Today is one year of travel.
I'm starting this post from the porch of Dragon's Den hostel in Korcula town on Korcula island.
It's breezy, wheezy out.
Morning is clearing its throat.
A British couple prepares to take the taxi to the ferry and the ferry to Dubrovnik and --
How can people wear such short shorts and not have goosebumps? What is the bizarre secret of British skin?
I might head inside and wait until the "humph, harumph, hack" of morning is finished.
Or morning's breath at least gets a little warm. Ish.
Korcula, Korcula, Korcula.
Marco Polo island (noted by some/most as theft of heritage).
You make Lastovo look completely abandoned (which isn't all that hard).
You with your 16,000+ residents in your 279 square km.
Legend has it you were founded by the Trojan hero Antenor in the 12th century BC.
Which is easy to believe. Even with all your tourist sailor hats, seashells and sketchy looking pizza places, you feel old.
Your hands have scars. Your face has wrinkles.
All this touristic botox can't hide your character.
Mesolithic and Neolithic peoples left faint footprints on your island mountains.
The semi-nomadic Illyrians stamped about a bit in 1000 BC.
Greeks from Corfu joined the party 400 years later. They broke a few lamps and damaged a door, but were generally good roommates.
Roman arrived to stir the previously peaceful pot after 200 years. They tossed in a few churches, sprinkled in a dash of agriculture and called the soup Korcula (part of the Roman Province of Dalmatia).
Slavs arrived for a bowl of soup in the 6th and 7th centuries. They added some good ol' fashioned barbarian massacre and a wee bit of piracy to the Roman stew.
Byzantium took a bite. Venice nibbled.
The Great Principality of Zahumlje (what?) slurped a spoonful.
Hungary.
Republic of Ragusa took ownership of soup.
Passed it on like a hot potato until it ended up in Italy's lap.
Then Yugoslavia.
1992. Korcula. You are now part of the independent Republic of Croatia.
And you've got a good many wrinkles and have made a mighty flavorful soup.
Martin and I left Bruno's apartment in Lucica on Lastovo island at 10:00 yesterday morning.
I watched the sunrise whilst eating chocolate and peanuts and refusing to feel guilty.
When life gives you sunrises and chocolate and peanuts, just enjoy your damn peanuts.
We grabbed a quick cappuccino and then moseyed on to the minibus, down to the port at Ubli and on to the ferry bound for Korcula.
I read. Martin napped.
Martin read. I napped.
We arrived at Vela Luka on Korcula Island a bit after 13:00.
I was nearly stampeded by a whole HERD of bikers wearing Colorado flags on their spandex shirts.
MY PEOPLE! I wanted to shout. During this year of travel, I've seen a grand total of five people from Colorado. On the beach of Korcula, I saw nearly as many people as live in my hometown of Rifle (not a joke) in one go.
Part of me wanted to assault the poor tourists with "I'VE BEEN AWAY FROM HOME FOR A YEAR, TELL ME YOUR STORIES!"
And the other part was more like, "Bourget... these people are here on vacation. To experience Croatia. Not more people from Colorado. Also, Colorado isn't really your home anymore. Wherever your feet are at this moment is your home."
The other part of me won. I simply looked on with amusement at the typical Colorado biker garb and buff biker legs and leathery biker faces and sturdy biker hands.
Martin and I had anticipated a quiet, scenic bus ride through the green hills from Vela Luka to Korcula town.
It was scenic. It was anything but quiet. After we'd found our seats near the back, a dozen (or three) highschoolers clamored on and spent the hour long trip popping the loudest bubbles, giggling the loudest giggles and catapulted from lap to lap the way Korcula catapulted from Venice to Hungary to Yugoslavia to --
We arrived in Korcula town slightly deaf and mildly disoriented.
Martin had looked up a hostel, but didn't know how to find it on the map. Apparently, it possessed a street number but no street name.
"Sounds suspiciously Irish," I commented as we meandered into city center.
"We can just ask at the tourist information office," Martin reasoned reasonably. "Maybe they can give us a map."
The woman at the tourist office didn't tell us where it was, but she did (against our wishes) call the hostel and ask them to come pick us up.
I suppose she can't be bothered to give directions.
I've forgotten how much fun good hostels are. At Dragon's Den, there are people from Portugal, Bosnia, Germany, Australia, Texas, Canada -- all here to have a good time and happy to share the goodness with the group.
Five minutes after I arrived, a Bosnian chap was making me coffee. Then I was offered local plum liqueur, smoked sausage (from his grandfather) and quite tasty cheese.
I must visit Bosnia and befriend all Bosnian people. I have so much karma to pay off.
Brandy finished, I packed my small backpack with camera and passport and joined Martin to walk into Korcula.
We meditated by the sea. We watched kitesurfers soar. We ate extraordinary cevapcici and then walked back to the hostel.
These beans had the taste of heaven. I didn't realize beans could taste of heaven.
He had also been drinking. Lots and lots of rakia.
Perhaps this is why his beans tasted of heaven. God only knows what ended up inside that gigantic pot of brown, bubbling legumes, meat and... ?
We met him as he pushed his bike up a hill to ride down to the supermarket for a couple more liters of booze.
"Pray that you'll see me again," he joked but not as he pushed himself onto the bike (and off someone's car) and wove in every which way down the narrow street.
We did see him again. Him and his bounteous beans which he offered to the fifteen hostel guests.
I WILL befriend all Bosnians.
The evening ended (for me) after I'd put about five people upside-down, received five hugs, five "is this really happening?" smiles and one job offer.
Tomorrow is one year, I thought as I drifted off in the light, noisy room. One year of living in other people's spaces. One year of learning to be light. Learning to relax. Learning to listen. Learning to learn.
Tomorrow is one year.
And it's just the beginning.
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