Trip to Croatia

Zdenka and Evonne came to visit. With Marie away, I looked after the boys for 3 days. All went well, except we won't be trying a bushwalk for a while. After, the boys were very excited to have their ma back, and 2 aunties at once.

We planned to go to Croatia to visit the family. There was no space in the car, so I had to make my own way there over 4 days. A flight would be quick but what better way to see the place than riding. I know some phrases like: you are fat, where's your bellybutton, and Merry Christmas. What could go wrong?

I start to panic the day before. I wish you could bottle that feeling so you could open it a week ahead of time, when there was plenty of time, instead of surfing the internet. The route seemed easy, but now zooming in, each town is a morass of turns, and streets in the middle of nowhere have no names. Suddenly it's 7pm, and the web says the only buses are a 30min walk away, and will take 2 hours with a change. Just then a bus rolls past my window, so I print a map, pack up and run for it! No time to check for hotels etc.

Sitting on board, I'm reminded of my favourite travel quote, whatever you need will come to you. The only roll of tape we have is packing tape, exactly perfect for the bike box. The plan is to fly to Venice, train it to Trieste and cycle to Slavonski Brod. Unrealistic? We'll see!

Before I go anywhere, my pedal spanner is confiscated. I wonder how to say that in Italian when to ask them to tighten the pedals up. The airline magazine has a story on shepherds in the Atlas mountains of Morocco, the loss of pastures due to global warming, and then an ad for the new Jaguar which gets 17 litres / 100km. Mmm.

Venice comes into view. After seeing the layout on Google maps, I can see the bridge onto the island, and get a bit of an idea of where to head after landing. The luggage guys give the bike a moderate 30cm alley oop thump onto their cart, while a truck full of fossil fuel, with blue skies painted on it, refuels the aircraft.

After locating the oversize baggage, the bike goes together like magic, the box is left next to a recycling bin in the terminal, and it's time to see if I'll be riding with semi trailers or what. The first thing I see are two friendlies parked nearby. The road out of the airport is easy, even with a bike rack outside a bakery on the way. Next time I go to Italy I won't be worrying about the cars and roads.

No need to worry about the traffic in Venice.

Venice is basically my idea of Amsterdam. Outside the main island, where cars and bikes are both banned, there are pathways, racks and heaps of bikes everywhere. Dead end streets, one way streets, pedestrian plazas, all make it just heaven to ride around. I seriously wish I could live here, instead of another second rate bike place. Nice is all talk, not enough action. The Italians are doing amazingly, but don't have a great reputation to match. In Carros, I arrive at work alone mostly, amoung several hundred workers. French people arrive with high tech bikes in the boot to use at lunchtime. In Venice, there's zero helmets or lycra.

The bike shop has a nice gillet for rain, the pedals are properly on. At the station, there's 4 minutes to til the train leaves. I clop over like mad on my slippery cleats and am on time. But, the guard gives me a stream of words in the second language for today, and shuts the door in my face. Bikes are allowed only on the regionale train. I clop back down the stairs in defeat. The next 2 hours is a good chance to ride around. Lunch is cold pizza, while clusters of bikes roll past every couple of seconds. All the oldies have serioulsy old bikes. It's like the bikes are waiting in the garage, ready for when the bike paths roll out. Build it and out they come.

Italian regionale trains have meat hooks on the wall, to be discovered in the last carriage. I ride fast down that end with a couple of other, while the train is stopped, and then we're off.