We left Freedom Traveler hostel once and for all on Tuesday, getting one last round of free cornflakes, yogurt and ham, for old time’s sake. We’ve decided to try to make it to Athens in time for Christmas, and so we’re going to try to move a little faster than we have been until now. This meant taking a train across the mountain chain that cuts straight down Italy’s boot, and saying goodbye to pasta and pizza. We originally planned to take a train to Bari on Italy’s eastern coast and from there, a ferry to the oh-so-talked-about city of Dubrovnik, at the southernmost tip of Croatia. But the only way to get from Rome to Bari with bicycles by train is to take four different regional trains… which we were not eager to do. So instead, it was off to Ancona, a seedy little city further north that Lonely Planet emphatically says is not worth a visit. We were sorry to leave Italy before seeing its south – said to be a completely different world – but it was time to move on. (A good sign that it was time to go was when we ran into a couple Americans girls at our hostel who wanted to know where they could get pasta in Italy – “like Mac n’ Cheese”). The train rolled into Ancona at 3:40pm and we rode straight to the ferry terminal to buy our tickets for the next night. 

I managed to convince a hotel clerk to take us in for just 40 euros, the cheapest we could find. Richard was coming down with a flu, so we took it easy, munching down on take-away Indian food and reading the history of the Balkan war.

We spent Wednesday in Ancona waiting for the ferry at 9pm. Richard bought a THIRD cycle computer, albeit at a cheaper price than usual from a friendly bicycle shop just steps from our hotel. Fabio, the owner, insisted we send him a postcard when we get back to Canada, and when I told him I wouldn’t be able to write anything in Italian, he said ‘Ciao!’ would be enough.

I can’t remember if I’ve ever been on a ship as big as Jadrolinja’s Dubrovnik, which was to be our home overnight.

Crewmembers strapped our bicycles to the side of the vehicle deck, while Richard and I eagerly scurried through every corner of the boat, like little children seeing one for the first time. When the excitement finally subsided, we fell asleep on the reclining chairs—apparently the only passengers without cabins and thus we had the entire seated section to ourselves. 

Halfway through the night, Richard repositioned himself on the floor with a blanket. We woke up around 6:00am to find the boat drifting through black waters, the lights of Croatian islands glittering in the distance. The sun illuminated pinks and blues in the sky as it rose quietly.

When we disembarked at Split’s port, we could barely contain ourselves. We were in Croatia – and with a stamp to prove it for once (damn the European Union)! It doesn’t matter many how many times I read the words for “good morning” and “how are you?” in Serbo-Croatian, I couldn’t remember them, and so all I could do was smile and nod at the immigration officials who checked our passports.

A tall, lanky man with missing front teeth and salt-and-pepper hair was waiting for us just outside the customs control. We had arranged to rent an apartment from Vjeko through a Croatian friend of Richard’s who is originally from Split (yes Dad, he does have friends in every city!)

On the way to the apartment, Richard asked Vjeko how far away the Bosnian town of Mostar was. His answer was, sadly, perfectly representative of the new land we had entered. “Three hours I think,” he said. “I was only there during the war. Not since.”

Unlike Portugal, Spain, France, Monaco and Italy, the Balkan countries were at war as recently as 15 years ago. Many of the people we meet on the street have been touched by it. That may explain why they’re often much more serious.

Vjeko disappeared almost immediately after letting us into the apartment – not to worry, he told us. His Mum lives just next door and can get a hold of him at any time. When indeed I visited Mum next door, I found out she speaks not one word of English. And we thought our lack of Italian made things difficult…

Croatian people seem to be an interesting mix of Mediterranean, Slavic, and former Communist-bloc. From 1918 – 1991, the Socialist Republic of Croatia was but a region of the Socialist Federal Republic of Yugoslavia. Yugoslavia was enigmatic in that it was a multiethnic and multi-religious communist state, ruled for decades by Josip Broz Tito—himself a multiethnic leader, a partisan who fought with the resistance against the fascists in World War 2 – and which unlike other communist countries in Eastern Europe was not part of the Soviet bloc (Warsaw Pact) countries, but rather one of the founding members  (along with Egypt and India) of the group of non-aligned states – countries aligned with neither the largely capitalist/democratic western NATO countries nor the Warsaw Pact communist bloc.

Split is a gorgeous town, with a splendid promenade along the water that feels more like a chic Mediterranean resort than what Heba seemed to think Croatia would be (can you tell Richard edited this part?)! But to our surprise, that’s just what much of the Dalmatian coast of Croatia is.

We visited the Roman emperor Diocletian’s palace, the best preserved existing Roman palace, which unlike most of the other roman ruins we’ve seen, is actually part and parcel of the town, inhabited by people, cafes and shops. What a relief to spend the day walking through busy narrow streets instead of paying 10 euros to enter a sequestered site and listen to a 3-hr audio guide.

Tomorrow we board another ferry to the Croatian island of Hvar, and will finally begin biking again there!