Updated 15 December 2007 MILOS KAYAK EXPERIENCE

After two incredible five day kayaking sessions in Milos, I was going to be on terra firma once again. We paddled in all sorts of weather, practiced just about every type of rescue known to sea kayakers, did towing exercises, paddled through caves. A great experience that was now over.

After a thirty minute flight to Athens, I took the subway to the Monstiraki area and checked into the Hotel Fivos, four doors east of the Hotel Atalos, and about 30 Euros cheaper. Granted, the Internet wasn't free but I was able to tap into it discretely one evening. It wasn't the 2 Euros for half an hour that I minded, rather being able to download and send messages from my computer.

I did the usual bit of wandering around Athens, walking around the Acropolis, through the Plaka, then to Syntagma square, but I stayed true to my pledge and avoided museums. I did step into one church to light candles and pray for some friends and relatives in need.

I walked to the Larissa train station and bought my ticket for Kalambaka, a town in north-central Greece. As usual, I had no guide, no map, and no reservations. I shouldered my new JanSport deluxe Euro pack, a gift from Skip Yowell, a co-founder and VP at JanSport. I also had a smaller JanSport pack that attaches to the larger pack that I carried in my hands as it contains my cameras, recording equipment and computer. Yes, I am paranoid about pickpockets. I need packs with covers that lock.

Kayaking in Milos.

Without someone to hang with, Athens has become a bit boring for me. I've done the museums and the Acropolis bit, the nightclubs are a ripoff and the service sucks in most of the restaurants in Monastiraki and the Plaka. I'll need to tour Athens with one of my cousins next time. I haven't called them on my last four trips to Athens, so the fifth time will be a charm.

LEVITATION
After Athens, the small village of Kastraki was my destination. I had read a comment on an Internet newsgroup that it was a smaller village then Kalambaka, where my train ride ended, and closer the Meteora complex of monasteries. I shouldered my pack after leaving the train, and after a couple of uphill kilometers, I saw a sign for Old Kastraki, took a few snaps and kept walking to the village. It is at the base of the towering cliffs of Meteora, a place my cousin Jason describes as being like something out of a Dali painting. Meteora means suspended in mid-air or levitating and it is apt word for this place.

It started raining. I put on my worn, wool Greek fishermans hat, my coated nylon rainwear, and kept wandering around the old section of Kastraki. I stepped into the lobby of several small boutique hotels, and offered some robust versions of “yassou” (hello) and ‘kalispera’ (good afternoon) in hopes of finding the proprietors. I knew they couldn't be far having seen keys in the door locks.

Looking northwest from Plakes, Milos.

Getting no response at three places, the innkeeper at the fourth place answered my call. When she quoted 80 euros a night, far beyond my budget, I thanked her, and received in response, the Greek “well, that’s the way it goes” look: the lips are trust forward along with chin and the eyes open a bit. It’s not a hostile look or condescending, just a common gesture in Greece.

I continued to walk around the small village, hearing a chicken or two, some barking dogs and televisions. I didn't see any people save one woman whom I imagined mustered a small sneer on her lips after spying my backpack which identified me as a “xeni” or foreigner.

Wandering to the lower depths of the village, nestled close to the rock pillars, I tried four more places offering rooms - all with absent proprietors - before finally finding life at the Lithos tavern. It had 5 empty rooms and is run by the pleasant Maglaras family; Periklis, his Russian wife, Natalia, and their kids, Katarina and Nikos.

After checking into my room, I order lunch in my pathetic Greek. After lunch, Natalia asks me in English where I was from. I told her and she said "You don't look American." I give a brief explanation of the US melting pot, and then told her that my grandparents are from Greece.

"Aha", she says, "I thought you might be Greek!" In poor Greek, I tell her and Periklis the names and locations of the villages. They seem quite happy to learn this bit of information, Periklis seems especially happy to learn of my Peloponnesian roots. He talks to me in Greek and then he tells his wife, "Okay, I'll speak Greek to him, you talk in English if you want, " He looks to me for approval. I nod my head in acceptance as I can understand more than I can speak. After lunch, I go for a walk.

St Stephen monastery.

Meteora is practically devoid of tourists save 5 or 6 half-empty tour buses with Japanese, Spanish and Greek tourists. I couldn’t find the foot paths so I walked on the road to the monastery at the end of the road, the Great Meteora or Transfiguration, a 6km hike from Kastraki, and all uphill.

Located in north central Greece in the Thessalian valley, between the Chasia mountain range in the north and east and the Pindos range to the west, these gigantic upheavals form the spectacular Meteora complex.

During the halcyon years of the 16th century, there were 24 monasteries. Today, only a handful of monasteries and nunneries exist today, down from the. Today six exist, mainly as museums, the Great Meteoron, the St Stephen, the Varlaam, the Holy Trinity, the Roussanou, and the Saint Nicolas Anapafsas.

The road up to the monastaries.

Historians speculate that shepherds took refuge in the crevices and caves seeking shelter from the elements. They also estimate that it wasn’t until the 9th or 10th century that hermit monks first scaled the walls using crude picks, handholds and ladders, first finding refuge in cavities and then building structures in the fissures and on peaks of the rocks. Curiously, the rocks are not mentioned in Greek mythology or ancient history which speculators opine that they are the result of a recent event - in geological timeline.

Returning to my hotel, I stop in the taverna for a beer. Periklis and Natalia welcome me and then explain to a few of the other customers that I am a Greek from Amerika. They qualify it with "Well, his grandparents are from Greece".

One old guy stops by to clink my beer class and tells me, "Amerika is very good". He tells me that his daughter lives in Tennessee and another lives in Nuremburg, Germany, where he worked for many years before coming back to Kastraki.

I tell Natalia that I am looking for icons for my mother-in-law and sisters-in-laws. She tells me what I can expect to pay. She also tells me that most of them are not hand-painted but are sold as such. She recommends one shop that may be open and that they have nice hand painted ones.

I ask her if she got her icons - the ones on the taverna walls - at that shop. They look exceptional and I had been looking at them previously. "Can I buy ones like you have?", I ask. She tells me, "Well, I made these - I used to be a professional icon maker - learned it from my father-in-law..." One day he said, "Hey, let me show you how to do this....so, I picked it up."

She first worked in an icon assembly line and then did custom work for churches."And let me tell you, they are very particular. You not only have to satisfy the priest, but the benefactor that pays for them."

I buy four of her icons. She shows me an unfinished version of St. Theodore, the warrior saint, but it won't be ready to for a few days. She needs glue to attach it to wood and it takes time to dry. I tell her that I can't afford anymore, and besides, I already have one that a priest gave me.

She ask me where I am going next. I tell her my plans to head north, "First to Thessaloniki, then up through Macedonia and then Kosovo, and..." I am quickly cut-off by Natalia, a Russian that is a naturalized Greek. She gives me the first of many lectures I'll hear about why Macedonia should be part of Greece.

“Well, I need to get a train ticket there - whatever you want to call it,” I tell her. Okay, she says, Perkilis drive me into town to get the ticket and will also take me to the station ant 7:30am the next morning. But whatever you do, don't call it Macedonia. It would be okay if they said Slav Macedonia, but Macedonia., OXI!"

“Endaxi – I got it, Natalia."

Periklis does indeed get up to get me to the train station on time for my 7:40am departure to Thessaloniki. This is the first of many almost empty trains I will take.

BY TRAIN TO THESSALONKI

Man catches an octopus on the Thessaloniki waterfront.

On the train, I am conflicted about putting my thoughts about my travels to paper or digital ink. Other than William Dalrymple or Dervla Murphy, I find most travel writing boring. In many cases the reader is expected to accept the fact that the writer is either an experienced traveler or a complete imbecile dependent on his taxi driver, the innkeeper or bartender for help or insight into the local culture. Many of these travel writers seem to only come into contact with remarkable people, at the ready with pithy remarks suitable for quoting.

My travel experiences are far different. I don't think many people find me insightful. I don't think my experiences are that special. But people who don't travel or haven't been to the same places seem to want to read about them. Hence, these scribes.

I think most people may believe I may be honest but also uninteresting. I feel the same. The fact that I really don’t care about their lives is another factor. I’ll help most people in need, but I really don’t care about them.

Does being on the road mean I have to care more about my fellow man? No. I travel because I want to see other sights and cultures – but it doesn’t mean I respect all they have to offer. Like everyone else, I have my likes, dislikes and prejudices.

After arriving in Thessaloniki, I finally figure out which bus to take to the city center. I wander around for about two hours looking for a hotel. I went into several that were way out my price range. They wanted the 100-150 Euros per night. I asked about 6 people if they knew of a cheap hotel. Most said no or ignored me. No big deal, I’m used to being ignored. Besides, my new JanSport backpack is very comfortable and I can carry it all day, malaka!

Haris in his shop, Healthy Advice, fulfilling an order from a regular customer.

I stop in a sandwich shop, ordere a tuna melt, and start talking to the guy behind the counter in my primitive Greek. As it turns out, he spent 10 years in the States and Canada, spoke perfect English. When he found out I had Greek grandparents, he called his buddy who ran a hotel. Theoharis, or Haris as he is called, got me decent, clean place for 30 Euro a night, far less than other places. Eschewing the use of Lonely Planet and Rough Guide travel books, I had a piece of paper with a few notes about what to do in Thessaloniki; walk on the water front, see the white tower, go to old town and catch some music. Why not use a travel guide? Bulk, for one, and the Internet; I can usually spend an hour or two online and find out what I really need to know. I hust dot down a few notes and off I go. Plus, if you look at the postcards offered in the bus or train station, they give some pretty good clues about what you may want to see. The postcard photos are often taken at the best angle and during the best time of day. They are a good barometer of the photos that I might want to take.

First, I walk on the waterfront. I look at the White Tower, built by Turks and dubbed the Bloody Tower (think Abu Ghraib in Iraq), but now the iconic image of Thessaloniki. Alerted by the a big crowd gathered around some guy fishing, I watch him reel in an octopus.I take bunch on snaps and the 30 of us watching him are acting like seven year olds, trying to to touch it, oohing and ahhhing.

More wandering and I spot a poster for a funk and soul band called the Mother Funkers. This looks great. That evening I spent 1.5 hours at the Omolios club watching them. Quite fun.

Rowers in the harbor at sunset, Thessaloniki.

At the Tourist Hotel, I have brief conversations with the desk clerks - which bus to take, what clubs might be nice, that kinda bullshit. They are very helpful and give me some good pointers.

On the mall that afternoon, a guy asks me a question. I don't understand as I am turning on my digital recorder. I then captured a very funny exchange. I asked him if he speaks English, "No, I understand a little English," he tells me in German. I tell him I speak a lttle German and that my wife is from Germany. He tells me his wife is from Greece and we both laugh. Listen to this clip.

The night before I leave for Skopje, the night clerk at my hotel asks me where I am headed next. When I say "Skopje, Macedonia", he gives me a hurt look, and tells me, "You just stabbed me in the heart." I say, “What the fuck are you talking about....isn't that the name of the country?"

"There you go again," he says, “Macedonia is Greek...even the name is Greek!"

“What should I say I am going then?” “Skopje,” he replies, “That's all…”

We then get into a discussion about borders, nationalities, and the fact he is a Pontian Greek. When I tell him I know a little about the Pontian Greeks and even saw a movie about them, "On the edge of the city" He brightens. We shake hands, I ask for a 7am wakeup call and hit the rack.

BALKAN BOUND
Now on the train to....Skopje. Tickets are punched and passports collected. The cop tells us we'll get them back at the border.

This train also has a dearth of passengers. I share a four seat compartment with a Mongolian woman that works as an administrator for a UN mission in Kosovo. She is on her way back to Pristina and eats sunflower seeds incessantly for the first 2 hours of the ride.

We stop at the border and our Greek engine and crew leave. While waiting for the awaiting for the Macedonian engine and crew to arrive, a Romanian guy reminds us to collect our passports at the police office. I meet an American that arranges US weapons sales to developing countries, I ask where he lives. He telles me that he lives in Istanbul but :"have lived in all the 'stans', Afghanistan, Kazakhstan, Tajikistan,,,,those places.

The elderly Romanian gentlemen reminds me again - in Romanian - to collect our passports. I tell the UN lady and American that we need to collect them from the police.

After we get the passports back, we talk a bit, and, since there is no engine, know we have enough time to buy some food and drink. The Amerikan's fluency in Russian can't help him here so I help him order some food at the cafe on the Greek border. He wolfes down two tiropites (cheese pastries) and downs a cola.

He tells me is going to Skopja on business after spending a couple of days in Thessaloniki on vacation. "I need to set up a meeting with the defense minister and see what we can do." When I press him for more details, he tells me that he works with the American embassy to facilitate these sales. 'We basically sell them our 2nd and 3rd tier stuff, not our best stuff." Reassured, I ask him if he can get rocket launchers, "Yes, but if I can't guarantee the reliability if they want Russian ones." I don't ask why he would facilitate sales of Russian rocket launchers, but tell him, that if I wanted to buy some, I would prefer the US model or Stingers. "I've heard they work well.” He ignores the comment and continues to eat his tiropites.

Gust of wind blows leaves and amuses girls in Skopje's Old Town.

ONWARD TO....SKOPJE
The Macedonian engine arrives and hooks up to the passenger cars. We board the train. A Greek custom agent soon appears. He hands us forms, followed by a Macedonian cop who stamps our passports. Then someone else comes to collect the forms, then another cop comes by. After several rounds of handing passports and forms, the train takes off. The UN lady she fires up her laptop and shows me pictures of her beautiful daughters (one lives in SF the other in Salt Lake City, and then yanks a vegetable peeler out of her bag..."This is the only thing I bought in Thessaloniki, " she smiles. "Yeah, that's a nice one,” I comment, thinking, ‘beautiful,,,a fuckin potato peeler. Why not some Greek worry beads or a small icon or even a refrigerator magnet?’ Apparently, peelers are hard to come by in Kosovo. The train seems to sway a bit more after we cross the border. The Macedonians don't seem to take care of their rail lines as well as the Greeks and when I try to take leak, I spray urine everywhere. I hope the UN lady doesn't need to pee. Her potato peeler and sunflower seeds shells won’t do her much good in a slippery, pissed filled toilet compartment.

Olives in the market in Skopje's Old Town.

Arriving in Skopje, I don't ask the UN lady and weapons man if they want to share a taxi - and they don't ask me. Everyone has their own agenda. I brush off at least 6 drivers and start walking into town. About 10 minutes from the station, a taxi guy stops, tells me he'll give me a ride for 4 Euros, and I cave. He brings me to my kinda of place – a little run down, but clean with seemingly honest people. I chuck my bags in the room and head out for a walk to the city center, about 10 minutes by foot.

The main square is surrounded by Soviet style buildings with some older structures mixed in. I walk across the old stone bridge, circa 1600, to the old section of town with stone streets and masonry buildings. I wander into the bazaar where cheap goods, some hand made goods and lots of fruit and vegetables are sold.

When I try to take photos, money is demanded - I refuse - and show them my card, a 4" x 6" card with 10 photos on it along with my name and web site address. "Photog, photog - I no pay." Someone usually understands this statement, looks at card, and tells everyone I'm okay. I can then snap away until the next time they get wary.

While shooting some vegetable sellers, a guy asks me - in Macedonian - what I am shooting - the guys or the mosque in the background. I tell him, the guys and gesture at them. He asks, incredibly, if I am Greek. I answer, no, American. He tells me I look Greek and then asks me, in Greek, if I speak it. I say, a little. His face erupts into a big smile. I then tell him that my grandparents are from Greece. His smile grows, "I knew it", he says." We shake hands and exchange names. I ask him where he is from, "Thessaloniki, he says, and I've been here 10 years. It's terrible. Macedonia is messed up - Serbia wants us, Albania wants us and Greece wants us...and we should be with Greece!" We talk a little more and I wander away.

I take more photos and am asked, "You Ruski? You Polishk? You Chezchca? No, Amerikan. YOU-S-AH, I say. This usually draws blank stares. I opt not to go to Matka Canyon less than 15km southwest of Skopje. It's winter and most tourist facilties, like the whitewater kayak club, are not operational.

After spending an hour at an Internet cafe, I have coffee and walk 40 minutes to the train station, a Soviet era relic with clocks everywhere - most broken and only handful with the correct time. My ticket costs 2 Euros. This will get me to the Kosovo border where the Macedonian engine will be exchanged for a Kosovar one and passports will be stamped. After the Macedonians finish their business, the Kosovar police come on board accompanied by a UN peacekeeper. I hand over my passport and check the stamp - the guy has the wrong date. After he checks the passports of a few others, I politely show him his error - he stamped 5-11-07 not 5-12-07. I tell him, "I no want problems later..." He apologizes, changes his machine to the correct month, and re-stamps it. How this plays out ahead remains to be seen.

As soon as the exit and entry visas are stamped, 20 of the 22 people in the compartment leave. Then the Kosovo conductor comes on board and collects 2.5 euros for the rest of the ride to Pristina. The train stops every 10 minutes for at least 5 minutes. There are two reasons for this - one is so that the train in the other direction can pass and the other is for work on the rails. At each station, the train stops only for a maximum of 1 minute...you had better know your stop on this train. (I find out later in Prisitina that the bus ride only takes 1.5 hours.)

KOSOVO KRONICLES
I am the only person in my compartment, one of three on the entire train, when the train stops in Pristina. The station is deserted. There are no lights, no people - nothing. I walk past the dark, deserted buildings to a dirt parking lot. Not one car or even a taxi is there. A highway runs past the station and is moderately busy. The only thing I can see is an 10' high sheet metal fence that seems to separate me from the city. I spot the Grand hotel and decide to make my there in hopes of getting a cab.

The walk past the sheet metal fence takes 10 minutes but seems like an hour. There are no street lights, and I am guided by ambient lights of the city and headlights of passing cars. I have a flashlight in my pocket but decide to save it in the event there is no light for the rest of evening. After 15 minutes I reach get close to the Grand Hotel and see another street with life and a row of taxis. I decide these guys are on call for the per diem UN and multi-national guys at the Grand. They will want more money for a cab ride so I walk for another 5 minutes.

I flag a driver, ask him if he can get me the Hotel Bergoli. He says, yes, but why not stay at a private home? I insist on the Bergoli .He asks me if I am Bengali - Bengali? No, okay he says, you Africa. Me no Africa, me Amerika. Amerika. You-S-Ah. Ah, he says, okay, but look you Bengali. He then tells me that there is no electricity pointing to the dark street lights. Ah yes, the UN is really doing a great job here, too.

I am a day early and my hotel is full so I grab a room at the place next door. I go to check with the hotel Bergoli, where I'll be staying the next night. I ask when I can check in. The guy can't understand me so as asks me I can speak German. Hah! A little I reply and believe it or not, we have a short conversation. He speaks to me in German for the next two days.

Photos of missing ethnic Albanians posted on the fence of the Parliament in Pristina, Kosovo.

The sounds of a mosque calling men to prayer awakens me. I grab my digital recorder and head out to the balcony. After breakfast, I ask where the "old town of Kosovo" is, I finally figure out I am staying in it. Serpentine streets, old houses mixed with rebuilt structures and small business - from baby crib makers, to carpenters to dress makers.

I wander into the bazaar a brief two minute walk from my hotel. I take photos and use my calling card to diffuse tensions. Then I meet a guy I call Tony Montana.

TONY MONTANA SELLS RUSSIAN UNDERWEAR IN KOSOVO
Taking a picture of three stalls in a row - all egg sellers - I am approached by a young, energetic gent. He insists I take pictures of him - first one of him with his merchandise. I take a snap and show it to him and his friends. The snap is not good enough for him - he wants the ENTIRE stand in the photo. I take it and he approves. Next, he wants him posing next to his car. After two snaps, he again disapproves and wants the entire car - including the license plate. I comply and he beams when I show him the results.

"Tony Montana" sells Russian underwear in Kosovo. He didn't like this photo.

Now, he wants prints. He'll pay, he says, but he wants prints. This is guy is like Tony Montana in Scarface - but instead of moving cocaine, this cat is hustling Russian socks, underwear and Albanian acrylic hats.

I wander off to explore Pristina. A UN vehicle almost hits me and when I pound on their window, the passenger - some kind of official - jumps out. He yells at me something to the effect of , "What do you think you're doing?" I tell him to fuck off, that they almost hit me. I then tell the driver to open his fucking eyes. The give me stink eye and I flip them the bird. I've noticed that most of the drivers manning the Toyota SUVs with the UN emblem drive like assholes. Fuck 'em.

I find a photo place and print the photos. The clerk is a really nice kid - maybe 23 - who is also a photographer. He shows me some photos he has taken and then we visit my Website. He orders coffee and we spend the next hour discussing photography. He orders espresso and when the delivery lady appears, he won't let me pay.

I decide to leave and try to pay for the prints - he refuses my money. I tell him that he must take it - all 1.5 Euros. After much discussion, he finally agrees to take it and when he runs next door to get change, I leave my calling card on one of the printing machines with another 2 Euros on it for the espresso. He doesn't see it when he gets back, so I leave and say I'll try to make it back again.

The news crews have all rolled into town anticipating the UN vote for independence in a few days. I am staying clear of the few Serb villages that exist. The local TV showed a fight between the Serbs (now the minority) the ethnic Albanians. But I would be hard pressed to tell that there is any tension here given the impending vote for Kosovo independence.

The grafitti says, 'No Negotiation - Independence.

Other than the armed KFOR troops, the Kosovo police and the UN vehicles, I cannot see some evidence of the fighting that ended here 9 years ago, and I looked hard. There area few burned buildings, but it doesn't look much worse than Detroit or the west side of Chicago. I also notice that the absence of signs in Serbian, and that any Serbian Orthodox church is surrounded by a wall or barbed wire. Most look like they have been destroyed or have been looted. Several are designated as EU reconstruction projects. I also pass a wall of the missing ethinic Albanians. They are posted to a fence outside of the fence of the Parliament. I look at the faces for almost an hour. It is quite sobering and I need a beer.

One day I traveled to a small town, Prizren, at in the foothills of the Sar Mountains (Sharr Mountains). It is a pretty town filled with mosques, old homes and polluted, garbage strewn Bistrica river. A small KFOR compound exists in the middle of town. I saw several Armored Personal Carriers (APC) with 50 caliber machine guns mounted on the gun turret. I spend an afternoon in Prizen before heading back to Pristina. We pass several KFOR vehicles on the road. The Kosovo Liberation Army had a stronghold here and after they kicked the Serbs out, killed Kosovars suspected of collaborating with Milsovic's men.

In Prisitina, the capital, I think that the UN may have installed former Enron execs as part of the electrical administration; Rolling backouts are common, and most businesses have generators in the back or in a locked steel cage next to their shop. Internet connectivity is also spotty.

The people in Kosovo are exceedingly polite and honest to me. Misunderstanding the amount due for for food or beverages, I constantly over-pay only to have money returned. And they always say thank you, or the Alabanian equivalent of it "fahlendermit" or something like that.

Food is cheap and good: 200 grams of chicken filet with salad a little cheese, and a beer is 3.5 Euros. In Prizen, prices are even cheaper: I had a plate of steak, some salad and a bottle of mineral water for 1.5 Euros. A bottle of beer can be had .50 cents to .65 cents. Roasted chestnuts - sold from street carts - are delicious and will set you back anywhere from .50 cents to 1 Euro.

I've read several accounts of atrocities from both the Serbs and the Kosovo Liberation Army (KLA). While the Serb atrocities have been well documented and publicized, the KLA's have not. I take the night bus for head for Podgorica, the capitol of Montenegro. The bus was supposed to leave at Pristina at 7pm – but we didn’t actually hit the road until 8pm. We had to wait for a nun. Apparently her hotline to God also gives her access to the bus driver's cell phone. As soon as she arrives, we hit the road which quickly becomes narrow, winding and steep. There was about two feet of snow on the side of the road but the road itself was clear.

When we got to the border, a Kosovo cop came on board and stamped our passports. The 2km drive to the Montenegro border was interesting as a lady in the front seat dropped her wallet. The bus driver’s assistant and I were on our hands and knees but we could not find it. When the Montenegro border guys came on board, we looked some more and finally found it wedged next to the driver’s door.

There was some problem with the assistant's paperwork so they wouldn’t let him pass through. Some gal then saddled up next to the driver. I think the assistant helps keep the driver awake. We arrived in Montenegro's capital, Podgorica, at 4am. I had to walk 3K to the bus station. Got on a bus at 6am for Dubrovnik, arrived there at 11am, and then got on 1pm bus to Split which got here at 5:45pm.

I am currently in Split, Croatia. It took me almost 24 hours to get here. The journey up the Montenegro and Croatian coastline was beautiful. I am stinky, tired and hungry but got a room for 17 Euros a night (Croatia uses a different currency here, the Kuna) with a nice family that was hustling bus passengers at the station. As is my luck on this trip, they ask if I speak German. Again, I use my tired three lines, "I speak a little bit of German. My wife is from Germany. Where can I buy beer?" The couple is in their 60s. They have two sons in LA that are professional body builders and security guards. Their other son at home is in his early 40s and a retired Croatian army soldier. His mother tells me he was wounded in the arm fighting the Serbs. Later he tells me he fought the Serbs for four years - 1991 - 1995. He tells me they are terrible people and all they want to do is take other people's property and lives.

In the morning, they make me coffe. Three Koreans have also taken rooms. One guy and two gals. They met in Zagreb. The guy has been traveling for 3 months, and one of the yound ladies lives in Prague.

I split Split on 12 Dec and arrive in Zagreb that afternoon. I'll leave Zagreb on evening of the 13th and arrive in Munich where I'll meet Maria for family.