Tony went on like a broken record about how if you leave Bratislava at 4:00 AM you can get to the Istrian coast in a mere five hours: "We get to the campground by 9:00, set up the site, and I swear to god, you'll be in the water by 10:00!" So, we spent Friday night at Tony and Sylvia's place and rolled out of bed, Picasso-faced and groggy-eyed, at 3:30 (after not having gone to bed earlier the night before so as to get more sleep, like rational people would) and managed to get on the road by 4:00 AM. In theory, Tony was right about the timing, except for one crucial oversight.
After zipping through Austria and traversing the length of lush, hilly, tree-lined Slovenia, while speeding past hordes of cars with Czech, Slovak, Austrian, and Polish plates along the way, all crammed with camping gear and kids, and all racing to the same coast that we were with the same palpable sense of intense determination, we managed to get to Koper, the last Slovenian town before the border crossing into Croatia, in just under five hours. Not bad! But even though Croatia has just joined the EU, it has not yet (at the time of writing) joined the Schengen zone, which means that its borders aren't totally open to neighboring EU countries, which means border patrols and passport checks, which means long lines. A colleague of Terezia's who went to Croatia a few weeks ago said cars with EU plates were nevertheless just being waved through, but that wasn't the case on this particular morning, and we wound up sitting for nearly an hour in stop-and-go traffic for several miles until we got through the border. But from there it was a short distance to the campground, at which we arrived a bit after 10:00. Still not bad, all things considered.
We frantically set up camp at the Pineta campground, on the shore of Bašanija (a tiny seaside village north of Umag), as fast as we could so that we could get our butts into the refreshing water of the Adriatic.
|Setting up the campsite.|
A few words on European car camping
It seems that many European car camping grounds are basically just big open fields (some with trees, some not so much) with vaguely defined individual campsites and almost zero privacy and virtually nothing in the way of natural foliage to separate one spot from the next. Sure, you can find campsites like these in the US too, but I'm accustomed to campgrounds in northern California situated in dense forests with sites that are secluded from each other by large trees and other greenery. The campsite at Pineta, like pretty much all campsites we saw on this trip, is basically akin to a big parking lot. Most people bring trailers or erect tents that are big enough to house a family of Mormons, and create a sense of privacy by stringing up ropes from which they hang beach towels and clothes, or erecting large canopies.
|Two other campsites as seen from ours; it's difficult to discern where one campsite ends and the next begins.|
Croatian campsites also tend not to come with fire pits and picnic tables, things that are pretty much a given back in California. So everyone here brings their own collapsable tables, folding chairs, and propane grills.
A lot of people seem to bring along oodles of crap from their homes as well. You had people with all manner of appliances, including TVs and even laptops, with everything set up under the canopies attached to their large family trailers. This had the effect of making the place feel more like some kind of a cramped suburban housing development. For most people, this experience isn't about getting in touch with nature; it's about bringing all your creature comforts with you so that you can avoid nature while keeping the kids distracted and out of your hair.
|The more inland section of the Pineta campground - really not my scene.|
This is really not my idea of camping, but again, we were going with the flow here, and in any case, at least we had a spot that was literally just a few steps away from the sea, and the plan was to spend most of the time on the beach or in the water anyway. Still, I would love to find a nicer and more secluded car-camping site in Croatia, if such a thing actually exists.
But Pineta seemed to be a well-oiled operation. The bathrooms were constantly being cleaned by these middle-aged women who would literally sweep or mop the floor right around my feet as I stood at the urinal to pee. And the park and adjacent shore seemed to be kept pretty tidy as well. The whole campground was packed, and adding to the whole man vs. nature conflict here, the place even has an outdoor discoteque called Bora Bora, where teens and young 20-somethings get soused and flirt to a soundtrack of trashy, pumping Euro disco.
The weather was punishingly, suffocatingly, swelteringly hot, which made swimming in the Adriatic all the more pleasant. Even the occasional breeze from the sea felt more like the hot air from a hair dryer. Only in the dead of night did the temperature inch down into the lower 80s before shooting back up again in the morning.
Croatia doesn't have sandy beaches - its shores are largely made up of jagged, craggy, yet picturesque rocks. If you see a beach with sand, it was brought in from somewhere else. This means that buying special aquatic shoes is a must unless you have a masochistic penchant for slicing the soles of your feet on sharp stones or prickly sea urchins. You also have to bring a foam mat and find a relatively flat/smooth surface among the rocks so that you can lie on the "beach" with a modicum of comfort.
|Terezia testing the warm waters of the Adriatic sea.|
One of my very favorite things to do in life is to swim in natural bodies of water. For us, it's all about lying on the beach under the sun and reading until you become insanely hot, and then jumping in the water and swimming around for a while to cool off, and repeating the cycle until the sun goes down. The water in the Adriatic was perfect for swimming: clean, clear, and almost tropically warm, and in some spots surprisingly calm.
We checked out several beaches around the area, in addition to the one at the campground. One of our favorites was across the bay from the Slovenian peninsula town of Piran. The shore consisted of an intricate network of concrete slabs and steps interspersed with gnarled rocks. What was nice about this place was that you didn't need the shoes - you could just jump right off the rocks and into the sea.
The neighborhood you had to get through to access this hidden beach was this hideous, new-ish, upscale development full of the kind of pretentious pink and beige stucco houses that people in San Diego build to look vaguely Mediterranean, as well as an ugly new Hotel Kempinski that looked more like some new science hall at UC Davis. But once on the shore, the scene was incredibly picturesque, with warm and pleasantly tranquil water.
I like how women here generally don't have any hang-ups about baring their breasts, which is pretty typical for Europe. We saw a number of women of varying ages (many of whom had children of varying ages) walking or lying around topless as if it was perfectly natural, of course, because it is perfectly natural.
There were a fair amount of people on the beaches, but they weren't unbearably crowded. At one point, while walking south along a trail from the campground, we stumbled on a perfect, secluded little clearing with ample shade and only a smattering of other couples, which turned out to be the nicest spot of the bunch.
One of my stipulations with this vacation was that I insisted on a day-trip to Rovinj. Rovinj is a small, medieval, seaside town about halfway down the Istrian coast. Densely clustered on an oval peninsula (it was once an island), Rovinj vies with Dubrovnik in all the travel guides for the title of most picturesque Croatian coastal town. The place is an atmospheric and jumbled warren of narrow, twisty, steep cobblestoned lanes that wrap around the hill, most of which lead up to the town's Venetian-style cathedral and bell tower that sits dramatically at the top.
The first thing that struck us about Rovinj was how Italian it looked and felt. We honestly felt like we'd stepped into one of the villages of the Cinque Terre, what with the romantically dilapidated, crumbly, and occasionally pastel-painted facades with jagged and exposed stonework, weathered green shutters on every window, laundry drying on lines above the streets, and shirtless locals leaning out of their second or third-story windows shouting down to their friends in the street. The leather-skinned, gravel-y-voiced fishermen pulling into the port in their battered fishing boats with the morning's catch only added to the Italian-ness of the whole scene. Even the Croatian - a Slavic language - spoken by the locals had a kind of Italian-sounding inflection.
|Terka and Tony.|
These similarities are no mere coincidence. Istria was once part of Italy, and historically it has always been a place where Italian and Croatian cultures merge. Not only did the Venetians lord it over this area back in the middle ages, but Romans, of course, ruled the coast as well long before that, and both left a mark that is still very evident today, hence the Roman ruins and Venetian-style bell towers, not to mention the quaint villages and towns of characteristically Italian dwellings with obligatory green shutters and walls of exposed stone.
At any rate, we were oohing and awing like idiots the entire time in Rovinj. The apartment buildings around the edge go right up to the water because they were previously part of the defensive wall that once surrounded the entire town, and which was later converted into housing for its growing population.
While there were clearly a lot of tourists (and Rovinj was one of the few places where we heard English), the locals are still very much present here, and you could see them everywhere, going about their business and even riding their Vespas up and down the narrow and perilous lanes. We would both go back to Rovinj in a heartbeat.
The perfect storm
As we were leaving Rovinj in the afternoon to head back up the coast to our campsite, we noticed some clouds were quickly moving in. But since we were feeling sticky and gross from the swelteringly hot and humid weather, we were dying to get back into the sea despite the fact that the sky was fast becoming as grey as the walls of a worker drone's cubicle. Once in the water, we noticed it was quite choppy, but it was still so warm (and the air so hot and humid) that we swam around for a bit regardless. But we could see what looked like a truly nasty storm brewing off in the distance, and when raindrops began pelting our heads and the wind started picking up, getting out of the water suddenly seemed like a good idea.
Our timing turned out to be impeccable, as the second we got back to the campsite, this immense hurricane-strength wind started slamming the coast. Wearing nothing but our swimsuits, we were suddenly being sandblasted by an exfoliating stream of pine needles and sandy grit. Tony's nice canopy started blowing sideways, and at this point, it was all I could do to keep from being blown over myself, and I noticed sizable waves were suddenly crashing against the rocks, with the tide washing over the spots on which we'd been lounging peacefully in the sun just the day before.
For a second I honestly thought, if this gets worse, we'll have to take refuge in the toilets - it really was getting to be that serious. With Tony's canopy at risk of getting destroyed and/or blown away (despite being staked), we each grabbed a pole and held on for dear life, but keeping it up was futile. Tony noticed that one of the poles was starting to bend at the joint, and in an effort to just get the thing out of harm's way and to prevent us from becoming part of a human kite, he reached up and, with a maniacal look in his eye, yanked the whole canopy down, and in the process inflicted far more irreparable damage to it than the wind had so far done. We madly broke the pieces down and threw them under Tony's car. Tony and Sylvia then started wrestling with their collapsible table and inadvertently mangled the legs while frantically trying to break it down, before cramming it under the car with the broken canopy pieces.
While our smaller tent seemed to be holding up just fine, Tony and Sylvia's larger tent was literally blowing sideways. It was well staked, so I don't think it was going anywhere, but I suppose the support poles could've been at risk of snapping or something. At any rate, Tony madly had us start emptying their tent and deflating their double-sized air mattress. Sylvia and I had to lie on the mattress and tent with all of our weight to prevent it from blowing away. I looked up and saw someone else's tent cover caught up in a tree, while a couple of floating air mattresses that people had left on the beach were blowing through the campground. Our Swiss neighbors' potatoes, which they had sitting in a basket hanging from a nearby tree, started hurtling through the air in our direction, and we had to keep ducking out of their path. That probably put a damper on the potato rosti the Swiss family was making every night. We madly emptied and broke down our tents and crammed everything into the car. With the canopy's support poles and the legs of the collapsible table twisted and knotted beyond recognition, we threw those into a nearby dumpster.
A few sites down, someone's trailer had actually tipped over. The wind was so strong that we didn't even hear this happening. Nobody was inside and no one was injured, luckily, but I felt sorry for the owners, who didn't appear to be around and were going to be in for a fun surprise when they returned from wherever they were.
This storm really was pretty severe, and apparently extremely unusual for this time of year. Sure, you may get the odd summertime shower passing through, but nothing like this. Terezia and Tony's mom actually saw coverage of this storm, which engulfed all of Istria, on the evening news back home in Slovakia, and was worried about us. We heard reports of downed power lines, fallen trees, and even a yacht out at sea capsizing (although no deaths or injuries were reported). It really could've been worse.
Anyhow, we had to figure out what to do next: wait out the storm in the car or just pack up and go somewhere else? We hastily decided that since we had no idea how long this storm would last, we would pay the bill, leave, and head south toward Pula to look for a hotel or apartment where we could escape from the rain. A barrage of rain and wind pummeled the car on the hour-long drive down the coast. I was very into the idea of going to Pula, Istria's biggest city, as it's a bustling, historical port town just south of Rovinj, and I figured there'd be plenty of options for places to stay, with it being a more happening metropolitan area and all.
But Tony had another idea...
Medulin lies at the southern tip of the breast-shaped Istrian peninsula. It is absolutely not mentioned in any of the travel guides for reasons I'll get to in a minute. Nevertheless, Tony had his heart set on Medulin, so that's where we went.
First, a little back story. In the 90s, Tony was, quite literally, on track to becoming an Olympic sprinter. He was part of a Slovak track team and, by all accounts, was one of the fastest runners in the country. The team traveled around the continent to compete in races, the winners of which would, in theory, eventually go on to compete in the summer Olympics. At any rate, in '96 or thereabouts, shortly after the war between Serbia and Croatia cooled, Tony's team traveled to Croatia for a race, and it was here in Medulin that Tony's running career came crashing to a halt when he badly sprained his ankle. This put him out for the season, and when his coach pushed him to resume running before his ankle had properly healed, he never fully recovered. At that point, Tony became horribly depressed about the whole thing and left for America to join his sister, who had already been living there for a year or so. So, Tony wanted to show us the exact spot where his running career died, and we joked about getting a bouquet, a cross, and some candles to mark the site.
At any rate, finding accommodation in Medulin was initially daunting, and was possibly exacerbated by the fact that we were all still in soggy swimming gear and covered from head to toe in a film of wet dirt and brown grime from the storm. The first several hotels we checked were either booked or too expensive, but we found a tourist info center and thought we'd inquire with them. The lady there, who was far too involved in something totally non-work related to deal with us, shoed us away and told us to check with the motel in the back. This motel, a pink stucco affair with an old neon sign, looking like something out of Miami in the 1950s, was run by an even grouchier woman who, when Tony and Sylvia asked if we could first see the rooms, angrily spat out something along the lines of, "You want to see the fucking rooms? Get the fuck out of here and go see someone else's fucking rooms!"
So, we went to another tourist info place up the street, which was fortunately staffed by an extremely friendly and helpful guy who hooked us up with a reasonably priced sobe in the old part of town. In Croatia, sobe are basically like small pensions where people section off their houses into small hotel rooms or vacation apartment rentals, and they're usually more affordable than traditional hotels. This place was tacky but extremely clean and run by a friendly lady who, fortunately, was totally cool about letting us see the fucking rooms first. Our room had a terrace with a nice view of the surrounding area, from which we watched the crazy lightning storm that was happening around us that night.
|The, er..., lovely tropical scene painted on the wall above the bed in our sobe room in Medulin.|
|A typical sight in Medulin's old center.|
The most striking thing about Medulin is how much it's changed since Tony was last there over 15 years ago. Back then it was a sleepy, little, nondescript port town with less than a few thousand people. But sometime between then and now, a mayor apparently hooked up with some investors and transformed the place into an unrelentingly hideous, booming summertime tourist destination, a bit like Pier 39 or the Santa Cruz boardwalk on steroids, complete with hyper-tacky tourist shops, horrible gelato stands with sleazy cone-juggling vendors, whining kids stuffing their faces with cotton candy, and outdoor bars/cafes with those ubiquitous, dark brown, contoured plastic wicker seats filled with crew-cutted and bikini clad German youths bobbing their heads to deafeningly loud, pumping Euro-trash disco. The adjacent beaches, once rocky and tranquil, have all been buried in imported sand, and the harbor, once lined with fishing boats, is now a parking lot with rows of jet-ski rentals. Nearby is a kaleidoscopic cluster of spin-cycle carnival rides designed to make people lose their lunch.
|Medulin's tacky tourist trinket beachside sprawl.|
I suppose it's kind of bittersweet. Faced with extremely high unemployment and an economy that's based almost entirely on tourism, there are countless towns like this up and down Croatia's coast that sold their souls to attract hordes of European tourists from colder and/or landlocked countries up north. While this kind of thing provides seasonal local employment and considerable profits for the towns, these places have to put themselves through three to four months of vomit-inducing chaos every year just to stay afloat. I'm sure most of the locals welcome the opportunities and financial security this presumably brings, but damn, it's a truly depressing sight.
People from America and other English-speaking countries could, of course, pass through Croatia without ever realizing such towns exist. Americans already have their grotesque Pier 39s and Jersey Shores; they want quaint, old-world ambience and ancient history. Europeans, on the other hand, seem to crave this tacky crap that the Americans (at least the types who would travel to Croatia) are trying desperately to get away from, and judging by what I saw, they are absolutely eating it up.
As Rick Steves confirms in his Eastern Europe book: "Every coastal Croatian town has two parts: The time-warp old town, and the obnoxious resort sprawl [where] main drags are clogged with gift shops and tasteless T-shirts. While European visitors enjoy this tacky-trinket tourism, Americans are generally more interested in Old World charm."
Our sobe was in the older part of town, just up the hill and away from all the nauseating, beach-area commotion. While certainly not home to anything that would be of any real interest to visitors like us, it did have an appealing low-key quaintness with its small labyrinth of narrow, one-way roads and rustic, old, stone houses. The helpful guy at the info center told us the restaurants in the old town were better than those by the beach, but even these all had guys literally standing out front in the streets, desperately trying to lure passersby on foot and in cars. They'd come right up to us, pushing multi-lingual menus into our faces, asking "Deutsch? Czech?" Tony decided that we should tell people we were American - since Americans would be a novelty in Medulin - just to see if we receive better treatment, because Slovaks apparently have a reputation for being cheap.
|Medulin's church with its twin towers, which you can see from all around below.|
It was interesting to get a taste of what a lot of Europeans apparently want out of their summer vacations, but I could live a full and wonderful life without ever setting foot in a place like Medulin again.
With all traces of the storm gone the next morning, we decided to go to Pula and check out its old town. Pula is a bit underrated, and if you look at the travel-related message boards and Trip Advisor reviews on the web, you'll notice that a lot of people are pretty vocal with their disdain for the place. I can sort of see why it doesn't get the universal love that Rovinj enjoys, but I also think people aren't really giving it a chance, or aren't approaching it with the right expectations, because what we saw in Pula was actually a bustling, picturesque, and fascinating small city with more than enough attractions and intriguing ambience to justify a day trip.
|Pula's remarkably intact Roman amphitheater - how many towns can boast of having one of these?|
|A typical pedestrian lane in Pula's old town.|
|The Roman temple of Augustus on Pula's visually striking historical main square.|
|Tony and Sylvia in front of the Roman-era Arch of Sergius, in Pula's other main square.|
Firstly, Pula isn't all quaint, historical buildings and postcard-perfect sites; it's also a gritty, congested, and busy port city - the largest in Istria - with a big, modern, industrial port on a peninsula that juts out right into the middle of an otherwise scenic, bright blue bay. It's got, among other things, an amazingly intact Roman amphitheater, a Roman temple in a beautiful Venetian-esque medieval square, and a web of meandering and atmospheric cobblestoned lanes. But it's also got a lot of romantically crumbly 19th-century buildings that reminded me of parts of Rome, as well as an outer layer of dystopian commie-era bleakness. It's a fascinating jumble of eras and colors, and we really dug it.
Pula also has a sprawling food market with an explosion of local produce in the outdoor stalls, and an amazing seafood and meat market in the historical, iron-and-glass, liberty-style hall. Terezia was in heaven in the fish market, saying, "If I lived here, I'd never have to worry about what to put on the menu!"
|Pula's amazing outdoor produce market.|
|The fish market.|
Not only was Pula big enough in Roman times to justify a large amphitheater, but it also has a somewhat intact outdoor Roman theater for theatrical productions. Nearly two millennia later, James Joyce actually lived here for a while with a girlfriend of his, and there's a statue of him at a cafe that he allegedly used to frequent. Pula struck me as a gritty, attractive, and vibrant place with plenty of low key charm and a healthy local to tourist ratio, and I'd be interested in spending a little more time there.
After Pula, we headed back south toward Medulin, where we found another rocky beach on a remote peninsula and spent the rest of the afternoon swimming and destroying our skin cells with UV rays.
On the way back home we decided to head inland and make a stop at Motovun. While Rovinj mirrors the Italian riviera, Motovun, a medieval village clustered atop a steep hill surrounded by sloping vineyards and truffle-filled forests, looks like it was plucked straight out of the Tuscan countryside. Like Rovinj, Motovun is laced with narrow, cobblestoned lanes winding up the hillside, lined with crumbly facades with characteristic green shutters and tiny shops selling local wine, art, and truffle products. A walkable rampart encircles the uppermost level of the town, offering vertiginously jaw-dropping views. The attractive main square at the center of town has as its focal point an extremely Italian-esque church with a crenelated medieval clock tower and an adjacent, shady, tree-lined terrace.
We unknowingly hit Motovun during its annual summer film festival, which is a pretty big event, apparently attracting as many as 20,000 film buffs. Several town squares had plastic seats set up facing large movie screens. And when we were there, an Iranian film director was giving a lecture to a crowd of young film student types in the shady terrace by the main square. But luckily, the town was surprisingly not very crowded, as I think most of the action here is at night, and we saw lots of people literally camped out in makeshift campsites around the base of the hill, just outside the old town.
|Motovun's main square, church, and bell tower.|
Just like with Rovinj, walking through Motovun's atmospheric streets left me feeling like this is exactly where I need to be. Even Tony at one point said "Banska Stiavnica isn't shit compared to this."
|The views from Motovun's uppermost rampart.|
Motovun is a big truffle area and the restaurants all feature specialties that are conducive to the potently flavorful funghi. Sadly, we didn't have time to eat at one of those places and opted instead for a quick sandwich from a bar just outside town, since we apparently had to get on the road to get back to Bratislava at a decent hour. I deeply regret not getting to eat at one of these places, but we'll hopefully be back someday.
Like much of formerly communist central Europe, Croatia isn't necessarily known for its cuisine (or, for that matter, its customer service). While good food is certainly findable, you really do have to work to seek it out. Terezia and I didn't really do any research prior to this trip, and we just kind of winged it, initially going to a few restaurants that Tony knew about in the village by Pineta, and then in Medulin just going with what the friendly tourist info guy recommended.
One rule of thumb about the Croatian coast is that you're going to want to focus on seafood, which is exactly what we did. Tony was obsessed with eating grilled calamari, and we kept trying places that had that on the menu. Most of the restaurants were pretty unremarkable, except for a few.
Porto, in the seaside village of Savudrija, near Pineta, has the distinction of being the first and so far only restaurant where I actually sent back not just one, but two dishes! For my starter, they gave me a "mixed greens" salad filled with sad pieces of droopy iceberg covered in dark brown spots and bits of grit. I sent it back, received no pushback from the staff, and 10 minutes later was given a totally different salad with a super fresh mix of greens fit for any food snob. For my entree, I made the unthinkable mistake of ordering the scampi risotto. I thought this would be like a creamy, saucy, aggressively seasoned and flavor-filled Italian shrimp risotto, but what I got instead was a dry clump of rice (characteristic of Slovak "risotto") with one - that's right, just one - lonely prawn. I got the young waiter's attention and apologized profusely while firmly insisting that I had to exchange it for something else. I told him why, he shrugged his shoulders, and I ordered the grilled calamari that Tony had, which was still underwhelming but at least edible.
A restaurant in Medulin had a decent, if not mind-blowing, tagliatelle with black truffle sauce and a pretty good wood-oven fired pizza with black truffle pate and prosciutto. Another Medulin restaurant had a decent spaghetti with frutti di mare, with fresh seafood and a healthy dose of herbs that nicely enhanced the flavors.
|Tony and Sylvia after an okay meal in Medulin.|
Next time we go to Croatia, I want to do a bit more research on the food front and find at least a couple of places that are really worth writing in a blog about.
So, it's come to this
You may notice in a couple of photos (if you click on the link to the photos below) that I'm wearing a silly hat. That's because my gradually thinning hair has crossed into that crucial point where there are now small areas of scalp that are exposed to the elements and which got fried from spending the first couple days of the trip in the sun. In Rovinj, I bought a ten euro hat from a street vendor because parts of my scalp were really starting to hurt. It's a really demoralizing reason to have to buy a hat, but what can I do? My DNA is against me. I suppose I'm lucky the hair I still have has held on for this long.
Croatia obviously has loads to offer - to a disorienting degree - and while we feel lucky that we live driving distance from such a stunning and scenic country, 5-6 hours still feels way too far away, and we'd go back at the drop of a hat. Of course, we only saw Istria, which is just one section of Croatia's sprawling coast. We obviously didn't get anywhere even remotely close to Split, Trogir, or Dubrovnik - some of the other places much further down the coast that we are dying to see. But Istria alone has more than enough to fill out an entire week.
We both dug Istria's Mediterranean vibe. A lot of the coastal terrain has that lush/green yet at the same time kind of arid quality that you find on Mediterranean (as well as Californian) coasts, and you could hardly walk two feet without stumbling into an olive tree. And with me being the shameless Italo-phile, I really appreciated the strong strain of Italian culture that's so prevalent in the region.
One thing we found particularly interesting about Croatia is how much more western European, or Mediterranean it feels, especially when compared to Slovakia or Hungary, or the rest of formerly communist central Europe. It's as if the seaside and the sunnier climate sort of cancel out some of the commie bleakness. Of course, Yugoslav-style communism under Tito was different in many ways than life in the Soviet Bloc, and while some communist-era sediment is still there, it's just not as abundant, at least in Istria. Croatia also seems much more on top of it than Slovakia in terms of its roads and general infrastructure. I suppose with the amount of tourists Croatia gets, there's no way in hell it could get away with slacking off in that department the way Slovakia does.
At any rate, I hope I can bore you to tears with another blog post about Croatia in the future.
(To see the whole set of photos from the trip, click here!)