The floor is sand colored (I'm sure if I went to Lowe's or Home Depot, I would find a more accurate, poetic name), the walls are painted white with some manner of cheap (but brilliantly effective) limestone dust mixed with water.
Polka dot oven mitts hang on the oven door. An oven in which I don't need to light a fire in order to boil a kettle of water. Or get Giuseppe to light a fire (he is the fire god, after all) to boil a kettle of water.
It feels absolutely spectacular to be able to drink this cup of coffee. My appreciation for hot beverages has grown by leaps and bounds.
Two small refrigerators live in a cabinet by the main entrance. They are stuffed full of meats and cheeses and leftovers.
The space is open. I have a clear view through the porch window of several terrace gardens.
Zucchini. Tomatoes. Peas. Lettuce (SO MUCH LETTUCE). Onions. Carrots (sad ones).
The occasional radish.
Canopies cover sofas, tables, chairs.
I can hear the faint bubbling of the stream on the other end of the campsite.
Such a peaceful space.
Flowers, flowers, flowers. Some growing wild and some blooming, bursting, burgeoning out of a wall of whitewashed, recycled tires.
I slept in a waterproof tent last night. One in which I would not get "a little wet", should it start to pour.
I ate a gorgeous dinner last night. Fresh salad (from the garden), baked aubergine with cheese, a bit of quinoa, greek salad and some token meat dish for the carnivores of the group.
It was significantly more substantial than kale. Which is the staple food of Nove Starine.
Thursday night was spent at Dragan's Hostel. Martin and I were lucky enough to be present for a fabulous Mexican meal prepared by one of the of the other guests. I've been desperate for Mexican food, as of late. Jalepenos, tortillas, cilantro and limes haunt my dreams (there are worse things). Perhaps I've spent too much time daydreaming about my upcoming placement in Puerto Escondido.
But I finally got my Mexican meal.
Life gives me --
I didn't finish the thought. I was too busy cramming my mouth full of beans and cheese and chillies to be bothered with philosophy.
After dinner, Martin went out and I passed out.
In hostels, there are two methods of getting a good night's sleep.
Option #1: fall asleep before all the drunk people come back.
Option #2: be one of the drunk people coming back.
Marin and I used both of these options (respectively) and ended up sleeping quite well indeed.
My final full day in Croatia was spent in Dubrovnik. We took the taxi from Dragan's Hostel (after discovering that a private taxi was actually cheaper than taking the bus) at 8:20 on Friday morning and after a three hour drive along breathtaking coastline, we tumbled out into the old town near the walls representative of King's Landing (I love Game of Thrones, don't judge).
Dubrovnik. I believe you attract as many tourists as Venice. I just assumed that you would be a sort of hidden gem because I hadn't heard of you before, but apparently the rest of the world knows you quite well. You are positively overrun with Americans, Asians, British, Australians, Germans and Italians.
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| If there's a beautiful view in Wales, people build a bench so that you can properly enjoy the beautiful view. If there's a beautiful view in Croatia, people find some way to put something in front of the beautiful view. |
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| Beautiful view? stuff in the way. |
I overheard more Italian than Croatian. More German than Italian. More English than German.
I saw a plethora of barbie doll pink/lobster red legs, faces and arms on beaches.
The need to change ones skin from a perfectly lovely alabaster/eggshell white (now I'm thinking in Home Depot terms) to an unnatural shade of characterless bronze is something that continually confounds me. To deliberately put oneself through so much pain/risk of cancer in a climate dramatically different from what ones skin is used to?
Pourquoi?
Dubrovnik was sweltering. Stifling. Our hostel was located over twenty five minutes away from old town and fifteen minutes UP (this city has epic stairs), so we settled up with the Croatian grandma, and then spent the afternoon swimming in sweat and ancient history (Martin swam in the sea, but I just dipped my feet. Without Tessa's lifeguard/fishwoman persuasion, I'm become markedly less eager to dive into the sea).
The hotter the days get, the less enthusiastic I am to spend any time at all outside.
I'm afraid I'm making the slow, insidious transformation into a cafe traveler. I arrive at a glorious new city and immediately start looking for a place with shade and cheap beverages wherein I can escape the harsh weather.
Martin and I walked to the bus stop the next morning and paid a ridiculous amount of money to an extremely rude ticket lady to travel the vast fifty km between Dubrovnik and Herceg Novi.
Croatia. I've been living within your borders for nearly a month and a half. I've seen some gorgeous sunsets, gone on a spectacular birthday hike, hitchhiked up and down your Dalmatian coast, soaked in the beauty of your islands --
-- but I'm ready to move on. So, so ready.
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