Dobrodosli

Rain continued to drizzle down as we drove through Slovenia with Venice behind us. I stuck my whole body out of the back window and let the water splatter on my cheeks. Slovenia is a very woodsy country from what I saw of it – fog sat over forests of dark green leaves. It looked strangely like home, but the mountains were bigger and the houses different. “La Boheme” provided a soundtrack as we cut through the white condensation.

After jamming to some more music, including French rap and “Barbie Girl,” (Matthieu’s personal favorite), we arrived at a checkpoint.

A scary, short, bald policeman stomped up to the van and demanded our passports.

“Where you going?”

“Croatia,” Maia responded.

“You are in Croatia.”

I guess we missed the sign, but we were at the border, apparently.

“Why do you come to Croatia?”

“We are vacationing.”

“Do you smoke?”

“Yes.”

“Do you ever smoke mariHUANa?” He pronounced the “h” sound very hard like we do jokingly in the States.

“No,” Maia said.

“Never?”

“Never.”

“Never?”

“Nope.”

“Let me see a pack of your cigarettes.”

Matt handed him two empty packs before finding a full one. “We don’t smoke a lot,” he joked. The policeman was not amused. He searched through the pack searching for bud, then came to the back where I sat reading my book. He eyed my purse.

“You mind if I bring dog in here?” he asked.

“Not at all,” I said.

“He friendly dog.” He finally smiled.

Another policeman handed Matt back our passports. “You see dog next time.”

Maia immediately reached for that full pack of cigarettes as we drove away. “That was scary,” she said, with her thick French accent. She took a drag so hard I could hear the oxygen run through her windpipe. Matthieu commented on how we had unwittingly pulled up to the border listening to gangster rap.

Darkness was falling again as we drove into Croatia. My first impression of Croatia was that they are obsessed with teeth – the only three billboards leading into the city were for three different dentistry practices.

We drove around for half an hour, searching for a place to park the van to sleep for the night. It was scary. Croatia is built on cliffs, and the roads wind up and down steep hills. Even though it reminded me of St. Lucia, and even though the people dressed more casual here than any place in Europe I’d been yet, Croatia felt the most foreign, and for the first time I had an ever-so-slight twinge of homesickness. While we were scoping a residential area (we were right outside Opatija, “La Vielle Dame” or “The Old Lady”), I saw a dumpster with a huge anarchy symbol spray-painted on it. It was strangely comforting. I never would have thought dumpster graffiti would be what would make me feel more comfortable in a foreign country.

We set up the van for the night in front of a cute apartment complex. It was only 10 p.m., and none of us were tired, so we sat in our little living room eating salad and cheese and talking about everything from the history of former Yugoslavia to the difference between communism and socialism.

Maia read aloud from her Croatian travel guide, and Matthieu and I repeated after her as she read the Croatian words for “hello,” “good-bye,” “please,” and “thank you.”

“I’m going to have a French accent when I speak Croatian,” I realized.

When we rolled out of our home in the morning all sleepy-eyed, people were eyeing us suspiciously in the parking lot. Croatians seem to be less used to tourists than the last few places we’ve stopped, and they’re probably especially unused to seeing car-sleeping gypsies in their parking lots. We got out of there pretty fast.

In Opatija we changed our money to kunas and then got coffee, of course. The coffee wasn’t as good as in Italy, but at least it was bigger – about a quarter of a normal cup in the U.S. We drove along the Adriatic Sea until we found a place with few people so we could relax by the water. Stones provided natural steps carpeted in soft water moss into the sea, which is like glass. Even clearer than the Caribbean. And saltier. My little sister wouldn’t even need her floaties in the Adriatic. Farther out, a dolphin dipped in and out of the water playfully.

I picked a strange little succulent by the cliffs and stuck some behind my ears. I felt like a Croatian water nymph.

Maia, Matt and I floated on our backs effortlessy and touched our feet together like synchronized swimmers forming a star. I could see the sky better that way. There wasn’t a single cloud over the city in the distance.

Right now, we are driving along the Adriatic Coast. If I squint my eyes, it reminds me of driving along Big Sur in California last year. When I open my eyes all the way, though, I see everything is bigger, clearer. More intense.

Soon we will pull over at a campground for the night – the earliest we have stopped yet. It’s 6 p.m., which means there are still four hours of daylight left.

Four hours to swim in the Adriatic Sea and turn pink under the Croatian sun.

Oh mon dieu.