Tres Whoops

This is a wham bam slam post, friends.

I can't give you much.

It's been such a whirlwind.

I have no pictures.

This is my fault.

6:00 am. Venice. Alarm goes off. My foot goes off. The computer goes off (the bed).

No more computer (bites knuckles).

You see the dilemma.

I left you at Turkey with a pile of thoughts.

I'll give you a list now.

Now, our last night.

Dead Mouse Hostel, London Ghetto.

But I left you at Turkey.

Boat back to Rhodes.

Rhodes back to Athens.

Parthenon, Acropolis, Acropolis Museum, Temple of Zeus, Hadrian's Arch, Olympic Site.

Naked boys in statue form...

Athena, Goddess of Wisdom.

Owl on my Shoulder.

Athens to Meteora.

Highs in 120s.

Baked brain.

Clifftop monastery treks.

First cloudy day.

Meteora to Igoumenitza.

Yucky port town.

Rockin' 70's Hotel Oscar.

Dreams of The Shining.

24 hour ferry to Venice.

Camping on deck with the myriad hobos.

Infected chest cut (Lauren).

Visit to Venetian ER and geriatric boob "specialist".

(Thanks, two months of camping.)

Leonardo DaVinci Machines Exhibit.

Peggy Guggenheim Venice Collection.

www.guggenheim.org

Piazza San Marco with pigeons and dancing.

Salvador Dali Venetian Exhibition.

Flight - Venice to Paris.

Mild stomach flu (Chris).

(Thanks, germs.)

Bus - Paris Airport to Gare du Nord Ghetto Hotel.

Moderate stomach flu (Chris).

Two hours in Gare du Nord Ghetto Hotel.

Severe to Hideously Severe stomach flu (Chris).

Visit to Parisian ER and Chris adorably/super sadly hopped up on IV fluids.

Three day hole up in Gare du Nord Ghetto Hotel with Real Time Olympic Coverage to Soothe.

Realization that same day arrivals in both Venice and Paris marred by ER visits for each of us.

Later realization that we paid a total of 45 euro for two hospital visits. Socialized Health = Boss.

Venture tentatively out.

Louvre Love Love Louvre Louvre Love Love Louvre Louvre Love Love Louvre.

http://www.louvre.fr/en

Train - Paris to London.

Dead Mouse Hostel, Ghetto London (name created by me for obvious reasons).

National Gallery and National Portrait Gallery (with book tours for children/ADHD adults).

http://www.nationalgallery.org.uk/       http://www.npg.org.uk/

USA SWIMMERS 2012

Tower of London, Tower Bridge, London Bridge, Big Ben, Westminster Abbey, Parliament.

Queen's House (i.e. Buckingham No One Should Live Somewhere Like That Palace).

USA SWIMMERS 2012

Emirates Stadium with Lauren Happy Dancing Like Nobody's Business.

WHO ARE WE? ARSENAL! WHO ARE WE? ARSENAL! WHO ARE WE? ARSENAL!

Dead Mouse Hostel, Ghetto London (namesake still in same spot).

USA SWIMMERS 2012

Which brings me to now.

It's all I have left.

Thank you to everyone who watched us through these past two months.

Thank you to everyone that watched our pesky pets and our ever peskier mail (you know who you are).

Thank you to everyone that we met on the way that made us happy.

Thank you to Europe for being so unbelievably cool.

Thank you to Socialized Health Care for keeping us alive and well without trying to rob us of a future.

Thank you to everyone who read and put me over ONE THOUSAND views in a matter of weeks.

And last, but never, ever least -

Thank you to Chris Padesky for being alive (especially after that whole deathbed in Paris thing). It came to my attention recently (because of you) that, in the 15 months that we have been inseparable, we have stomped across 14 countries and trekked thousands of miles of trails. We have toppled at least ten national parks and attacked more permit-required hikes than some achieve in a lifetime. We have seen near a hundred children through a year of their lives without losing (what's left of) our minds. Waiting for us right now is a pair of pups with more problems than  I care to mention and more love/hilarity/hair than could be found in the entirety of the sea. Our home is a ridiculous wonderland of books, NPR, Flight of the Conchords, socks missing mates, ravaged dog toys, scraps of poems, photo gear, and backpacks, and in the middle of all of the beauty and the chaos and the interminable barking, is us. You and me. Blossom and Gumby.

Before you, I knew I'd travel the world and hike the Grand Canyon and raise an insane animal.

It was in my blood.

But without you, it would have been nothing.

Because you are more in my blood than any dream I could have designed for myself.

And with you, it is everything. The smallest things are everything. You are everything.

So, let's go home. You and me.

We did good.

That'll do, pig. That'll do.


































I love you, Big Guy.

East Beast

            

           Such a long time it’s been since Chris and Lauren have been properly settled in a single location! What a writer’s conundrum it has been for me to determine the nature of writing I should do during a time that has consisted largely of sleeping on boat floors, haggling with ever-changing money preferences, and a disturbingly persistent stomachache (thanks, Albania) that has reduced me to the hunger-strike diet I followed during my experimental Zen years in college*. In the end, I have found it generally more considerate to have spared you from my attitude and hunger-induced cynicism of our past few days (in Albania) in favor of our present glee. Perhaps you don’t follow? In short, we’ve had a rougher ten days than we expected and the scary paragraphs (about Albania) in my journal are not worthy of the public eye, so I have been temporarily absent to spare you from some darker days and save up the good stuff until now.

*I still study Zen…Zen Shorts by Jon J Muth and Salinger’s Seymour Stories Zen, not the self-deprecating Eastern Religions 101 Zen that only college kids can love. Life is better now.

            So, from the shore of an ancient milky green river in Dalyan, Turkey, let’s start fresh. With a real meal in my belly and the prospect of getting up close and personal with rehabilitated sea turtles looming near (more on that soon), I am finally back to being the spokesperson for Tiny Spiritualist Lady Backpackers everywhere.

            Note – To those of you who are thinking of asking Chris to elaborate on my outlook (in Albania), he will tell the truth and is therefore forbidden to speak on the subject. Sorry, Chris.

            Now, Tiny Spiritualist Lady Backpackers ready? Go!

            So…Dalyan, Turkey. For you geography buffs (i.e. my dad), Dalyan is nowhere near Tirana, Albania, where I last left you. Since we’ve all visited together, Chris and I have gone from Saranda, Albania to Athens, Greece to Santorini to Rhodes to Marmaris, Turkey to Dalyan (today!). See why I hesitated to write? Each post would have about six sentences, all of which basically read, “Stomach still hurts from (Albanian) food; bus/ferry/burro still moving; death imminent.”

            Not interesting.

            Don’t confuse my tone, though. I know some of you have noted Santorini, Greece on my list and you are right – I do deserve to be kicked if I am to suggest that the Greek Isles would not be worth the trouble. I am not (and they so are). It’s just that I had to eat (in Albania) before arriving in Greece and I am still reeling with the naked injustice of that.

            Consequently, I am skipping Albania altogether and picking up the trail at the Albania-Greece border. Would you perhaps like to stay there for three hours? This can be easily arranged. Simply hop a bus from the coastal town of Saranda, where, on your way out of town, you will witness a fistfight between several men and several police officers that falls just short of a minor street riot. With this sunny image in mind, you will then travel two and a half hours to traverse the thirty miles to the Greek border, where the bus will stop, turn off the engine, and wait. People will begin to trickle off the bus. Soon, the bus is empty and you’re watching streets dogs pee on the tires. There are four buses in front of you in line. They are all doing the same. After two hours, the driver will come back (he disappeared upon arrival) and herd you into a line by some building doors. You will never enter. After thirty minutes, you will be herded back to the bus, where a line will form in front of a newly manned booth. Your American passports will be readily stamped and handed back; you will then wait in Greece, while two feet away in Albania, much yelling will take place with anybody with an Albanian passport. Old church ladies are the one exception and will come to stand next to you in Greece, where they will pat your arms and hair and woo you with incomprehensible Greek and Albanian conversation. The yelling will eventually stop and you reenter the bus to Greece, expecting a quick jaunt to Ionnia (Yawn-yuh), a mere twenty miles from the border. After two hours pass without incident, you will grow suspicious and ask the bus manager the time left to Yawn-yuh, at which point it will be revealed that the bus driver failed to make the stop hours back and you must now stay on the bus another six hours until morning dawns…on Athens. You will have no food and no euros, only (dirty) Albanian money that Greeks resolutely look down upon. You are soundly f-worded.

            If you haven’t caught on by now, the “you” in my story is actually Chris and me.

            And soundly f-worded we were.

            At seven the next morning, we pulled up in Athens without a semblance of a plan. Our guidebook fell open on the dirty concrete to the page on Santorini at the same time as the arrival of a pushy cabbie. Suddenly, we were whipping at terrifying speeds through scooter-covered Athens on our way to the ferry port with Pushy Cabbie insisting that we will make the 7:30 ferry to Santorini (leaving in five minutes) if we “tak tak tak tak”.

            We watched the 7:30 ferry pull away from the now deserted harbor. I sat on the bags and Chris went to find tickets for the next boat; a vendor selling circle-shaped bread frisbees thought I was homeless and gave me a free bag of his wares.

            For my shrewd counters, this is the second time I’ve been mistaken for a bag lady.

            Chris was quite amused when he returned. Now at 24 hours without sleep or food, I did not share his mirth. Hours and hours later, Chris had juggled several of the free bread frisbess and I had fed the rest to a friendly mutt. We finally got on the massive ship to Santorini at 3:30, successfully grossed out the clean, outrageously wealthy passengers, and fell asleep in our sleeping bags on the deck, the special place on a cruise ship where the ruffians are contained and viewed from portholes like zoo animals.

      

 

   

            In the middle of the night, we docked at Santorini and luckily caught the shuttle bus to our intended campground in Thira. There, we remained unconscious in our tent until the sun tried to kill us and we finally woke up to the reality of accidentally winding up on the most favored and revered island of Greece.

            How ‘bout them olives?

            We stayed an outstanding four nights, splitting our evening merriments between Thira and Oia (Ee-yuh). I have eaten more feta, tomato, and cucumber than I care to remark here. The cities are just as picturesque as all the cruise offerings suggest, and Chris had a bit of a photographer’s field day, as you can see. It was, of course, delightful to watch the plodding burros haul gaudy tourists up from the deep azure bowl of the caldera harbor up to the cities, and we made a great game of spotting the dogs and cats that made resting places out of the tiered roofs of the clifftop houses. There is no other way to explain the architecture than to say that one person’s roof is merely a foot down from any given footpath (perfect for all manner of hoodrat house hopping stuff).

              

          

            We were sad to have to go on to Rhodes (our newly elected destination), as we had befriended a troop of unusually friendly kittens that lived on our campground. Several times a day, we would go to the lockers, where the kitties were centrally located, and fawn over them. Our favorite was the runt of the litter, a tiny black cat with the coordination of a leaf blowing in the wind. We named him Gizmo and marveled at the outsized personality that such a small, silly body could contain. If we were not continuing our trip, I would be home right now teaching the dogs how to be gentle to their new cat brother. Many sighs.

      

 

And a street dog I liked, for good measure.     

            Our boat to Rhodes was an overnight endeavor that left at the convenient hour of one in the morning. In a twist of political whimsy, our Santorini campground had been audited that morning by the newly formed, bribery-proof tax system. It was later explained to us by a worker that the “tax man” now had to be somebody that no one knew from the area, whereas before, the “tax man” was just somebody from around town that could be bought off with friendship and cash. So now things were “pesty” and no longer “easy”, like they “should be”.

            No illusions about the Greek financial crisis…

            After the audit, our camp host was in a rotten mood and cancelled our prearranged 12:20 am shuttle, making us leave at 11:00 pm. I now know that I can actually sleep on a parking lot with moving cars, as long as I am in front of the orange don’t-hit-me barriers. When we finally climbed on the ferry at 1:30 am, it no longer mattered what happened to us and we put our sleeping bags in some nook right by the door to the bar, which slammed open and shut throughout the night, once to let in a massive white wolf dog that stuffed his head under my feet into my sleeping bag to say hello. This is how I knew it was morning. Chris had already left for coffee and when he returned, he had that glimmery look of barely contained I-Have-An-Idea in his eye, which immediately told me that I would not be resting long (i.e. at all) in Rhodes.

            I was right. Over my cup of unusually good Early Gray (Go, Tetleys!), it was revealed to me that if we were really brave and tough, we could go all the way to Kas (Cash), Turkey on another boat! Hooray! Off we trotted to the next harbor over, using twelve meter thick Medieval city walls to guide us. 

       

 

           Of course, we soon discovered that we indeed could not take a ferry to Kas (ferry being our preferred mode of travel due to my developing extreme car sickness in my twenties). Not to be deterred from getting as far east in Europe as possible without entering a country that ends in –stan (sorry, everyone), Chris agreed to a roundtrip ticket with an undeclared return date to Marmaris, Turkey.

            Again, this is why we don’t make plans. Chris is like a non-specific Google search. I say, “Let’s go to Rhodes.” Chris says, “Did you mean ‘Let’s go to Turkey’?” And because I’m good with any article that may prove more interesting than what I had originally wanted, having forgotten what that was anyway, I always click yes.

            I am the enabler to Chris’ pop ups.

            With a day to kill in Rhodes before our unforeseen excursion east, we strolled about Europe’s oldest inhabited Medieval city. For as well known as it is, the town was relatively tranquil and we were able to enjoy our time without getting accosted by the scraping brims of the infamous Massive Sunhat Craze.

            If I may delve momentarily into questions of couture – no matter how sexy you are, you still look like a crazy grandma that names her tomato plants when you wear a Massive Sunhat. Maybe a sexy grandma that makes me feel self-conscious about my backpacker clothes, but a grandma nonetheless. Wear sunscreen and quit scraping the side of my head when you shove by me trying to get a picture of yourself holding enslaved macaws that are sequestered in the main square to attract tourists to a restaurant.

            Also, let the macaws go home to Copan Ruinas, where they belong. They’re not waiters. They’re birds.

            Our eventual boat ride to Marmaris was hot, but uneventful, and Turkish  passport control was shockingly mellow and efficient (take a hint, Albania), though we did have to pay 30 euros for being from America. Small price, I’m guessing…

            Our first big culture shock came when a group of taxi drivers politely acknowledged knowing of the pension we had in mind and then one man softly requesting, “May I take you there?” and actually waiting for our answer. Anywhere else in Europe, the bags would have already been snatched from us and stuffed in the trunk while the cabbie yelled, “You get in!” without giving us a price. (In Central America, we’d be walking.) When we calmly arrived at the hotel, the driver checked to make sure we could stay and then asked if we wanted his card. It was so bizarre. Thinking he was an anomaly, we were floored when we were treated exactly the same by every other person we have dealt with in Turkey. It’s just as ridiculously polite and hospitable as I have (thankfully) heard the US being described by backpackers from other lands (though I have my doubts). It feels like home.

            Also, a word to all you lady backpackers out there – We all know there are places on the planet where it’s tough to be a lady (Albania). I’m thinking of the time in Copan Ruinas, Honduras, when a tuk tuk driver almost crashed his silly vehicle because he was staring at my legs (my polar white tree trunk legs!). As an increasingly Muslim nation, Turkey is being billed as a country where long skirts and sunglasses are a must if you don’t want to get stoned. In Anatolia (by Syria, Lebanon, Iraq, and Iran), this is relatively true and given its proximity to the parenthetical countries, you may consider hanging tight on that area until things settle. However, I have not altered my dress at all thus far and have not had a single awkward hey-girl-hey moment, unlike some other places (Albania) we’ve been. Coastal western Turkey is really a marvel and we definitely should put aside some cultural notions that are still rather pervasive about this country. (I also saw more hijabs and heard more amazing muezzins in Montenegro and Albania than in Turkey, ever the lesson on preconceived notions.)

            From Marmaris, where we got to eat at a real live McDonald’s until Chris caused a minor crisis (see below), we bussed to Dalyan, a town on the river Dalyan that plays humble host to an astounding group of Lycian rock tombs that hover above the water. (It is here that I would like to wag my finger at the young man in the Jason Mraz hat that neglected to mention this most significant of details about Dalyan in our Lonely Planet Europe. For shame.)

             

            Our tent is pitched now at a campground directly on the river and we have full view across to the tombs themselves. Thanks to the Central American-ness of Turkey, we can afford to take some excursions and have set off to Itzuzu Beach to see the sea turtle nesting grounds, have a swim in the Mediterranean, boat the river looking for turtles, and muck it up at a stinky mud bath/hot springs. (For the sake of your burning computer eyes, I will come back with snapshots and words on this later, perhaps in verse, which is much more appropriate for secret sea turtle sightings.) If there is time, we may even see a turtle rehabilitation center. Nothing worse than a turtle on crack.

 

More on this soon!

  

            Chris is busy ingratiating himself with a new set of campsite kitties (read: killers) with Turkish names we can’t pronounce. They knocked over an owl’s nest, which is really offensive, but also gave us the opportunity to watch an impeccably dressed Turkish Ronnie-from-Jersey-Shore dramatically rescue a teensy baby owl from under an antique VW Beetle, stroke it like the adorable infant it was, and then release it to the care of its mother, who swooped in on white, silent wings and gave me the kind of guttural thrill that you can only get from contact with the whispering wisdom of Athena.

            Turkey is the bee’s knees.

            Another nod to Zen Chris, who always flows with his river and helps me to maintain my current.

   

Chris at McDonald’s

A Scene

Chris: Look! Mega Macs! Oh my god, what are Mega Macs?

Me: Looks like it’s three pieces of bread, four pieces of beef, and a pound of ketchup.

Chris: Gross! I’m taking a picture.

(Chris takes picture publicly. Man with McDonald’s Manager Tie immediately approaches.)

Manager Tie: No no no no no no. You no take pictures. Delete delete delete delete. No no no no no.

Chris: Why?

Me: Dumb question.

Manager Tie: Get food, no pictures. No no no no no no no. Delete.

Chris: Sorry.

Me: I’m not sorry.

Manager Tie: You like fries or not?

We did not delete.

This is what we look like now - desperate, McDonald's eating hobos.

BONUS POST BONUS POST BONUS POST BONUS POST BONUS POST BONUS POST

We met the second fattest cat in Europe. I call her East Beast. She lives at our pension in Marmaris. She's beautiful. Like, Kathy Bates beautiful (seriously, she is).

This is the owner's screen saver photo of her.

And this is her in the flesh.

    

     

You're welcome.

http://www.hostelworld.com/hosteldetails.php/Maltepe-Pansiyon/Marmaris/21488/reviews

Accidentally in Albania (and in Montenegro, but that's not a pseudo-alliteration)

At last entry, I was baking in the sun in Dubrovnik, Croatia, impatiently waiting for a bus to take us to Kotor, Montenegro. Presently, I am hiding from the sun in Tirana, Albania, as we patiently (because there is air conditioning) wait for a bus to take us on an easy thirteen hours overnight to Saranda. The word easy is, of course, an utter farce, but we are pretending that not having to pay a night’s lodging is exactly what we were intending. In all reality, of course, we bumbled through a conversation with five Albanian men on a random Tirana street who were highly amused as we attempted to use our little English-speaking heads appropriately to indicate yes and no. Conveniently, Albanians shake their heads for yes and nod for no, so this conversation was a total Monty Python skit and it resulted in us agreeing to bus tickets to Saranda instead of Drymades, which is all fine because we don’t care where we go, except that this particular bus is going to take thirteen hours overnight and put us at a party beach town at five in the morning (just in time for the walk of shame).

It’s ok, though, because Tirana has this massive iguana sitting in a cage on the street and we’re best friends.

            

Needless to say, our trip itinerary is entirely haphazard. Take, for example, our three day stint in Montenegro. From Dubrovnik, we did indeed intend to go to Kotor, a gorgeous Medieval town with cobblestones and battlements and fortified castle walls and accompanying religious iconography and everything else that makes a European town “charming”. We even had a private room in a hostel overlooking the main square with green shutters that opened over a gelato shop. Charming. 

There was even a precious little high school choir singing and dancing in a style not unlike Medieval Glee. Charming charming charming.

After Kotor, though, things got a little…accidental. At the bus station in Kotor, we kind of just got on a bus to Podgorica, the capital of Montenegro, intending to simply get on another bus upon arrival and head straight to…Serbia? We didn’t know. Of course, upon arriving at Podgorica, we found it to be an authentic European city where tourists do not ever go, which meant that there wasn’t a bus anywhere, let alone to Serbia, until the next day (and the bus station toilets were just well caulked holes in the ground). Temporarily stranded in Podgorica, we took a room where the proprietor kept trying to convince us that we wouldn’t both fit in a twin sized bed. Later that night, squashed in said bed watching Animal Planet (in English!), Chris revealed to me his underhanded (i.e. secret from me because he knew I’d bop him in the head) interest in going to Kosovo. I then revealed to Chris Serbia’s equally underhanded interest in going to Kosovo, and after extensive googling led by me and Travel State, it was decided that Serbia and Kosovo had best be left alone by these two Americans (and perhaps more extensively investigated by another set of Americans with a bit of an upper hand with these kinds of things). Albania it was! Of course, when we returned to hole-in-the-floor bus station the next day, we were convinced to take tickets to Ulcinj, unless we wanted to take a taxi all the way to Albania for 100 euro. We did not. Off to Ulcinj (wherever that was) we went.

As with any Chris and Lauren experimentation, it was only after getting on the bus that we realized Ulcinj wasn’t even mentioned in the guidebook. Anticipating spending the night in a goat barn in a Montenegro coastal village, we were pleasantly surprised to arrive at a relatively well developed bus station staffed by relatively friendly, non-English-speaking workers. Still stuck with the problem of sleeping, Chris ventured out into the streets to mime his way into some housing, a feat that usually takes a bit of time and effort. I was confused, then, when he came almost immediately back and asked if I wouldn’t mind staying with “this kid” at “his house”. Strangely, I did not, and off we went to meet the Montenegro version of my own brother, Alex, who took us in his bungee corded car towards a beautiful, mountainous beach town with stacks of somewhat well-maintained stucco apartments. It had crossed my mind that we had just been kidnapped, a thought that was more solidified when our driver stopped to have a chitchat with some other raggedy gentlemen advertising their own “apartman sobe” for visitors. By the grace of Christopher, though, we were merely driven to a lovely apartment block, where “this kid’s” mom greeted us warmly and gave us a private room with air conditioning. A child even came and gave us a plate of green squishy fruits that Chris tried to refuse, only to have her swat his hand and leave the whole plate on the top of our mini fridge, where I sat and waited for them to hatch baby aliens and eat us. They did not.

To make matters even more hilarious, Ulcinj had the first sandy beach we had seen on this trip. We swam and snorkeled quite a bit in Croatia, but the entire experience was marred by the fact that the beaches were pebbled, which actually means covered in sharp, jagged rocks that are excruciating to walk through on your way to have a float. To arrive in a mysterious city in Montenegro casually noted on the map without any further mention, only to find it to be a pristine (read: untouched by American backpackers) beach community with real sand and clear water was the most outrageous of treats. This is why Chris and I are hesitant to change our ways and make a plan. Ulcinj was not in any way the plan. It wasn’t even in the book.

 And I got to sit in the sea as the sun started to set and listen to the wailing of a muezzin from a series of whitewashed minarets that unceremoniously hovered above the city streets, a haunting song that carried up and over the ramparts of a Medieval Catholic fortress and out to the blue horizon.

            Take that, plans.

                                                                                     And that!

In the morning, we had to rouse Montenegro Alex at 11:30 to take us to the bus station, where we could finally take a bus to Shkodra, Albania. However, when we arrived in Shkodra, we found it to be unpleasantly Guatemala City-esque, save for a massive, silverly mosque that was designed, truly, like a Star Trek mothership. So, we got off the bus, put our stuff on the ground, and immediately started to barter. Some shuttle bus driver arrived and helpfully suggested taking us to Tirana in his air conditioned van, and when I turned to communicate this to Chris, I found him on a cabbie’s cellphone talking to an unidentified man about many different topics, from housing to tickets down the coast. I wish I could describe the scene that led up to Christopher talking on a strange man’s cellphone to an unidentified individual in broken English, but alas I was in my own bartering situation and missed the key details of this most ridiculous of moments. Perhaps the mystery in itself is what makes that scene my most favorite part of the trip so far. Only to my boyfriend would this ever happen… I told Chris to say hi for me and that we should get in the air conditioned van for five euro each. Off to Tirana (unplanned) we went.

Chris and I have a working knowledge of many capitals around the world, and what we have learned to expect is that capitals are gross and expensive. We had low hopes for Tirana. There is something special about Albania, though. The people are generally nice here and Tirana proved to be a somewhat decent place, as far as big cities goes. The stucco buildings are painted cheerful reds and yellows. A massive Orthodox church dome glints gold in the sun across the street from an aged mosque with Eastern art scattered across its shabby façade. Many men doing many manly things are emblazoned in bronze in various green parks dotted with what Chris jubilantly called “picnickers” and I quietly recognized as homeless guys having lunch. The streets are lined with trees and flower boxes, and did I mention the giant iguana in a cage! Tirana is pretty cool and Grandma Gina, another nice lady that found us in the street and gave us a clean private room, is adorable in her blue-and-white nautical fifties dress. It’s been nice. We have high hopes for Saranda and the Drymades beaches down south, which is where you will find us next, if perhaps you’ve been looking.

           

            

My Awesome Blossom Family Man

The most important fact about travel is that it is really hard and, if done correctly, it makes you feel like going straight home and watching reruns of Dexter for the rest of the summer while eating saltines and losing all connections with the outside world. True statement. For every incredible moment that we have earned on this trip, there have been approximately ten micro-disasters leading up to said incredible moment that have made me wonder why people (read: these two teachers) even bother venturing outside of their brand new luxury apartment (with a brand-new Dexter-watching couch) to sleep on the ground in Eastern Europe with a host of new and strange biting insects that have left me swollen and pock-marked with itchy bruise/bump/nodules that look disturbingly similar to pictures of blood-poisoning from the Civil War. Nitty gritty backpacking is not a vacation, which can be stressful when you realize that you are using up all of your vacation time to not have a vacation, and I cannot tell you how frustrating it is to be strolling down the Roman streets of Dubrovnik on the way to a ferry for a romantic, highly au natural frolic on Lokrum (no cameras allowed...google it, unless you're related to me), only to look up and realize that you look like a homeless person with smallpox and unkempt eyebrows. Europe, for the record, is utterly teeming with unnaturally attractive women. Not useful for a female backpacker (me) trying to maintain some semblance of pride after a wealthy American hag with a painted-on face offered me some change in Split because she thought the girl (ME) sitting by the backpacks on a side street was a beggar. True statement.

This trip has not been easy. Clearly.

Chris and I have both been having a hard time with certain aspects of this adventure. See, we're active people, and by active, I really mean that we are almost always moving, doing, touching, singing, wiggling, going going going. Meet our dogs and you'll know this to be true. Europe, meanwhile, does not appear to be about going. Quite the opposite, actually. Europe appears to be all about idling, as in, Chris and Lauren sitting at a table at a "fast food" restaurant for forty minutes wondering why we had to finish our whole drink before the waiter would bring us some chicken nuggets (with mayonnaise, because nobody's judging). We are terrible at luxuriating. Chris has gotten more quizzical looks than a guy running naked with a pet tiger on a leash because he just swallows his thimble of espresso instead of sipping it like a real coffee drinker. We don't want dinner to be three hours. We want dinner to be five minutes and snorkeling/sea kayaking/avoiding sea urchins with our bare feet to be three thousand hours. Central America was good to us in that regard. They slapped a meal in front of you, you ate it, they snatched it out from under you, and then you paid twenty bucks to go swim with sharks and rent a canoe with a hole in it for ocean explorations. It was like our brain had created an entire region of the globe as our own personal playground. Europe, meanwhile, cannot understand our pace, wishing instead that we would just slow down and purchase a pair of $500 pumps with massive orange puff balls on the ankle. Chris was almost sold, but would he ever really wear them? We're having a harder time adjusting. It's very grown up here. Like, wine and cathedrals grown up. We were meant to roll around in the forest...which is probably why that wrinkly old bag wanted to give me cash to go to the soup kitchen.

What is really important for me to note, though, is that Chris is the better one at dealing with the waiting, the watching, the shopping, the staring, the utterly blase nothingness that we have sometimes been a party to. I, meanwhile, have been a total nutjob. When Chris gets bored over waiting for eight million years for a Coke, he suggests we play cards or plan for our year, like a regular person would do. When I get bored over waiting eight million years for a Coke Zero, I whine and say I want to go home and canoe at the Gorge, like a nutjob would do. You can see who the champion is, and it is decidedly not me. This is why I fell in love with my big Gumby of a guy (yep, it's one of those posts - my blog, my topics). If there is anything I can rely on in this world, it is Christopher being unreasonably optimistic and gung-ho about a stupiddumbboring situation. For every second I have spent pretending to perish on a particularly hot, nauseating bus ride, Chris has been composing speeches the likes of which Obama could use to actually get the Republicans to do what he wanted. Every grumbled, sardonic bit of fluff that has fallen of my mouth has been swept up and away by this man's zest for anything he decides he wants to be awesome. It's like mixing Mr. Roger's Neighborhood with Dick Van Dyke and a little bit of E. I call it Roger's...well, you get the idea. When we were trapped in stinky sewer town (i.e. Split), I seriously wanted to change our flight plans. Across the table from me, where we were again waiting, Chris' eyes were wide and he was already launching into a planned presentation on the importance of "allowing travel to become a part of your mental map, so you have a broader understanding of the world around you, even if it isn't always positive, and we can stick anything out and make it fun, you know this, so have a little faith in me..." and on and on and on. (It's like dating the UN, but a UN that cares and gets things done.) Half the time, I don't have any idea what he's talking about because I just want to go on a dangerous excursion involving outdoor activities, but it's the earnestness, the pure hearted wonderment that sticks with me. This kid knows what it means to really be joyful and open. If he were a Hindu, his third eye would be the biggest one around, and in it would be all of the wisdom of the universe I've ever wished to have. I was reading How to Achieve Total Enlightenment when I met him. It took me two seconds to realize that the book should just open and have a picture of him inside.

Specifically, this one:

Chris is so Zen, he doesn't even need to maintain his motorcycle.

And I get to be with him. Awesome Blossom.

Scientific Exploration

I'll start with an apology. I have a series of ridiculous snapshots I would like to pepper throughout this post, but you'll have to live with mostly words until I can find a location that will support a downloading action. That place is not here. 

I kind of hate that I know what a "downloading action" is...but I also kind of love that "downloading action", according to Chris, is not a real computer term.

Via bus and “ferry”, a word in Croatia that actually describes a massive cruise ship with a booth filled salon where one can lounge about and pretend to be Zelda Fitzgerald on vacation with her boozy husband, we have landed in Hvar Town, Croatia, at Camp Kira. Camping in Europe is just like staying at a resort, except it’s $30 a night instead of $200 (which is nice).  The campsites have real showers with actual hot water, private beaches/lounges/what-have-you, silly mini golf courses, and grocery stores. Right now, as I write this, I am attempting to avoid listening to a man having a very serious, highly uncomfortable business conversation (without a shirt on) about broken contracts (poor Dave) and “more than adequate” time via Skype…at a campsite. It’s all slightly unreal. (And the conversation with Dave needs to stop. He doesn’t want to work for you. He’s not signing the contract. Let it go.)

What is extremely appealing to me, though, is the group of kittens lurking under a tree just above our campsite. I startled one last night on my way to the showers and it leaped away in that maddeningly cute kitty way, streaking off with all four kitty legs hyper-extended. In pursuit, I stepped on a cactus, which was unpleasant, and was unable to snatch up my new (forced) best friend. In the morning, though, I found that a band of evidently sneaky kittens had chewed through our food bag and eaten all of the salami and cheese. Consequently, I have decided that a Croatian Kitten Salami Stakeout will be in order.

Chris disagrees.

Hvar Town itself is unexpectedly lovely. The buildings are all white stucco and sun-bleached roofs; everything smells like the Adriatic and spaghetti. Unfortunately, Chris and I look particularly dirty in comparison to the multitudes of extremely wealthy American travelers, and we are probably an unwelcome sight against the background of pebbly beaches and the rigid lines of elegantly named sailboats. Somewhere in Hvar Town Palace, a woman named Rita is Photoshopping BiggieSmalls (i.e. us) out of her sunset seascapes and wondering how the homeless populations have migrated from the mainland.

Outside of a Gregorian monastery over 500 years old (complete with dead monks cemented in crypts in the floor), Chris picked us up some snorkel gear… because we weren’t weird enough. We are now the proud owners of two sets of masks and air-blower-things that I use mostly to inadvertently suck in copious amounts of sea water. We have delighted in slapping around the little inlet beach by our campsite. We are joined mostly by twelve-year-old boys with matching gear and have logged crabs, shrimp, snails, and little schools of fish in our scientific explorations. A particularly pleasant duo is a blonde and brunette set of brothers that have been paddling around the sea in an inflatable raft. Huck Finn and That Nice Guy Jim have a sense of spirit with which Chris strongly identifies and I sense that it’s only a matter of time before I am also the proud owner of an inflatable raft.

I don’t know where it will go in my pack yet. Perhaps by the snorkels…

As Wyomingnites, we had forgotten the sea’s rather disturbing ability to utterly exhaust you in a matter of minutes. We have been finding ourselves peering blearily at one another in the hot sun, wondering which one of us will be the first to suggest that perhaps we should stop reading for hours at a time and actually move ourselves from a prostrate position in order to continue our scientific exploration of the camp inlet (i.e. snuffle around with masks on like doofuses). Thus far, both of us have proven to have acquired sloth-like dispositions that are not conducive to concentrated marine biology research.  Though we may not have contributed anything substantial to the field of science today, we have produced measurable gains in the field of literature appreciation. I have been reading Finding Everett Ruess since finally finding the book at a BLM station in the Lake Powell area on the Arizona/Utah border (remember when Chris and I were trekking Antelope Canyon?). For anyone out there with an interest in anything, I highly recommend absorbing yourself in this little gem and also going to http://www.npr.org/search/index.php?searchinput=everett+ruess for the public radio take on an adventure mystery spanning over 70 years now. We’re talking a teenage John Muir/Edward Abbey/Henry David Thoreau/Jonas Brother traipsing across the American Southwest alone, befriending/belittling Navajos, riding burros, imposing himself on Ansel Adams, having Dorothea Lange take pictures of him for fun, and writing some of the most ridiculous, melodramatic, awe-inspiring, powerfully human nature musings that are out there (everettruess.com). It’s awesome…so awesome, in fact, that Chris (a man that pretends to be illiterate when the feeling strikes him) has been stealing the book from me throughout the course of this trip and falling equally in love with the timeless, strange little hero.

We’re naming our first child after him, regardless of gender.

Of course, there is a problem with sharing books – you really can’t. I read fast. Chris does the opposite. It’s a problem. Thankfully, I found Suite Francaise in London, and am now trapped in France during the German occupation. Love problems ensue. It’s a bit like a sweeping Russian war novel, except a bit more readable and with less alcohol. Invigorating, but likely only because I’m presently in Europe (wanting more Everett Ruess and desert lore).

Also, Chris is working on a lovely series featuring Hvar Town. Here's a taste of that splendor.

I’ll close with a conversation I was subjected to on the bus from Plitvice to Split, where the ferry was waiting for us to dirty up the place.

Blonde Teenage Aussie Boy: Yeah, well, my sister’s friend was eaten by a shark.

Blonde Teenage Canadian Girl: Oh. My. GOD. That’s, like, my worst fear EVER. Was he alone?

Blonde Teenage Aussie Boy: He was diving with his mate, but then the shark came and ate him.

Blonde Teenage Canadian Girl: Oh. My. GOD. That’s, like, the scariest thing EVER. Did it eat all of him?

Blonde Teenage Aussie Boy: Well, it only ate half of him.

Blonde Teenage Canadian Girl. Oh. My. GOD. Did he die?

Lauren: No, no, there’s just half of a shark victim going about his daily business in Australia right now.

Chris: Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up.

Blonde Teenage Aussie Boy: Uh, yeah, he died. He got eaten.

Blonde Teenage Canadian Girl: Oh. My. GOD. That’s, like, the super saddest thing EVER. What did they do with the other half?

Lauren: Oh. My. GOD. You must be kidding me.

Chris: Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up.

Blonde Teenage Aussie Boy: Well, uh, they buried the other half. Because he got eaten.

Blonde Teenage Canadian Girl: Saaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaad. So, did you guys party in Zagreb?

Lauren: (pretends to die)

Chris: Yeah, ok. You’re right. (also pretends to die)

Potty On, Wayne and Other Stories

Potty On, Wayne: A Vignette

At rise: Curtain opens on Plitvicka Jezera bus seats. Three British Star Wars fans type gentleman are seated in the very back. They have taken great care to wear thick black socks that travel from the top of their extreme hiking boots to the middle of their calves. In front of them, an American couple is evidently listening to their conversation. The man is stoic, but the woman is beside herself with silent mirth.

Brit One (in a highly stereotypical accent): Remember, remember? It’s in Wayne’s World. Remember? Potty on, Wayne.

Brit Two (evidently imitating a key line from the film): Brilliant! Brilliant!

Brit Three (guffawing): Heh. Heh heh. Wayne’s World, Wayne’s World.

Brit One (encouraged by the shared laughs): Right, right! Potty on, Wayne. Potty on, Garth.

Brit Two (seeking attention from ringleader, Brit One): Yeah, and then he’s like, “I killed him with my own shoe.” Remember? Potty on, Garth. I killed him with my own shoe.

American Man (to American Woman): Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up.

American Woman (laughing riotously): Potty on, Wayne. Potty on, Garth. Foxy!

Brit Three (still guffawing): Heh. Heh heh. Ten million dollars. (Brings pinkie to lips)

American Man (to American Woman): Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up.

American Woman (struggling to breathe): Potty on. It’s…not…even…all…Wayne’s…World.

Brit Two (confused by parts of Wayne’s World that he doesn’t remember): Heh… uh, yeah! Heh heh. Brilliant! Brilliant! Ten million dollars.

American Woman (to American Man, still laughing): It’s…Gold…Member. They mean…Austin…Powers. (holds fingers above head like fox, begins to sing foxy song and waggle her fox ears) Foxy.

American Man (to American Woman): Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up.

Brit One (emboldened): Potty on! Oh, look, boys, we’re almost there!

American Woman (still sporting fox ears, highly aggravating American Man): Oh, look, Chris, we’re almost there! Excellent! Excellent! Or is it…

American Man (severely): Don’t!

American Woman (with great glee): Brilliant! Brilliant!

American Man (sadly): Just get off the bus.

American Woman (under her breath): Foxy!

Also, here’s our laundry tree. We gots bugs in ours drawers.

Today at Plitvice, Chris and I accidently took a very arduous, highly satisfying hike up and into the mountain forests surrounding the jezera (lakes in Croatian!). Here is an example of how Chris and I decide to do the super cool things that we do.

Chris (leaving main trail for rugged dirt path to his right): So, after we go home today, we’ll plan our route to Krka, ok?

Lauren (leaving main trail behind Chris for rugged dirt path to her right): Let’s just stand on the road until a bus comes.

Chris (hiking steeply uphill on a rock littered trail): Ok, but we need to make sure it goes to Zadar.

Lauren (hiking steeply uphill in her only pair of shoes, sport flip flops): How far is Krka from Zadar? Wait! Freeze! A huge lizard!

                *Half hour interlude during which time Chris and Lauren closely examine a green lizard whose head looks distinctly like that of a garter snake.

Chris (resuming exhilarating, challenging hike): Maybe in Greece we should go to a nude beach.

Lauren (highly enjoying exhilarating, challenging hike): My beluga white body has been banned from all nude beaches, USSR or otherwise.

And so it goes for another hour of hiking through amazing forests, the likes of which can only occur at very specific altitudes and are non-existent anywhere else in Croatia, until…

Chris (sweaty and grinning): When does this trail stop going up?

Lauren (sweaty and grinning): Where does this trail go?

Chris (shaking his head): Where does anywhere go in this place?

Lauren (pointing): Hey, look! A gigantic snail!

And thus the conversation about where this mysterious trail into the middle of a dense forest might go started and abruptly stopped in less than ten seconds. For the record, the hike was incredible and it did eventually take us to the biggest lake in the park…at least a mile away from where we thought it might go… Anyway, here’s my snail.

 

What I am trying to get at here, in my bizarrely scripted way, is that travel is a happy accident. Since announcing what our next summer had in store, I cannot tell you how many different ways we have been asked the following question –

How do you do it?

My automatic mental response is, “How do we do what?” Chris tells me it’s rude and a bit unnecessary, but, frankly, my question still stands. As far as I can see, today we climbed up the side of a mountain and caught some views of a lake that has been nestled comfortably away from the rumble of the outside world for many thousands of years. We aren’t the first, and thanks to the nature of life, we won’t be the last.

And we did it with our feet and a little bit of cash for the ticket.

The world is this huge place full of countless ways for everyone to feel right at home. When it boils down to people being people, we are all of the same ruffled breed. Several times, when I expressed to curious colleagues our excitement about Eastern Europe and delving into more untouched landscapes here, I was looked upon with genuine concern, as if I had just suggested that Chris and I would be spending our summer in a dinghy hoping to snatch a glimpse of the Loch Ness Monster (that’s Summer 2013, obviously). We were warned, clucked at, and occasionally scolded for our interest in leaving the safety of home (home being America, land of Compton, New Orleans Mardi Gras, Detroit, and approximately 1000 tv shows about the chopping up and subsequent examination of dead bodies) for a land as dangerous and full of post-Soviet Union rave warehouses as Eastern Europe. The same thing happened when we plunked down in Guatemala and the Yucatan. This response always frightens me, and not because I actually believe I’ll be kidnapped and sold into slavery. What scares me is that we are teaching ourselves and our children that the world is a terrifying place full of USSR slave traders with hilarious accents and fur hats (to keep their heads warm). Bad things happen on this planet. Just look at the runways during Fashion Week. We are an imperfect race with more than our fair share of utter whackjobs. But at the end of the day, whether you’re in Guatemala, Bosnia, or Pleasantville, USA, 98% of the population is having a nice dinner at home with their beloved family, putting the children to bed, and turning on the tv to watch reruns of XYZWXB Miami: Chopping Up Dead Bodies to Solve Mysteries…not in the streets of Croatia robbing me. If we ever want to feel one in the same, e pluribus unum, or even just mutually disturbed at Fashion Week together, we have to accept that to live is a risk that we should all be willing take. We have to reach out and know one another, before somebody nukes us all.

With that, please allow Chris and I to show you what families look like when they try to use the timers on their cameras.