Just got out the other end of two very relaxing weeks jaunting around the Croatian Coast. I traded hiking boots and museums for a towel and sunscreen, and was it ever good. My travelling buddies for the whole of this time were the Melbournians Daniel and Louise, and they deserve their share of the blame for the debauchery that you're about to read.

The first island we hopped to was Hvar. A quick little ferry ride from Split revealed something pretty damn close to paradise on earth. The tiny little town (maybe 1000 people) has all the side-dishes of any European town worth visiting -- a fortress on the hill, a couple of cathedrals and monasteries hither and thither, and a cobblestoned square -- it's just that this town creeps up the hills around a magnificent harbour and beaches. No, you don't understand. The water in the harbour, and in all of Croatia, is incredibly clear. Even between all the boats, you can see straight to the bottom as through its a swimming pool. And when you're in the water, look straight down and sooner or later a fish will swim past.

You can imagine that after a day or two of Hvar, we really needed a break from all that hustle and bustle, so we made tracks to Palmizana, a small island off Hvar. The only infrastructure on the island was the boat harbour, a 4WD track, and three restaurants. My kind of place. We found a quiet beach on the other wise of the island and after once again being hypnotised by the water (look -- blue! look -- plants and fish!!) we settled down to spend the day there. On the walk over we met a British couple who were looking for the Holy Grail of the Mediterranean -- a sandy beach. All the swimming I did was off rocks or concrete jetties. Ideally, you'd find a beach with smallish and mostly rounded rocks, but realistically you have to settle for jagged rocks without too many spiky sea creatures waiting for you. The water is so calm over there. The only waves come from passing ferries, so any energetic thoughts about bodysurfing or what have you quickly vanish, leaving you free to just float around and chill out. I, for instance, discovered that I float much better with my arms above my head and with maybe a 60 degree bend in my knees. Can you imagine discovering something so important about life on Main Beach in Surfers? I think not.

But this nirvana was short-lived when three big fat Germans took of ALL their clothes (no tan lines) and plomped themselves down far too close to us modest Australians. There were some more old and saggy nude Germans further up the beach, eliminating our escape route. Why? Why? Why this great harm to perfectly innocent bystanders, completely unprovoked! But the most traumatic part was yet to come. I was swimming out in what I considered to be the demiliterised zone between the peaceful beach-goers and the evil, sag-flaunting Krauts, when I caught a glint of sunlight coming from of one of the Krauts that could mean only one thing. She had a piercing in a part of her anatomy that was only recently seeing sunlight. Now, seriously, how can this not be considered some sort of human rights abuse? Can someone call Amnesty?

Then, Korcula, the next island south. Like Hvar, Korcula had tiny little pedestrian streets cris-crossing the town, oozing history at every intersection. Most of the old town was in the walls of a castle the Venetians built back in the Olden Days. One night, I saw a gaggle of tourists looking very lost, trying to decipher a map. They must have been very new to town, because in the time they spent studying the map, they could've crossed town twice. We had the best accomodation in Korcula, as well. By this time, we'd bloated out to five with the addition of Farouk and Will from California via Copenhagen. We were lucky enough to get a stunning apartment, with an incredible balcony terrace on the fourth floor. From there, we had a perfect birds-eye view from the centre of town: across the water to the nearby islands erupting out of the sea into mountains; the entire town with all the tall skinny houses sticking up unevenly like a handful of spaghetti; and only ten metres to the church belltower, the highest point on the island.

We had a perfect view inside that belltower, and it turned out to be quite amusing. Ever hour, two guys would climb up to the top and scrambe around the beams supporting the bells and ring them by hand. Four chimes in a low, loud bell to announce the hour, then the number of the hour hesitantly and arhthymically rung on a softer, higher bell. I found myself counting along with the second bell because you're not so confident that he's going to ring the right number. I wanted him to, sure, but it was just far from a foregone conclusion. And then, for some unknown reason after a successful chiming, they would repeat it all again at about 7 past the hour. This all carried on at least until 2 in the morning.

And Dubrovnik, my friends, will have to wait.

I'm hopping around the islands on the Croatian coast at the moment, making plans to catch up with fellow travellers on the way. And I actually just said to someone "I'll let you know if I change islands before the weekend."

I love this life.

Zagreb
Continuing my theme of expectations, when I arrived in Zagreb, I had precisely no idea what to expect. I hoped for a functioning transport system, full shelves in shops and not too many bullet holes in my dorm room. And these were reinforced by an extremely dodgy train ride from Budapest. They just kept selling tickets to the train, so it turned out to be impossibly over-crowded. I've been in trains where its so hard to find a quiet seat that some people just hang out in a corridor, but on this little puppy there were over twenty people in the corridor that we settled for, finding a cosy spot in the corner near the first class toilets, just far enough away to receive only infrequent wafts of urine. Aaah... this is living. After a few hours most of the bloody Hungarians got off and we scored a cabin. (We is Shona and Craig from Scotland, met in Budapest.) The second we crossed into the Croatian border town, though, a battalion of little old ladies hit the train and began to furiously clean the carriages, sweeping the floors and emptying the rubbish like their lives depended on it. You could almost hear them muttering "Damn disguisting Hungarians." We cheered them on appropriately. Then the passport check finished, the cleaning storm troopers departed and we were on our way again.

And then we arrived, and blow me down if Zagreb isn't beautiful. It wasn't significantly damaged in the demise of Yuogslavia (apart from one or two Presidential palaces that were bombed), and it was (apparently) always fairly affluent. Walking down the streets of Zagreb, you'd swear that you're in Italy -- high fashion parading past on beautiful people, gelaterias tempting you at every corner, excellent cafes serving espresso after espresso, even really rude and reluctant service! It was like I was back in Florence!

I was sharply pulled back into the Eastern bloc by the hostel we stayed in. A handful of old war refugees lived on my floor, including one guy who was getting around on two wooden legs. Strange living with those guys -- there are fewer things scarier than awakening at 7am, still groggy by the early hour, and stumbling into the toilet to discover a fat, hairy, old and basically nude Croat peeing in the sink. The rooms were shoeboxes and very noisy. The shower was awful, the reception staff seemed to be capable of communicating in English only with a "fuck off tourist" tone, but once again the place was scrubbed clean until the paint begain to wear off.

The Coast
I've left Zagreb now, and I'm on the Croatian coast. Spent a few days in Pula, right up the top near the border with Slovenia and Italy. The middle of town has a Roman ampitheatre, about the size of one-and-a-half football fields. Jamiroquai played there on Friday night, and he was excellent. They'd just picked up his normal show and put it on the middle of a 2000-year-old stage, but added some funky lighting effects on the walls of the amphitheatre. I was about twenty metres back, just off to one side. Excellent, excellent, excellent.

So now I'm just going to be a beach-bum for a week or two. Or more. In the week I've been in Croatia I've seen four clouds and the temperature hasn't dropped below 25 degrees, so it will be hard to leave. The guy who owns the internet cafe I'm using lives in Sydney for half the year and then comes over here for half the year. He never leaves summer, in other words. Right now, he's my idol.

Budapest
It's all about the expectations, that's what I say. When I thought of Budapest (please note that for any travelling credibility you have to pronounce it Buda-PESHT), I envisioned some sort of East-meets-West paradise, a cross between Istanbul and Paris, perhaps. (Even though I haven't been to either of those cities yet). Well, I guess I was always going to be disappointed in the 'Pest with those expectations, but I was pretty damn surprised to find that Budapest was more like a shabby version of Vienna than anything else. I've never seen so many run-down buildings (mostly public) anywhere else in Eastern Europe. It's like after the collapse of the Eastern Bloc, there weren't quite enough construction industries to go around, and so in some version of musical chairs, Hungary has done without one for the last ten years. Example? I'm used to old shitty trams, but nowhere else do they feel like occasionally leave the tram tracks and bounce along the cobblestones for a few hundred metres. Example? The meeting place of my walking tour was described as "the big yellow church". For accuracy's sake, it should be the "big church with the yellow facade falling off as you watch, while you avoid the smelly drunk homeless dudes."

For all that, there are a lot of highlights to Budapest. The bee-yootiful state opera house kicks arse on Vienna (believe it or not), the parliament building can only be described as spesh, and the view at night over the Danube to the castle and citadel is damn nice, too.

Also, I went to an incredible restaurant while I was there. The portions were unimaginable -- huge towers of sausage and other deep-fried produce cruise past menancingly to other tables while you look at the menu. The first night I was there I ordered a fantastic kebab -- about a foot of food on top of the remanents of about 17 potatoes, of the fried variety. There was some sort of mild barbeque sauce beside it that pushed the whole experience even further heaven-wards. The name of the restaurant was very appropriate: Fatal (with some sort of dash over the second a). Eat there too often, and you may indeed expire. I searched my phrasebook for a suitably effusive compliment, but all I found was "I'm having a heart attack." While appropriate, I decided against it. The next night there was a group of about 12 of us trying to find a restaurant. After getting knocked back a few times, we settled on a crap pizza place and sat down. The second someone suggested going to Fatal, I was out of my door and out the door in seconds. I even ordered the same meal because I was scared that if I ordered something else it wouldn't be as good.

Another highlight of 'Pest was the hostel, the Back Pack Guest House. Each dorm room has its own theme -- I stayed in the Fish room, which had its walls covered in a painted aquarium of tropical fish. There was also a cool backyard gazebo, and part of the balcony had been converted into an opium-den style lounge area. They had a Backpackers Book of Records posted to the kitchen wall. Amongst the more memorable records: longest stay in hostel -- over 100 days; longest time without setting foot outside of hostel grounds -- 7.5 days; shorted guest 4ft, 9.5 inches; oldest guest -- 91; youngest guest -- 7.5 months; most videoes watched in one day -- 11; most perfectly round nipples -- some tart who wanted her photo taken without her top on and displayed on the kitchen wall for ever. I wanted to break the video record, but the sheer logistics of it (nearly 24 hours of watching movies of no more than 100 minutes) scared of all the potential co-conspirators. And the only thing more tragic than going to Budapest and breaking a movie marathon record with a group of people is doing it by yourself. Even I have my limits.

The term "man-necklace" was coined by Farouk of Canadia. By failing to credit to the proper source, this travel journal caused untold mental pain and suffering to author.

Harder.com regrets the error.

Hee hee hee aaaa HA HA ha ha ha haaaa snort. pause. chortle. chortle. repeat from beginning. Sorry, I just heard something hilarious.

Just bought myself a man-necklace. Now I feel like a backpacker...

Everday Hungarian Phrases
I've done a little more research into the language in Hungary than the other countries I've visited, and just to share the knowledge, these are the phrases that I've found most useful.

Please Care-m
Thanks Koose-yugh-naim say pen
How do you do, Madam? Hodt voort Quiche-on-yam
Do you like soul music? Sara ted oh soul zen-aid?
Are those teeth false? Moooh fo-go jed van nock?
I'm lost El-vest-emm
I'm satisfied with sex El-vest-amm (very important not to get confused with previous)
Please may I fondle your buttocks? Meg foug ham tom AH pop-shit dat?
I'm having a heart attack In-fark-tusht cap tam
Have you any available sisters/brothers? Von sabt new vagrad/ bat-tyad?
How much do you want for her/him? Men-knee-eart tu dom meg venknee o.uuut/ t.o.u?
Watch out! There is a huge frog about to land on your head! Ve-Djyazzz! eidt O-re-ashe K bay-ka-j rick oh fay-yed draye

Brno, Bratislava, and so forth
I just spent a couple of days tyravelling around with two aussies, Natasha and Michaela. We basically laughed our way around the countryside for 72 hours. Aaah, the goold old days. But how I ended up hanging out with them is a perfect case study in hostel friendships. It goes something like this...

I met Dan and Lou on the way to the hostel in CK. We were all walking from the bus station, completely lost and trying to decipher the hand-drawn map on the back of the hostel brochure. So, we get lost together, and end up having a few beers that night. The next day, I go sight-seeing while they spend a day catching up on administrivia, including doing their washing. At the laundry they meet Farouk (of the echinacea tablets) and Abbi, who are staying at another hostel. Abbi happens to be on the terrace of a tea house as Dan, Lou, I and a cast of thousands float down the Vlatava river. That night we have dinner at a vegetarian restaurant, where it so happens that Farouk, Abbi and their gang are enjoying their evening repaste as well. (I did mention that CK was a small town, right?) Dan and Louise go and sit with them, but I don't meet them, instead associating with various Irishmen. We all go out for drinks after dinner, where I finally meet Farouk et al. At about 4am, after the absinthe, we all agree to meet for lunch in a few short hours. Lunch leads to dinner, which leads to a coffee and dessert course.

Earlier, Farouk has met Natasha and Michaela, who are staying in the room next to his dorm. He runs across them on the way to dessert from his hostel (to pick up his echinacea supplies), and drags them along with the promise of sugary products. I talk to them at dinner, but we don't swap names. We exchange travel plans, and it happens that they are going to Brno. That's interesting, think I. I was planning to go to Brno until recently, but now I'm going straight to Bratislava.

The next day, it transpires that I can't get a train to Bratislava that arrives before midnight (perhaps it has something to do with the fact that I didn't turn up to the train station until 11am), but I see that I can stopover in Brno and then go to Bratislava the next day. That'll do, think I, but what a shame I didn't swap emails with those girls. They would have been fun to hang around.

So once I Brno, I step out the door with two other aussies that I've met, and not five metres away are Natasha and Michaela, walking to get dinner. This time, we do the name thing properly, and decide to share the joy of Bratislava as well. 24 hours and 500 kilometres difference between our meetings is not enough to counter the small world syndrome.

Cesky Krumlov
What a town! I could feel the stress from Prague lift off me the second I stepped into the hostel. After enduring that sardine-like tourist scene I wanted to spend a couple of days getting back to nature, and boy have I achieved it. Cesky Krumlov (CK to those in the know) is a small little town about three hours south of Prague. It's still very touristy, but much more laid back than the pretty disguisting Prague.

Day one was spent hiking between some small villages about CK. About two hours up some gentle hills, in and out of woodland and cleared grassy fields. I chuckled quitely to myself as I followed hiker's ettiquette and said 'Dobry Den' to everyone I passed, even if they were speaking German to each other beforehand. I got some excellent views back onto CK -- the river quietly cutting through the hills and the houses, and the castle (as usual) domineering all below. I walked through a couple of villages until I found a huge field with a great view, sat down, ate my lunch and cracked the spine of Hemingway's Farewell to Arms. Does it get better?

The next day I spent rafting down the Vltava river with six other people from the hostel. We spent three hours drifting downstream from town, paddling only occasionally when the current was weak or to avoid some rather tame rocks, but mostly just sitting back and watching the trees go by. Once we got away from the singing clowns in the other raft, all we could hear was the river, the wind in the trees and an occasional bird call. I could feel myself channeling The Castle: "aaah, the serenity."

Absinthe
The rafting crowd went out for dinner and, well, why not, a few drinks as part of a larger group that night. First stop was the inventively-named and very Czech Bar Bar, but the highlight of the night was the mad Irishman Donnecha's shout of a round of absinthe for all twelve of us. Only recently legalised in the Czech Republic, and of dubious legality elsewhere, absinthe is a truly evil and extremely alcoholic drink, undoubtedly the result of some mad scientists experiements with vodka and rat poison. Don came back from the bar, cackling like the aforementioned scientist, carrying a tray of trouble with our names on it. The ritual that we followed went like this. You fill a spoon with sugar and gently dunk it in the fluorescent green absinthe, so that the sugar is wet but still on the spoon. With appropriate caution, you light the spoon and try to hide your horror as a blue flame spreads quickly over the sugar. Drops of flame fall onto the table, leading to the obvious but wise warning of "keep it away from your drink!". About thirty seconds after the fire starts, it begins to go out as the sugar bubbles and caramelises underneath it. When the fire is finally out, you mix the sugar into your drink, wait for everyone to catch up, and consume.

It tasted bad but not awful. I sat around for a while, just a little apprehensive, and waited for any unusual sensations. But then someone put a beer in front of me and the next thing I knew I casually noted the first rays of daylight outside. I compared symptoms at lunch the next day, and everyone had a sore throat the next day. Like I said, truly evil stuff. My plans for leave CK that day were immediately cast aside for another day hungover in the Czech Republic. Situation: normal.

Backpacker of the year award
The first nominee for this award, which exists to recognise outstanding contribution to the field of cross-country camaraderie is the wiley Canuck Farouk. In true travelling form, I have no idea what his surname is, but let's not get caught up on the details so early on, shall we? At dinner last night I mentioned, while we were comparing hangovers, that I was starting to feel sick, and had been tired for about two weeks. We leave dinner about an hour later and Farouk goes back to his hostel to give someone a book or something. When he joins the gang again, he surprises me with some vitamin C and echinacea tablets. What a legend. Ladies, flock to this man on his return to Montreal. He will look after you.

Czech Republic in five words or less
Hangovers: the horror, the horror
Pleasant sights through bleary eyes
Pivo!