stubborn glory

In a delirious fit of sleeplessness, we decided we didn't need no stinkin' tourist bus and we could just walk right out of that little Croatian coastal town and stick out our thumbs.

With naught but a warm loaf of bread between us, we spent the hour of 5 AM nestled under a tree before a curtain of rain falling softly on the Adriatic.

As the bustle of morning's traffic swooshed past us on the cliffside highway, we inch our way along the shoulder.

We pasued to examine a bus stop's station list. "This one's not on the map." "Neither is this one." "Well, here's the bus..." "Okay - well... to the end of the line?"

Six children and four adults are eager to leave behind the three lonely buildings we stand amongst as the bus pulls out. The coastline we intended to trace is nowhere in sight.

"...uh ...where are we?"

The woman laughs when we tell her our destination. She speeds through a route description in Croatian, we only pick up bits and snatches: "Long." "Twenty kilometers." "Four hours."

So we walk.

The tall wheatgrass shimmers in the post-rain breeze. Wildflowers stretch in the morning light. A castle looms on the hill before us. We chatter and laugh and stroll and sing and stick out our thumbs every five minutes when a car rolls by.

We pass schoolchildren and postmen and people who appear to be awake only to greet the morning on their feet. Men hard at work dig a canal through this patch of nowhere. Maybe they'll build sidewalks next.

The ride drops us off back on the coast. We go to the bus station. We look at the ticket prices. We decide to make a quick stop at the internet cafe before we hitch onwards.