Pivo, Vino and Sobe… the three most important words in Croatian

We crossed the Serbian border into Croatia with the nicest customs officials I’ve ever met. I couldn’t figure out which bag I put our passports into, so I was shuffling around between bags when I lost grip on my bike and it started tumbling to the pavement. My ankle broke the fall, and the chain ring put a nice bloody cut across my leg. The poor custom official tried to help me pick up the bike, and said to me in broken English “Just don’t tell the Croats that that Serbs did that to you!”

History Lesson:

Serbia and Croatia are neighboring countries, which at one time were part of Yugoslavia. Both areas suffered terribly during WW2, with major cities (Belgrade, Novi Sad, Zagreb and many more) were bombed mercilessly and the people suffered greatly as their countries were German puppet states. After the world wars, both Serbia and Croatia suffered their own civil wars, and several conflicts between the neighboring countries. The reasons for the wars are plentiful and difficult to understand, but the 1990s for both countries (especially Croatia, with many parts being occupied by Serbs) were hard times for all.

Riding Day 3: Novi Sad to Ilok, 50km.

We entered Croatia to see a city sign riddled with bullet holes, and an enormous uncovered garbage dump. I felt my chest get a bit tight. Todd and I exchanged glances and rode into the country. From that point, we were nothing but impressed with the country as a whole. Incredibly clean, orderly, and ancient feeling… and the people… the Croatian people have to be some of the kindest on the planet. Very accommodating and kind, even though they didn’t always understand what we were saying. Every truck, car, bike or person we passed waved and yelled something in Croatian. Which we interpreted to be various forms of “good luck!” “good day!” or “happy travels!”.

The first night in Croatia we found a beautiful resort, Hotel Dunav, right on the Danube River. There are no hostels in the part of Croatia we were traveling through, and camping is extremely rare, but the cost of staying in beautiful resorts is comparative to camping in Yellowstone or a hostel in Western Europe. I had a big glass of yummy Croatian red vino (wine)—the waiter told me “It is famous! — and Todd enjoyed some local pivo (beer) and we relaxed on the covered patio, watching the golden sun set on the banks of the Danube.

Riding Day 4: Ilok to Mohacs, 110km

Today, we planned on taking a short ride to Vukovar, due to a stretch of extremely steep hills of 8-10% grade that stretched on forever. My track record going up hills is sketchy: a terrible combination of heat, altitude, lack of catalytic converters on trucks, and asthma usually results in me toppling off my bike into the curb. Todd, on the other hand, is this superhuman combination of gazelle and Mac truck, and he usually bounds to the top of even the most strenuous of climbs with energizer-bunny-like-speed, and then cheers me on from the top.

Once we made it through the mountains, coasting for miles through what our guide book calls “idyllic” villages (I would refer to them rather as humble farming villages with lots of odd animal poop and sunflowers), we made it to our destination village, Vukovar, before noon.

We rode into the town, past a cemetery the size of most of the villages, filled with all-too-recent graves, and into a small residential street. This place had been all but destroyed in a bitter battle between the Serbs and Croats for control of the city which borders on the two countries in the 90’s, and the aftermath is still extremely obvious.

There’s a strange mix of brand new brick-and-stucco houses painted bright colors and hole-ridden homes becoming consumed with trees and decay. Across the street from several uninhabitable homes, there is an enormous, foreboding water tower pockmarked with holes the size of car tires. The tower is like a giant, rusting piece of grey Swiss cheese. On the top, there is a Croatian flag proudly waving in the breeze, and a new children’s playground is being built in its shadow.

Todd and I went a bit farther, we both were feeling a bit overwhelmed and barely spoke as we allowed the magnitude of the towns’ sadness to sink in. It didn’t take us long to decide that we couldn’t stay here, no matter how tired we were. And so, we left the depressing community for Osijek, a thriving city about 60km up the road. After a 20km detour to the Serbian border (we got a little lost) we found our way to the city, where we devoured an entire plate-sized sandwich and enormous calzone as big as a pizza.

We rode another 7km or so to the small village of Bilje. We followed a well-built bike path, fenced off to the right with “Danger: Landmine” signs in the distance. we found out later that alot of the landmines in the area were still there from WW2. Soon, we saw signs for Sobe (bed).

Down a dirt driveway was a beautiful guest house built next to a small Croatian straw-roof home. In the yard was a flourishing family garden, with farm animals and yard pets. Sitting on the porch was the owner, a young Croat man with a cigarette in his lips. He welcomed us to his B&B with a pitcher of water, and local beer that he served with a traditional pastry his mother had just made. We sat with him for a while, stinkin’ to high heaven and tired as hell, but so intrigued by what he had to say.

When we told him we had skipped Vukovar because it was so sad, and he looked in our eyes and agreed. He allowed us to ask questions we had been dying to ask, with no one to answer them: What happened to your country? Why?

He told us that when he was about 7 till 11, he and his family were refugees in Osijek, while their home was occupied. After the war, he told us, “We moved back, and cleaned up. It was our land before the war, and it was ours again now, nobody would question that.” They rebuilt their home and guest house and started over again.

Todd asked about their relations with the Serbs and he said “We let them come, there are no hard feelings, but we never will forget.”

While in the Chillton Hostel in Belgrade, Serbia, the young receptionist there had told us about how she was from Croatia, and fled to Serbia during the war. Her family made it across the border the last day they possibly could, but her father was made to fight in the war for the Serbian army. When the conflict was over, they went back to their home to find nothing. “They even took the wood floorboards, to sell.” she said. To make matters worse, when the Croatian government found out that her father had served on the side of Serbia, they sent him to prison. It was injustice on all sides.

The next morning, the young man served us a breakfast fresh from his family land. Homemade nettle juice, fresh tomatoes and vegetables, house smoked meats and three kinds of homemade cheeses from local cows all with a huge loaf of bread from the bakery down the road that still tasted like oven. You know, up until that point, I felt a little sorry for the lack of modern conveniences in these Croatian villages. Many still used oxen and wooden plows, the streets and homes were many times in disrepair… it all reminded me of being in another time period. Then again… maybe they have it all right, and we’re all wrong.



We crossed into Hungary later that day.

First Rides and End of Serbia

After two days in Belgrade, our luggage finally arrived. Todd and I stayed up until late Friday night putting the bikes together and packing all the gear up to leave on Saturday. By the time we were ready to leave on Saturday, the sun was beaming full blast and temperatures were in the 100’s. Eager to get out of the city and start our trip, we decided to head out into the inferno anyway.

Cycling Day 1: Belgrade to Novi Banovci 30k

Weaving in and out of traffic on the streets and sidewalks, I wished that I knew the Serbian word for “LOOK OUT!” I tried all English variations I could think of, and even some French… “HEY!” “BIKE!” “WATCH OUT!” “VELO!”… and finally decided that the closest word to the Serbian word for caution was “AHHHHHHHHH!” and if yelled with extreme passion it always got someone’s attention.

The city driving wasn’t as bad as the two lane highway that took us out into the countryside around Belgrade. There was a short bike path that led to a cobble stone road following the Danube river, which ended abruptly with a fat Serbian man stumbling out of a portable water closet and yelling wildly in Serbian something we took to mean “Get the fuck off my river you crazy foreigner!”.

Eventually, we found our way to Novi Banovci . Even though we only traveled about 30k, we were completely wrecked from traveling in such high temperatures. We stayed in the only lodging available for several towns, a beautiful hotel called The Kondor. A bit out of our price range (50euros) but worth every penny . We had a huge bed, private bathroom (including bidet) porch that overlooked a peaceful bend in the Danube river, and a huge Serbian wedding celebration in the back yard.

Travel Day 2: Novi Banovci to Novi Sad 60k

We fell asleep to the ruckus of a live traditional Serbian band (I swear they had 5 encores) and woke up to the sun and mist rising over the Danube. We left before the roosters started crowing and made our way out of the sleepy village. It was gorgeous. We rode past acres of sunflowers fields and tiny towns with barely any traffic. Unfortunately for us, that also meant bee farms and loads of stray dogs. After Todd took a bee to the lip, and I managed to get one stuck in my helmet, we were chased by three crazy mutts whose territory we apparently crossed. Yet! No stings, no bites, hallelujah.

After the fairly uneventful ride (which ended in Novi Sad after a 5k downhill coast) we were starved and a bit lost. It was now a little after 10am, temperatures inching into the 90s and we had been riding for five hours. The first restaurant we saw? McDonalds. Hell yeah! Todd rolled his eyes at first, but I knew I’d make a believer out of him. Top three reasons that Serbian McDonalds rock: reason #1) spiced, 1/2lb meat burger with fresh greens, real tomatoes and herb seasoned sour cream and delicious melted cheese on top of a lightly toasted ciabatta bun, with a side of seasoned fresh mozzarella balls and more fresh salad and tomatoes. Reason #2) free internet. Reason #3) Free, super-clean, bathrooms (definitely a real luxury here… something that will normally cost you your first-born). We ordered three meals, (value size? Why yes!) and ate every morsel. God bless America and her inventions.

We checked into a hostel, took a nap in the park, and hung out with a teacher from Pasadena Cali, a young Englishmen, and an Italian hostel owner. Dinner was lovely, and we sat under an umbrella drinking local wine and beer watching the storm and the city grow quiet.

Tomorrow we cross into Croatia (if it ever stops raining) and say ciao to Serbia!

Stuck in Serbia

It’s 5pm and 91 degrees here in Belgrade… and here we melt, waiting for the Serbian airport to find our lost luggage.

The trip so far has been a bona-fide adventure. After going to the wrong terminal in Chicago, we caught our flight with just minute to spare. From there, we flew to Brussels (where I was brutally questioned by the custom official as to why I was in Brussels with a visa for France) ran to our next flight to Budapest, (where the only American was a woman with a carton of Marlboro lights as her carry-on) and finally landed in the 100+ heat of Belgrade after about 24 hours of constant traveling. We became best buds with a family of Irish sisters and their Mom on the plane to Belgrade, which ended up being a great friendship to have. Turns out, girls Father is a Serb and they were all bilingual. So once all of us (and most of the rest of the passengers on the plane) discovered that our luggage was lost, the eldest Irish/Serb girl helped us file a lost luggage claim and yelled at the non-English speaking Serb custom/lost luggage shmuck. Through our awesome new Serbian translator friend, we were told us to book a hostel and give the airport the number and address of where we are staying. Once they find our luggage, they are supposed to bring it to us.

And so, we are parked for an unknown amount of time here in Belgrade at the Chillton Hostel, where the staff is super, the rent is cheap and there’s is more moonshine liquor then you could ever want. Todd and I took a quick tour of the city, ate a monster lamb burger, had a delicious ice-cold shower, and passed out for 12 hours.

Good news is that the girl who works the hostel speaks very wonderful English and Serbian so she is also quite good at yelling at the airport lost and found personnel.
Belgrade is way cooler than we could have imagined. All the people are friendly and helpful. The weather is beautiful (if a bit sticky) and The exchange rate is ridiculous, where 1 US dollar gets you 82 Serbian dinars. Today’s breakfast –1 HUGE jug of mineral water, yummy yogurt drink, 1 peach, 2 bananas, 4 fresh apricots and 2 huge fresh rolls— set us back about 300 dinars… or $3.69USD. We spent the afternoon checking out the Nikola Tesla museum (100 dinars each) and wondering around through old Pentecostal churches and a sweet old fortress downtown.

So I guess if you have to be stuck somewhere… Belgrade is the place to be.

PS if you want MORE picts of Belgrade... I have posted some on FB:)

On: Becoming a Cyclist

Most of us learn to ride a bike when were naught but little tykes. You start out with training wheels, then get a big wheels— I’m talking handle bar pom-poms, colorful dots on your spokes, big-ol wicker basket, maybe even a little bell… the works. Somewhere down the road you upgrade to the Wal-Mart $29.99 extra- cushy-gel -padded-seat and hike up the seat post a bit, but the effort put into biking usually peaks then plateaus after about 10.

I probably would have followed down that path, not ever having known what a rear derailleur was or heard the brand name Shimano. Until I met a great force of nature named Todd. Now, when Todd and I started dating, I still thought my Huffy bike was pretty cool: the front brake worked most of the time, the chain was only slightly rusty, the front tire would hold air for at least an hour, and the best part was that I could leave it outside of my dorm in the snow during winter, and it would still work in the spring!

Somehow, my bikes “features” didn’t impress Todd. Oh no, this kid was a genuine bona-fide cyclist (this was before I had ever even used the word “cyclist”). I still remember the first time I saw him in his cycling gear: tight padded shorts, helmet, colorful jersey, gloves, those bad-ass biker sunglasses… I thought he looked like a real dork. He actually kept his bike in his bedroom, and would walk it up his apartment stairs after a ride. I think I offended his biking-karma when I bragged that my bike could withstand being frozen in a snow bank during a Wisconsin winter.

Soon, Todd, who was leading an outdoor cycling class at our college, was teaching me all he knew about the new sport. He even attempted to teach me how to ride his special bike. Who knew that you had to “learn” how to ride a road bike… isn’t a bike a bike? I mean, don’t people always say “It’s like riding a bike! Once you learn, you never forget!” Apparently those people never tried to ride a road bike… that sh*t is hard! But I learned! Todd held on to the bike while I “clipped in” with his too-big shoes. I rode around his apartment parking lot while he laughed at my seriousness (You would be intimated too, had you just learned that you were riding a bike worth more than your car, and wayyy more fragile than your Huffy). I felt like I was Harry Potter riding a broom for the first time.

Two years pass (without me breaking his bike), and we decide to plan a cross-Europe bike trip. I’m still riding my Huffy, and I haven’t successfully crossed over into being a “true cyclist” yet. The planning stages of the trip seem spurious until I finally purchase my first bike: a 2009 Raleigh Sojourn. The bike is beautiful – steel frame, Brooks leather saddle and bar tape, disk brakes, outfitted with Shimano SPD road dual platform pedals and three water bottle holders. The bike is a lovely cream color and yes, worth more than my car. Up until the point of buying my bike, I felt like a total cycling poser. How could I talk to people about my crazy bike trip, when I don’t even own a nice bike? Or a helmet? Or those funny padded shorts? Yet somehow, I didn’t feel like any less of a poser once I owned a bike… now I was just a cycling poser with an expensive bike.

This feeling of cycling poser-ness just got worse when I tried to ride the thing. I fell… a lot. Now, I’m not a graceful faller, oh no, my falls were those really nasty, horribly embarrassing going one-mile-an-hour-and-totally-biff-it falls. For those of you learning how to clip in for the first time: momentum is a must. Actually this feeling of cycling poser-ness still didn’t go away even when I was finally on the road, successfully clipped in, complete with the gloves, the shorts, the sunglasses… and the 40-year-old pulling a baby bike trailer passing me on the left. Yet I prevailed! While focusing on my cadence, the balance of pushing and pulling the pedals, holding my body up while sprawled across the handle bars, I somehow was magically pulling myself along the road.

This is the fun part. Wind at your back, knees pumping, tires zooming, IPod blaring. This was a feeling I could get used to. Of course, there’s a lot I’ve learned since then, and each bike is totally different. I’ve learned how to balance the gears to a cadence, stop without hurling myself over the handle bars or crashing and how to brace my elbows to eliminate “road buzz” pain. Yet the painful truth is… I’m still such a noob. When I’m riding down the flat Wisconsin roads and I see another cyclist, I put my game face on and kick up my cadence a notch… hoping they won’t catch on to the fact that I have no idea what I’m doing.

What better way to learn then 2,500+ miles of Europe?