The final reunion

A wave of happiness rushed over me as soon as I saw Katie, sitting under an awning at the yellow bus station in Trogir.

The bus ride from Split to Trogir had taken a little longer than expected, and I had told her I would do my very best to meet her there by 10:30 a.m.

When the bus hit traffic heading out of Split, I began to get a little anxious.

One hour. I have one hour. Oh, Katie, please wait for me.

Fortunately, I was dropped off close to our agreed upon time. And, she was there. Laden with snacks for our 3-hour bus ride up to Zadar.

My smile grew larger and larger as I got closer to where she was sitting, and then she saw me, and smiled too.

“Hi!!!” I squealed, embracing her.

It felt so good to see her. Even if it had only been two nights since we last saw each other.

There is no better feeling when traveling to see a familiar face. Especially feeling the way I felt at that moment.

Together, we walked across the street to stand outside the Konzum to wait for our bus to stop and fetch us.

We had been told the buses come pretty regularly.

It took an hour. Under the beating late-morning sun.

“At least I can work on my tan,” I reasoned, dropping my bags at my feet and squinting my eyes up towards the sky.

While we waited, we kept ourselves entertained.

In Solta, David had tried to explain to us it was nearly impossible to not lick your lips while eating doughnuts.

And, Katie, being the awesome friend she is, remembered I liked doughnuts filled with jam.

She produced two from her plastic bag and we tried to prove David wrong.

Have you ever tried to not lick your lips while eating a doughnut? It’s hard.

I succeed a few times, but the little challenge grew tiring, so I succumbed and decided to just enjoy the fresh and delicious pastry.

Finally, a bus came and we got on. I looked back wistfully at the beautiful town of Trogir.

Next time, D.

Two hours later (not sure how we got there so quickly), we were in Zadar.
The bus station in Zadar is a hike from the old town where we had booked a hostel, so we decided to fork over the kuna and grab a cab to the city gate.

Zadar is not known for its hostels. There are really only two — the Old Town hostel where we stayed, and then a youth hostel outside of town. Both book up reasonably quickly, so we had been fortunate to reserve beds.

She and I made our way down the slippery marble main street of Zadar and found our hostel. It was smack in the middle of the little city, near an abundance of outdoor cafes and shops.

It was a perfect location.

We climbed the four flights of stairs and dropped our bags in our room.
We had one night together in Zadar. The next evening, she was boarding a flight to London.

We spent the afternoon lazily, grabbing an amazing lunch down the street from us, toying around on the Internet and relaxing.

Zadar is a small town — there isn’t much to do unless you take a boat tour of the Kornati Islands. Most of the tours go all day and are a bit pricey, so we opted to just chill out.

That night, we walked to the water and had a gourmet dinner with a spectacular sunset over the sea as our background. The oranges and pinks blending into the greens and blues, finally giving way to the black night sky.

It was expensive as far as backpacker dining goes, but it didn’t matter to me. I had less than a week left, and it was my last dinner (for real) with Katie in Europe.

After dinner, I insisted we stop by the Sea Organ and the Salutation to the Sun, both beautiful must-sees in Zadar. Then, we mozied through town, stopping at a little bar near the hostel and grabbing some beers. After a big beer or two each, it was time for sleep.

The  next day, she, Brian (a guy who I met in Sarajevo and ran into again in Zadar) and I toured the city, wandering down its twisting alleys, eating and drinking.

Katie doesn’t like to fly, so we had to accompany her to the cafes while she sipped wine. And well, she couldn’t drink alone now, could she?

In the late afternoon, she headed to the bus stop to catch a ride to the airport.

In just a few shorts days, I would do exactly the same.

I hugged her tight, promising we would see each other once she returned to America, and then she was gone.

Brian and I walked back to the hostel. He was prepping to go out. I was not.
I found myself craving some “me” time, so that night I stayed in, reading my book and writing.

And researching where I would go next.

Realization

I never imagined my brain would tell me I wanted to go home. Early. But, it did that night in Split.

I had 10 days left of my trip. Originally, and for months, I had planned on extending my adventure, heading to Spain (for the sixth time), back to Merida to see my friends and celebrate my birthday on October 1.  I had looked at my funds earlier in the day, looked at the cost to get there, looked at the penalties I would face to change my flight, calculated the extra cost of staying in Europe for three more weeks, and realized it was just entirely not going to happen.

Suddenly, my body ached. My mind was exhausted. I craved my family. I craved a good night’s sleep. I craved home. I wanted to be with my mom as she coped with my grandma’s sickness. I wanted to be with my grandma.

I think I’m ready.

Realizing it is time to end the trip of a lifetime was hard for me. I struggled with the idea of ending it — especially early. I had ended my first trip in Europe early (for entirely different reasons) and had promised myself I would return and do the trip right the next time.

This adventure was my do-over.

And now, my do-over was starting to wear me thin.

I called my Dad.

“I want to come home. I want to be with my family. This is so hard to be away from home. I want to see grandma.”

“D,” he said quietly, “There is no guarantee that when you get home she will still be here.”

“I know,” I said, fighting back tears, “But I at least want to try.”

I messaged friends.

“Are you sure you want to come home early?” They all asked the same question.

“Yes.”

It’s time.

I called United and engaged in a three-hour long battle over changing my ticket.

Then, around 9 p.m., it was set.

I was coming home. Four days early. Which wasn’t much, but I hoped it would get me back in time to see my grandma. I told Dad not to let Mom know about my arrival. Together, we plotted a surprise arrival and I could hardly sleep that night knowing how happy my mom would be when I walked through the front door four days early.

During my epic fight with United, Katie messaged me from Trogir.

“Come up here!” she urged. “Meet me tomorrow and we can go to Zadar together!”

I was going to say no, then I looked around me.

I don’t want to be in Split anymore. I want to be with Katie. I want my friend back. I NEED a friend.

So, I agreed.

The next morning, after nearly oversleeping and power-walking to the bus stop in Split, I was reunited with Katie for the third time in as many weeks.

Getting over Split

I walked slowly, silently and solo back to CroParadise and crawled into my bed. I looked across the bed to where Katie had been.

Empty.

Then, as if on cue, Carl walked back into our room.

“Heya,” I said, looking up from my laptop to see him standing next to his bed.

“Hi,” he replied. “What did you to today?”

We quickly caught up on our activities of the day and then decided we would go get dinner.

“You want to go out tonight?” he asked over terrible burritos (note – don’t try to eat Mexican in Split. It doesn’t work).

“Ummm … I don’t know, I’m a little tired from last night still. I think I need a night off.”

“Oh, right,” he said. “I think I am going to go out with the Aussies.”

And out he most certainly went.

I was curled up in my bed, fast asleep until 5 a.m. when I heard the group of them come stumbling back into the hostel.

“Dude, I’m soaked,” exclaimed Carl loud enough so I could hear him through the door where he sat on the terrace.

Shut up.

Laughter. Drunken loudness.

Please, please, please, shut up.

For an hour, I tossed and turned as Carl came in and out of the room we shared, opening his locker, going back to the terrace.

I’ve had it.

At that moment, it hit me: I don’t like dorms anymore. They were never my favorite thing, but after spending 6 1/2 months living in them, I was finally and absolutely sick and tired of them. I wanted a good night’s sleep. I wanted privacy. I wanted to sleep naked, dammit. And, each night instead, I resigned myself to sleep in a room with between two and 20 strangers, never quite sleeping peacefully because I never knew when someone might come in to the room, make noise, rustle their belongings, talk in non-whispers at 3 a.m.

I’m not saying I dislike dorms — they are inexpensive and a great way to meet people. But, after 180+ nights of dorm life, I was craving a big bed and a little privacy. And silence.

I woke up the next morning and was shocked to find Carl awake.

“Good night last night?”

“Oh yeah, we had a great time. We went on a pub crawl, then went to a club, then went skinny dipping.”

Sounds like last year when I was in Split. I suppose it is a Split Rite of Passage to get absolutely pissed and then take your clothes off and jump in the sea.

“Nice!”

“I’m hungry, want to go get breakfast?”

Carl and I trudged down to the market, snapping up some eggs and fresh bread, then returned to the hostel.

I set the table while he made us breakfast.

“What are you going to do today?”

“I think I am just going to stay in, watch movies, do some writing,” I said, slightly tired from being woken up in the middle of the night.

“Yeah, that sounds like a good idea, me too.”

So, he and I spent the day locked in our room, selecting random movies from the more than 1,000 the hostel had saved on its computer.

When night began to creep up, Carl turned to me and asked if I was going out tonight.

Not a chance. I want to go home.

I paused, shocked at the thought I had just had.

Home?

“See you soon,” the Split version

“Katie,” I mumbled, waking up from my semi-drunken slumber the next morning, “what the hell happened to David?”

Katie looked at me from her bunk. “What?”

“He never came back to the bar last night. I hope he’s ok,” I said, images of him laying in one of the narrow UNESCO alleys of Split being forcefully pushed out of my mind.

“I’m sure he’s fine.”

I knew she was right.

Then, I cut to catching her up to the gossip from the previous night, mainly spilling the details about my little rendezvous with the Canadian in the bunk above her.

“So … you going to hang out with him again tonight?”

“Maybe,” I said, but knew the answer was leaning more towards no than yes. Carl was a nice guy, but I was only willing to take it as far as intoxicated snogging, I had no interest in anything else with him. “Well, probably not.”

A few minutes later, Carl poked his head in the room. We exchanged smiles, hellos, and then he left and I opened my laptop, and thankfully a note from David.

He was on his way to meet us. My heart instantly filled with joy. I knew he was taking the ferry to Hvar in a few hours and thought we would not have a chance to say “see you soon” before he left.

An hour later, David appeared at CroParadise and he, Katie and I were once again together, heading to get coffee and spend the last few hours as our awesome party of three.

Then, the afternoon was upon us. And it was time for both Katie (she was heading to up the coast 45 minutes to Trogir) and David to continue on with their journeys.

“D, just come up to Trogir with me,” Katie tried to reason.

I wasn’t ready yet. My trip had two weeks left, and I wanted to make sure I timed everything right so I could get to Zagreb to catch my flight. Leaving Split and heading north would mean I would need to spend more time in Zagreb, or Zadar than I wanted to.

“I don’t think I can make it there tonight, but I will walk you both to the bus and ferry,” I offered, switching into my bathing suit and grabbing a towel to head to the beach after I would leave them.

The three of us walked together for the last time, down towards the water.

Don’t go.

David stopped once we hit the little line of cafes near the port.

“Right, I am going to go now and get the boat,” he said.

Tears immediately filled my eyes.

Katie and I both hugged him and watched as he crossed the street.

“Love you two,” he yelled as merged into the crowd of people heading to catch their boats.

And then, there were two.

Katie and I continued walking to the bus station. I wasn’t ready to say goodbye to her, so I accompanied her to the ticketing office.

We stood outside the station at platform one.

I don’t want to do this.

“OK, well …” I began. “See you soon.”

We hugged. I thanked her for everything. And then, I walked on towards Split’s sandy beach.

Just like that, two of the most important people I had met on my trip had faded back into the world of backpackers … on to new adventures … on to meet new people. And there I was, sitting alone on a soft beach, book by my side … thinking about my two friends and the time I had shared with them.

As a backpacker, there are so many people you meet while traveling. Some, you get to know. Most you don’t. Some you stay in touch with. Most you don’t. Meeting Katie, meeting David — those two people were nothing short of a blessing. Other than Anthony, I spent the most amount of time with them, grew close to them so quickly, and easily found room for them in my heart.

After an hour, I grew tired and the clouds began to roll in, so I gathered my belongings and headed back to CroParadise.

And back to Carl.

Backpacker shenanigans

Katie, David and I walked together back through the old city of Split after hugging Danica goodbye. Rain clouds had begun to make their way from the mountains to the coast, rolling in slowly and ominously.

We hadn’t made any reservations for hostels, so we just started dropping in to places.

Our first stop was Silver Gate, the hostel David had stayed in before we left for Solta. They had one bed, which Katie and I decided belonged to David.

Then, she and I began our wander to Fiesta Siesta to see if there were any beds there.

Nope.

“We can call Booze and Snooze,” offered Fiesta Siesta’s receptionist. She hung up the phone, frowning.

Nope.

So, Katie and I, ready to dodge the rain that was about to pelt us, decided to make our way back to CroParaside, fingers crossed there was something there.

Thank goodness there was.

We quickly grabbed bottom bunks and immediately turned on our computers.

Oh, hello, my dear sweet old friend Internet. I missed you so.

After connecting with the people we needed to connect with, we went into the city and wandered, shopped (well, looked) and grabbed food, planning on meeting David later for dinner at my go-to restaurant in Split, Fife.

Within a few minutes at CroParadise, I met a 20-something Canadian traveler, Carl, and invited him out with us.

The night was a party, at least for Carl and I.

(It should be noted — I love Split. Some of my best travel memories have been in this gorgeous seaside town. There is some sort of backpacker electricity in the air that just seeps into my pores.)

The four of us went to dinner at Fife, dining on fish soup, calamari and more. Katie and I decided to go hard and ordered a liter of Croatian red wine while the guys sipped beer.

Then, it was on to Charlie’s, the smokey backpacker bar under Fiesta Siesta where Simon used to work. David disappeared, leaving Katie, Carl and I sitting outside, avoiding the throngs of people packed into the tiny interior, drinking liters of beer.

Then, Katie left.

Carl and I went inside and ordered another round (of course). Then, we met a group of Aussies, a nice enough group who just wanted to drink their trip away. They had been sitting at the picnic table across from us at Fife, so we immediately started chatting them up.

Then, the beer and wine hit me.

“I’ve got to go home,” I mumbled, making my way towards the door.

“Alright poppet, see you back at the hostel,” one of the Aussie girls said.

I dolled out quick hugs and then raced outside, needing the fresh air to smack me in the face.

I walked fast back to the dorm, not because I was walking alone at night, but because I needed to lay down. Only, when I put my key in the door, nothing happened.

You’ve got to be kidding me.

I tried the other key.

Nononononono.

I rang the doorbell.

Someone, answer. I am spinning.

Silence.

Not wanting to be that girl who passes out at the entrance to the hostel, I walked back to the bar, pushing the thoughts of getting sick out of my head.

“I’m back,” I announced to the group which I had left only 10 minutes earlier.

“What happened?” Carl asked, eyes wide at my sudden re-appearance. “You came back!”

“My key,” I said, frowning, producing the offender in my hand. “It won’t work. I need you to open the door for me.”

“Sure,” he said, wrapping his arm around me. “No problem. But, let’s get another drink first.”

“Ohhhhh … I don’t know about that,” I began to protest. Then, poof, there was another liter of beer in my hand.

Well then.

“Thank you,” I said, resigning myself to accept I was not getting out of it. And, at that moment, I decided I wanted to live it up a little bit. (SEE — crazy backpacker electricity of Split at work!)

And then came the honey rum shot. And then, I was done.

“I’ve got to go home,” I pleaded with Carl.

“OK,” he said. “Let’s go.”

We walked back to the hostel and sat outside together on the balcony. I know we talked … just not sure about what.

Then, the Aussies returned and joined us outside.

The terrace is made for three people. There are three seats. There were six of us.

I scooted closer to Carl, throwing my legs over his, when one of the girls sat on the chair with me.

I didn’t intend my leg-draping as anything other than simply making more room.

Carl, however, took it as anything but that. At that point, I didn’t care.

For an hour, we sat outside, all of us talking. Then, Carl and I were holding hands. Then, it was just Carl and I on the terrace. Then, well, there might have been a little bit of smooching. Then, I put a stop to it.

“We’re not doing anything,” I informed him. “I need to go to bed.”

“Really?”

“Yup. Sorry. I need to sleep.”

Oh, what a backpacking tease am I.

He and I crawled into bed, and I fell asleep nearly straightaway, tucking my head into his neck, laced in his arm.

I woke up the next morning a wee bit groggy, alone in my bed, with only one thought in my mind: What the hell happened to David?

The woman who stole my heart

Danica Listes.

I NEVER use people’s full names when writing in order to protect their privacy. However, this woman is the rare exception. I want people to know about her. Who she is. Where she is. And then, I want people to go to Solta, Croatia and stay at her apartment in Stomroska, her little enclave of peaceful seaside. She’s THAT amazing. And beautiful. And wonderful. And soulful. Yeah, I pretty much love her.

When Katie, David and I met Danica, we immediately liked her. She stood by her car at the ferry and waved to us from a distance. I guess it’s not too hard to recognize three scruffy backpackers emerging from the bowels of a boat and looking around, bewildered and excited at the same moment.

Actually, let me back that up. We liked her before we even met her. When Katie had called her two days earlier from Brela, she and I were both taken with her. Not only did she give us the ferry times, but she also offered to pick us up from the ferry — which is pretty much the best thing to offer backpackers who have been traveling. Those bags, hauling them, going from place to place … it gets old.

Once we arrived to Solta and her home, she immediately made us feel welcome, giving us a tour of the apartment, letting us pick up her adorable little pup, Shima and upgrading our digs at no extra cost. She told us where to go, narrating our drive from the ferry to her town.

Then, she took us on her boat just because.

By the third full day of our stay in Solta, the three of us were pretty much enamored with her. Every moment we spent with her, she became more fascinating.

On the boat, we began to learn more about her. She was widowed, as most women who run sobes in Croatia tend to be. She had children in Split. She had lived on the island since before the war. Her husband used to play rugby. She could fish without a rod. She could clean fish. Hell, she could take that little motor boat out all by herself.

Danica was an inspiration. A strong woman who could hold her own.

Then, the next morning, when she and David went to get the net, I heard more stories about how wonderful she was.

A few hours after David returned, we were greeted with delicious smells wafting through our open door.

I went outside and looked down from our terrace, and there Danica stood. Standing over a grill set in beautiful sand-colored stone, cooking the bounty of fish we had caught. And grilling vegetables. And later, making bread inside.

She brought a feast to our terrace that afternoon. Fresh, grilled fish. Beautiful salad. Grilled squash speckled with feta. Potatoes. But, better than all of the food she brought, she also brought stories of her life.

Over our lunch, Danica spoke of her husband and his days of playing rugby, their love and their children.

The three of us were smitten.

“We would really like it if you could come up tomorrow night so we can make dinner for you,” we told her. She agreed.

We spent a lot of that night, the three of us, talking about how in awe we were of this woman.

The next day, we went down to the grocery and purchased tomatoes, cucumbers, chicken, wine and pasta and the three of us went to work preparing Danica’s dinner.

It was our last night on the island, which was bittersweet. The experience there had been so peaceful, so relaxing. It allowed me to get away from the world for a few days and have an actual vacation from backpacking. It also allowed me to quietly think about my grandma and what was happening back home. David had not received any calls from my parents, so I knew everything was as OK as it was going to be.

At dinner that night, we savored every bite and clung to Danica’s every word as the wine flowed and stories were told.

The apartments, the entire property, was Danica and her late husband’s additional child. They had gone to the beach and picked up each stone that covered the exterior walls of the homes. They had labored over placing every stone on the wall. Her husband had made the benches we were sitting on … and made one longer so people could lay outside and enjoy the beautiful Solta weather. He had also made the couches inside. And the paintings adorning the walls? They were his.

She brought up a photo album that was dedicated to her husband’s post-rugby career as an artist. Page after page featured his beautiful work, depicting Croatia landscapes and more. And, page after page reminded me of the love the two had.

Then, Danica brought up a rugby yearbook. She had marked with tiny sheets of paper each page her husband appeared, along with a letter she wrote to the club about being the wife of a rugby player.

As she went through the pages, my mind flitted back to Pennsylvania, where my grandmother was in a nursing home … and my grandfather was living in their apartment a few miles away. I thought of the love they had. The beauty of their relationship. Often times during Danica’s stories I found my eyes brimming with tears, with love for her and sadness for her loss … and the sadness and loss I knew was imminent in my life.

Every word she spoke was laced with her love for life and the beauty, the promise life holds.

The next morning, we loaded our packs into Danica’s car and the four of us, along with Shima, boarded the ferry back to Split.

Saying goodbye to Danica was one of the most difficult “see you soons” of my entire trip.

Fishing the world

“Touch your finger in this water and you touch the world,” Danica said, stretching her body over the side of the little boat we were in and sticking her fingers into the cool, clear water of the Adriatic.

Katie, David and I did the same, leaning over the sides of the boat and dipping our fingers in the water.

It took me a second to understand the heaviness of the statement Danica made, and then it hit me.

This water has been everywhere. It has flowed through the Adriatic, the Mediterranean, the Atlantic, the Pacific … this water has touched the world, and now, there I was, sitting on a little boat in the sea, looking out at the marvelous country of Croatia, and I was now a part of that water.

A tiny little piece of something so much grander.

Our day had started out relaxing, me and my roommates woke up, had food, wandered to the water, rested and then we had boarded the boat along with Danica to go and fish.

We got on the boat and looked around.

No fishing rods.

Danica had brought down some little plastic boxes and opened them, producing pieces of styrofoam wrapped with fishing line once we had navigated out of Solta’s harbor.

We were fishing by hand.

After handing out our “rods,” Danica opened one of the plastic boxes and took out fresh squid, a cutting board and a knife and began chopping up the creatures.

“The fish love to eat this,” she said, slicing the knife blade through the heads of the squid.

I’ve fished. I’ve hooked worms. I’ve caught fish, released them. But, this was different. This was fishing like I have never experienced.

I’m not a vegetarian. I love some good squid. I love fish. For some reason, to be a part of the action was a different experience from me.

“I’m going to watch,” I announced, feeling a little sick to my stomach, as Katie and David began to unwind their line and put it into the water.

I sat there, watching, as the three of them began to catch fish.

I  can’t do it.

When Danica caught her first fish within minutes, I expected her to ply the hook from its mouth and drop it back into the water.

Instead, she dropped it into another plastic box.

Oh my god. She’s keeping the fish.

Then, David caught a fish. And that fish went into the bucket too, but not without a little bloody mess from the hook.

You are on the Adriatic fishing. Why can you not drop a line in and catch fish. This is real life. You love to eat fish and really? Really? NOW you want to get righteous, D?

“Um,” I spoke up. “Can I have a line too?”

I was handed a piece of styrofoam wrapped in wire and began to fish to.

This isn’t so bad. This is life. The circle of life. We catch fish and we eat them. I can do this.

I didn’t catch any fish, but I tried.

Katie had started to get seasick, so we motored over to a cove where David and I had been to earlier in the day and dropped her off, then Danica took out a net.

“We will put this into the water and leave it here, then tomorrow morning, we will go and get it,” Danica said as she began to pull out the large rope apparatus.

For 30 minutes, we went back and forth, laying out the next, dropping large milk cartons into the water to mark where it was, and readjusting the net.

Then, we motored back in to the harbor.

“I will stay here and clean the fish and close the boat,” Danica said. “Then, tomorrow we will have lunch together. I will make lunch for us with whatever we have caught and will catch tomorrow when we go and pull the net.”

She knew how to clean fish? I don’t know how to clean fish. Come to think of it, I don’t know anyone who knows how to clean fish. What an amazing woman.

David and I got off the boat and walked to the store, buying some wine and beer and food, then headed back up to our apartment to see Katie.

I reheated my amazing seafood pasta from dinner the night before at Ooh-La-La, the best restaurant in town, and sat down to dinner with David while Katie ran down to the little town and grabbed dinner.

He and I sat outside, eating and drinking and talking until Katie came back.

We talked about our lives and we talked about our experience here, how amazing it was that Danica had let us into her life, had taken us fishing, and how amazing she was — widowed and stronger than most women we had ever met.

When Katie got back, the three of us spent the evening talking outside about life as travelers.

Finally, the alcohol hit me.

“Guys, I’m wrecked,” I announced, stumbling off of the bench I was sitting on. “I gotta go to bed.”

I crawled into bed, feeling my body still rocking gently from the boat, and closed my eyes.

The next morning, David was up at 7 a.m. to go pull the net.

“D,” he whispered, walking into my sleeping area, “You getting up?”

“Nope,” I mumbled. “Gonna sleep. See you when you get back.”

Then, he was off to go and grab the rest of our lunch with Danica.

Living in technicolor

Growing up, I loved to watch “The Wizard of Oz.” Not just because of the story, but because of the colors. Each hue popped from the screen to my eyes, creating a world of colors that nearly existed in real life.

Then, I went to Solta, Croatia.

After an amazing night in Split, Katie and I checked out of CroParadise and headed back to the port to meet David and board the ferry to Solta, an island no one seemed to know about.

Solta was non-existent in our Lonely Planet books, locals looked at us funny when we asked … but from across the port in Split, we could see the mass of land jutting out of the Adriatic.

Of course, we wanted to go there. It sounded perfect.

While we were in Brela, Katie had done some research on the island and had found a Web site that listed apartment rentals. She and I sat crowded around her laptop analyzing the prospects for our Island Adventure.

We saw one apartment, 30 meters from the beach, and decided to give the owner a ring. It was the first interaction we had with Danica.

We sat on Skype with her, laptop held to Katie’s mouth so Danica could just make out what she was saying, and arranged our time there.

“Four days?” Katie asked, turning to me.

I nodded my head.

Four days on an island no tourists had really heard of? Sounded perfect.

Danica agreed to pick us up at the ferry, and then the plans were set.

We had bound back to David, who was still at our beach apartment and informed him of our plans.

“Sounds wicked,” he had said, smiling.

Two days later, Katie, David and I sat at a cafe, waiting to board our boat.

After an hour, we headed to the last boat at the port, a large car ferry, and climbed the metal stairs to the seating area.

Within minutes, we were off, the boat cutting deep into the clear blue water as we headed west towards the little island that grew larger and larger as we headed closer.

I walked out to the deck.

Fresh Adriatic air.

Outside, the wind whipped my hair as I marveled at the beauty surrounding me.

Intense beauty.

When the trip was nearly over, I walked back inside.

“We’re here!” I announced, peaking out the window to look at the island that would be our home.

After unloading the boat, the three of us stood outside at the line of parked cars.

“Which one do you think is Danica?” Katie asked as we surveyed the crowd of people.

To our left stood a woman with short deep reddish hair, wearing a summer dress and standing next to a red car.

“There,” I said.

On a guess, we raised our hands in the hair to say hello and she smiled.

Danica.

Quickly, we went to her car, threw our bags in the trunk and packed ourselves into her little vehicle.

Immediately, we loved Danica.

A woman in her 60s, she radiated love and kindness.

As we wound our way around the island, she informed us what we were looking at.

“There, that’s Vis … and there, that’s Hvar … and there, Brac.”

The Dalmatian Coast is packed with islands, and we were at the front lines of holiday paradise.

All around us, the colors popped. Bright blue sky. Emerald green leaves on pine trees. Bluegreen sea. Gray rocks. Red tile roofs.

Each turn produced more and more vivid color. More and more vivid beauty.

Life in technicolor.

David, who sat in the front seat, turned to Katie and I and whispered a string of excited expletives, conveying his own appreciation for everything he was seeing.

We drove for 20 minutes, passing tiny towns with old stone churches, fields of olive trees, an olive oil factory … and then we drove down a mountain to another town. Danica’s town. The main road went right and left around the little harbor, lined with restaurants.

And, then we were there. At Danica’s. A gorgeous stone home with two apartments attached — one above with a large terrace overlooking the sea, and one behind.

We grabbed our bags and walked through the ivy-covered gate to her home.

“This is Shima,” she said, scooping up her little black and white shitzu mix.

A house dog!

“And this,” she said, leading us up the stairs to the large terrace, “is your apartment.”

We walked in and our jaws dropped.

“I was going to give you the smaller apartment, but I have another family coming in on Sunday, and then you would have to move. This is easier. And, it’s bigger.”

Through the front door, which included a wall of strings (like the beads people can hang in doorways) was a kitchen, then to the left was a dining room and two couches. Down the hall were two bedrooms and a bathroom with a washer.

David grabbed my shoulders.

Katie smiled wide.

“This is ours?” we asked.

“Yes.”

For 30 Euros a night.

We lucked out.

“Enjoy,” Danica said, taking our passports and heading down to file our names with the tourist board.

The three of us immediately went to lunch, a delicious pizza place with the best olive oil I had ever had.

Before we could head to the beach, I needed to find an internet cafe to check e-mail and make sure everything was OK at home.

There was no cafe.

But, there was a woman who ran the tourist agency who was in town for another five minutes before she went to Split for the weekend.

I ran over there, told my family I would not be online but if they needed me to call David, and then started my four days of internet-free life. Taking a step back from my blog, from my connection to the rest of the world, riddled me with anxiety.

“D, you don’t need to always do stuff,” Katie said. “Just enjoy your time!”

She was right.

The three of us went to the water to take in the sun and water. The rocks were sharp in our backs, and the water freezing, but we sat there for a good while, talking, relaxing and enjoying a nearly people-free beach.

In the evening, Katie and I went to dinner and then brought wine home with us, spending the night outside on the terrace listening to music and getting to know each other even better.

On our way back to our apartment, we saw Danica.

When we were looking at apartments, her ad had said something about renting a boat. Well, the three of us really wanted to do that.

We asked her about renting the boat. We wanted to go motor over to Brac and have lunch on the island.

“Well, I was thinking of going fishing tomorrow,” she said, Shima in her arms. “I can take you and we can all go fish during the day.”

Fishing. On the Adriatic. It wasn’t island hopping. It was even cooler.

We didn’t even need to think about it. The plan was set — fishing around 5 p.m. the next day.

David, who had slept through dinner, would have something exciting to wake up to the next day.

So we could each enjoy a few days of private sleep, I took the couch in the living room.

That night, I went to sleep with a smile on my face and anticipating the next three days of technicolor living.

Traveling the world to say “thank you”

There are some nights you can’t sleep because you are so excited for what the next day holds. Every night of my trip, that was my story. But, my last night in Brela, it stood true even more than usual.

The next morning, Katie, David and I were boarding a bus up the coast to Split. And, I was going to go and find someone who had been a catalyst in getting me out of Atlanta and into the life I had been living. I was ridiculously excited, to say the least.

When I started my trip in March, I had only plan for certain. One thing I HAD to do before I returned to America.

Find Simon.

I had met him the year before on my “30th Birthday World Tour” that took me through the highlights of Croatia.

When Katie, David and I arrived to Split, I had one goal to accomplish on our afternoon and evening there — to seek Simon. The man who said the right thing at the moment my mind was open to understanding the importance of his words. He had helped me to see how important LIVING was … to live for your dreams, your wishes, to embrace LIFE and to look back knowing you LIVED. And, for that, he needed at least a proper “thank you” for opening my eyes to what was really important.

Katie and I dropped our bags at CroParadise and I annouced I was going to find my Aussie friend.

“Do you know where he is?” She asked from her bunk.

“Yup,” I said. He had been working at the Fiesta Siesta’s bar and I was going to pull up directions on Hostel World to search him out.

I logged on to Facebook and was greeted with his status update: “Officially unemployed.”

Oh shit.

“He isn’t working there anymore,” I said, the vision I had of telling him how he changed my life became more distant.

“What are you going to do?”

With resolve and determination, I told her I would just go and ask around. Split was small enough and he had been there a year — people knew him.
I set out and began my walk into the Old City.

People were everywhere. My eyes could hardly scan every face.

I have to find him.

I had never felt so intensely determined to ever tell anyone anything as I felt with Simon. Even if he didn’t care, I needed to tell him how much meeting him had impacted my life.

I continued walking and then my eyes caught a man, tall, sunglasses on, walking towards me, and eating a sandwich.

I recognized him immediately.

Oh my god, Simon.

My heart raced.

I walked up to him and stood in his tracks.

He stopped and looked at me.

“Do you remember me?”

He stared.

“Simon, my name is D. You and I met last year on your first day of work.”

“Yeah …” he began.

“Can I buy you a beer?”

“OK,” he said and we began to walk to Charlie’s, Fiesta Siesta’s bar.

As we chatted, I found out I had been going the wrong way to even get to the hostels he had worked at … running into him was absolutely randomness. And a little bit of luck.

He looked the same. I immediately felt comfortable as the memories of our conversations last year began to come back to me with every step.

We sat at the bar with large Tuborg’s.

My mom had e-mailed me earlier in the day asking me if I thought Simon had any idea how much he had changed my life, if he had any clue of how grateful I was.

I opened my mouth to tell him and stopped.

Say it now, D.

The words I was about to spill were so laden with gratitude, with emotion, I didn’t know if I could utter them without tears spilling from my eyes.

Say it.

“Simon, I came to Split to find you.”

“Yeah?” He asked, turning his blue eyes towards me, lips curling into his cheeks.

“You probably won’t remember the conversation we had last September, but I came here to thank you.”

He looked at me.

“We were on the beach last year and you said something that changed my life, that set me on this path and I want you to know how grateful I am that we had that conversation and that I met you.”

A smile crept across his face as I relayed our conversation and I told him my story of how drastically my life changed, mostly due to the words he had said to me.

“Wow, I am honored,” he said. “Thank you.”

For two hours we sat at the bar as he relayed his stories of working in Split and how our lives had been.

Later that night, after I went to grab some fish soup at Fife (where I met two of the world’s biggest cheating douchebags EVER), I went back to Charlie’s to see him. It was his second-to-last-night in Split before he headed back to Australia and I wanted to spend more time with him.

For the second time in the day, we sat and talked at the bar, which quickly filled with backpackers from all over the world. A true backpacker bar and awesome.

He introduced me to his friends — he had already told them my story of why I was in Split and what I had said to him. They welcomed me with smiles.

I had only planned to stay for one drink, but somewhere along the way, I began to have an incredible time. I was so happy. My life had come full circle since the last time I was in Split and now, there I was, in an old stone room, having drinks with the one person I never imagined would change my life.

I can’t believe this is going to be over in 20 days. I can’t believe I am here. This just feels right.

We walked back to my hostel and I thanked him again, arms wrapped around him.

I don’t think there are enough words to convey how grateful I am to him.

I kissed him on his cheek and he looked at me.

“I’m going to be cheeky,” he said.

What?

Simon looked me in the eyes and smiled, then kissed me.

He pulled away, smiled at me, said he would be in touch, and walked back into the Split night.

I sat on the step of the hostel and smiled.

I felt light. Free.

Goin’ down the ocean hon

I stood at the open window in my room, letting the fresh air kiss my face, taking in the beauty and majestic scenery in front of me when there was a knock on my door.

“Yes,” I called, walking to open it.

Greg stood on the other side of the door.

“I’m closing the hostel. It’s the end of the season. You and your friends are moving to the beach.”

“Right,” I said. “Thanks.”

I shut the door.

If the beds would not have been on flimsy wooden frames, I would have kicked off my flippie floppies and jumped on them to release the excitement that was now streaming through my blood.

Holy shit!! A beach apartment!!! For the same price!

“Katie!!” I yelped, running to find her. “We are moving to the beach!!”

“Oh, I like it up here,” she said, frowning.

I could understand what she liked about it. Aside from the spectacular view of the sea below, t he hostel had a beach vibe and it’s terrace was perfect for late night drinks and bonding.

But, it didn’t matter. We were headed down the massive hill to our new lodging.

We loaded our packs into Greg’s car and descended down the hill to the water.

The apartment could be anywhere.

We continued down, down, down … stopping at the end of the sidewalk, next to the water and a line of little cafes.

“OK, we’re here,” Greg announced, turning off the car and popping the trunk so we could fetch our stuff.

Then, he walked two feet from the car to a white door in between outdoor seating for a cafe.

This is it.

Now, I have learned while traveling just because someone says a property is “in town,” “next to …” or “on the beach” it doesn’t always mean it is. Most times those descriptions are open to interpretation.

However …

It was On! The! Beach!

The three of us could hardly contain our excitement as Greg let us into our new home. It was across a small sidewalk  from the beach. Next to a cafe. A few stairs down from the sobe where Greg was staying with a terrace and a grill.

This was perfect. This was bliss.

Katie, David and I unloaded our stuff and set out to explore our new beach surroundings. We walked down the coast, lo0king for a perfect spot to drop our towels and hit the water.

The seaside path wound us around Brela, showing us the little beach town up close … the gelato stands, the tiny restaurants boasting fresh seafood, the little cafes where people sat and chatted overlooking the clear water in front of them. Brela was a little paradise.

I stood at the water’s edge, thoughts of Greg’s comments the night before about the water being “fresh” after the rain repeating in my mind.

It’s YOUR sea, D. Don’t just stand there.

I dipped my feet in.

FRESH. Ripe. Freezing.

I shook it off.

There’s no way to skip swimming in the Adriatic.

I took a deep breath and stepped further out.

Holycrapit’scold.

And, then it wasn’t so bad. And, then it was OK.

I didn’t swim for hours, but I let myself enjoy the salty sea and the lack of treading for a few minutes … until I thought my legs were numb.

Then, it was back to the shore to lounge and enjoy the warm sun.

The three of us spent the day at the sea, lounging, eating mussels and calamari and plotting our next stop — an off-the-beaten-path island, Solta, that no one in Brela (or the tour books) had heard of.

Lucky for us, Katie had heard of it.

We had decided the night before for our last evening in Brela we would live it up. While David and I took disco naps, Katie ran to Konzum (the grocery store) and grabbed an assortment of fruit. And a big bottle of vodka.

“Jungle juice,” she had announced the night before. It would be our poison on our last night. Along with grilling some chicken and meat and making a Shopska Salad (onion, tomato, cucumber, lemon juice and the most amazing Croatian homemade olive oil EVER).

The three of us hauled our loot up to Greg’s sobe, a few stairs above our apartment. The Jungle Juice was poured into a large plastic bag since there were no bowls big enough at our place to fit the massive amount of alcoholic deliciousness she had prepared. Because of the nature of plastic bags, there was a small line of the sweet concoction that followed us from our apartment up to Greg’s.

David manned the grill while I made the salad, and we, along with Greg and some of his friends, enjoyed a last night together in Brela.

We drank the vodka-laden juice and snacked on the alcohol-soaked fruit for hours before we headed down to the cafe next to our apartment.

When it was just the three of us remaining, and minutes before we all went to bed, I decided I needed some time to myself.

I needed to just be.

I walked to the beach, sitting on the pebbles and looking out into the now black Adriatic Sea.

There’s an entire world out there.

I sat and thought about my trip. About home. About Grandma. About friends. About life after this adventure was through.

Then, I caught the night breeze in my face and shook off the thoughts, thankful to be in the moment, in Brela, with new friends.