The Croatian Grannies
When we were trying to decide where in Europe to go, Croatia kept popping up as a suggestion. Croatia has recently been steadily increasing in popularity as a travel destination for Americans. While just a few years ago, people had lingering concerns about whether Croatia was safe after its war of independence from Yugoslavia in the 1990s (perhaps from watching too many ER episodes about Dr. Kovac), now many wonder whether Croatia is overrun by tour groups and cruise ships. With many seaside cities with quaint stone and marble old towns, a long coastline on the Adriatic sea, and the supposed charm of Italy without the prices, Croatia has seen an influx of travelers in the last decade.
We opted to forgo a guidebook for our time in Croatian (more on that later), and did very little other research into Croatia. So when we showed up in Rovinj, a town picked somewhat randomly because it had a good bus connection from Slovenia, we were surprised to not see many hotels or any pensions (simple, budget accommodations prevalent in Europe). After walking around for a while, our backpacks heavy on our backs, we stopped in a travel agency/money exchange type of place and asked the man working there if he knew of any hotels.
He directed us to what seemed like the only hotel in walking distance from the old town and told us to come back if it was too expensive. Upon learning that the rather simple looking hotel was $160 euros a night – over $200 – we returned and rented a room from the man for $57 euros. The man instructed us to make a couple of turns and look for a house with an elderly woman leaning out of the window. The woman did not speak a word of English. The room we rented was just that – a room on the third floor of the house, grandmotherly décor, and a religious photo over the bed.
At a café with wifi later that night, we did a little more digging and learned that while Croatia has some five star hotels in various cities, the mid-level hotels and budget hostels or pensions have not found their way to Croatia. It has been decades since the fall of communism, so I can only assume there is some reason that I am not aware of that prevents opportunity seeking capitalists to fill this void. (If anyone knows the answer, I’d love to hear it. I couldn’t find a good answer anywhere).
In the meantime, the private residents of Croatia are stepping up to gain some extra income and provide lodging to Croatia’s many tourists. All private rooms must be licensed. The rooms are all different. Some are modern; some are very outdated; all are simple. Some have private ensuite bathrooms; others do not. Some are apartments, with a private entrance; others are simply rooms in someone’s house.
Even after research telling us that private accommodation was the way to go, I still hesitated when we were greeted at our next stop in Pula by an elderly woman with hair growing out of her moles, who was telling us Come with me. My room, it is very cheap. I talked Sean into staying into staying at one of the few hotels in Pula instead. At 96 euros a night (about $121), it was our second most expensive place on this trip so far, and it was nothing to write home about.
The next day, I succumbed to the reality that if we wanted to stay in Croatia, we would have to go with the Grannies. Anyone who travels to Croatia by any form of public transport will meet the Grannies. Many of the Grannies were not actually grannies at all. Some were younger; some were male. But because our first experience was with a woman who was at least 85, they will forever be known as Grannies. At each stop during our ten hour bus ride from Pula to Split, the Grannies swarmed around us, calling out Sobe? Camere? Room? Zimmer? They didn’t always speak anything other than Croatian, but they threw out the name for room in every language. Even telling them that we were just stepping of the bus to go to the bathroom sometimes didn’t stop them from shouting after us. I suppose they thought they might be able to convince us to get off the bus and stay in their town.
While you can book private accommodations in advance from the savvy owners who have set up websites or listed their properties on sites like Hostelbookers, searching for private accommodations this way is very time consuming. We found it was much easier to subject ourselves to the mercy of the Grannies at the bus stations and ferry stops. As long as you were not picky (a very difficult concept for me to grasp), you could be lead directly to a room or apartment by a Granny after finding one where the price was right. The best we could do is try to learn important facts, like how close the apartment or room was to the old town (always, very close, very close – until you press further and find out that very close means a 15 minute bus ride to town).
It was hard to choose a Granny. With the exception of a less populated island we visited, each time we stepped off a bus or a ferry in a new place, the Grannies were waiting. Some Grannies took the approach of shouting at you before you even walked down the ferry ramp.
Other Grannies rushed up to you the second you stepped on land, each of them looking at you with expectant and hopeful eyes. Still other Grannies stood back, and patiently waited for you to come to them.
The savviest Grannies had pictures of their rooms on their signs, like Maria in Hvar Town. Upon stepping off the bus in Korcula, we were drawn to Vela’s sign like a moth to a flame when we spotted the words “Free Wifi” in big black letters. (Internet access was a rare commodity in Croatia’s private accommodations. I was starting to the shakes).
While not all of our private rooms or apartments had private bathrooms, and some of them probably have not been updated in forty or fifty years, all of the rooms or apartments were clean. Some had balconies overlooking the Adriatic Sea, and most were centrally located. They ranged in price from $38 a night to $75 a night. Those willing to spend more could probably find more modern and luxurious private apartments.
Of course, the best part about staying in private accommodation is that we get to know some Croatian people a little bit better, and experience their hospitality. Nada, in Split, recommended a tasty Croatian restaurant for dinner. Vela, on Korcula Island, always stopped to chat when she saw us. When we asked if we could use the outdoor drying rack to hang laundry, she not only said yes, she offered to do a load of laundry for us for free. Valentina, on Lastovo Island, picked us up and dropped us off at the bus stop several miles away. And Maria, on Hvar Island, invited us to her birthday gathering on her patio with her family.
We ate prosciutto and cheese, drank homemade wine from Hvar grapes, and sang Maria happy birthday as she blew out the candles on her cake (which, fortunately for us, but unfortunately for her, was made by her!) While Maria spoke somewhat broken English, we got to chat with her brother and sister, both of whom spoke nearly perfect English. We met Mae and Margaret, two friends from Norway staying at one of Maria’s apartments, who brought homemade Norwegian pancakes and sang Maria a Norwegian birthday song.
For our part, we brought guacamole and salsa, made from ingredients we collected at the island’s farmer’s market. We actually were able to track down tortilla chips at the island’s grocery store, which is no small feat in Europe. The crowd chuckled at our choice of Mexican, given America’s lack of a national food. We explained that as a nation of immigrants, most American foods borrow the best of world – a diversity I rather enjoy. It was funny watching some of the guests try to figure out what to make of the guacamole and salsa. Most ate them off their plates without tortilla chips. Their confusion didn’t prevent them from polishing off both bowls.
All in all, while commodities like beers and food were more expensive than we anticipated for a country who has not adopted the euro, it is not hard to keep costs down by moving around by bus or ferry and by staying with the Grannies.
Happy Independence Day!
This is the first time we will be out of the country on the Fourth of July. I always liked the Fourth of July – it is a low fuss holiday, it usually involves lots of food, and it gets you another day off mid-summer. Plus, there are explosions. What’s not to like?
I was trying to remember how we spent the last couple of Fourths. Last year, we went to our friends Matt and Mindy’s annual picnic. There was that potentially dangerous combination of beer and fireworks, but no casualties.
This picture about sums up the state of the world today:
I don’t recall what we did the year before, in 2008. I’m hoping it didn’t involve work, but it is a distinct possibility if there are no pictures.
It didn’t surprise me that the holidays in 2006 and 2007 were spent in some house renovation related context. In 2006, with the help of our friend Scott, we must have spent the day painting our kitchen. Back then, long weekends meant renovations, without fail.
In 2007, at least we got to combine home renovations with travel – a strange concept, I know. Did I mention that not only did we spend four years fixing up a house that we ended up selling to take this trip, but that we were completely crazy in our efforts to do so? Long ago, I dreamed about writing a house blog, but there was never time. At one point, our plan was to stay in our house forever, but somewhere along the line of replacing character stripped out years ago to make room for bland apartments and fixing decades of other people’s shortcuts, we realized that the house was not for us. But not before we drove all the way from Pennsylvania to Iowa to pick up antique 5 panel doors complete with transoms that were likely similar to the ones originally in our house, saved from an Iowa farmhouse. In truth, we went much because it gave us an excuse to see many of the fly-over states – the ones where everyone says there is nothing but corn. Well, yes, but there is also a lot of life going on between the coasts. Our midwest road trip was one of my most favorite trips. We stayed in a B&B in a different state each night. We spent the morning of the Fourth that year in St. Louis.
After stopping by to taste some pie at a Slice of Pie in Rolla, Missouri, we arrived in Fort Scott, Kansas, by nightfall. Fort Scott, chosen at random because it was on our way, was the epitome of mid-Western, small town America. I still recall the enthusiasm and vigor with which the townspeople celebrated the Fourth. Driving through the town, we were surrounded on all sides and above by big, intense fireworks. We watched what we thought was the town’s official fireworks display, until we realized it was just a family shooting off fireworks in the yard.
There will be no fireworks for us this year, but I suppose that’s the tradeoff. I hope everyone has a happy, safe, and fun Fourth of July!
Europe’s Ugliest Car
The unfortunate thing about Slovenia is that all public transportation goes through Ljubljana. We tried to figure out how to take a bus or train from Ljubljana, to Lake Bled, to Bovec in the Julian Alps, to Piran on the coast. We realized it couldn’t be done: all busses travel through Ljubljana, which would have required a lot of time backtracking. So we rented a car for the Ljubljana to Bled to Bovec leg, returned the car to Ljubljana, and took a bus to Piran. The car we rented was, um, interesting. We used a local company, which got us perks like a free GPS and Cockta (a strange tasting Slovenian cola), but also got us the smallest, cheapest car he had: a 2003 Fiat Multipla. European automakers should stick to what they know best, and that is not SUVs. We rented a rather strange looking SUV type thing when a group of us went to Normandy, but the Multipla really took the cake. It was bulbous and boxy at the same time, and had this strange shelf looking thing on the outside with teeny buggy lights. The guy at the rental car company kept telling us it was a six seater (as if this was a plus, being that there was only two of us), but we didn’t know what he meant until we saw the upright seat in the middle between the driver and front passenger. The Multipla was so ugly, even the Europeans were making fun of it. When it was parked in Bled, we saw a group of people pointing at it and peering in the windows, laughing. I wanted to yell out, really, we didn’t choose this car, it is just a rental!
Alas, as aesthetically challenged as it was, the Multipla performed fine, chugging up and around the fifty hairpin turns in the Vrsic mountain pass through the Julian Alps.
