Misadventure is just another adventure.

It has been a long time between blogs, and for the last month, I had all but given up on writing it in favour of keeping a diary; a good way to fill those seemingly endless train rides that any European traveler knows all too well, but due to an ill fated train ride (two and a half hours late) and a subsequently ill fated evening spent in Zagreb train station, the diary is gone. For all intents and purposes, the last month of my life didnt exist. (Pardon any poor puncuation; my ability with Croatian keyboards is not what it could be.)
We, Harry and I arrived in Zagreb with the intention of catching another train the same night to Lubljana in Slovenia, however, due to bushfires, our train to Zagreb was late. Having slept in the exact same train station 1 week prior on an equally ill fated evening, we knew it was doable, so decided to set up camp on the floor. I strapped my backpack to my makeshift pillow and put my arm through the strap, however, due to my admittedly restless sleeping habits, this was not enough. It is disconcerting to think that for it to have been stolen, which, had you not already realised, is what happened, the, and I will name him without sparing any sense of grandiose, assailant, would have had to cut it off.
It took a minute to register that it was gone once I woke up, hoping that I was in a dream, but I have learnt that if you are thinking clearly enough to actively hope to be dreaming, then you are most certainly awake. I told the police officer at the train station what had happened and she said, very unsympathetically and with a distinct air of I had deserved it, ˝well, it is a train station.˝
I then went to the Police station and filed a report, which was painless enough thanks to Harry being there. I need to mention that without his presence, this whole situation would have been unimaginably worse and I am forever grateful for him staying with me and doing everything he can, financially and supportively to make a painful situation, a lot more bearable.
After the report was done, we walked to the Australian embassy which was a tiny room hidden in a shopping centre which did very little for my lack of patriotism which has been even further diminished to a state of ill-patriotic loathing from the hoards of drunk Australians in Croatia. Australia now has apparnetlt the worst travel reputation in the world. The embassz process was so efficient and I had a new passport that afternoon which was unheard of, albeit only a four page emeergency passport which is not enough to get into Brazil.
$30 to get the police report translated for travel insurance, and all my credit cards cancelled, I had done, with the help of many people,family and Harry, and to the best of my ability, damage control.
To give some idea of the contents of the bag there was an ipod, camera, passport, license, three credit cards, a $1500 rail pass, heaphones, irreplacable diaries and photos from back home, and many other things, to the value of about $3500 which was both embarrassing, my level of backpacker affluence and very depressing, the loss of said affluence.
But, as the old homage says, every cloud has a silver lining, and in this case it is the beauty of Zagreb which we would have otherwise completely missed. Admittedly a fairly thin lining for a very dark, ominous cloud.
Spent the rest of the day in Zagreb, cooking an actual meal, a novelty after weeks of bread and feeling the nourishment of micronutrients was a nice change. Our hostel is great, and the guy who works here has been very nice and a friendly face is enough to make it all seem trivial.
Olivia and mum also called in the afternoon and both of them made me infinitely happier, and incase I hadnt already said it enough times, without Harry, I would be in considerably lower spirits.
I will try, very briefly to outline the events from the last month, in what will be the briefest of descriptions of what has been a very busy month, hence the lack of blogging.
We spent another week or so in Morocco after my last blog, spending a few days at a world music festival, hanging out at a vegan cafe with our new Moroccan friend Ben who showed us all around the countryside and gave us a lift to Marrakesh in his van and showing us his guerrilla advertising campaign for the cafe which involves paintng Earh Cafe on all walls between Essaouira and Marrakesh, the location of the 2 cafes.
From Marrakesh we went for 3 days in the Sahara riding camels and climbing the most obscenely large sand dune I have ever seen. I felt like I was actually having a heart attack, but I was one of the few people to actually reach the peak. Thanks Bingo, my camel, for all the good times.
Then to Fes, the dizzying medina of an ancient city which to this day retains so much of its beauty and tradition. A visit to the tannery was enough,olfactorily, to restore any loss of vegan convictions which may happen when one is away for so long.
Then to Chefchaouen, a mountain town. It was such a beautiful place, and a nine hour climb afforded us some of the best views of the trip. Stolen camera is a way to force me to return, if nothing else. We climbed above the clouds, and the elation at the top was tangible, even though there was a creepy Moroccan guy stealing all our food and water. We met some very aggressive drug dealers, and bribed them to leave us alone and let us out of their crack den in the rape alley.
We left Nic there to go on his hitchike tour from Spain to Slovenia, and I am interested to hear about his exploits. Our quartet was back to trio, all to quickly.
Caught the ferry back to Algeciras in Spain, then got to Malaga, a nice city on the coast, and slept in a very smelly hostel with morning wake up calls from the inconsiderate jackhammers out the window, however Malagas fruit market, beach and Picasso museum made up for it.
From there, Connor had made the questionable decision to leave Spain the day before they were to play in the World Cup final against Holland, however, he was obviously very keen to get to Paris, going to the extent of going to the airport the day before his flight.
Malaga to Madrid to Barcelona in about 12 hours of trains and we were in Barcelona, with a palpable excitement engulfing the city in the anticipation of the final that was to come, and it was an electric night. There were six of us, and it was so good to be back with the boys, and to see Loui and Scarra whom I have not seen for far too long. Spent days in Barcelona, walking Las Ramblas and the market, and Harry betting 30 euro in a rigged game. Made for some good laughs though, from everyone but him, but he took it in his stride, as seems to be the tone of the trip. Take it in your stride, or, in Hugos case, in your hobble. I feel so sorry for Hugo who has injured his knee and must go home. To ever see Hugo angry or upset is a rarity, and I dont think I have ever seen it, but I know how much it must be hurting him to forced into this when he has so much left to do. He still has plenty of time though, as well all do, which I guess is the consolation of youth, if one needs any consolation for what I see as my best attribute. The fact I am young.
From Barcelona,it was an overnight, 75 euro booking fee train to Bern, before another quick train to Interlaken, an amazingly nice town in the Jungfrau region of Switzerland which just feasted my love of mountains. We spent four days climbing mountains, swimming in lakes, camping and eating well,and it was every bit as idyllic as it sounds. Climbed a mountain called Kleine Scheidegg, an elevation of over 2000m to above the clouds, and a very enthusiastic Asian man, walking down the hill after doing the obligatory train ride to the top, a luxury and laziness we could not afford, yelled to us while we walked up a particularly steep section, YOU ARE YOUNG! with accompanying fist pump. I will forever have the fondest memories of Switzerland and I am sure it is my favourite country in the world. I am anything but neutral about it.
From Switzerland, we spent an entire day on trains to get to Croatia. Headed straight to a town called Split on the Adriatic and it is here that my Australian resentment reared its ill-patriotic head. Harry and I accidentally walked into an Australian bar and seeing one too many Australian flags and Australia shirts, exactly one of each, but still one too many, we left straight away. We met two people from Byron, and I had no interest in speaking to them. Australians overseas seem to have no intention of seeing a country in its reality, but rather to make a little Australian comfort bubble and take it everywhere they go. An army of singlets, Southern Cross tattoos and redneck accents. I mean no offence to anyone who reads this, because if you can actually read, you are not the Australian demographic I am talking about.
From Split we went to the islands off the coast with our new American friend Dan, with whom we shared some of the highlights of our trip. We rented a car for 24 hours, slept on a very cold very rocky beach, spent all day on a nudist beach and just enjoyed the freedom of cheap four wheels, a liberty to which I had grown so accustomed at home, I took it for granted.
At 8 am we went to drive back from the beach to get to our boat for our trip to another island. We tried to turn the car on and the battery was flat, but such is the nature of luck fluctuation, that the 2nd car who drove past was the owner of the car who jumped our battery and we drove, far too quickly, back to the town, just in time for the trip. We went to the island of Vis and to the blue and green caves off the island Bisevo. They were all mesmerising. The blue caves is an amazing phenomenon of light refraction filling the entire cave with a luminescent, lucid blue: that makes it sound like I understand the science of it, however, I have no idea how it happens, but fortunately for us, it does.
Dan had left us in Hvar having to get back to Italy to work, so our multicultural trio was down to a duo.
From Hvar back to Split, slept on the lounge of a hostel before seeing a Dali art exhibition before catching a bus to Dubrovnik. We climbed hundreds of stairs to our hostel after a 6 hour bus trip,and were sweaty to the extent that we had to take our thongs off because our feet were slipping from the sweaty soles of our feet. Not a very flattering image, but it was a tougher climb than the 2000m climb in Switzerland, bare chested and self agrandisingly intrepid.
The old town of Dubrovnik is, whilst beautiful, a place so hideously raped and pillaged by tourists that I felt an overwhelming guilt for being there. Harry and I left the old town very disheartened and established the true beauty of escapism. I was with Salman Rushdie in India, post independence and Harry was in 1800s Russia with Fyodor Dostoyevsky, an escape from the many headed, tourism automaton of package tours and overly affluent travelers. We sat in the square and ate plain bread, with what must have been a look of utter distaste (not for the bread; the bread was delicious).
From Dubrovnik, we caught a bus to Split, then a train to Zagreb, and that is where our (mis)adventure began.
I have now been forced to change my plans and go to London to get a replacement passport, as my four page emergency passport is not big enough to be able to do the entirety of my trip, and I am no way ready to go home. I take solace in the fact that everything I lost will be replaced and I will suffer no great financial loss. Diaries and photos are irreplacable and I hate the knowledge that they would be in a bin in Zagreb somewhere, and my photos are, hopefully, of no interest to the assailant, and neither will my book of letters to Olivia, unless it was stolen by a very lonely creep. I like the image of him or her crying alone in their alley reading that book and wishing for love. Eurail passes and cancelled credit cards bring no love. That may be the most spiteful thing I have ever written, but they deserve it.
I will endeavour to blog more frequently, however, I make no promises of regularity, and I hope my future, sporadic blogs are mundane in comparison.
Sorry to everyone who is living vicariously through this and at least you can now know that your life is better than mine.
I am thankful to everyone for their support, and I am surprised how easily I am coping with this, and I owe so much of that to Harry being here.
Thankyou for reading and I am sorry in advance for how long it may be until the next one.