My first stop in Europe was Croatia, and I felt the difference in the standard of living almost immediately at the airport. I felt guilty at my relief. Instead of the feeling of charging hooves first into the world, landing in Europe seemed like a retreat to shelter from the energetic hustle in Asia and Africa. Would I get too used to convenience, and lose my curiosity about the world? Would my desire to leap out of my comfort zones, as I have done over the years, fade?
Even Cape Town, which was already very nice by Africa standards, was nothing compared to Zagreb. When I stepped off the plane, the hallways were large, clean and well-maintained. Signs were clearly illuminated. People spoke in low voices, like it was a crime to speak out loud. The customs process was orderly and efficient. Suddenly I felt the unusual feeling of space around me, an emptiness, as people respectfully stood two feet away from me in line. I had the privilege of the bubble of personal space and privacy again.
I rented a car and drove to Zagreb, the capital of Croatia, parked the thing in a garage and wandered for a half-hour on downtown streets toward the Cathedral. I marveled at the cotton candy-colored, fairy tale European buildings in rose pinks and oranges standing wall-to-wall in the plaza. It looked like Disneyland, the way they stood in a row and were decorated in the architectural equivalent of frills on a dress, all the white molding and trim and swirls. Because I had arrived at 7 a.m., I was hankering for a shot of caffeine in a cappuccino. I added a slice of carrot cake at a café called Amelie. What the hell, I needed the sugar and calories.
Day One: Zagreb
Cathedral of Zagreb
It’s never too early to come here. There are so many tourists milling around you’d be glad to get a head start. It’s a beautiful church, built in the Gothic style, and I could spot its trademark spires from other heights in the city.
St. Mark’s Church
It was a good idea to get a Croatian SIM card instead of relying on my Chinese number to get around. (It’s too much trouble to find the Chinese names of European landmarks on Baidu.) But also because half the fun of Europe is wandering down cute little alleys and purposely trying to get lost. Well, there’s no real danger like there might be in Asia or Africa, and by that I mean nonsensical roadblocks as much as physical safety.
I walked up the stairs next to the funicular, which claims to be one of the shortest in the world. I wondered if that was something a city should be proud about, a thing that slowly trawls up a short distance up a hill.
At the top of this funicular – which is fun to say and oddly quaint in sound – the real fun begins. Here, the streets are well preserved but as much for living in. There are a few small restaurants, government offices and museums that in their pristine state are clearly meant to show off the best of Croatia’s capital. And they should: The roof of St. Mark’s Church looks like an enlarged version of a pixelated Mario Brothers video game. The square geometry and contrast of red and white against a blue sky was spectacular, and a real showcase of art and heritage in Croatia.
Nearby, there were oddities, or in other words, charming touches. I tipped a man singing in a beautiful voice and watched a woman in petticoats play a wind-up organ.
Museum of Broken Relationships
But the oddest thing was a museum dedicated to objects related to loss, the Museum of Broken Relationships. Instead of the kitsch I had expected, it was emotionally moving and conjured up my own variant of elation and demons in the throes of romance or the despair of heartbreak. Nothing could be worse than losing someone you love more than anyone else in the world.
Artifacts of longing were enshrined here, including one thousand origami cranes that a mother had folded after one of her children died, a tape recorder of the voice of someone’s late mother, and a diary, pocket watch and necklace from a breakup. There was also an exhibit of memories from people who had escaped from violent conflict in Iran or Syria and tried to settle in Europe. I’m easily moved by emotion – maybe that’s why I’m a writer who can easily move others with my words – but I somehow managed to refrain from gasps or sobs here.
Lunch at Bistro Vjestica
After that emotional cleanse, I had my first truly delicious Western meal in years: a salad of tomatoes and cheese, honey-glazed chicken in a cream sauce with grilled spring onions and a glass of cuvee red wine, served on a white tablecloth and with a carafe of cold water. I was the only customer in a restaurant that looked like a wine cellar, but I had the best spot: a table next to the window so I could engage in that nosy sport of people-watching.
I realized then how to describe the feeling of rest that I had felt when I landed in Europe. Rest. I could actually rest here, be still with a sunbeam shining on my cheek and think about the crispiness and sweetness of chicken skin.
Midday cannon boom from Lotrscak Tower
At noon, a boom out of nowhere scared me so much I thought my heart was going to seize up and collapse. Turns out, gunpowder is exploded from a cannon to mark the time of noon and for the sake of tradition, but no ball is actually volleyed out from its mouth.
After lunch, I walked toward the source of the explosion, a fortified tower on the hill, and settled on a peaceful bench to rest in the gardens nearby. It’d be perfect for a picnic next time.
Graffiti art and murals
From there, stomach still full from lunch, I trundled down to a large terrace with a couple posing for engagement photos. Their backs faced a spectacular landscape of cathedral spires and a sea of red-tiled roofs down below.
Next was a delightful descent down a series of curved staircases and sidewalks shaded by tall trees, a maze of stone steps curved around walkways. The walls were tagged with colorful scrawls of graffiti and murals such as of the inventor Nikola Tesla, a national hero for both Croatia and Serbia.
Nap in the Botanical Garden
At the bottom of the hill, I continued down long avenues to the assortment of gardens arranged in the shape of a horseshoe, such as King Tomislav Square, and an impressive retinue of 19th century buildings, including the Art Pavilion.
Head west on a short walk, and you’ll end up at a green gated entrance to the peaceful Botanical Garden, a collage of plants, large trees and ponds, one of them with an iconic red bridge like out of a Monet painting.
Happy hour with Croatian cheese and wine at Cheese Bar
For happy hour, I circled back to the old town to the aptly named Cheese Bar for a snack-dinner of black truffle cheese, another cheese from the Croatian island of Pag and two glasses of red wine. The first, a full-bodied Teran; the second, a Cuvee that was sweet and dry.
Day Two
Plitvice Lakes
I got up at 8 a.m. and hit the road for Plitvice Lakes, but the by the time I parked the car in Entrance 1 (there are two entrances on either side of the park), it was hot and crowded with tourists. I made a mental note to come back next time at 7 a.m. sharp when the park opens.
My irritation immediately faded the moment I stepped to the first viewpoint, a stunning panorama of a canyon with bright blue pools and a gushing cascade waterfalls stacked in uneven layers. The only bummer is, you can’t swim in its waters, though you can in Krka National Park (and in the Kuang Si waterfalls in Laos).
But the benefit of banning dirty feet and hordes of swimmers is preserving the park’s distinctive feature of water so clear you can see straight down through it like a pane of glass to gaze at the fish below.
No, there was another niggle. The crowds, mostly retirees and pensioners, were a setback. Not their manners, but the sheer number of them, which resulted in slow-moving long lines to see the main waterfall and narrow wooden bridges that winded around the edges of the lakes. It’d be worth a whole day here for a stroll and a picnic. I assume the farther you travel into the park, the higher the chance you have of discovering a free rock or bench to sit on. But I was on to the next adventure.
Zadar
The road to Zadar curled around forested mountainsides and villages. Drizzle sprinkled the windshield, then quickly turned into a blast of water crashing down from the skies in so great of an outpour that my windshield wipers couldn’t keep up, and the car sloshed through giant puddles. As quickly as the rain began, it stopped. The road flattened out into a straight highway that got so boring I had to fight off sleep by turning up the electronic music on the radio.
I had really wanted to drive along the Istria Coast to the town of Rijeka and hit a few more fortresses and viewpoints before arriving in Zadar, but I didn’t have enough time. I made a mental bookmark for future travels.
The fortified part of old Zadar sits on a peninsula. Within its walls are Venetian architecture, columns from Roman ruins and a long boardwalk next to the sea. People have been living in Zadar continuously for more than 2,000 years.
There are the usual patios and cafes by the waterfront, where I ate vegetable lasagna and a caprese salad that had a pouch of burrata cheese on a bed of greens.
But the better thing to do, as is the case in most of Europe, is to take a little picnic with you down to the waterfront and dangle your legs in the Adriatic Sea. Long, wide steps are great for lounging, and they lead down to the water. If the sun gets too hot, you can plop over the edge and go for a swim. Stake out a spot at the Sea Organ, where you can hear the music of the ocean.
A good tip to know is that parking in Zadar is free on Sundays.
Over the hill to Split
On the way to Split, Google Maps took me off the main road and onto a one-way, narrow concrete path that zigged and zagged through bushes and fields. The sun was setting, and shadows grew darker. There was no one else around.
Suddenly, I lost my cell signal. I tried not to panic, backtracked and U-turned a few times and picked it up again, one faint bar of signal. The road was just a slab of concrete laid over the earth, with no curbs or signs. I trusted my instincts and kept going.
The road began to dip into a series of switchbacks as I headed down into a valley, and then up a large hill. My adrenaline shot up. It was time to roll! I jammed the stick into first and second gears and pushed the gas pedal down as I whipped the little rental car around sharp corners like a racecar driver. Some of the turns were so tight they looked like the letter “v.”
When I crested the big hill, the road stretched forward on the top for a short stretch, like I was sitting on the ledge of a windowsill. The town of Split and the whole bay lay below me in the dusky sunset, twinkling with lights. I only had time to think the word, “wow,” when the road dropped and I sped forward in a gleeful rush that was reckless, but free.
