Excerpts from a Travelogue - Part III

Part III - Hungary, Slovenia, Croatia, Italy

We bade farewell to the Transylvanian landscape that is Romania and crossed back into Hungary. We tracked along the southern edge of Budapest, now just a soft overhead glow in the distance as darkness fell, and began our meandering way to the southwest, final destination Italy.

We booked a hotel along Lake Balaton and drove through the dark; this would be a late arrival, not our preference, and not recommended in a foreign country, as you shall see.

We followed our GPS until we suddenly arrived at a dock. Just a minute. A dock? Yes, and not only a dock but a deserted one. Turned out the hotel was located across the lake on an island—for some reason this was not mentioned anywhere in the Expedia listing. And, to deepen the plot, the ferry ran until 9 PM and it was by now 9:30. We could not get a hold of the hotel, and we could not cancel because according to the venerable Expedia who knoweth all things we should have already checked in, it being late and all. Two pedestrians walked by just then and they confirmed that indeed, the next ferry would be tomorrow morning.

Helplessly we turned around, slowly, idling, now what? We finally found another hotel in the area that graciously allowed us to stay while graciously extracting a large sum from our credit cards. Another lesson learned: check for ferries (lessons so far: bring Euros for bathrooms and check for roads that end at ferry docks).

Our next goal was the Dalmatian coast of Croatia. Unfortunately, time was running out so we stayed north of Dubrovnik, Split, and all those other bucket list destinations. We ultimately settled in northwestern Croatia, along the coast, in an elderly couple’s Airbnb in the town of Umag. They were gracious, welcoming, helpful.

Except. The owner was obviously in cahoots with a local restaurant where he sent us for supper, telling us to avoid the center/downtown as he said, with a downturned lip and a scowl, there were only tourists there. Uhm, I guess we didn’t qualify as tourists which perhaps is a good thing. The supper wasn't bad: large, tasty pizzas, massive garden salads. Rose had the recommended soup, a local delicacy because she is that way: let’s try it says she, willing to romp with abandon all over untrod and unexplored gastronomical territories. Well, the smell was overpowering, and it was quickly placed on a nearby windowsill for the duration.

Enter serendipity. On the way back from supper, quite late, we decided to make a quick turn towards what appeared to be a square, brightly lit. And we walked into another highlight of the trip: a lovely old European town square, complete with an ancient clock tower, quaint, timeworn buildings, picturesque and pure, complete with very narrow corridors and streets running at senseless angles here and there. And restaurants, open air restaurants, shaded by palms trees, glasses clinking seductively, smells wafting, voices murmuring. We could have eaten here, waterside, in a lovely square. But no. We didn’t.

What we did do, is gelato. Nothing like standing on a cobblestone sidewalk, listening in on another group of tourists speaking German, under a full moon, in a strange city bedecked by palm trees, slowly spooning chocolate gelato. Turn back the dial of time and cherish the moment.

Umag, Croatia

Umag

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Our drive the next morning took us north now, heading toward Italy, first stop Trieste, of World War II fame as a strategic port of interest. And sure enough, the port did hold interest. Not warships, but Russian billionaire Andrey Melnichenko’s yacht, seized back in March of 2022 as a result of EU sanctions against Russia when they invaded Ukraine. It is an unmissable and unmistakable point of visual interest in the harbor, one of the world’s largest super yachts, a 580-million-dollar three masted schooner. And it’s just sitting there. Well, floating. And it takes money to keep it up, money the Italian government has incurred. I suppose by now they're wondering if they should just let the guy have his boat back as it doesn’t seem to have made any difference in the Russia Ukraine conflict.

Trieste was also the site of two other interests, both small but worthy coffee shops. The sun shone, we sipped, ate our pastries and hit the road, up and over the northernmost tip of the Adriatic Sea.

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We arrived in Venice, and once again, we were smitten by overcast and gray, sprinkles and mist. And some sun. It did shine occasionally on us, but the umbrellas were ready at the draw, as intermittently the clouds opened and showered the blessings. We parked at Tronchetto, across the causeway towards the Old City, and took the five-minute PeopleMover ride from there (no cars allowed here, only boats in dozens of narrow crisscrossing canals).

Venice - Bridge of Sighs

Not surprisingly, Venice turned out to be another favorite and highlight, perhaps for the ladies more than anyone. Oh, the romance of it all! I was mostly worried about losing them in the throngs of people and the endless maze of streets. Honestly, without a phone or a tracking device, I think you would never see each other again.

Venice

Piazza San Marco, Saint Mark’s Basilica, Bridge of Sighs, the Grand Canal. Then the gondola ride through the canals, the gondolier singing in a deep baritone song that included the phrase “mia amore” and other deeply melancholy Italian ballads of love and loss. His voice echoed off the narrow walls running along the canal.

Fortunately, it did not rain during our boat ride although the gondolier had told us before we embarked that rain was “just water” and nothing worth fretting over. And who would fret, when you just made >100 euro to take tourists on a 30-minute ride that included the chance to sing the songs of the fatherland to a captive audience (quite literally, captive).

Venice

Once again, our talent for whirlwind tours of famous cities came through and after 3 hours, maybe less, we found our way back to the car and slowly left this one of the most iconic cities of Europe. We came, we saw, we were conquered. It is one of the rare places the ladies placed on their list of “let’s come back someday.”

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From Venice we drove south, along the coast, to the city of Ravenna. By then it was dark, pouring rain once again, fog and cloud rolling in from the sea. By then we were no strangers to the rain, trying to reconcile it all, accepting the fact that it was just a part of this expedition, like an unwelcome stray dog that we decided we'd just have to accept and even feed. Our goal that evening was a seaside resort where resided a dear old friend, a certain Mr. John Chera of Romanian extraction.

Mr. Chera (together with his deceased wife) were our landlords in Romania for our full 5 years and were like family. He looks very much like Einstein’s brother, with a head of explosively electric white hair, encompassing intelligent eyes, windows to a keen intellect. He was a professor of law, if I’m not mistaken. Of all the memories I have of him, soft tacos come back now for some reason. We introduced them to soft tacos – flour tortillas, ground beef, cheese, salsa. I recall them eyeing this foreign fare suspiciously, through scared and narrowed eyes, and it made me laugh. In the early days of our mission, we were expected to come to their place and enthusiastically accept huge, repeated portions of offerings such as sarmale, mamaliga, gogosar, and a variety of strange desserts. But turn the tables and they turned tail. Funny stuff. But guess what? They finally took a few tentative bites, looked up in surprise, and said, oh, this is good!

Mr. Chera’s wife Smaranda, had died, unbeknown to us until a few months ago, and Chera had moved in with an old friend, a woman who had lost her Italian husband some time ago. She owned a large villa somewhere close to Ravenna but was taking a vacation down the road in a seaside resort.

We followed his directions, and after much confusion, including Whatsapp messages, mixed messages, and misunderstood messages, arrived at the downtown square of the little resort village. And there he was, standing in the rain under a streetlight, his hair still the same, still an explosive white cloud, just like so many years ago. He had aged some, but not much, to be honest.

We hugged, kissed cheeks, shook hands vigorously while trying to express our cheer in a language we had grown rusty in. His girlfriend was there as well and, after much coaxing, decided to join him in meeting these strange creatures from across the waters.

We had supper in a large partially open-air pizzeria and enjoyed garden salads and pizzas the size of small tables. The talk went on non-stop, us eating and straining to understand the mile per minute dialogue that encompassed politics, religion, our kids, our travels, their life, their kids, life, death, the tragedy of it all, what shall we ever do? We clucked our tongues, shrugged our shoulders expansively, shook and nodded our heads with gravitas and melancholy, as all conversation held on Italian soil demands.

I will never forget our goodbye. Chera walked us slowly back to the car. We got in, it was still raining, damp and gray to suit the mood. I rolled down my window and he peered in, his umbrella giving a little shelter from the pelting wet. In the light from a nearby streetlamp he shook my hand again, held on, and said sadly, “We will never meet here again, will we? You will be in heaven, I will be in hell.”

He had tears in his eyes. I had no idea what to say to that, my tongue held dumb, somewhat shocked by his words, raw and stark. I just shook my head, gave his hand one last hard squeeze, conveyed our love, and we drove away, leaving him there, standing in the rain, a dejected, heartbroken man, heading into the final years of his life.

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The next morning we stopped at a deserted beach on the Adriatic, walked across the sand to dip our toes in the water. The clouds and fog still hung low, mist swirling around us. We then headed southwest into Tuscany, praying for sunshine.

Part IV coming soon.