deadman's float. No movement—weird. We swam some laps free style. People adverted their eyes. What do they know that we don't?



Squint and you'll see some nude people

3.      Really Unwanted Nudity: It is a rule, maybe a criminal statute in Croatia, that if you are a male, over 60, and your beer belly hangs down at least to mid-testicle, you must wear a speedo. One old bruiser even had a thong on. Carol still can't sleep. Likewise if you are a female over 60, and your tits sag down eye-to-eye with your belly button and you must, I repeat, must sunbathe topless. One old broad went total newborn. I still can't sleep.

all smiles here

4.      No Gratuitous Smiling. My dad was a vibrant guy with a big positive voice. When he walked down the street he would make eye contact and say, "Hi! How are you doing?" to everyone. It kind of creeped my brother and me out, but the passerbys loved it and burst into big smiles. What are you going to do? His name was Howie—that's what Howies do. In Croatia, if you did the Howie thing, you would get nothing. Nothing! No "hi" back. No smile. Not even a "Screw off" look. You would get blank. Which is strange because every Croatian we have spent any time with, was charming and gracious and get this—had a great smile.

 

SPLIT, CROATIA

by Dan Winters (posted by his more techy savvy daughter)

Split is a former industrial city halfway to Dubrovnik. It has an impressive history. We know because we had a great guide: Ivo. He was a journalist who had worked for the Dallas Morning News, the Zagreb Plain Dealer (maybe that was Cleveland) and was a war correspondent in the Balkan War. Ivo fell victim to the demise of print news. He is a stringer, blogger and special assignment writer now. He guides on the side. Carol says that he made Roman history actually interesting and relevant, although she can't recall why anymore. Split was Hicksville until Diocletian, Emperor of the known world, built his castle/fortification/palace/retirement pad (historians differ on this subject). Anyway, it was finished in 130 AD, the same year as the Cubbies last won the World Series. It only took ten years to build, the same time, according to Carol, that it is taking our neighbors across the street to remodel. We visited the different chambers where Diocletian, his wife and both Split patron saints were executed. One was grilled. Ivo said execution was traditionally how your time in power was terminated back in the good old Roman days. One wonders if that would work for our U.S. presidents. Think about it. Then we would not have to help them raise money for their "libraries" or watch them appear on the Jimmy Fallon Show. Ivo, who had just watched the Republican Party debates, observed that, at least, politicians would have to think twice about throwing their hat in the ring.

Split was pretty cool, at least after the cruise shippers clear the streets. There is a broad café-studded seaside promenade, narrow bar dotted streets and good size plazas with fancy looking tavernas. We missed the tavernas however. We had declared a Split nutritional vacation and split salami baguettes two nights in a row. Later, we watched a free performance of folk dancing for a bit. Eight couples in Gypsies outfits tore it up, then what looked like a heavily medicated ukelele band dressed in castoff Sound of Music costumes put the crowd to sleep.  Ukes can do that.

PLITVICE LAKES, CROATIA

by Dan Winters (posted by his more techy savvy daughter)

The Lakes are part of a 300 square kilometer national park (no I don't know the size of a square kilometer but, it's big). There are sixteen interconnected descending lakes. They empty into each other pouring down the mountain via hundreds of waterfalls. There are ponds, streams, lush Avatar/Pandora vegetation, thousands of trout.  The only trails are narrow wooden boardwalk without hand rails that run over the ponds and streams. For miles, you tightrope over the set of Jurassic Park. It is a wonder of the natural world somewhere between Victoria Falls and Sofia Vergara. It's so freakin lush and exotic, that you think what is it doing in fricken' Nowhere, Croatia. And what am I doing here? Where are the raptors? Where is Laura Dern? There have got to be a lot of snakes. Have Marlin Perkins and his assistant Jim ever been here? I feel another epiphany coming on.

There is a flaw in the Plitvice perfection, however. It is those damn other park visitors—5,000 of them a day. All of whom started their hike at the exact same time we did. It was disturbing. It wasn't the pushing and shoving. It wasn't the selfies. It was when you stopped to enjoy, say a typical Plitvice Lake site—6 or 7 waterfalls crash down into an emerald pool—a hundred and twenty people passed you. Even worse was that the line of staggering marchers behind them stretched to the horizon, or at least to the parking lot toilets. You feel driven like cattle. You can't fall back; Bear Griylls says that the trailing wolves prey on the stragglers, right? It's too much like those nasty failure nightmares we all have (OK, that I have). "Golly," you think, "I am on vacation? This is some heavy mojo." But if you hang in there, relax, take in the scenery, and just let the crowd go by. The pressure dissipates. Folks take different paths, some pound ahead or fall behind. Soon enough you are apart, walking at your own pace and it all becomes really, really, really beautiful. I am thinking of sending this to Hallmark Cards.

We met Yan and Anita on the back patio of our Plitvice hotel. Yan approached and won us over. Never underestimate Flemish charm. We had dinner together: foot and a half long trout for us, a four inch high stack of pork and potatoes for them. Dessert was pancakes and jelly. It was pretty hardy Croatian country faire. We had a great time. What stuck was that Yan was truly a gentleman. We think we know why. First, he lived in Antwerp, Belgium. Other than a few centuries of brutalizing the Congo, Belgium is a peaceful country. Their army is, and has been, like the flagmen of a road construction outfit. An invading army arrives at their border, they waive them though. If the invaders won't pass, surrender.  Second, he was a retired schoolmaster. Other than Principal Barkley at Wagner Junior High who had a couple of screws loose (personal opinion), schoolmasters are pretty agreeable sorts. But the real reason, was that Yan ate soup every day. How much of a bad guy can you be if you are eating soup? Why daily soup? Yan explained, "I like soup." Which would make a pretty good t-shirt logo.

ROVINJ, CROATIA

by Dan Winters (posted by his more techy savvy daughter) 

 

          "No one knows the truffles I've seen." -- George Lang

ROVINJ is located on the Istra peninsula. The peninsula juts

out into the Adriatic between the western Italian land mass, the leg with the boot, and the eastern Croatia leg that runs down to Albania. So, the Istra peninsula is the crotch, so to speak. I hope that helps you visualize it. Rovinj, itself,  is one of those classic Mediterranean ports bordered by the sea on three sides, dominated by a perky cathedral on a hill and shaped by orange roofed and white crumbling buildings falling down to the sea. It’s sit down stunning. In essence, it is a beach town without any beaches, in fact no sand—only rocks. In practice, it is Santa Cruz without the roller coaster and the weed smoking. Although those Rovinjians might be toked up—they look half asleep and sure eat a lot of ice cream in the morning. We walked the narrow cobblestone streets and half-heartedly visited some art galleries. The day was beautiful, so on a whim we hopped on a ten buck tourist boat ride. We Illinoised it with a bottle of wine, of course. Rovinj is surrounded by 13 islands. The boat company advertises exploring a lot of them. Our captain had other ideas.  He headed directly to the backside off a long thin island that looked to be totally dominated by an expansive all-inclusive resort. Surprise, the backside beaches were packed with nude euro bathers frolicking in the surf, playing volleyball, tandem biking and eating bratwurst. The captain would nudge into shore and the bathers would wave. It was different. We were in hysterics.

The next day we took a full day guided tour though the

"crotch." The guide was a sweet, delightful young woman who could not stop talking. We KOed in about an hour and a half. (KO stands for Knowledge Overload). Once we stopped listening we had a blast. We visited a UNESCO protected Basilica in Porec that was shockingly interesting; Carol asked a question and I almost did. The Basilica was built in the sixth century at the same time as they last repaved the Bayshore Freeway. In the main square of Porec, there was a Baroque festival which meant some teens were in gowns dancing the minaret, a couple of monks were checking their cells, and a lady in waiting or two were catching a smoke. There were some uncontented cows in a makeshift pen and a movie star handsome horse. Everyone was having a good time. On the way to the Basilica, we got caught behind some chamber of commerce types dressed as lepers, probably residential real estate agents. It was either a funeral procession or they were selling food. It was hard to tell.

After that excitement, we drove though the pretty Istra wine region to a showy hilltop medieval village Groznjan and then to the handsome Capital of Truffles: Motovun (don't tell the guys). The most interesting thing was the training of Labrador Retrievers by the locals to hunt truffles. The pigs had this job for centuries, but the pigs ate too many truffles. (Duh, they're pigs.) The solution? Labs (no self-respecting lab would ever eat a mushroom). In fact, the labs we saw looked pretty embarrassed about the whole truffles gig. It was a good outing.

 

When we got back, we lounged at a marina cafe and watched

the sun set over the ocean and the boat captains try to find their boats. This Rovinj harbor is overwhelmed with small, beat to hell, boats with tiny, smoking outboards. Hundreds of them are packed side to side on the same anchor lines. So the captains have to walk over the top of the boats to get to their craft, sometimes seven or eight boats, then have to use a boat hook to rearrange a zillion vessels to get theirs out. It is a Rubix Cube deal. Suddenly our reverie was jolted by what sounded like a marching band. It was Saturday, college football season. We staggered toward the band intoxicated by thoughts of how much we hated Bo Schembechler and his 14-0 record over the Illini. We pushed our way through the crowd. It wasn't a marching band. In fact there were several walkers and a wheelchair. It was a brass band competition. The home team Rovenj was on stage. As we settled in for the next hour, the thirty piece band broke into a raucous Hotel California. We love the Rovinjians.

 

THE JULIAN ALPS and BOVEC SLOVENIA

by Dan Winters (posted by his more techy savvy daughter) 

       "Mountains have a way of dealing with overconfidence" –  Neman Bohl

Northwest of Bled, smack dab in the middle of the temple sweating, nose bleeding Julian Alps is the alpine village of Bovec. It is not easy to get to. You have to conquer the fearsome Vrsic Pass. It snakes between the sneering 7000 foot peaks: Jalovec and Prisank. That means negotiating the barely two lane wide road and—as they warn you before you start—50 switchbacks. Switchbacks so bad ass that they number them. If it is not a full 180 degree, it doesn't freakin' count. There are hundreds of nasty, heart in your mouth, 165 degree turns that don't qualify. Worse, there are about a thousand motorcycles without mufflers speeding towards and around you at every hairpin turn. It is like a scene from Mad Max: Fury Road. Even worse, all that turning freaks the GPS dominatrix out. She screams "TURN RIGHT! THEN TURN LEFT" all the way over the pass. Carol drove battling the road, motorcycles, and the hysterical voice—a feat worthy of Charlize Theron (That is right— second Mad Max: Fury Road reference.) Me, I wrote this blog, doing my part. We made it.

We arrive late at the Dobra Vila. It is a stylish building, modern and traditional at the same time, but it is quirky. When we arrive, they are booked. They have us coming the next day; we whine. The manager appears, he checks the computer and he says,"You are lucky. Someone just canceled, there is one room left!" The staff could not be nicer. They give us the key to room 69. We think, "This place doesn't look big enough to have 69 plus rooms?" It doesn't. The room is on the second floor. As we walk the hall with our bags, we note that there are six rooms on that floor—numbers, 50, 136, 640, 106, 2300 and good old 69. We laugh. That kind of quirky. The room is beautiful with views of the surrounding peaks: Sleme, Trenta, Kossi Berg, Golobar, etc., etc. Later we notice the three 3x4 foot pictures in the hall. They are late 50's animations. The first two portrayed a Father Knows Best house wife. The captions say "Fantasize, Your Are Less Likely to be Disappointed" and "Jewelry Because Good Sex Doesn't Last Forever."  The third was of a Dick Van Dyke look alike. It says, "Sex, I Am Only Two People Short of a Threesome." That kind of funny quirky. It was a great place. The food was gourmet. We had a trout on pea purée and green mashed potatoes and a pork with plum and almond sauce salad.  We thought, "Just like Mom used to make." The day we check out, we read the printed notice that is always affixed to hotel walls. The kind that contains important information like the location of the fire exit. On this one, there was a printed paragraph in six languages that read:

"69 -- Honorable guest, it is probably the most indecent of numbers, but the 6 and 9 form such a nice embrace. We have dedicated it to all those in love."

 Yeah, that kind of quirky. It was a cool place.

We spend two days in Bovec. We hiked in the Hansel and Gretel like dense forests stumbling over boulders, following manic streams to pounding "Holy Crap" waterfalls. They got a lot of water in Slovenia. We played crappy golf on a crappy golf course jerry-rigged in the most scenic and imposing setting possible—shear rock-faced mountains rising thousands of feet straight-up. Carol pointed out a perfect spot to carve out a Mt. Rushmore rendering of our four latest presidents. After deep thought, we opted for Buster Posey, Seth Curry, Will Ferrell and maybe that hot guy Riggins from Friday Night Lights.

     "One of the advantages Bowling has over Golf is that it is hard to lose a Bowling ball." -- Don Carter

It is an insanely, hard course–9 holes, 3,300 feet, streams and ponds everywhere. The totally unfair pencil thin fairways are edged by kiss-the-ball-goodbye, Big Bad Wolf woods. There is about fifty yards between holes, always up hill. The rickety pull carts we rented were last used by the Prussian Army to transport cannon balls.  We cross one stream on the third hole three times. There are two ponds in the fairway of six. Raise the white flag, we surrender. They got a lot of water in Slovenia. We should have known. We told the guy who check us in that we sucked and needed golf balls. He gave us each a bag of 12 balls. He said, "If you need more, call my cell." I returned with three, Carol with five. It was a gas.

 

 

LAKE BLED, SLOVENIA & THE VINTGAR GORGE

by Dan Winters (posted by his more techy savvy daughter) 

This might be all you need to know about Bled and Lake Bled:

A. It is the most expensive place in the country, but that couldn't stop a couple of cheap midwesterners from finding eight dollar pepperoni pizza and two dollar Union beers on a sunny deck overlooking the lake. Slovenia is damn reasonable—it’s the getting to it that’s expensive.

 
B. Unlike the rest of Slovenia, it is touristy, mostly Brits. Borut said that Bled used to be exclusively for the eastern-European rich before a bargain airline start running $65 legs London to Ljubljana. He says a Brit can fly, book a room and get drunk, all for what it costs him to get drunk in London. Anyway, you see a lot of sensible shoes, knit sweaters, those bird watching hats and clouds of smoke.  We overheard two British couples talking. (Read this with your Ricky Gervais accent, it is better). One of the blokes said, "We saw ya walking the other day." The second bloke answered, "If we was walkin' we were either holding hands or smoking', probably smokin'."

C. It is the most popular wedding place in the country. So, it seems kind of perverse in an Alpine environment with orderly Austro-Hungarian architecture and straight-lace Slavic history to hear The Isley Brothers'  "Shout", Bon Jovi's "Living' on a Prayer" and Bruno Mars' "Uptown Funk" every night.

D. It is almost perfectly beautiful—like one of those snow globes where a lovely graceful scene is encapsulated and you shake it to get gentle falling snow.  Take a Tahoe-blue lake, drop it in some sheer epic looking Alps, stick a Disney castle on a 500 foot cliff at waters’ edge and a 300 foot designer island with a chamber of commerce chapel on a 100 foot hill, drop

Illinoising

in trendy villas, a semi ski hill, a smoke filled casino, a kick ass sculling course (Lake Bled rowing club has won Olympic Gold in the last four games), dust some snow on the peaks every night even though it is 75 degrees at lake level and the water is 70, put a path around the whole lake, rent boats so you can row your honey to the island, and offer up tasty local wines and local line caught trout. We were hooked. We decided to try to do it all at once. We rowed out exactly midway between the cliff castle and the chapel island, right next to the sculls. Surrounded by the snowy peaks and between the blue cloudless sky and the clear blue water, we get as far as possible from the casino and the tourists but close enough to hear the wedding reception rock and roll. We cocktail. We call it "Illinoising".

 

THE VINTGAR GORGE
 
Gorges are cool, you get exercise, they look nice and they pair well with beer. Four kilometers outside Bled is a great one, shear walls, roaring water, power of nature vibe. It should go on your Gorge Bucket list. For us, Vintgar ranks with the best - the Grand Canyon (technically a gorge), the bad ass Gorge of Verdon in France (see last year's blog) and Gorge-ous George the wrestler.

LJUBLJANA, SLOVENIA

by Dan Winters (posted by his more techy savvy daughter) 

        "Hi, guys. Your guide will be Borat. He will be waiting for you in the parking place near Ljubljana's open air market.... For easy recognition he'll he wearing a Cowboy Hat." -- Email from Slovenia travel agent, September 6, 2015

Borut & Carol

We were scheduled for another city tour, this time of the Slovenian capital. We were pissed. It was our fourth day of the trip and we were red states stupid from jet lag exhaustion and blue states whiney due to an overdose of useless information from Zagreb and Varazdin. Sadly our genetic limited capacity for history & knowledge was maxed out. Our cathedral and castle cards were punched. The expiration dates on generals and popes had come and gone.  Our tolerance tank for what was exported and who invaded who was on empty. Now, another tour and a guide named Borat with a cowboy hat—really? We vowed to actually read our itinerary in the future.  Turned out his name was Borut, not Borat and he was a guru. The only disappointment was that he wasn't wearing a ten gallon Hoss Cartwright cowboy hat—it was only a Little Joe five galloner.

Borut had lived in Marin in the 60's and there was a decidedly twisted 60's Marin bias to his Ljubljana tour. (BTW, Ljubljana is a pretty cool name, right? We think we figured out the Slavic technique of cool naming. Just take a normal word and randomly add a j,l,h,t or z anywhere that suits you. Example—Dan. Slavic = Danj. Carol = Cazolh. Los Altos = Hlos Ajltzos. That is how you can know that Ljubljana is a Slavic capital. Two j's, two l's and a bonus b. It's a theory.)



"Face"booking in a cafe

Anyway, Borut considered Ljubljana deeply soulful, just the right size to “know”. It had a population of 325,000 of which 55,000 were college kids. Everything that counted—the University, the government buildings, the historic district, the arts, the discos, the cafes—were enclosed in a six block pedestrian-only area along the river. Everyone hung out there. He said, "It was the original Facebook, but with real faces." Cazolh observed, "Yeah, but Slovenians are not caught up in a pennant race." Borut might be right; we never saw anyone non-American looking at a cell phone in public. Further, he insisted on experiencing two cathedrals, but like a good Marinite, he pointing out the pornography in the paintings. He noted that 85 % of the country were, his term, "Recreational Catholics". He took us to a salt-only shop and to a butcher who made the only Slovenia food that had not been robbed from the Italians, Austrians and Hungarians—a sausage. He couldn't recommended it. He is vegan. However, he loved the poetry in the city architecture, the architecture of its folk music, and the music of its politics. Wow, I thought, "If I had teachers like Borut, I wouldn't have cut all those classes and been such a general jag off." It's epiphanies like this that are the meat of travel. Feel free to quote me.

Sunday late morning, Ljubljana was as alive as advertised. There were, all at the same

Said One Man Band

time, an antique flea market, boat rides on the river, the finish line of a long distance bike race (don't know how long, but it took the winner four hours and eight minutes), a DJ playing Bruno Mars in the biker recovery and beer drinking area, a thirty piece brass band playing marches in the main square, a one man band from Zagreb via New Jersey playing Dylan, and best of all, a group of 12 elderly men with wine glasses singing Slovenian harmony, packed outdoor cafes, pubs and restaurants, open art galleries and shops. Borut said, "What do you expect from a country whose national anthem is a drinking toast?"

We had a great time with Borut. On his advice, we took the afternoon off and spent several hours in a great restaurant trying not to look at our cell phones. We shared a crispy fried squid, you know, the kind with the tentacles that look like brain tumors, all washed down with too many Lasko beers. Carol toasted, "These are the best testicles I have ever had for lunch."  That said it all. It was really a good day.

 

VARAZDIN, CROATIA

by Dan Winters (posted by his more techy savvy daughter)

 

         "I have PMS and a GPS. That means that I am pissed off and I can find you." - Anonymous.

Inspired in Varazdin

Our travel agent recommended that on the drive to Lake Bled, we stop along the way to break up the trip. The choices were (I am not making this up) Krapina—an archeological site where the first humans were found, Kumrovec—Tito's birth place, and Varazdin—listed by the New York Times as one of the "52 places to visit in 2014" and was number 48 sandwiched between Siem Reap, Cambodia and St. Petersburg, Florida (huh?).  It is not clear what the criteria was—Albania and L.A.* were also on the list. It was an easy choice. Carol doesn't do Neanderthals or dictators. Varazdin is a beautifully preserved mini-city with classy  historic public buildings and huge open squares all built by the various tyrants that took turns subjugating the Varazdiners for 800 years—mostly it was Hapsburg bullies, grumpy Ottomans and thug Hungarians. It’s so permanently occupied, that the sports teams go by the name, the "Varazdin Vassals." You can look it up. It is a gentle place, all in soft tans, pinks and yellows. The castle looks like an abbey, the cathedral like a bank, and the palace like a Der Weinerschnitzel.  It inspired us—we ordered burgers, fries and chocolate milk shakes for lunch.

We drive three hours though the rain and the lush countryside to Slovenia and Lake Bled. Carol is mostly the driver, of course, but I have been replaced as the navigator by the GPS. The lady whose GPS voice orders us around is kind of pissy. We think we might have hit the dominatrix button by mistake. She gets pretty snarky if you make the wrong turn. She rankles Carol. I sense a showdown coming on. To me, her voice has that "you are wrangling for a spanking Sir!" quality." That is not necessarily a bad thing.

BTW, crossing the border from Croatia to Slovenia is like going from Illinois to Iowa—"MWP" (more white people). There are no blacks, asians or latinos so far–very disturbing. There are not even any Japanese teens taking selfies. We miss them.

 * The author’s more tech savvy daughter does not endorse this statement about LA ;)


Still kinda pissed about the GPS lady

 

ZAGREB

by Dan Winters (posted by his more techy savvy daughter)

       "Communism is one big phone company"-- Lenny Bruce

Okay, maybe four locals

We have befriended three locals, Cristoff (our cab driver) Ivan (our waiter) and Petra (our tour guide). It's good to make new friends even if you have to tip them. This is known as "Trump-ing." We also have learned a lot. Cristoff says Zagreb sports teams suck, you can't turn right on red and the police are assholes. Local knowledge, who needs Rick Steves? Ivan says a Croatian's favorite foods are 1. Meat 2. Potatoes 3. There is no 3. According to him, a Croatian vegan is a guy who only eats animals who only eat vegetation. Kind of missing the point, but a start. Vegetables are after thoughts. Example: We ordered a "hearty vegetable" soup. The only things in it were beef broth and a couple of mushrooms pieces. I don't want to start a controversy, but in Dan World, a mushroom is a fungus. It was succulent. Ivan then recommended the cherries stuffed with ham and warped in bacon. They tasted kind of like a barbecue and jelly sandwich—delicious. We were afraid to order dessert.

 We spent three hours with our guide Petra, a smiling, cute redheaded mother of two. She was a fountain of information. In no particular order:

Old Croats - Her dad and his generation, she claims, suffer from "Yugo-Nostalgia" (her term), apparently yearning for the good old days of communism. There was free health care, social security, an equal distribution of wealth and the police wore those bitchin' totalitarian uniforms. She says they forget that they could not pick their own jobs or travel out of the country. Worse, there were meat shortages!! My uncle used to say the only thing good about the good old days is that they are mostly gone.

Museums - There are ninety museums in Zagreb including the Museum of Torture and the Museum of Broken Relationships. We bagged torture, but did pay 40 Kunas (local currency. 6.77 to the dollar. Try to figure that out on the fly) to enter the MBR primarily because In the window, they had a sign that read, "We sell beer as cold as your ex's heart" and the cashier wore a T-shirt with the words, "All I need is love and a cat." We thought it was going to be comedy. Instead, broken hearted people had gifted items that remind them how miserable they were when their love affairs fell apart. We should have gone to the torture museum.



Carol & Petra prepare to cafe

Cafe Society - Zagreb has about a zillion outdoor cafes. Street after street, park after park, square after square are lined with enchanting cafes. It is very charming. What the locals love to do—and do daily—is sit at a cafe with their friends chatting all afternoon. The key, Petra explained, is learning to make one of those Itty- bitty cups of expresso last for hours. It's a science—no it's an art form. We tried it—the best we could is eleven minutes. We need practice. They teach it to their children. It might be hereditary. They think the American way of barging into Starbucks, buying a Vente Latte to go and racing off to your car alone is crazy. Maybe they are right.

 

We finished off a sweet tour of kick back Zagreb with a pounded steak wrapped around deer pastrami and sour cucumber with a side of smashed potatoes. We declined the bacon garni. All  washed down with  Ozujsko beer and a bottle of Krauthaker Grasevina white wine. I wish we could say we slept well.

 

 

 

PROLOGUE: RAGING IN THE OTTOMAN EMPIRE -- Sep 3

By Dan Winters (posted by his more tech savvy daughter)

"Three things you don't want to hear when you walk by the cockpit:

     1. "Oh, shit!"
     2. "I have no idea."
     3. "Watch this."
                    --anonymous
 
Why not? Come on, who doesn't love Turkey and Croatia? All those swarthy guys dressed like Shriners. The fezzes. The freakin' pantaloons!  All that hummus, the feta . Those cool carpets. The  Kalisnikovs. The Balkans. The thousand years of violent wars with anyone and everyone. I know what you are thinking, Croatia, Bosnia, Serbia, etc., weren't they Yugoslavia and wasn't it ruled by that rockin' party animal Marshal Tito. Other then the brutal repression, the Gestapo-like secret police,  the miserable civil rights record and the occasional execution, Tito was kind of a cool cold war dude. He sucked up to the Chinese just to piss off the Soviets. Or maybe the other way around. Anyway, he is clearly in the top five of Marshals in all of history:  1. Marshall Dillon (Gunsmoke), 2. The Marshall Tucker Band,  3. U.S. Marshall Raylan Givens (Justified),  4. Marshal Tito,  and 5. The Marshall Plan. Good first name. Tito not so much. The only Tito mentionables are - Tito Fuentes and Tito's Vodka. That's it.

We start our trip by flying to Istanbul, then transfer to a flight to Zagreb, Croatia. So on the first leg, we are trying to learn about Croatia by reading from the ubiquitous Rick Steves. It is pretty vanilla until we get to the part named "Helpful Croatian TIPS." Number three was "Watch out for land mines."  That gets your attention. Carol says, "Why isn't that number one?” "Notable Croatians in History" was interesting, except the only names we recognized were Marco Polo and John Malkovich. There was also someone named Nicholas Tesla (no, not the car guy) who we read had a face-slapping blood feud with the great Thomas Edison. Nothing worse than pissed off electricians. Apparently, Tom invented DC and Tesla AC. They would later patch things up and start the iconic heavy metal group of the same name—you can look it up.

We are flying on Turkish Air. Unfortunately, they don't have the individual hookahs or charcoal grills for kabobs we expected. Instead, they have old school elegance. (OK, we have never been to a school new or old that had old or new elegance, we went to the U of I, but old school, we think, is what Turkish Air is doing.) There are a swarm of flight attendants in 1940's dark blue women's suit type uniform and there are actual chefs wearing ties and crunched down chef hats. It was a lot of fun. We note with satisfaction that the galley staff, despite their flair, still had to deal with the prepackaged entrees on those tiny TV tray plates with tin foil on top that you see on all airlines. It is soothing. It reminds us of our Moms. 

Istanbul Airport must be gigantic. We land after 13 hours, then taxi for 20 minutes. Just when we are thinking, "He is lost", the plane parks surrounded by miles of empty tarmac. We sit forever.  Just as we are thinking "High jacking", the buses arrive. We drive forever. Just as we are thinking, "Does this bus have a bathroom?" we arrive at the terminal—only to walk for 45 minutes to our next gate. We pass tens of airlines we have never heard of, hundreds of over-loaded families bearing unfathomably large quantities of luggage, dozens of high fashion stores, a fair number of burkas and two Victoria Secrets shops. It is a big airport and a big world.